CHRISTMAS KITTENS AND MITTENS BY FIONA CUMMINGS

A winter’s story

KITTENS AND MITTENS

BY FIONA CUMMINGS

The small shrubs in the gardens I passed were frosted like icing on a cake. Icicles shone like crystals from brittle, bare branches. Silver stars sparkled from the navy night.

The crescent moon, gave enough light to find my way home, though shadows from fir trees followed me, as though company for Christmas was being given.

The tall slim, silver birch trees, lined the avenues. My tired feet treaded slush and in the distance I saw a flash of lights from a neighbour’s garden. I passed by a friendly looking snowman, wearing an old Christmas gift I guessed. A red scarf, which had seen a lot of winters. A black bowler hat perched on the top of his huge head, which was almost as big as his body. A carrot for his nose I think may have slipped slightly with the harsh winds which tore through my fingertips as I carried bags of gifts for the families I was to meet.

Down the old farm track passing the tired looking tractor which comes out almost every year at this time to tow troubled vehicles which are buried under blankets of snow.

I had one more collection to do.

The farmer friend of mine found a fluffy present for my little boy, whilst he was fixing a fence on one of his fields.

A cute kitten, colour of a snowflake, with baby blue eyes.

 I knocked at the rickety door, in much need for a lick of paint. My friend opened it, he invited me in. Relieved to put down my bags of gifts, which had cut through my fingers, but I was unable to feel the pain for Jack Frost had nipped at them!

I removed my boots and my feet were frozen. I had been working all day followed by shopping, as I crawled through the crowds, coping with last minute shoppers.

The stone floors of the farm house were warm, from the AGA cast iron cooker, which was the centre piece in the kitchen where I was taken to. I was asked to sit at the table that I was told, had been in the old farm house, before my friends had moved in there. I imagined how many dinners and conversations were created at that table. My friend’s wife came in, cradling a kitten. She placed her in a brown basket, with a tartan blanket, in colours of blues and ambers.

Washed her hands in the old Belford sink, opened the oven door and brought out some freshly cooked scones. Then after she buttered a few, placed them on a green porcelain plate, handed me the plate and began to make a tall glass of hot chocolate for me.

My friend told me he had a gift for me and my family.

But first I was to warm up then he would show me.

A very kind man, I knew him when he was a young man starting off with only a small allotment and now he owns a few fields. But hard work has stolen many years from him and given him the unfortunate gift of lined skin.

Coloured as though parcel paper.

My little boy would love his new friend for sure, but we would have to take great care of it as she was born and rejected in the wild. But she looked beautiful and she was so small.

I would leave her in the warmth as I went back into the cold. My boots had been placed to dry, on the old stone hearth. I went out into the farm yard to see the most beautiful sight. It was a Christmas tree wrapped in a bow. My friend did laugh when he saw my face; I wondered how on earth I would get it home?

He told me he would drive it up the lane for me on his faithful truck. He wrapped it in a blanket of mesh and his kind wife, and him carried it to the truck as we all piled in, me with the kitten and bags of gifts.

 As we chugged chugged up the slippy slope, I told of my Christmas plans with my wife and Son. I looked to old Jack and saw frozen tears in his eyes. I knew Jack didn’t have a family other than his wife and no children ever came into their lives. He was fostered as a baby and his wife was from Romania. Both of her parents were killed, in a cruel Regime.

We got to our house and my wife was waiting at the door as she was anxious as she knew how bad the weather was and I was later than expected. My little boy ran into my arms and I told him I had something in the tractor for him, but he must run in the house first. As I took the basket and bags Jack and Ilinca carried in the tree.

My wife was so excited. It had been a very tough year for us and my new job bought gifts but no money for a tree. My wife had been very ill and was on her road to recovery, so this tree was her gift as the roots would continue growing in our garden to represent her life.

This was what Ilinca told her.

We used a tin bin and Jack brought a sack of soil to stand the tree firmly in the small bin.

Brushing down his soily trousers, his chapped hands rubbed together, he stretched his hand out to wish me well for the Season. I took his hand in mine and pointed to our cosy lounge, flamed in a orange glow from our coal fire and fragranced with oranges and cloves.

Cinnamon sticks hung from the chimney breast and Ilinca, jack, my wife, Son and his new best friend he called Jacklin, all enjoyed a Christmas as a family, as I handed and shared out gifts I had bought that   late afternoon.