A Story to be Told

Christmas morning arrived, as it always did, with Claire buzzing about like a snow-dusted sparrow while I nursed a coffee and grumbled under my breath about the cost of everything. Our house was a swirl of tinsel and twinkling fairy lights, the air carried the scent of roasting turkey and citrus notes of mulled wine. And yet, all I could think about was the sanctity of Boxing Day football fixtures—a glimmer of normalcy amid the forced cheer.

   At eight o’clock I got a call from my sister, Victoria.

   “Roy,” she said briskly, “expect Terry today.”

   “Terry who?”

   “You know, Terry. Big fellow. Canadian accent. He showed up here yesterday, said he’s tracing family roots or something. I couldn’t keep him, Leanne needed me, but I told him he’d be welcome at yours.”

   “Did you now?” I said, tightening my grip on the handset.

   “Oh, stop it,” she snapped. “He’s family. Mum’s side from British Columbia. Aunt Mabel’s funeral, remember?” 

   “That was years ago---”

   “You probably met him there.”

   “I don’t recall---”

   “Well, he’s harmless. And entertaining, in his own way.”

   “Entertaining?”

   She ignored my scepticism. “Look, he’s a traveller. He’ll have stories to share. Anyway, Merry Christmas!” And with that, she hung up.

   An hour later, a heavy knock shook the front door.

   Terry was a sight to behold. A giant of a man with thick chin bristles and a ruddy nose that glowed like Santa’s proverbial reindeer. His coat looked as if it had weathered every Canadian winter since Confederation, and his rucksack bulged with unknown treasures.

   “I’m Terry,” he said, thrusting out a dinner plate-sized hand.

   Before I could process the situation, Claire appeared at my side. “Please come in, dear,” she said, ushering him inside.

   Claire’s warmth made up for my frostiness. She hauled off his rucksack, fussed over him like a long-lost nephew, and whisked him into the living room, where the first of our guests had already settled.

   “Merry Christmas, folks,” he said, occupying the polite silence. “I’m Terry.”

   “Merry Christmas, Terry!” Everyone shuffled round to accommodate an extra seat.

   “I’m from Vancouver,” he said, turning to offer a hand. “And you are…?”

   “I’m Edith, dear and this is Dorothy…”

   By the time dinner was served, Terry had charmed the room and addressed all our guests by name. Even the most bashful of our gathering listened with rapt attention as he regaled us with tales of the Canadian Rockies, of serenading strangers under shimmering auroras, and of hitching across golden deserts with nothing but a canteen and a song. Terry’s booming voice rattled each sash window in our house and populated every cobwebbed corner. His captivating presence somehow made the tinsel twinkle brighter. It was as though he possessed an internal furnace that emitted a powerful energy source. I swear, if I didn’t know better, he was fit to self-combust. 

   “You’ve built quite the home here, Claire,” he said as we tucked into turkey and stuffing. “A true hearth for the soul. Not many people can say that.”

   “Not at all…” Claire blushed, waving him off with a laugh. “Roy and I are quite a team.”

   Terry caught my eye and grinned as he watched my reaction. 

   I turned away, nodding in agreement, and caught a flicker of pride on Claire’s face. 

   After dinner, our guests relaxed with cups of tea in the living room. That was when Terry brought out his drum.

   “You know,” he said, his voice assuming a storyteller’s cadence, “the best place for storytelling is a cave. Firelight flickering on the walls, shadows dancing like spirits.” 

   My two maiden aunts cooed in wonder, enthralled by the primordial imagery. 

   “However,” he said, drawing breath. “We’ll make do with this lovely home.”

   Terry’s clenched finger tips tapped out cascading rhythms as he warmed up and punctuated his phrases with solid palm thumps. 

   The room fell silent. Even I, for all my cynicism, felt a flicker of curiosity.

   As Terry began to play, a steady rhythm seemed to pulse in the air itself. His voice followed, rich and resonant, spinning a tale of love and loyalty, of homes built not of brick and mortar but of kindness and warmth. He sang about beautiful souls making memorable marks on life’s mysterious pathway as opposed to leaving indelible stains. He wove Claire into the story, praising her generosity and called her the beating heart of our home.

   “You’re a lucky man, Roy,” he said, his gaze cutting through me. “Don’t forget it.”

   The room erupted into applause when he finished. Claire’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. For the first time in years, I looked at her - not just as my wife but as the woman she was, the one I’d somehow taken for granted.

* * *

The next day, as Claire hummed to herself in the kitchen, the phone rang. It was Victoria.

   “So,” she said, “how was Terry?”

   “Charming, but…” I squinted my mouth to one side. “Strange.” 

   “Hmm… He’s certainly the black sheep.”

   “Are you sure he’s family?”

   “Honestly, no one’s sure,” she replied. “All we know is, he’s from Canada. He said he’s tracing relatives. But no one remembers him from Aunt Mabel’s funeral. Henry thought he looked familiar, but who knows? He could’ve just heard the Mellor name on his travels.”

   The line crackled for a moment. “You’re saying he might not be family at all?”

   Victoria laughed. “He’s gone now, isn’t he? What’s the harm?”

   Gone. The word lingered as I hung up the phone. Who was Terry? And how had he come to be sitting at our Christmas table, filling our home with music and light?

   Claire glanced at me as I returned to the kitchen. “What’s on your mind?” she said, setting a poinsettia on yesterday’s empty table.

   “Nothing,” I said, my mind swirling with questions. And then, almost without thinking, I reached out and took her hand.

   Claire’s eyes softened, her smile deepening.

   Perhaps it didn’t matter who Terry was. Whether he was family, a wandering troubadour, or some messenger sent by fate, he’d left something behind. A warmth. A reminder.

   Life, after all, meanders on unpredictable pathways.

   And for the first time, I didn’t mind so much. 

   Even if I still hated Christmas.

   There’s football later.

   So that’s fine.

The End