Chapter 2: Happy Christmas to All, and to All a Good Night

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a Good Night”

Note: If you haven’t already, it’s essential you read chapter one first, to establish continuity.

Clutching the small box with its precious contents inside, old Jim knelt there alongside the tinselled tree, trying to make sense of the non-sensical, his tears gradually subsided, his emotions still in free-fall. He tried to remember ... but the past was giving up no secrets. If his subconscious held any clues as to this paradox, it wasn’t about to lay them out for him.

Cassandra had been his wife in the last century – that inarguable truth was clutched in his hand and somewhere in the recesses of his mind – he knew it to be true notwithstanding. How then were they ever parted? and by what cosmic intervention was she able to visit him on this yuletime eve?

His worsening arthritis was no aid to standing from a crouch and this Christmas morning he found inordinate difficulty and discomfort in assuming an erect posture. Holding on to the chair-back for a few moments to stabilize himself, he felt all of his sixty four years and winced as a sharp pain took his breath away momentarily. For an instant everything faded, and then with its passing, he reflected again on the morning’s events and assuring himself that since nothing here was going to further his cause – he would venture outside to seek inspiration of sorts. Making then a detour to his small bedroom, he stared at the bed recalling to mind the expended passions of the night passed and the seeming miraculous return of his youth at a time when it was sorely needed. The twin indentations on the mattress brought fresh tears to his eyes and it was all he could do to get dressed in his threadbare trousers, shirt and outerware. Turning, he headed slowly for the front door.

Not expecting a blizzard on opening it, he put his hands instinctively up to his face for protection, fully unable to see anything of his front yard or barely even the doorstep.which he now stepped gingerly across. Turning, to close the front door, he was smitten speechless to find his hands making contact with nothing - it was no longer there. Only snow blizzarding down and piling up behind him even as he watched. His home snatched away by madness, everything familiar to him gone and yet ahead of him, through a lessening of the wild precipitation, he thought he could make out fields stretching before him. Having little option, he put his head down and trudged in the direction of a soft glow he could divine on the horizon.

By degrees, the snow abated somewhat and he was able to make out what appeared to be a road of sorts, at some distance beyond the field that he was currently struggling through. On reaching it, he could see it was no more than a dirt track yet something about it sparked his memory and he knew instinctively which direction to take. His stride increased and he felt an intensity not present in his demeanor earlier. The change continued gradually but as he now glanced downwards he could see his old weathered clothing had metamorphised into sturdier work clothes of the 1800’s, a wide-lapelled leather coat was well ahead on points in repelling the cold, aided in no small part by the knee-high boots that encased his lower legs, neither of which had any knowledge of their owner’s former arthritic incapacityin another life. He thrust a gloved hand into his pocket and was relieved to feel there the small heart-shaped box. It was late Christmas morning and he had to make good on his promise to be home in time for the roast turkey Cassandra would have waiting for him. The Portsmouth township of Fratton was but a twenty minute brisk walk from where he stood and Cuthbert Road barely a mile along St Mary’s Road itself. He might even achieve his goal in just over a half-hour if he hurried.

Several horse-drawn conveyances passed him as he strode roadside, following the route he knew so well and that he had traversed in years past since gaining employment as the Manager of the Carpenter’s Arms in Portsea. Broughams, cabriolets, phaetons, hackneys – even a couple of hansom cabs passed him either way, as he walked east towards his destination. More than once the drivers and occupants would call out “A Merry Christmas to you good sir” as they passed by. One older gentleman even resorted to a brief touch of his forelock. The snow by now had all but ceased but was several inches thick on the ground and drifts up to four or five feet in doorways were a common sight.

He had just reached the intersection of Kingston and St Mary’s roads in Fratton, when having crossed the now muddy street, the snow and dirt churned up by multiple cart wheels, he passed a figure dressed in a well outfitted Santa-Claus costume, standing on the corner and ringing a small bell, to invite passers-by to drop a few coins in the open bag at his feet, for distribution amongst the poorer, less fortunate citizens of Portsmouth. As he passed, the figure inclined his head towards Jim and spoke.

“A very merry Christmas to you sir,” As Jim looked up into the man’s kindly eyes, he felt a chill. He knew this man – but how and from where?” The tall figure caressed his white mustache – a gesture that somehow was so familiar that Jim realized he was trembling.

“I ... I know you,” he mustered.

“Perhaps then we have met before,” came the reply, “Remember my friend, we all have a past as well as a future!” The words jolted him badly and though he was unable to divine the true meaning of them, he knew now that this was no accidental meeting and that it was simply something destined to be.

He felt in his pockets, found a few coins and dropped them in to the bag.

“Will we meet again?” He asked the tall figure, having no idea why he asked that.

“That is something outside of our control young sir. If it be orchestrated in years ahead, then I look forward to it. Meanwhile, thank you kindly for the consideration you have shown.” So saying, he looked down at the bag at his feet.

Jim could not find any appropriate words, so simply touching the figure on the arm, and muttering “A merry Christmas to you Sir also,” he turned and walked on. Without looking back, he knew the man was still watching him and he shivered.

Turning right on to Cuthbert Road, the lights from the oil-lamps in the little house on the right, three down from the corner, flickered their yuletide welcome. He ran the last few yards and beneath the sprigs of holly and mistletoe entwined atop the tiny wooden porch, he rapped twice on the sturdy wooden door. Footsteps could plainly be heard running towards the front of the house. Thrown open in a trice, his pretty young wife stood there and threw her arms around him.

“Jim, Jim,” she cried, hugging him to her, “You’re right on time, the Christmas dinner is almost ready!”

He glanced over her shoulder and could smell thyme and sage and other wonderful aromas emanating from the little kitchen.

Holding her hand, he guided her first into the small lounge-room on the left, where a fine christmas-tree sat, bedecked in earnest with handmade decorations, tinsel and other ornaments befitting the Christmas period. She had not opened any presents yet, awaiting his return quite obviously. He had her sit down in the worn but comfortable old chair alongside the fire-place, that right now was ablaze and warming the little room, courtesy of the logs he had cut down just the previous day. He leant across and kissed her.