A Chelsie Christmas
C – Children
December 3rd, 1926
Friday had become Charles' favourite day of the week. And for none of the reasons that workers would usually find to cherish the precious day. He found every day was a free day, a time to fill with whatever pursuits his heart desired. He had a routine now, and routine kept his fire burning. He rattled on through life, the days circling him until Friday came.
Blessed Friday.
For Friday was Elsie's half day.
She slept, the long days catching up with her, and he would potter about in the kitchen, making tea and preparing porridge – he was quite good at it now. She liked hers best with blackberries from their garden, but by December she had to settle for a drizzle of honey.
An eternity of early mornings meant she was still up and dressed by seven thirty. They were seated at either end of the dining table as they ate.
"I thought we might take the eight thirty bus," he said as she rose to refill their tea cups. "That will get us into Ripon in good time."
"Sounds fine," she said, her voice light. "A full day together." She had saved up her hours for the past two months in anticipation of a day's leave. They would shop for gifts, take afternoon tea in the café he liked. Share each other's company.
"Good porridge this morning," he said, unable to find the words to express his joy at their time in solitude.
"Very good," she smiled. "Imagine… gingerbread one day, porridge the next."
He glanced fleetingly at her smiling face, shaking his head just slightly.
The bus was crowded, a weekday morning as it was, and Charles graciously gave his seat to an elderly lady though remained standing beside the place Elsie sat. She watched his hands gripping the back of the seat in front, but he kept his balance and the journey wasn't long.
"I love December air," she said, taking his arm as they walked towards the market. "It's so very clear and fresh."
"There is a full moon this Sunday," he said confidently. "Which accounts for the lighter night we had. And the owl."
"Have you found his resting place yet?"
"He is still somehow managing to elude me."
"Though keeping you awake at night," she paused, loosening her arm a little from the crook of his. "I will go inside; their wool is fairly priced and I thought I might make Becky a shawl for Christmas. I should have started earlier, truth be told, but she won't mind if it's late." She didn't say 'she won't know' but thought it nevertheless. "Do you wish to come in with me?"
"I will wait." He said, and stepped back from the door as she went inside, the bell jangling above her. It was a second of an image, the rise of a foot as she took the step inside, and he caught sight of her ankles in black boots and the slight rise of her long skirt as she moved. His eyes drew up the slender outline to her waist and then the door shut after her and he turned away, ashamed for having such thoughts in broad daylight.
He strolled across the cobbled walkway, careful of his step, it was frosty and the stones damp. Two boys were rolling a hoop between them, their raised voices clattering along with their entertainment. Charles watched them with glee, recalling 'The Hoop Nuisance' that had dominated the newspapers for many a year when he was young. Truth be told, he enjoyed the pastime as a child and wouldn't wish it banned from the streets, as long as they played within reason. He briefly wondered why they weren't in school and hoped to goodness they got an education.
He would never admit that to anyone but his wife, he had rallied against it for so many years in the house, but he could see the good in it now. To be educated, to find your place, he understood Elsie's arguments even if it went against his usual grain. The world was changing, which caused him palpitations if he dwelled on it, but his way of life – the one he'd grown up with and built his life around – was dying out and for young boys of a class such as this, there needed to be something else to pursue for your life's career.
Charles had always thought if he had ever had children his son would follow in his footsteps, as he had done his father and grandfather. Now there seemed a changing of the tide and he couldn't help but feel insecure about the imaginary choices his imaginary son might have made.
"I should like to visit the cathedral whilst we're here." He said later as Elsie paid for the dried fruits she had purchased from a market vendor.
"I would like that too," she placed the package in her basket. "These will be wonderful with your Port," she said, her voice warm and eyes shining as she looked up at him. "I have noticed for years you have taste for dried figs and dates."
"I do, and so kind of you to notice, though I do know of your impeccable observation skills my dear Mrs. Hughes."
It still made her smile when he called her that, quite by error, and she held on tighter to his arm as they walked in the direction of the church.
Inside she lit candles and stood to say a prayer as Charles walked the periphery. He joined her in one of the pews and they sat in silence taking in the beauty of the building. There were trees decorated for the season, and a still calm aura about the place. Elsie shifted her gloved hand over to press on top of Charles' and he cast her a quick glance of appreciation before turning his attention to the stained-glass windows.
He studied each one in turn but lingered over the Madonna and child. He was unsure why it held his attention so, after all it was an image he'd seen since his youth. Perhaps it was the time of year, or the touch of Elsie's hand on his, but it struck him so – the mother, and the purity that brought.
"We should leave soon," she whispered, "it's after three and will be dark by four."
"Yes," he said in hushed tones and looked back at her. Her pale cheeks were flushed from the outdoor frost and the contrast of being inside; her shining eyes were filled with affection for him and he saw for a moment the girl she had once been, the child, and pondered momentarily on whether they would have gotten along as children.
There was a snow storm, hazardous flurries and howling winds. Inside, a fire, burning central in the hearth – violent, warming. A figure in the chair facing the fire bent forward, cooing and hushing. A gentle, soothing lilt to the voice as it sang so very softly. For a second, Charles was unsure whether he was watching or the child on the mother's knee, the recipient of the ditty.
When he pushed around the table the woman looked up at him, dark hair but those same eyes, gone were the lines, she was as he remembered the first time he saw her.
"Hush little baby," she said, and smiled kindly at him. "Time to sleep."
It jarred him to see her dress open, and a child, a babe, suckling at her breast. Mouth open, breathing heavy, he stepped closer, instinct telling him this was his son, this was the child they had made out of love. And he would continue to love him and raise him and do all he could –
"Charles," Elsie's elbow jabbed him for a third time in the ribs. "Sorry darling," she hissed by his ear, "But we are arriving in the village and you need to wake."
He looked squarely at her, disappointment filling him and the wonder of that sight, the sheer joy of what he was part of, left him like a balloon deflating.
Disorientated he followed her down the bus when it stopped. The crispness of the early evening air biting at his cheeks as he stepped down and held out his hand to help her.
"Are you quite alright?" She asked once they were out of earshot of others and walking home.
"Yes, quite."
"You slept so deeply, so suddenly. And you looked at me in the oddest way when I woke you."
He considered sharing his dream, but once he thought of it again loss consumed him and he decided to keep that image sacred, cherished.
"Do you think," he asked, opening the gate to their path. "That you and I… Well…" he mumbled, suddenly embarrassed by his thoughts.
"Yes?"
"Had we married earlier, that we might have…"
She paused, turning to peer at him by the light the moon provided. "We might have…?"
"Had children?"
"Oh," she almost gasped but her sensibilities knew better. Certainly there was no chance of it given their ages but there was no lack of intimacy despite that fact and had they'd been young and found this natural affinity for lovemaking then, well… "Of course." She said quickly, "I would like to think that I would have bore your children."
"How many?"
Her mouth twisted into a smile at his eagerness, "Three I think. I like that number. A boy and two girls."
"You would have had your hands full."
"Yes," she found the key. "It would have been a very different life."
Above them an own hooted.
"Your friend is back," she said as they both looked to the sky. "A clear night."
"There will be frost tomorrow, you will take care, in fact perhaps I should walk with you in the morning, just to be sure."
She pushed the door open and stepped inside, "As you wish. Let's get the kettle boiling shall we, I'll make tea and heat through that fish pie from yesterday."
"Yes," he said, still standing outside and staring at the star lit sky, "Yes, that sounds fine."