Festive Spirit

Could Bradley find a way to regain some joy before the big day?

 

IT was late on Christmas Eve. Bradley was cradling his glass of malt whisky. It had been in his hand for half an hour and he had only taken a small sip.

He had known Christmas would be hard without Marjorie, but hadn't realised how hard.

It was good of his daughter and her husband to join him.

Christine had brought everything with her. Michel had unloaded most of it.

Last week Christine had appeared at Bradley's door and made him put up his tree and his lights.

His had been the only house in the street which wasn't illuminated.

He'd been in two minds as to whether he wanted to celebrate Christmas at all after such a difficult year.

Christine persuaded him.

It'd be better than being on his own, and the thought of going away somewhere different might be worse.

"Michel and I thought we'd go to midnight mass, Dad," Christine said.

Bradley put his glass down on the coffee table.

He wasn't in the mood.

"OK, love," he said. "It's not for me. I think I'll go up to bed. I won't lock up."

"Are you sure you don't want to come? You always liked midnight mass." 

Christine was right.

Midnight mass had been a family tradition and often a source of much joy.

There had been magic in it, the candles in the church, the light against the darkness outside.

He didn’t like to tell Christine that he hadn’t been to church at all since Marjorie’s illness relapsed.

Not only hadn’t he been able to pray, but he hadn’t even been able to think about praying.

When Marjorie had become ill, Bradley had thought she would recover.

Instead she’d got worse.

It seemed so unfair that Marjorie, who was kind and good-hearted, should be so ill.