Page 107 of It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas
The familiar roads began to unfold before me once more. It’d ended up being a cold and crisp Christmas Eve once the early morning drizzle had passed, and the buildings that had been dull and damp when I’d made this very journey ten days ago were now glistening with early-evening frost. It might not be a white Christmas tomorrow, but it could end up being a satisfyingly clear and crisp one.
Driving past The Star, I was thrilled to see the car park full and the place radiating festive mirth from every window. I took a mental note to text Becky later to let her know I was back – again.
In the fading dusk light, Scarnbrook’s Christmas trees and fairy lights seemed to get brighter and brighter as I neared Jo’s bungalow. And then I felt it: the full-on festive tingle I hadn’t experienced for decades.
It was the physical feeling of love, wasn’t it? That blissful, unconscious sensation that tells us we’re part of a special, reciprocated connection. An unbreakable one, even. That’s why losing someone is so fucking hard – because having that tingle unceremoniously ripped from our insides leaves our outsides mockingly unscathed, as if it had never existed in the first place.
Is this why people seem so obsessed with nostalgia, especially at this time of year? Maybe all they’re trying to do is recapture that tingly feeling – of comfort and safety and predictability – that had once been the most tangible, natural thing in their lives. Yet, the older we get, the less reliable and uncertain the world seems to become, and the more fragile our safety nets feel. Looking back is often so much easier than looking forward. And, for some of us, opening ourselves up to new people, new experiences and new uncertainties is simply too much to contemplate.
Because that tingle – that sense of love and belonging – is addictive. And, as stupid as it sounded, I’d been filling that craving with my cheesy Christmas movies. Because the characters always re-discover the childhood joy and comfort they’d once taken for granted. And, up until right now, parking up a few houses away from Jo’s home in one of the few on-street spaces available – evidently lots of people had descended on this pocket of the world for Christmas – I’d never even known that’s what I’d been searching for.
I stretched in the driver’s seat for a few seconds, before noticing a message notification from Tom on my phone from about forty minutes ago:
Tom:
I’m back at Mum’s, safe and sound! Stopped off at Membury services onthe way back for a cheeky Burger King.
I tapped out a quick reply.
Mally:
Yum! Btw, I have a surprise for you.
The ticks turned blue instantly, and I looked over at Marmalade.
‘Right then, Marmy. Are you ready?’
Maybe the question was more for me than him. I scooped him up and slammed the hire car door closed just as Tom replied:
Tom:
?
I responded by pushing his mum’s doorbell.
He took a few seconds to come to the door, Jo calling, ‘Who is it?’ from her front room as he pulled the door open towards him.
‘It’s us,’ I said quietly, holding out Marmalade to him. ‘We both missed you.’
‘You… came?’
I nodded, and he pulled me into the best hug I’d ever had in my whole life, which swiftly turned into the best kiss I’d ever had in my whole life. By the time it had ended, Jo had rounded the corner of the hallway, Chippie poking his head between her ankles inquisitively, her entire face beaming as she looked between our oxytocin-filled faces.
‘Oh, Mally, sweetheart! She came back, Thomas! Oh! Let me leave you two lovebirds to it for a minute or two, I’ll just…’
‘Ha ha, Jo, it’s fine. We have plenty of time for… all that.’ I squeezed Tom’s hand and he squeezed mine right back, along with an invisible sweep of the inside of my wrist with his thumb, before tugging me over the threshold of home.
Unpacking in Jo’s spare room an hour or so later after more hugs, a mug of hot chocolate and a hefty slice of Lidl Christmas cake to tide me over until a ‘picky tea’ in front of the telly later, my phone buzzed, the word ‘Mum’ flashing on the screen.
‘Mum! Happy Christmas Eve!’
‘Happy Christmas Eve, sweetheart! Oh, you sound nice and chirpy! What time is it there? I can’t keep up.’
‘It’s coming up to… six o’clock in the evening.’
‘Gosh, it’s not even lunchtime here and I’ve already been awake for what feels like a whole day. Your dad’s been sleeping like a log on Sandra’s enormous spare bed. It’s wider than it is long!’
‘Very posh! Are you both having a nice time?’
