Page 67 of It Always Snows on Mistletoe Square
‘What do you mean? You had joint presents, that kind of thing?’
‘Nope, I was lucky if they even remembered.’
Ben’s brow furrows. ‘Your parents forgot your birthday?’
‘Not every year – it depended where we were and what we were doing that year. We travelled a lot with the various charities they were working for. Most years we barely celebrated Christmas, let alone my birthday.’
‘Why on earth not? Did they have financial difficulties?’
‘Not really. They were usually busy helping people that did, though.’
Sensing there’s more, Ben waits for me to continue.
‘Most of my memories of Christmas are of helping someone else. Nothing wrong in that, of course – it’s admirable to think of others before yourself,’ I add, aware of how awful all this makes me sound. ‘Often we’d be dishing out meals to the homeless, or volunteering in a hospital somewhere. Some years we were abroad while they were distributing aid, then Christmas wasn’t even mentioned, let alone my birthday.’
‘And this happened most years?’
‘Not all the time. I do have some memories of Christmas spent in this country, usually in a little flat somewhere, because we moved around a lot. But we’d always have strangers over for dinner, someone needy who didn’t have a family of their own, or the means to cook themselves a warm meal. God, I sound terrible don’t I? These people were probably extremely grateful to my parents for taking them in.’
‘I’m sure they were. But you were a child. I can understand why you didn’t see it that way. Christmas is everything when you’re young. Even ol’ Ebenezer here remembers that!’
I smile gratefully at him. It is such a relief to be telling all this to someone who isn’t judging me for once. No one ever seemed to truly understand how I felt.
‘I don’t want to sound ungrateful, and I know I do, moaning like this. At least my Christmases were never dull, I suppose. And they did remember my birthday some years, even if it was a few days late. My parents are good people, I know that. But they were so busy being good to everyone else back then, I just wanted them to share some of that compassion and a little of their time with me.’
Ben puts his hand over mine on the table and gives it a squeeze. ‘What a pair we make. One of us was actually abandoned at Christmas, and the other one felt like they were every year.’
‘I’m just being silly,’ I say, holding on to Ben’s hand as tightly as he’s gripping mine. ‘First-world problems, as they say. I should be grateful, at least I wasn’t out on the street freezing and starving like that little boy we saw in Victorian times.’
‘True. Also, you didn’t catch influenza and nearly die,’ Ben adds, winking.
‘AndI didn’t have to give up my baby on Christmas Eve to an orphanage.’
Ben looks wounded.
‘No, no! I wasn’t referring toyourmother,’ I say hurriedly. ‘I was talking about the first story Estelle told me. The one set in Georgian times.’
‘Right, yes, you did tell me a bit about that.’
‘So, really, I have very little to complain about,’ I say resolutely. ‘This Christmas I’m going to think about all those who have passed before me that had much worse Christmases than I’m ever going to have.’
‘Here’s to that.’ Ben lifts his glass. ‘To Christmas 2018. May it give us everything we’ve always wanted!’
As we walk back towards Mistletoe Square, we pass by Great Ormond Street Hospital. Outside the main doors, a Father Christmas is just leaving the hospital, presumably after visiting with the children. He climbs up on a makeshift sleigh on the back of a trailer, and staff and children – some of the patients in wheelchairs and on crutches – wave him goodbye.
‘I spent some time there when I was young,’ I say as we pause to watch the festive scene. ‘When I was a baby, actually.’
‘Did you? What was wrong?’
‘I had some breathing problems after I was born, I think. Luckily for me my parents were in London then, so I got the best care.’
‘Yes, you did. It’s a great place. Doesn’t it feel strange that we’ve spent time with some of the people that helped to set this hospital up?’ Ben says, almost wistfully. ‘Clara said that Belle and her husband were heavily involved in the funding of the original hospital, didn’t she?’ he reminds me when I look puzzled.
‘Of course, and the royalties fromPeter Pan, which Stephen and his friends spoke about, still go to support the hospital today.’
Ben nods. ‘So that links you with Estelle’s family in a roundabout sort of way. Their actions helped you when you were a baby.’
‘I guess they did. And now I’m helping Estelle to write the story of that family. It’s a lovely little Christmas circle of life.’
