In The Bleak Midwinter

It took me ages to get the wrapping paper off.  It was that sort of plasticy tin foil paper with shiny little Christmas trees all over it.  The kind that squeaks when you move it, and kind of stretches when you try and tear it.

And when it finally did come off, all it revealed was just a simple little cardboard box with a lift-off lid.

It was empty.  Except for a little slip of paper.  And the paper said just three words.

You see, a few weeks before, I’d met Cassie.  Or Cassandra Jeannie Waring, as she introduced herself as.  It wasn’t in a bar or anything like that, nothing so cliché.  It was at a bus stop.

I’d just finished work in my poorly-heated and understaffed excuse for a record shop.  My day had essentially consisted of helping clueless fathers find CDs of bands they had never heard of, and DVDs of films they could neither remember the full title of or approve of their offspring wanting to see…  I had never looked forward to getting home to cup of tea and “Match of the Day” so much.

There was a walk of less than thirty yards from shop doorway to the bus stop, and as soon as the door was locked and we turned away, I could tell something was different.  The air felt, well, new.  It felt like walking out into a fresh snowfall.

There was the usual ragtag group of hassled comrades waiting for their carriages home.  The woman with the chest far too big for any item of clothing she seemed to own; the tired-looking chap who owned the camera shop three doors along, as usual he looked as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders.  There was a couple of students, braving the cold December winds in nothing but one of those uni-hooded jumpers.  You know, the ones that proclaim to everyone that they are a crucial member of the University of Rangoon’s (probably) excellent Backgammon team.

And then there was her.

I wish I could say I don’t remember what she was wearing.  That I hardly noticed her and just got on my bus.  But I couldn’t take my eyes off her.  She was wearing a knee-length deep maroon duffle coat, black woolly gloves and a black bobble hat.  Underneath there were jeans slightly too long to show off her shoes.  But I’m sure they were beautiful.

I must have taken a sharp intake of breath at the wrong moment, and I started coughing uncontrollably.  Usually it would have been fine – I was certain that it would just be a moment before I regained control of myself and could carry on waiting like the rogueish man-about-time I liked to imagine I appeared as.  A few moments later though, I was doubled over, kneeling on the ground expecting some of my organs to appear on the pavement in front of me.  And she came over.

I don’t remember a lot of those few moments.  But I know she was still there when I could finally stand up again, and that was all that mattered.  She took me to the nearby coffee shop to recover and sat me down at a table near the door while she went to order a drink.

When she came back, I was stunned.  By now I had some control over my facilities and voice box – although I was unable to use them.  She was beautiful, I was speechless.  And I mean utterly beautiful.  Not in a just-above-par beautiful.  I mean jaw-droppingly, droolingly and completely bloody ridiculously beautiful.  And she was buying me coffee.

I took a deep breath and began to respond to some her questions.  I managed to say my name, and confirm that yes, I was OK now.  I must have said thank you about thirty times that evening.  She asked a lot of questions.  She told me her name was Cassandra Jeannie Waring, and that she was free this evening if I fancied grabbing a drink or something to eat.

I remember replying that I’d like that a lot, and that’s what we went off to do.

The next morning, I paid her a visit.  She worked in the bookshop on the square, I had a break, and had decided to take something to thank her for her kindness and wonderful company the night before.

Over the next couple of weeks, I bought her lunch to say thank you.  We bumped into each other a few times and talked for a while, and when I went to the cinema to see something that I couldn’t remember much about except the cost of the tickets, she was there.  Even on the rarefied occasion that I was invited and went to a party, she was there.  It began to seem like someone was trying to tell us something.

I found myself thinking about her every day.  Maybe not in big ways, but whenever my mind was idle, she began to float gently to the front of my thoughts – the way the smell of freshly brewed coffee invades every nook and cranny of the early morning household.

So I resolved to do something about it.  And I chose my moment carefully.  I took quite a scientific approach actually.  Well, OK, I didn’t – I simply reasoned that no-one could resist the magic of Christmas, so why not use that to my advantage?  That could not do any harm, surely.  And I had my template too – I’d seen Love Actually more times than I could count, and Christmas worked for everyone there, so why not me!

I gathered my props:

Five A3-sized cards.   Check.  One large chunky black pen.  Check.  One Rose.  Check.

I arranged everything at speed.  I knew what I was going to do, and I knew that if I did it right, I couldn’t fail.

At lunchtime on Christmas Eve, I pulled the cards and the rose from my locker, and walked to the bookshop.  I had to wait until she could see me, and hope that I could keep her attention.  I was in luck.  She was not only there, but was arranging a display of sale items near the window.  Now was my chance.  I knocked on the glass.  She carried on arranging the books.  I knocked harder, and she looked up.  As did a lot of other people too.  She smiled and waved.  I held up a hand and then raised the first card.

“HELLO”

She mouthed back, laughing and waved again.  Up came the second card.

“BECAUSE IT IS CHRISTMAS

(AND I SAW THIS IN A FILM),

I WANTED TO TELL YOU…”

She looked confused, and I have to admit, a little concerned.  Time for the third card.

“YOU ARE AMAZING.

MY LIFE IS COMPLETE WITH YOU IN IT.”

She smiled and tilted her head.  Her hair fell onto her shoulder.  I felt my entire body weaken as she brushed it back behind.  I had to get the next one up before I was sick (with the nerves, you understand).

“AND ALTHOUGH THIS SOUNDS FORWARD AND RASH,

I THINK I LOVE YOU.

PLEASE BE MY GIRLFRIEND.”

That probably sounded ridiculous and childish, but it had been honestly the only way I could think of putting it.

“DON’T ANSWER NOW.

I HAVE A GIFT FOR YOU,

AND THEN I WILL GO.”

I walked into the shop and gave her the rose.  It might have been my imagination, but there looked like there was a tear in her eye.

I left, and I didn’t look back.  I didn’t need to – she was certain to be watching me leave.  I went into the sandwich shop and asked for something special – a ham salad, with no mayo.  I had to watch my figure now that I was almost certainly a future husband.

That evening, when I finished work and we locked the shop doors, something was different again.  I turned to walk to the bus stop, and I could smell something – like a crisp spring morning.  And there she was.  What’s more, she was waiting for me.

Same maroon duffle, black gloves and hat.  She was wearing a skirt this time, and the green Christmassy tights dazzled slightly under the street lights.  She smiled sweetly when I approached, and handed me a small, flat, box-shaped parcel, wrapped in shiny paper.  I mumbled thanks – and apologies for not having anything for her.  She simply studied my face, smiled almost sadly, and kissed my forehead.  She was so gentle.

And then she left.  I don’t know where she went, but I could feel that kiss for hours afterwards.  I don’t remember getting the bus home, but I must have done because the next thing I knew I was standing in front of my tree arguing with myself whether or not I ought to put the present under the tree or open it now.

Christmas was Christmas, and there were traditions that should be observed.  And that meant present opening was for tomorrow.  One night wasn’t long to wait.  So I put it under my tree.

I slept, as you would, appallingly.

The next morning, this morning, full of the joys of Christmas and dressed in the jumper my 96 year old grandmother had managed to knit me (despite crippling arthritis), I skipped down the stairs like I had done when I was 6, anticipating the Atari I never got.

I searched out the small box, and placed it on the coffee table next to the fake log fire – which I duly bent down to plug in.  After all, it’s not Christmas without a fire, right?  I pressed play on the stereo and went to make some tea, bellowing out a raucous version of O Come All Ye Faithful.  I didn’t really care if I woke or disturbed anyone, I was in love with the most beautiful woman in the world, and this was Christmas morning – it was my duty to spread the joy of the season.

I returned from the kitchen with my steaming mug and studied the present.  I’d done this on the way home the night before – I knew what I’d find.  There was the slight blemish on the paper where she’d taped and got it stuck in the wrong place.  She’d apologised for that.  There was the sweet little label with the snowman on.  It read: “To my lovely stranger. Thank you.  XX”  Two kisses.  And I was lovely.  This morning, instead of making me ache with longing as it had last night, it made me warm and content.

The CD slipped onto the next carol – “In the Bleak Midwinter”, one of my favourites.  I smiled, opened the box, and found the note inside.  It said just three words:

“I’m sorry.  No.”

And then I burnt my tongue on the tea.  Happy Christmas.

Bah.  Humbug.