Short Story: Coming Home For Christmas

Short Story: Coming Home For Christmas

The air was cold and still, like a sheet of glass pressing down on the valley, and the clouds were heavy with the promise of snow.

People were stacking logs in their front porches, and propping shovels in the hall in case they were snowed in.

It would be dark soon and the tree lights in the windows were already looking brighter against the gloom.

Inside the cottages the smell of mincemeat and cinnamon was underscored with hints of pine resin and wood smoke.

Mothers told their children to calm down or Santa would never come – let alone leave them any presents - despite the piles that were already growing under the tree.

The fire crackled and she threw on another log, caught in the shadows of the flickering television. They had been showing old, Christmas movies every afternoon this week and she, like the other stay-at-home women in the village, had used them as wallpaper as she wrapped presents and ticked off lists.

She reached out for another chocolate and settled back on the sofa as the film finished.

Everywhere was taut with the tension of waiting. Waiting for food to cook, and families to arrive; the excitement of opening presents. Waiting to see the pleasure on people’s faces; disappointment at yet another pair of slippers or the engagement ring that wasn’t there.

She waited with them; for the year to end, for the conflict to stop, for the pain of every parting to go away.

She was waiting for him to come home for his Christmas leave, to hear his laughter and feel his arms around her under the mistletoe, his mouth on hers.

It had always been the same, ever since she met him. Stolen afternoons, days, sometimes even weeks.

So precious but so painful, always the spectre of war standing a few paces off, waiting.

David looked so handsome in his combat uniform, rugged, tanned, eyes glittering under his beret, but it was his dress uniform she loved the most, the uniform he’d married her in.

She’d danced on air that day, looking forward to the life they’d have, celebrating in a champagne-fuelled haze.

Morning had come and with it the knot in her stomach as war stood outside their hotel window, waiting on the drive to take him back to barracks, to the airstrip, to Helmand.

And so it always was. She held his hand but had to let it go, be content with letters and snatched phone calls and the very occasional email.

She loved him but he wasn’t hers. He had to he shared in little chunks between her, his family his friends, the army, war.

Not anymore. Tonight he was coming home for good. He’d done with it and tonight would be the first of many spent together, just the two of them.

Wood popped in the fireplace and a shower of sparks caught in the grille of the fire guard, tiny red stars glowing then gone, like the tail lights of military planes bound for Afghanistan.

She got up and poked the fire before pushing another log into the flames. It was time to get ready.

She lay in the bath for ages, feeling the foam on her skin, like the touch of his fingers, lips open in anticipation.

Dried and powdered she lingered at the mirror in her underwear, remembering their first night together and all those urgent nights afterwards, making love as if it was the last time, the only time, the time they would taste in their mouths and smell on their skin when he was gone and she waited.

She waited now, dressing in red, putting on the earrings he’d brought home from a tour of duty in South Africa. Diamonds, twinkling like a thousand Christmas lights.

She waited as Carols from Kings soared and fell again on the television, Christian teachings giving way to quiz programmes and the ubiquitous chat show.

Everything was ready now. Presents wrapped and placed under the tree, candles flickering and the white stars of fairy lights.

Soon he’d be here, with the bells of midnight as he’d promised, romantic as ever – his homecoming.

She poured the champagne and there he was, standing in the fire light.

“Oh my love,” she cried out stepping forward, raising a hand to touch his cheek.

She kept her tears in check, tracing the outline of the jaw that had been smashed to pieces, the shattered cheekbone and sightless eye.

The other side of his face was still perfect, soft and smeared with blood.

He’d done with war in an instant, blown away like snowdrifts in a storm as the mine exploded underneath his tank, and she didn’t have to speculate anymore.

She raised her glass in a silent toast to him and he was gone.

She smiled, relieved that he was safe at last and turned off the Christmas lights as day dawned and she made for the stairs.

In a few hours she’d be waiting when they disembarked his body at the airfield.