Kenneth C. Steven,
writer, poet

 

 

A CHRISTMAS CHILD

It was a clear, frost-sharp night in the middle of November. Rachel had banked the fire; the thick smell of mutton soup filled the house. Perhaps it was that that had cheered Angus; he had had no luck with the fishing, came home dispirited and worried after five days at sea. And because he had had no luck, neither had anyone in the village. This was the worst time in the year; this was the hardest of it.

On such days Angus had to break driftwood, even when it left splinters in his hands. He needed the crisp snap of wood from the store; it was good to come in with a bundle in his arms and afterwards see the curl of orange flames in the grate. Now it was peat that lay dark at the back of the fire; his eyes dreamed in the wreaths of smoke.
There was a soft knock at the door. Who at this hour? When he opened, he could just see the shadow of the figure outside.
‘We’re going down to the point tonight, to try our luck with bringing in a ship. Will you come?’
He heard the pause between the second and third sentences. He heard his heart too, racing far harder than usual. Not only because of the lack of fish that day.
‘I’ve told you before, Donald John, I’ll have nothing to do with it. Do you and your boys not listen? I’ll have no part in your business.’
The shadow moved in the doorway but did not turn away.
‘Then you’ll have no part in the shares either.’
Not a threat, a statement. One man left; the other closed his door. He said not a word to Rachel. They went to bed an hour later, heard nothing of the calls and deliberations out on the road at midnight. There was a soft fall of hail about one; afterwards there was not a thing to be seen or heard. The cries had been drowned; the lanterns had disappeared. There was just the endless sea, combing the rocks, boom after long boom.
The following day was beautiful. There wasn’t a breath of wind. The low sun hung white in the skies and the last rowans trembled on a bough on the tree at the road end. Angus had left before first light; crept out of bed and padded down the stairs, his satchel over his left shoulder. He was going into town for this and that, though there was precious little to spend. Rachel heard the soft thud of the door, then turned and slept once more.

She was washing clothes in the house when the knock came, urgent. She called that she would come in a moment; she carried the steaming pot of water to the stone flags, sighing. She wanted the clothes to be done by the time Angus came back.
She opened the door as the shadow of a girl fled. A call faded on her lips. There was a boy on the doorstep; a boy with brown eyes like hazelnuts and tight dark curls. She bent down at once beside him and she was still taller than the little soul. His eyes searched her, wide and unblinking.
‘And where did you come from?’ she breathed. ‘Where in the world did you come from?’
It had been the best haul in many years. When Angus came back through the village they were still dividing out sacks and boxes. There was the scent of rich tobacco in the air. Robert and Cam were roaring with laughter at something; as Robert’s face turned at Angus’ approach the smile died on his face. It changed slowly, became at last a sourness, a sneer. The faces said nothing as he passed, yet they said everything.
He did not go in to the house then, but carried on instead to the shore. It was high tide. The vessel was out on the rocks; a small thing of dark boards and ropes, crumpled and useless. All at once he remembered a boy in school who had once taken a huge spider between his fingers and crushed it. He had smiled and looked around him, hoping the others would see, approve. Angus felt now as he had then; he felt no different.
He went as far as he could in the direction of the wreck. The tide was fierce; he was not fool enough to venture further. And there among the dark boards he saw one singe white hand. It did not even cross his mind for a moment that hand belonged to a living soul; the sea was like ice and this was mid-November. All he did was to pull away the cap from his head and close his eyes, mutter some words he would have too shy to speak aloud in front of Rachel, and turn away to the house.
As soon as he came inside, she took his hand and led him upstairs, one finger pressed to her lips. The boy slept, more like a doll than a child, so quiet it was hard to know he breathed. She told Angus in a single flutter of words how he had come to the house.
‘I understand,’ he said, understanding indeed.

Over the next weeks he seemed to do nothing but work. The days were fine – bitterly cold but beautiful. A few flakes of snow came to the island hills, made them look like the wing of a bird. The snow lay in the heather, would lie there for the whole winter.
He mended the roof of the house, his hands raw and cut with the cold. The salt from the sea was in that wind. All day he worked, until the sun went down like a ball of snow in the west.
Jacob came out to look up at him. Rachel held his hand, and the brown eyes looked up at him – both pairs of eyes looked up at him. Angus tried to think of something to say but he could think of nothing. He smiled too and it hurt to smile; even that hurt. They had called him Jacob after her grandfather.
One day he was down again at the shore and he found a sea urchin. It was no bigger than his thumbnail. He carried it home as he might have carried a fledgling fallen from the nest.
‘Close your eyes, Jacob,’ he whispered. He opened the little hand and laid the shell on it. ‘Happy Christmas,’ he said, and kissed the nut-brown smoothness of his forehead.
Later that day he knew there was something that had to be done.
‘I want you to come with me,’ he said to Rachel. ‘I want both of you to come with me.’
They wrapped up warm against the wind and went out and closed the door behind them. It was still beautiful; the skies a winter blue, the white waves chasing in over the rocks. They went up to the village, up towards the happy laughter of the village street and a man with a squeezebox. Four of the girls were dancing; the men were laughing. They walked through the village street and the music fell away to nothing, the heads hung down, the eyes looked away. Donald John was turning back into his house. Angus carried the child in his arms; he held Rachel’s hand as he walked.
He stopped and smiled and gently put the child down in front of him.
‘Donald John,’ he said softly, ‘you gave us a share after all.’

She was washing clothes in the house when the knock came, urgent. She called that she would come in a moment; she carried the steaming pot of water to the stone flags, sighing. She wanted the clothes to be done by the time Angus came back. She opened the door as the shadow of a girl fled. A call faded on her lips. There was a boy on the doorstep; a boy with brown eyes like hazelnuts and tight dark curls. She bent down at once beside him and she was still taller than the little soul. His eyes searched her, wide and unblinking. ‘And where did you come from?’ she breathed. ‘Where in the world did you come from?’ It had been the best haul in many years. When Angus came back through the village they were still dividing out sacks and boxes. There was the scent of rich tobacco in the air. Robert and Cam were roaring with laughter at something; as Robert’s face turned at Angus’ approach the smile died on his face. It changed slowly, became at last a sourness, a sneer. The faces said nothing as he passed, yet they said everything. He did not go in to the house then, but carried on instead to the shore. It was high tide. The vessel was out on the rocks; a small thing of dark boards and ropes, crumpled and useless. All at once he remembered a boy in school who had once taken a huge spider between his fingers and crushed it. He had smiled and looked around him, hoping the others would see, approve. Angus felt now as he had then; he felt no different. He went as far as he could in the direction of the wreck. The tide was fierce; he was not fool enough to venture further. And there among the dark boards he saw one singe white hand. It did not even cross his mind for a moment that hand belonged to a living soul; the sea was like ice and this was mid-November. All he did was to pull away the cap from his head and close his eyes, mutter some words he would have too shy to speak aloud in front of Rachel, and turn away to the house. As soon as he came inside, she took his hand and led him upstairs, one finger pressed to her lips. The boy slept, more like a doll than a child, so quiet it was hard to know he breathed. She told Angus in a single flutter of words how he had come to the house. ‘I understand,’ he said, understanding indeed.

Over the next weeks he seemed to do nothing but work. The days were fine – bitterly cold but beautiful. A few flakes of snow came to the island hills, made them look like the wing of a bird. The snow lay in the heather, would lie there for the whole winter. He mended the roof of the house, his hands raw and cut with the cold. The salt from the sea was in that wind. All day he worked, until the sun went down like a ball of snow in the west. Jacob came out to look up at him. Rachel held his hand, and the brown eyes looked up at him – both pairs of eyes looked up at him. Angus tried to think of something to say but he could think of nothing. He smiled too and it hurt to smile; even that hurt. They had called him Jacob after her grandfather. One day he was down again at the shore and he found a sea urchin. It was no bigger than his thumbnail. He carried it home as he might have carried a fledgling fallen from the nest. ‘Close your eyes, Jacob,’ he whispered. He opened the little hand and laid the shell on it. ‘Happy Christmas,’ he said, and kissed the nut-brown smoothness of his forehead. Later that day he knew there was something that had to be done. ‘I want you to come with me,’ he said to Rachel. ‘I want both of you to come with me.’ They wrapped up warm against the wind and went out and closed the door behind them. It was still beautiful; the skies a winter blue, the white waves chasing in over the rocks. They went up to the village, up towards the happy laughter of the village street and a man with a squeezebox. Four of the girls were dancing; the men were laughing. They walked through the village street and the music fell away to nothing, the heads hung down, the eyes looked away. Donald John was turning back into his house. Angus carried the child in his arms; he held Rachel’s hand as he walked. He stopped and smiled and gently put the child down in front of him. ‘Donald John,’ he said softly, ‘you gave us a share after all.’