The Christmas Angel

Maureen, my mother in law was thinking about making her preparations for Christmas.

On the way over for a visit yesterday evening I  remarked to my wife that if Maureen was not trimmed up yet then we should offer to lend a hand. After all, she is 83 but this does not stop her from climbing on chairs or balancing precariously on the settee or dining table to get that perfect angle for the festooning of the rooms in her house with paper chains, glossy metallic decorations and ornate paper cut outs of snowflakes.

Maureen has been a bit under the weather in recent months, not really surprising because she refuses point blank to scale down her operations and take it easy. We do miss her monday Concierge service at our house but there is a time to make the right decision for Maureen. If her health is at stake I can cope with not having the front pathway washed down on a weekly basis, the drain gully's cleaned out and the external woodwork washed down. At half her age these are the sort of things I should be doing, well at least every fortnight then.

On pulling up outside Maureens house there was no sign of the traditional lights and hangings. The hallway was dark and with only the back room light illuminating the way past the shopping trolley (wheels still warm to the touch). My left shoulder brushed against the curtain divider pulled right across the flat arch opening into the front room. On many previous occasions I have hesitated to push open the door to the back room , even after having knocked loud and sure. Maureen could as readily be cavorting about dressed in a belly dancer outfit or doing a Lili Marlene look-e-likey (all for Charitable endeavours of course) as sat on her haunches eating winkles and a dressed crab , or peeling potatoes and making up the pastry mix for one of her famously delicious shortcrust topped apple pies.

She was perched on the edge of the sofa, not unusual in itself, but only because it was the only clear space in the whole room. My expressions of son-in law concerns to my wife that Maureen might be thinking about having a quieter Christmas this year were completely dismissed by the resemblance of the back room to the staging post for Santa's North Pole Operational Centre.

The black suitcase, bursting with the best seasonal figures of angels, stars and ornaments was open and it contents ordered for arrangement. The dining table was a sea of bright red envelopes and greetings cards being prepared to burst the postbox down the street. Mysterious black bin bags lay all around, unmarked but to Maureens own organisational system and becoming increasingly full of gifts for the family from each trip out to the shops.

There were a few cards opened and displayed on the mantelpiece. We had often thought of running a sweepstake on how many cards she would receive every year because this regularly exceeded a hundred and more . This is a heartwarming sign of  the fondness and love that is felt for Maureen by not just her large family circle but neighbours, friends and acquaintances down the street and through the local community.

I was wrong to be doubtful .As ever Maureen is well prepared to celebrate Christmas. My wife was a bit teary and emotional at this stage, overcome with the happy memories of her childhood at the sight of the suitcase full of the familiar things which hold so much of the magic of the run up to Christmas.

She recalled , when young, finding wrapped presents in the house in the spring of the following year which her mum had hidden and forgotten about. These gifts, themselves, may indeed have been purchased in the January Sales of the preceeding year. How is that for being organised?

Maureen has some great stories of past events from this time of year.

My father in law, George went for a drink one Christmas Eve with strict instructions to be back by eleven pm to help with the turkey and trimmings. There was no sight nor sound of him until the early hours when one of his friends popped a head, hesitantly, around the door jamb to guage the atmosphere with Maureen. Thinking the grinning form in the dark of the night was her husband she wound up a powerful haymaker, wholly out of character but understandable with there being so much to do. A female voice pleaded with her not to lamp the man, her husband. He was just the foil and front for a very apologetic but contentedly tipsy George.

It was frosty in the spouse department for the rest of Christmas Day and George was not allowed to forget about his neglect of duty. He was a bit quiet and kept well out of Maureens way, holding his sore head in his hands in the living room. It was a very rare thing indeed for George to sidestep his responsibilities which was a mainstay of his defence. He would be forgiven eventually, or at least after the Queens Speech.

The celebrations of the Day were interrupted by a knock, half hearted, at the front door. This was unusual because no-one in the street ever locked their houses and neighbours just came in and went as and when required.

The caller was the man who had narrowly avoided the wrath of Maureen just a few hours before. He was on a mercy mission.

On the route back from the pub the large-ish group of menfolk had continued the session in each others homes,a bit of a nightcap. In one kitchen they had thoughtlessly helped themselves to the whole of a Christmas dinner. It must have seemed a good idea at the time. There was now an appeal on behalf of the empty table of that family. It appears that ,with the cooked ham donated by Maureen and similar fare from the other miscreants of the night before Christmas, the day was salvaged and enjoyed by all.

My own eyes were watering at the recounting of this particular story and it was a joy to see Maureen herself rock with laughter at the memories invoked by it. I was reassured that Christmas and the celebration of it was, as always, very much present in that house.

"Had we seen the tree?", we were asked. Maureen led us through, with a light skip, to the front room. Pulling back of the curtain revealed a winter wonderland. A three foot high, elaborate and detailed Santa stood watch on the hearth. He was in the true St Nicholas style and not a bit scary or intimidating for his size. Really not scary.

Our attention was taken however by the sight of the tree.

It was a moving, almost liquid mass of lights that pulsed and strobed in a million random sequences through its fibre optic network of dense branches and boughs. It was mesmerising to watch, a perfect pyramidal form. Of course I had to touch it, didn't I, to set my mind at rest that it was not actually a freakish, irradiated natural pine or a hologram.

Maureen, at our thrilled reaction to her very own grotto, just giggled. I could not be entirely sure but I got the impression that she had lifted very slightly off the living room floor as though in an excited flutter of Angel Wings.