Chapter 6 #2
Outside, where the taxi dropped me today, was the exact same spot I last saw my father here in St Tilda.
I still recall him as the man he was when we left – tall, handsome, charming.
But also broken by that stage, hugging me before I climbed into the car to the airport.
Clinging on just as hard as me, saying goodbye in a way that felt horribly permanent.
It’s real even now – the smell of his clothes, the lingering aroma of cigars, his big arms wrapped around me.
It was hard, so very hard. Even my mother understood that, tears glistening in her eyes as I was finally peeled away from him.
I grew to love the States, amazed by its sheer scale and variety, and the way you got so many different climates and time zones in one country.
I still love it – but I’m not sure I ever really recovered from that traumatic wrench.
I was sixteen. Everything is in flux anyway at that age, isn’t it?
Throw in a whole new lifestyle, a different culture, and saying goodbye to everything I’d ever known…
Well, it wasn’t easy. It took me a long time to forgive my mother for taking me, and my father for letting her.
I shake my head and tell myself off. I cannot avoid facing the past, but I can at least not wallow in it.
I send Tyler a quick message telling him I’m here safely, then finally pick up the package my dad gave me.
There is a little weight to it, and I spend some time feeling its bulk and trying to guess what it is. Eventually I shrug and open it up.
A pile of papers spills out, the first of them handwritten in old-fashioned ink pen by my father on the fancy stationery he always orders in from a little shop in Mayfair.
One of those leftovers from his childhood, I suppose – he can be a terrible snob about the smallest of things.
He used to happily shop for bargains at the wholesale stores, but always insist that the towels in the hotel rooms were the absolute highest quality.
He drove around in an ancient Aston Martin, refusing to upgrade to a more practical or modern car, and bought one good bottle of wine a week – a bottle that would cost as much as a dozen normal vintages.
I suppose he is an eccentric man, full of quirks, and I understand as a grown-up why he holds on to those quirks so hard. Sometimes it’s all we have left.
‘Dearest girl,’ it begins, ‘I hope that life is treating you kindly…’ His traditional greeting, and one that feels odd to read as I sit only a few rooms away from him.
I found this absolute treasure trove of delights when I was clearing out some boxes.
Your darling mother must have tucked them away, in that way that mothers will, knowing that one day they would be unearthed like precious artefacts in an archaeological dig!
There were a few other things as well, including some of your baby teeth, but I wasn’t quite sure how that would work – sending body parts over international borders and all that.
I had a fear that somebody in your zealous customs office would possibly blow it up, or send the CIA to vet me!
Anyway. I hope you enjoy reading these – what a wonderful child you were.
So full of fight and spirit, always up for an adventure, always keeping everyone on their toes!
I’m so dreadfully sorry about that last one, though, sweetheart.
I ummed and aahed about including it, and whether perhaps it might not be better to simply throw it on the fire, but at the end of the day it is part of your history too.
And these days, of course, we do at least know that it all worked out well in the end!
Enjoy, Eleanor – and wishing you a very merry Christmas.
I am curious now, and as I glance through the other sheets, I recognise my own handwriting too. I cast my eyes over them, and laugh out loud when I realise what I’m looking it. They are my old letters to Father Christmas, the lists that I would make every year.
Wow. She would never let me put them in the post box – we had to go to the village Post Office to send them ‘special delivery’.
Doris, the lady who worked behind the counter, would always smile and wink and say she’d get that sent straight off to Santa’s workshop.
I’d be given a lollipop from the big tub she always had, and away we’d go.
The cunning plan was clearly always in place, and Doris must have given them all back to my mother every year.
Amazing, really, how much effort and subterfuge goes into making Christmas magical for kids.
Before I start, I screw the top off the vodka and swallow some down.
That warning about my last Christmas letter sounded a bit ominous, and I have vague memories of writing it one night after drinking some illegal lager scammed from behind the bar.
I’d have been sixteen, and way past believing in Father Christmas – but my life was also a mess, and I needed a way to express that beyond slamming doors and telling my poor mum that she ‘just didn’t understand’.
The first letters are from when I was very small.
The lists are short and I have drawn pictures in between the words, so it looks a bit like hieroglyphics – or maybe a non-digital version of emojis.
I asked for a puppy on every single one, and a variety of toys that make me smile.
Pens and art supplies, a baking set, a doll, a cuddly hamster…
who asks for a cuddly hamster? Me, I suppose.
The first letter that is properly written is from 1996, when I’d have been nine.
The handwriting is much tidier, and I have clearly used a pencil and eraser because you can see where I’ve rubbed words out to correct the spelling.
Possibly I started to suspect that Santa was fussy about such things.
I smooth it out on my lap, the paper crinkled and yellowing.
It’s quite long, and I’ve put a lot of effort into it.
Dear Santa,
I have a been a very good girl all year.
Apart from when I kicked Lewis in the bottom and made him fall on his face in dog poo.
Miss Jones said that was naughty. Mummy said he deserved it because he called my friend Liam a bad name and you should always stick up for your friends.
Plus I didn’t know there was dog poo, did I, so that’s not really my fault.
Liam isn’t a smelly dwarf and Lewis shouldn’t have said that.
And he doesn’t speak weird, he’s just from Ireland.
His house is very small and he has five brothers and a sister and only one bathroom so he doesn’t have as many showers as we do.
Maybe he is a bit pongy sometimes, but it’s rude to call him names isn’t it?
So I was secretly glad when Lewis landed in the dog poo.
He was very smelly after that. Anyway, if I am still on the nice list, I would really really really like any of these things for Christmas:
1. A puppy. Any kind at all, but I do like spotty dogs like in 101 Dalmatians
2. A Tickle Me Elmo
3. Some writing pads and pens so I can write stories
4. A Baby Born doll
5. A Stretch Armstrong toy (this is for me to give to Liam, he always wanted one)
Thank you very much and I hope you have a nice Christmas.
Eleanor de Vere
I am wiping tears of laughter from my face by the end of that, especially the bit about dog poo.
I was always protective of Liam – he was like the brother I never had.
Looking back, it must have been so hard for him.
He joined our school when he was seven, straight from County Wexford.
He came from a huge Irish family, and people were so rude to them.
He was called a ‘gyppo’ on a regular basis and mocked constantly, both for being small for his age and on account of his accent.
I also remember that the Stretch Armstrong toy did turn up under the tree that year, and was promptly given to Liam as soon as I was allowed to run across the village green to his house.
The chaos and noise in there was always overwhelming, especially to an only child, but I always felt safe and welcome.
I suppose my mum must have bought the Stretch toy for him, unless there really is a Santa.
I move on through the letters, seeing requests for Tamagotchis and Furbys and those tennis games you play in the garden where the ball is on a string. Every year, I still asked for a puppy, and a gift for Liam.
I seemed to start questioning Santa’s existence when I was eleven.
I am astonished that I lasted that long – it seems old to still be making Christmas lists – but maybe it was that only child thing.
I remember Liam being more cynical, because of his huge amount of siblings and cousins, but I also remember him protecting me from that.
His older brother Callum once laughed at me for believing in the tooth fairy, and Liam punched him on the nose.
Then Callum chased him all around the village, and by the time he caught him, their dad had got wind of the fight and stepped in to stop it.
He did that in his traditional way – by dragging them both off by their ears and forcing them to shake hands.
I don’t write any more genuine Christmas lists after 1999, and even in that one, I was basically calling Santa out and sneakily accusing my mum of doing it all behind my back. Poor Mum!
I feel quite emotional myself by the time I reach the last letter. I have finished the vodka, and now I open the gin. It’s been weird seeing the person I was before brought so vividly to life. Fun, but also sad – the carefree days, and my friendship with Liam, all finished so abruptly.