Tick

Tick. Tick. Tick.

3:58pm. Exactly eight hours and two minutes until the grandfather clock would begin to chime for the second time. He always turned the clock off after it chimed at midnight before bed, turning it back on in time for the chime to ring out at 12pm - an old superstition Lynn possessed in regard to the number of hours on the clock face. Nowadays, he adjusts the settings so that it chimes only those two times every day – still committed to appeasing Lynn’s wishes, but his growing annoyance at the hourly cacophony of noise too much to bear. The clock was an older make, some chalky oak thing that, truthfully, he found rather ugly. Day in and day out, it sat smugly across from the velvet armchair (the seat he always sat in, he suspected his mischievous wife did that on purpose), the constant ticking mocking him and scraping his ears as he watched The Chase every Sunday morning. He had desperately advocated to get rid of it, but time and time again, his wife’s fond chuckle at his whiney tone and the soft kisses she always awarded his cheek kept him at bay more successfully than any argument could. If he was being candid, the proud look that came over his wife’s face whenever she looked at the old thing, though he did not understand it, made his distaste far more bearable.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

As he pulled the lever down on the toaster, submerging the two-day-expired bread in scalding warmth, his eyes found the mini Santa hat perched on the clock’s pointed finial and he huffed a laugh through his nostrils at another of his wife’s traditions. The gold tinsel wound around the body with the rigidness of a rusted spring – he was missing the natural talent for decorating that Lynn so gracefully possessed. What became beautiful under her hands became lifeless under his. What was a home in her presence was merely a house in his.

A gust of wind suddenly blew through the open window and knocked the singular Christmas card that was perched on the living room window sill to the maroon carpet. He made his way over and picked it up. A beaming Rudolph stared cheerfully back at him, his red nose enlarged to fit the words “Happy Holidays!” inside it. Santa, frozen mid-stroll behind him, sack of colourful presents adorning his back, had one hand in the air, greeting the snowsuit-clad pair of elves stood right next to the opening of the card, prepared to make a child’s Christmas magical. He opened the card.

Merry Christmas Grandad!

We love you

From Ella, Anna, and Grace.

He turned the card to the back where they had forgotten to remove the price sticker. They had spent 49p.

His son’s children had once been the light of his life. He recalled the day Ella was born, the first of his grandchildren, big blue eyes gazing innocently back at him, soft strands of blonde hair peeking out from underneath her scalp, and a tiny freckle underneath her left eyebrow to match his own. He had never known a love like it. He remembered her clumsily taking his large finger in her little hand while his Lynn stroked their daughter-in-law’s hair as they wept with joy. The twins, Anna and Grace, followed shortly after, a mere two years behind their sister. It was as if a hole in his heart he hadn’t known was there became full.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

When the children were still young and their son informed them of his plans to move out of the country, they had been heartbroken. It would be terribly difficult for them to witness their grandchildren grow up from the opposite end of the world. Regardless, they made it work.

At least, they tried to.

They had only managed to fly down once in the first year, and the scene when they left was nothing short of heart-wrenching.

Ella had stormed up to her room after screaming at her parents and throwing her Barbie doll at the wall, narrowly missing an in-time-out Anna, hunched over on the stairs, rosy cheeks puffed out in defiance. She hadn’t understood why her grandparents had to leave. Why they had to leave her. He could imagine the utter abandonment they must have felt, still much too young to understand why they couldn’t stay with them forever.

Whilst the other two had misbehaved in response to this feeling, little Grace had sat, silent, head heavy in her hands and a chunk of her brown hair latched between her teeth as she repeatedly chomped down, a nervous habit she had picked up seemingly out of nowhere. She hadn’t responded to the hug he attempted to give her, much to his dismay, but he understood.

That was the last time he ever saw his grandchildren.

They had been prepared for their second visit – plane tickets bought and suitcases packed – when a letter came through their door.

No more visits… too hard on the children… best if we do it while they are still young… won’t miss you too much.

Now, the only evidence he had of his precious grandchildren’s existence was the 49p Christmas card he held in his hands right now.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Into his nose rose the faint stench of smoke and the high-pitched ring of the smoke alarm confirmed his suspicions – he had forgotten about his toast.

He rushed into the kitchen, narrowly escaping a nasty fall as he avoided the raised bump in the rug he couldn’t quite seem to get rid of, forcefully jabbed his finger on the eject button on the toaster, and as the black brick-like block he had once called toast sprung up for air, he grabbed a cloth from the counter and manically swiped at the smoke alarm, desperately willing it to stop screaming at him, as if berating him for his pathetic attempt at Christmas dinner.

Ten minutes later, with every window opened to its limit and droplets of snow floating inside, creating dark spots on the living room carpet and rendering the kitchen floor something akin to an ice-skating rink, the smoke alarm finally ceased its chiding and all he was left with for Christmas dinner was a half-full packet of biscuits and carton of milk that he had been planning to use for coffee, but disappointingly, yet unsurprisingly, he was out of that too.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Full to the brim with dry, bland biscuits of sand and two glasses of even blander milk, he took his seat on the velvet armchair and tried to imagine a better Christmas.

Lynn would have laughed at him in that bright, hearty chuckle of hers. She would have teased him about his forgetfulness with the toaster and encouraged him to help her with the broccoli and why was he even making toast when they were making Christmas dinner together?

She would have taken his stubborn hands in her soft ones, they were always so soft, and dragged him around their ice rink kitchen in a dance that only she knew and a rhythm that only she could decipher. But he wouldn’t care, he would stumble along the floor and bump into the counter as many times as necessary because he knew she would always catch him in her arms. Eventually, his arms would match hers and his legs would find their balance, and they would laugh as they spun and skipped and clapped and dipped in a dance that only they knew and a rhythm that only they could decipher.

They would eat Christmas dinner together and the 49p card would be addressed to Grandma and Grandad and maybe the grandkids would even be here, having a very serious competition over who would be the first to figure out how to fix that stupid bump in the rug.

At 11:59pm they would sit in the living room, hand in hand, as the grandfather clock chimed at midnight, signifying an end to their Christmas, Lynn offering nothing more than a smirk and an eye roll at the grimace that he never really tried to hide. They would fall asleep together, wrapped in each other’s embrace, knowing that tomorrow would be just as magical, because even though it wouldn’t be Christmas, they’d be together.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

In reality, at 11:59pm, he sat in the living room alone, staring down the clock that his loyalty just will not allow him to get rid of, and waited for his signal to go to bed, wake up, and do it all over again.

Next to the clock, on the mantel, sat his Lynn, in an urn of the most gorgeous plum colour he knows she would have adored. He hoped she’d derived some amusement from watching him run around aimlessly all day, but realistically, he knows she would have just been sad. He made his way over and gave a delicate kiss to his wife. He heard the faint plop of a tear falling to the ceramic and wiped it away with his thumb, as if comforting his upset love because he knows it cannot be easy having to witness his anguish, day in and day out. He pressed his forehead to hers and felt the cold sting of the material against his skin, which was jarring; she was always the warmest presence he could ever hope to feel, warm in her kisses, warm in her embrace, warm in her words, warm in her gaze. Warm in life. Cold in death.

He pressed another kiss to the cold ceramic and closed his eyes, tried to envision her smile as he held her in his arms into the next day.

Chime.