A Gift to You (3 page)

Magdalena opened the kitchen door and dropped her bags of shopping on the floor. The aromas were mouthwatering. The light from the big oven showed a tinfoil-swaddled mound. What a good husband I
have, she thought, turning on the main lights, feeling most guilty for her earlier crotchety thoughts about him.

‘Aww!’ she gave a little cry of delight when she walked further in and saw that Michael had gone to the trouble of setting the table Polish style, with a white tablecloth, and a
sheaf of hay. He’d even got
oplatek
, a thin wafer made of flour and water that was a traditional part of the Wigilia feast.

But why was the table set for so many? Magdalena frowned, perplexed, counting the place settings. Six. One was most likely the traditional vacant chair and place setting reserved for unexpected
guests. That still left three other places for real guests.

Had Michael invited some of their Polish friends to dinner to surprise her, so she wouldn’t feel too homesick? A rush of love for her thoughtful husband overwhelmed her and Magdalena burst
into tears. She was blowing noisily into a tissue when she heard him call her name from the hall. ‘Oh, Michael! You are so good to me.’ She turned and flung her arms around him.
‘You’re so, so good to me,’ she hiccupped. ‘Who’s coming? Did you invite Gabriela and Wiktor, and Marta?’

‘How did you guess? I didn’t want you to be lonely.’ Her husband smiled down at her, his blue eyes glinting with love and amusement. ‘They’re hiding in the lounge.
We wanted to surprise you. Come in and say hello.’

‘They’re here already? Oh, my goodness. I bought roast potatoes and vegetables in M&S. I’d better put them in the oven,’ Magdalena said, suddenly feeling flustered,
shrugging out of her coat and laying it on a chair.

‘Stay calm, all taken care of,’ her husband said reassuringly. ‘Come and say hello first then we can organize ourselves.’ He dropped an arm around her shoulder and they
walked through the dining room into the lounge where two women and a man stood beaming with delight.

But it wasn’t Gabriela, Wiktor and Marta that greeted her. When her parents and sister launched themselves upon Magdalena with cries of joy, they were echoed by her own.

‘Oh, my God!
Oh, my God!
I don’t believe this!’ she exclaimed, then, when the hugging and kissing were over, enquired ‘How? When?’

‘When Michael found out you were expecting a baby, he asked would we come to visit for Christmas, even though we will be coming over also when the baby is born. He paid for our tickets and
said it was a gift for you. How could we refuse?’ Her mother wiped the tears from her eyes.

‘I didn’t have to spend a fortune,’ Michael explained, grinning, ‘because I booked them eight months ago and I got a good deal. I took today off work, picked them up from
the airport and Zuzanna and Karolina have been busy in the kitchen since they arrived.’

‘And I blessed the garden and hung up the mistletoe,’ her father added, chuckling, ‘and made sure all the lights were out, and kept these women quiet when I spied you coming up
the road.’

‘I just can’t believe it!’ Magdalena exclaimed, happier than she had ever been. What a joyful Christmas this was turning into.

‘Believe it! With all my love, Happy Christmas, Magdalena,’ Michael said, bending down to kiss his beloved wife, his hand resting tenderly on her bump as their child gave a vigorous
kick that made them smile at each other with utter delight.

It’s a very different Christmas this year, that’s for sure, and I’m absolutely
thrilled
with myself. I’m a Christmas Angel and I’m back
on top of the Christmas tree! For the last few years, I’ve languished in a cardboard box under the stairs, while Madame Saundra (plain ordinary Sandra to you and me, check out the
birth-cert.) went minimalist and spent a fortune on her ‘themed’ Christmas trees.

I don’t mean to sound bitter and twisted, it’s not very angelic, I admit, but I’d been the angel on top of the Christmas tree in Sunnymede Cottage for fifty years and I loved
it.

I was always very happy when Lillian, Saundra’s grandmother, would take me out of the soft, creamy tissue paper she folded me in each year, and hand me to Matthew, her husband, who would
place me very gently on top of the tree.

I adored Matthew; he was the most gorgeous man, and I don’t mean just physically. He was a quiet, reserved, hardworking farmer, who was a great husband, father and neighbour. He was
utterly
kind. He’d keep an eye on the elderly widow across the field and would do bits and pieces around her house for her in the most unobtrusive way. ‘A little help is better
than a lot of sympathy,’ was Matthew’s motto.

Lillian adored him. He had a terrific sense of humour and their marriage was rock solid and, for the most part, full of joy and laughter. They didn’t have much money but they always had a
warm house and good food on the table and what they had they shared with family and neighbours.

I was the first Christmas decoration they bought the year they were married. I always remember it was the 8 December, the Holy Day when country people used to come to Dublin to do their
Christmas shopping. I knew they were from the country by their accents. Soft, rolling vowels, compared to the more strident distinctive Dublin twang. I was sitting on a shelf, as proud as punch, in
a tizzy of anticipation, hoping against hope that someone would pick me up and buy me and bring me home to do the job I was created to do. A Christmas Angel isn’t like a Guardian Angel. I
didn’t have to ‘mind and guard and rule and guide’. My job was to radiate joy and goodwill and peace and serenity as much as I could, for the Christmas Season.

I wondered what sort of a home I’d go to. Would there be children? Would they be careful with me? There was always the danger of getting broken. But if you went to a good home and were
taken care of, you could last a long time. That was what I wanted. To last a long time with a family who would take care of me, a family I would get to know and love, a family I would be with for
generations. It was the dream of every Christmas Angel.

I’d been picked up and put down a few times. It was nerve-wracking. I’d liked the first lady who picked me up, an elderly woman with white hair, and a kind face. ‘Isn’t
she a lovely little Angel?’ she said to her granddaughter. ‘If I had the money I’d buy her, but your mammy would give out to me for spending my money on gewgaws.’ I
didn’t like the sound of the mammy.

My friend, Angelica, was bought the day after we were placed side by side on our shelf. A thin, middle-aged woman with short hair and a pinched look about her, picked her up, gave her a cursory
look and handed her to the shop assistant. ‘Good luck, Angelica,’ I said. We could communicate telepathically.

‘Thanks, Angelina.’ She gave me a little wave and I could sense her nervous excitement as the woman handed over the money – two and six – and the assistant placed it into
the tube and it rattled along to the cashier. Things have changed a lot since those days – every so often I gad off to Dublin, once Christmas is over of course. I leave my little glass body
and fly free. Anyway, it was just before closing time the following day and I was lonely for Angelica and wondering how she was getting on, when I heard a girl say, ‘Ah, Matthew, look!
Isn’t she gorgeous? Let’s buy her for the tree.’ I looked up and saw a young woman in her mid-twenties, with long auburn hair and big hazel eyes, wearing a black coat with a wide
belt, looking like a young Rita Hayworth. I still think the Forties and Fifties had the most stylish and elegant clothes. I love looking at the old black-and-white films they show in the afternoons
around Christmas time, but I digress.

‘We’d better buy it quick, Lillian, if we want to get to Amien’s Street to catch the early train back,’ the young man said. He was a dish. Tall, broad-shouldered, with
chestnut hair and blue eyes fringed by long black lashes a woman would die for. ‘I’ll buy it,’ he said, taking a ten-shilling note from his wallet. ‘A gift for
you.’

‘Oh, Matthew, I’ll treasure her always,’ the girl said, tucking her arm into his, and I could see she was mad about him. I felt ecstatically happy as I was neatly wrapped and
placed in a Clery’s bag and handed to my new owner. At last! I’d found my family and they had found me.

The city was brimming with pre-Christmas excitement. Couples embraced under the big clock as we left the department store. Carol singers sang enthusiastically, the shop windows shone with
festive glitz and the trees, festooned with lights, sparkled and twinkled like the diamonds in Weir’s window. The frosty chill turned breath white and reddened cheeks and noses as Lillian,
Matthew and I, swinging in my bag, hurried along Talbot Street, weaving in and out of the crowds before running up the steps of the packed train station.

I was bursting with excitement as they made their way through the carriages, laden with cheery bags from all the big stores, Clery’s, Arnotts, Boyers and Roches. They found two empty seats
and moments later the whistle blew, the doors were slammed shut and we clickity-clacked our way out of Amien’s Street, crossed the Liffey, and headed south to my new home, a neat little
cottage in a village called Riverside, not far from Brittas Bay.

How proud and happy I was that Christmas Eve, two weeks later, when Matthew reached up and gently placed me on top of their Christmas tree as the fire blazed up the chimney and the aroma of
pudding wafted around the cottage as it bubbled merrily on the stove. Outside, snow-flakes drifted down silently dressing the trees for Christmas morning, as my beloved owners kissed under the
mistletoe and a slender red candle flickered and flamed in the window, and the house was filled with love and joy as they celebrated their first Christmas together in their own home.

It brings a lump to my throat when I remember Lillian and Matthew. They were a couple whose love remained steadfast through thick and thin, and a couple who would have been horrified had they
lived to see what had become of their lovely home, and the way their granddaughter, Sandra aka Saundra had turned out.

A demanding young madam from the minute she was born to Rebecca, Matthew and Lillian’s only child, Sandra grew up to have notions about herself and became what Lillian would have described
as ‘a right little consequence’.

Rebecca left Riverside to study architecture in UCD where she met Hugh Sullivan, a part-time lecturer. They married, built up a successful architectural practice and, after two miscarriages,
were ecstatic when their baby girl was born. She was a much loved child and wanted for nothing. As Sandra grew into her teens, visiting her grandparents in Riverside was not high on her list of
priorities; she was far too interested in ‘chilling’ with her posh D4 friends. Spending Christmas in the country was ‘boring’ and ‘like totally uncool’, I heard
her rant to Rebecca one Christmas day as they had a spat in the sitting room while Lillian and Matthew, now elderly and afflicted by the ailments of cruel ageing, served up the dinner in the
kitchen.

That was the last Christmas my beloveds were together. And it was my last Christmas on top of the tree. Matthew had a heart attack the following March as he lifted a bag of feed off the tractor,
and Lillian, heartbroken, went to her husband, and our glorious Creator five months later.

For the next few years, I languished in my box under the stairs. Every so often, Rebecca and Hugh would come to visit and heat the house and do a spot of painting but they never spent Christmas
there. Sandra became ‘Saundra’ and married a hotshot financial whizz kid, Theo Carr, in Italy, in a wedding that cost an arm and a leg. It wouldn’t have been Lillian and
Matthew’s cup of tea. It was all designer dresses, a wedding-gift list in BT’s and wedding planners. I could just imagine Lillian saying, ‘It was far from wedding planners and
gift lists she was reared.’

Then, one sunny spring day, I heard the sound of tyres crunching on gravel and minutes later Saundra’s D4 accent broke the silence, and a waft of Poison filled the air. I heard her say,
‘We could knock the wall between the kitchen and the dining room and make it open plan, and we could knock the wall down that faces south and have it totally glass . . .’ and my heart
sank.

All that summer, builders hammered and banged and Lillian and Matthew’s snug home was turned into a designer show house, with wine-barrel chandeliers, Louis Vuitton steamer trunks for
tables, Argentinean leather chesterfield sofas that looked hideously uncomfortable, and mirrors, and picture frames that had cost an arm and a leg for their ‘distressed’ appearance.
Lillian would have been mighty ‘distressed’ to pay such ridiculous money for such nonsense.

All their posh friends came for barbecues on the newly built deck and that first Christmas, Saundra decided that gold and silver would be her decorating ‘theme’. Only two of
Lillian’s precious Christmas baubles made the grade. I was ignored. She chose a silver diamante bow to decorate the top of her tree that year.

They were all so superficial, those so-called sophisticates, as they boasted about their affluence, their investments, their villas on golf courses on the Algarve, their Jags and Mercs and
four-by-fours. They tried to outdo each other in every aspect of their lives and could not hide their envy if one of their crowd stepped further up the ladder of avarice and one-upmanship.
Mendacity, envy, selfishness and insincerity seeped into the walls of Sunnymede when those people gathered and it made me weep for the days of straightforward kindness and goodness when Lillian and
Matthew were alive.

For three years, Saundra, Theo and their ‘friends’ used Sunnymeade as their ‘country retreat’. Theo would work the room at parties, drawing people aside, telling them of
a ‘Golden opportunity to make a killing,’ on this investment or that bond, or hotels in the States, that was going to
skyrocket
in value. I heard names like ISTC, Anglo,
Seanie, ‘Fingers’, Irish Nationwide AIB, BOI, spoken of in smooth, smug, confidential tones as Theo urged his guests to borrow even more money to fund these ‘blue chip’
investments. ‘You’ll have no problem getting a loan, he would assure them, expansively. ‘Let me put you in touch with someone.’ He had no time for ‘cautious
people’. He advised many of his guests to place their money ‘offshore’; he had ‘people’ who could look after them. Some took his advice, delighted to have pulled a
fast one on the taxman. Saundra would open yet another bottle of ‘bubbly’ and discuss Botox and fillers and plan trips with the ‘girls’ to have a discrete nip here and a
little tuck there.