Christmas of '89

The roast was bubbling under the skin, melting into a lovely glaze. The scoring remained light tan and the surface deepened to a beautiful chestnut color, so evocative of Christmas. Amos smiled happily and closed the oven again to allow the slab of beef to cook uninterrupted. 

He shuffled to the family room, grunting with each step as old men often do. Seating himself comfortably in the armchair closest to the sparkling tree, he looked upon his family while the corners of his eyes crinkled with mirth. The little ones were squealing while they chased each other, new toys in hand, and Amos’ daughter peacefully read a book on the sofa. His son-in-law laughed boisterously from the kitchen, pouring boozy coffee drinks while Amos’ wife nagged him about how much Baileys he was using. 

“Open your present from Granda, then, Cara,” said his daughter. 

The eldest of all the grandchildren, a sweet girl called Cara, smiled sheepishly as she picked up a thoughtfully wrapped box from under the tree. She did not shake it or attack it or hold it up to her ear: rather, she quite carefully broke the tape and slid the box neatly out of the wrapping. Amos himself leaned forward in interest, eager to see what he’d apparently bought for her. 

From the box she lifted a wee wooden horse with a cotton-yarn mane and darling yellow wheels at the base of it. She beamed and looked up at Amos, who returned it with that crinkly, fond, mirthy one of his own. 

“D’you like it, Cara, then?” he chuckled.

“Mm, he’s lovely!” she giggled, rolling the toy horse on the floor. 

So followed a few more gifts for the children, another Baileys and coffee for the son-in-law, a Grand Marnier for Amos, and about ten runs of that bloody Pogues song on the radio, until the oven dinged for the roast. Amos grinned and huffed as he rose from his seat to shuffle to the kitchen. He pulled the roast from the oven and rubbed it carefully with oil and salt before allowing it to rest in the center of the counter. 

“That’s a roast, by god!” he cackled proudly.

“Aye, it’s a fine hunk of meat, to be sure,” said the son-in-law, poking the skin. 

“Don’t touch it, you Tommy bastard. We’ve to let it rest or it’ll be ruined,” Amos grunted back.

From the couch where she lounged, his daughter spoke. “He’s not a Tommy bastard, Da, he’s a Taffy bastard.”

The son-in-law grinned and shook his head. “Honest to god, you’d think after fifteen years of being family you’d know by now I was Welsh.”

“I’m not sure if I can be convinced,” Amos murmured, the roast demanding the majority of his attention. 

After twenty minutes Amos set the roast on the dining table, among the pudding and potatoes and pies. With a look of satisfaction and triumph, Amos held up the carving knife and made the first slice. It cut beautifully, and when the first slice curled over the pink and juicy interior could be seen, oozing broth. He served the first slice to his daughter, then his son-in-law, then wife, and the children each had a half-slice to ensure the good roast would not go to waste on the plate of a picky wain. 

There was shouting and inflamed conversation and singing of old Christmas hymns as Amos’ wife brought out the wine. The children were fighting, then playing, and fighting again. The dog jumped upon the table to steal a potato straight from the pan and ran outside with it. It was chaos and messy, but it was perfect. The family had everything they needed right here. 

Then the doorbell rang. Amos grunted as he lifted himself from his chair, hobbling over to answer it. Again and again and again, it rang, until Amos tugged open the door. 

“Cara?” he muttered.

Cara sighed and rolled her eyes. “I was ringing that for ages, Granda. What were you doing?”

She wore a long coat and held a large bag tucked under her arm. She walked quickly inside, her eyes wide as she looked at the home. Amos shut the door behind her and followed, finding the house empty of his family. 

“Look at the state of this place,” Cara sighed. She crossed to the dining table to pick up the empty plates, placing them back in the old cupboards, and picked a half-blackened cardboard box up from the center of the table. “Did you put this in the oven?!”

“No, no. I was cooking the roast,” Amos said. 

Cara looked around the place, brows furrowed. “What roast?”

He looked upon the table, scratching his head. “Well, I suppose everyone ate it…”

“Oh, Granda…” she sighed, busying herself with picking up the sitting room, which was littered with towels and the household items Amos had picked up and wrapped with them. 

“Will you stay for a coffee, then?” he asked.

Cara gave him a heavy look, setting the towels in a heap near the door. “I have to get home. Robert and the kids are expecting me for Christmas dinner.”

“Oh, aye, aye,” he murmured. “Who’s Robert?”

She sighed again, digging into her bag and pulling out a little present wrapped with a bow. “This is for you. Open it.”

Amos smiled, settling himself at the table and carefully pulling the bow apart. He did not shake it or attack it or hold it up to his ear: rather, he quite carefully broke the tape and slid the box neatly out of the wrapping. He opened the little box and lifted from it a tiny Christmas ornament with a photo in the middle.

“Now who’s this?” Amos asked fondly.

“It’s us, Granda. We found it when Ma passed. It’s Christmas of ‘89,” she said in a soft voice. “See that man in the center? That’s you.”

“Ah, a handsome fellow he is,” he smirked, turning the ornament over. “Thank you, Cara.”

She offered a somewhat melancholy smile. “Of course, Granda.”

When Cara left Amos seated himself in his crinkly armchair, turning the ornament over and over. He closed his eyes and drifted to sleep easily.