A Polar Night

Pulling your scarf tight above the bridge of your nose, you brace for the flurry of winter snow as you exit the office door. 

The light dusting of frosted powder that had accompanied you to work this morning had morphed into a full-on blizzard by lunch, and even though there had been a half-hearted attempt to usher everyone out of the building by 2 pm, less than half of the workforce had taken management up on the offer. 

The first crunch beneath your feet makes you regret staying late. The buses and trains had all been cancelled, and a taxi would be hell to flag in this white-out. You decide to push forward - Home was less than a mile away, and you did it all the time during the summer months - how hard could it be? 

You instantly regret the internally posed question as your feet sink further into the drift with every step; you ponder which is worse - the step in or the step out of it. By the end of the street, you're already exhausted, your feet like lead. You wonder how on earth you'll manage to get home by morning. 

The sky is a hue of grey, a charcoal backdrop with shades of mink and dove rising like steam in a calico ether. Stars peer from behind towering buildings as the moon adorns heavy clouds with silver linings. There is something about the dark that intrigues you, how shadows move in the absence of light, crawling across the city’s topography a beast searching for its next meal. 

You shuffle along, moving slowly against the resistance of a wintry blanket. 

A tuneless harmonica sings a discordant version of Silent Night; it stops you in your tracks. You turn a full 360 in search of the source; nothing is evident at first glance, but just behind a line of ferns is a glow of light, a flickering really, and you can’t help but be intrigued by it. 

Your feet lead the way towards the clearing, the chorus becoming louder as you approach. Stopping at a gate, you frown - you’ve not seen this part of the city before? Where are you? Your glove hand searches for the handle, and with a click, it opens. 

The first thing that catches your eye is a statue, a woman holding a young child to her breast; the snow clings to the contours, and crevices rest upon their heads. Exploring your surroundings, you realise you have stumbled upon a park; benches surround the central greenery, and a frost-tipped oak stands in its middle. Its beauty, even in darkness, is astounding. You take a breath, forgetting the reason you diverged from your original path. 

The first few bars of O Holy Night return you to your senses, and you turn, hoping to find the musician. Hidden within the furthest corner of the park, you see a dimly lit fire; three silhouettes sat on a bench in front of it, warming their hands. Pulling your hat over your ears, you head towards the group, wondering what has brought them here on this frigid winter’s night.

Three elderly gentlemen sit on the bench, each indistinguishable from the next. The light of the fire illuminates their heavily set wrinkles, greying beards and varying levels of dirt within them. 

“Hello, mate.” The first one says. Despite his situation, his eyes sparkle in the flames. He wears an old fisherman jumper pulled over his bare hands; an old wax jacket covers it to keep in the warmth and restrict the dampness. 

“Hello.” You respond, confident these men are safe to talk to. “What brings you three here this cold Christmas Eve?”

Man with hole in boot replies, “We’re the three wise men, ain’t we? We’re just waiting for them there clouds to pass so we can keep followin’ that star.”

All three of the men laugh. 

You smile back at them. 

“E’re ‘Arry, move your fat ass and let the man sit down”.

Harry, the third man, shuffles along the bench, groaning. He’s the biggest of the three, wearing a heavy woollen coat with the lapels pulled up to his chin; the outline of a tattoo can be seen reaching up from his neck to the bottom of his bare neck.

“I’m Ned,” wax jacket says. 

“Drink?”

You take the sizeable two-litre bottle of cheap cider and sit alongside the three men, debating whether or not to take a swig. 

“We meet up ‘ere every Sunday, lad. Doesn’t matter the weather. We made it our duty to look out for each other.” 

You take a drink, willing him to go on. 

“Known each other our whole lives,” Harry continues. 

“Me, Ned and Lewis ‘ere, we all went to school together, all finished school together, chased the same women and the same dreams.”

You smile, knowing a lot about camaraderie yourself.

“Joined up together, too,” Lewis adds. “Saw Burma, Greece, Italy and Egypt, all of us.”

“Weren’t no bloody ‘oliday though”, Harry mutters as he lights up a roll-up.

“Fag?” He gestures.

You shake your head, touched by their offerings.

“Pass us that there cider.” Ned beckons. His cheeks are rosy as he leans over for the bottle in your hands.

“Of course, there was five of us to start with… Ray got shot in the Western Desert in ‘42. His poor mum was heartbroken. Then, Des, he got captured with ‘Arry, taken away and tortured for over 18 months - ‘Arry bein’ ‘Arry, well he could take it, poor Des was a bit soft like, he wasn't the same after that.”

“They sent ‘im ‘ome”, Harry interjects. “Tbey ‘ad to really. War ain't the place for a man after seein’ such ‘orrors.”

The other two men mumbled in agreement.

“Did ‘imself in in 75 he did. His wife found  ‘im - ‘anging from the garage door - poor woman - she din”t ever get over that either, I'm tellin’ ya.” 

Silence suffocates the air as the men reflect upon the gravity of their friends’ deaths. 

“We ain't got much, mate. But we ‘ave each other. Me and Harry have been homeless for the last two years. Ned here is at a B&B - not the nicest of places, but it's warm. Tonight we're going back there to spend Christmas together. You just caught us playin’ the last of our Christmas songs.” 

Taking off your glove, you reach into your coat pocket and pull out your wallet, 

“Ere! No, no, no, we ain't lookin’ for charity, mate - just someone to share our story with, have some cider, a smoke - like the good old days.” Ned says. 

You pull out a twenty-pound note and hand it to them - 

“It's not for you; it's for Des and Ray - put it towards a drink for them.”

“Bless ya, mate. Bless ya!” Lewis beams.

You remove your other glove and hand them to Ned - “Keep warm”, you tell him. Next comes your hat, “You too, Ned.” 

You turn to Harry and bend down, untying the laces of your left boot - “Swap?” 

It takes Harry less than a minute to acquiesce, pulling at all the knots holding his together. 

“But mate! You'll be cold goin’ ‘ome!”

Tying Harry‘s boot as tight as possible around your ankle, you look up at him and wink. You knock on the hollow prosthetic of your right leg and whisper, 

“Iraq, 1991”.

Harry pulls you to him. Hugs you tight.  

“Merry Christmas”, he chokes before letting you go, the three men watching as you disappear into the night.