Enid Boothe worked the small newsstand in the east corner of Denmark Heights Metro Station, an area of the city that had really been in the wars. Good times and bad had befallen the district, not just in the 68 years that Enid had lived there but stretching back farther than way back when. Battered, bruised, bulldozed, built up and broken down over and over again. The people who lived and died and never left the district are of a similar ilk. Some say they have it worse than other districts simply by virtue of location.
The Heights also has a strange effect on its residents. They never seem to leave. Some do, of course – they can marry out of it, or somehow get a great job in the neighbouring Palisades district, and some even shoot their way out if it all gets too much. For the most part, however, once people pitch up or are born into Denmark Heights, then that is their lot for life. Enid Boothe was no exception – a fourth generation resident who had only been out of the district perhaps a handful of times. She had even honeymooned within it. But that was no problem for her. At 68, she had had her lot and her fill. The only bother really was the knot in her stomach and the scratch at the back of her throat that had niggled at her since she was 13 years old. It was not a physical ailment, just a sensation that no doctor could diagnose. Something was wrong, but it wasn’t worth bothering anyone about it. They was nothing they could do anyway, and it would be such a hassle to try to articulate properly what was wrong. It was better to just keep one’s head down and get on with life. That was Enid’s way because she was a Denmark Heights resident.
Enid took the plastic lid off her coffee and blew away the steam. She waved her thanks to Leo for the coffee. Leo operated the small hot drinks stand across from Enid. They didn’t speak much aside from the usual morning pleasantries. There wasn’t much to talk about as they saw the same things and lived similar lives. The metro station was always busy as it was a central changeover where four lines intersected, so there was always a throng of people coming and going, but rarely venturing above ground to explore the delights of the district. Most people were well-clothed rats in their metro maze. It was six in the morning on a Tuesday and young Amit Choudhry had dumped down the stack of morning editions. Enid bent down and cut the plastic tape that bound the stack. Amit helped Enid organise the papers into an attractive pile, offered her a morning mint as was his way before skipping off to continue his round. The front page was the same as it always was: doom and gloom. A conflict resolution happening somewhere, just in time for a new war to start up somewhere else. An attractive young female actor was pictured falling out of a nightclub. An advert for some perfume. A sports star accused of battery. They only thing that changed was the date on the paper, which Enid had to check to make sure it was indeed the current edition.
It was early December and the newspaper had added a cute little elf hat on the top left corner of its masthead. Enid groaned as she remembered that Christmas was imminent. The knot in her stomach tightened slightly. The yearly routine would be rolled out as normal. She and her husband Geoff would be picked up by their daughter Sarah and taken to her house where she would have to play with Sarah’s children who were unruly. (not rude, just unruly). There would be a lot of raised, happy voices, and the TV on full blast. Celebrities Enid did not recognise would be visiting hospitals and giving presents to sick children who always seemed to look the same. The food would be prepared late and not in the traditional manner Enid and Geoff yearned for. Sarah’s husband Bollar was from a strange part of the city and brought with him some ‘interesting’ customs which, while lovely and exciting, Enid saw as inappropriate for Christmas. Sarah and her husband were of that rebellious generation that sought to leave the district. Of course, they came back, but they had a wanderlust to explore the whole city. It was of quiet concern to Enid’s generation and they spoke about it often in the lonely corner pubs and bridge clubs. Enid and her peers could not recall giving birth to such a generation – they might well be aliens. Enid took a sip of her coffee and thought about Christmas Day - staring at the clock until 9pm, when Bollar would assume they were tired and take them home. There were never any miracles at Christmas.
Enid spent the morning selling her papers and confectionery without giving the outside world much thought. She offered a few words to some of her regulars and nodded to a few others. It was approaching lunchtime and her thoughts naturally turned to the packed lunch she had prepared the night before: cress sandwiches and a small tea cake. Always cress sandwiches because her grandmother had turned her on to them when she was very young and eating them daily was very tasty way of keeping the dead alive. As ever, at quarter past twelve there was a lull in traffic. A 20-minute window when Enid could take her lunch. She placed the Tupperware on the stack of papers and prised off the lid with a satisfying pop. Enid chewed on her sandwich the same way a cow chews the cud. Slowly, round and round, eyes far away in the purgatory place between the present and memory. She finished her sandwiches and picked up her tea cake. Placing her lunch box under the counter, she found herself picking up the newspaper and turning to the back pages and the notices. She had no idea what had possessed her to do such a thing. There was no urge, no sudden desire to look through the papers. She just did it, which was all the more bizarre. Enid folded the paper and smoothed it down as she bit into her cake. She did not chew. She held the food in her mouth, her eyes fixed on a small square of text in the bottom left corner of the paper containing 45 words brought together cosmically to provide a current that could change the sea. Enid felt the knot in her stomach tighten even more and her heart began to beat fast. She brought the paper up close to her face. Age had dimmed her eyes, but it had not yet made them liars.
The wedding reception was lavish, considering the circumstances. The war had just been ‘won’ and the real work was about to start. Denmark Heights had borne the brunt of a monumental bombing campaign and not all the rubble had been cleared from the streets. Most wharfs and factories had been made safe; some ancient buildings that had survived the bombing raids now found themselves victims of mercy killings as the council carried out controlled explosions to bring them down as their weakened structures were a danger to all. The district was in ruins, but people got on with it. Humorous signs went up on shops without front windows and walls stating that they were ‘more open than usual’; children went without, and food preferences put aside for dietary necessities. There was hope in the air. The district had suffered before, and suffered worse, and had always pulled itself back up by the bootstraps. There was a general feeling in the air that it would do so again. The wedding ceremony of Monica Reece to Peter Andrews was seen by many locals as a good excuse to have a knees-up. Not everyone was invited to the reception, but they still put on little street parties. The Lamb and Axe, the local at the end of Monica’s street, put up some bunting. Nobody begrudged the couple-to-be for splashing out on their happiness. It was by no means vulgar or garish – to residents of other districts it was probably quite humble, but for the locals it was a big event. Enid Boothe was surprised to have been invited to the reception. She had known Monica all her life, and at one time when they were five, they were inseparable best friends but time and chance does what time and chance does best, and conspires to divide and keep people apart; every life must run its solitary course.
Enid stood in the church hall and looked at the trestle tables, their beautiful place settings, the flowers and the candles. The hall was resplendent. Geoff had yet to come into Enid’s life and she was alone at the wedding. Men did not feature much in her thoughts in the early years and that was no great problem, Enid was quite content in her own company. She found her name card at a table and sat down. She was at the very far end of the hall. The back table. She did not know anybody else there, but after a few sips of wine and introductions made, she felt the warmth of their smiles. Everyone in the room was united by a common purpose: to celebrate the union of two lovers. Enid was talking to a tall, awkward woman across from her seat when the tinkling of cutlery on glass brought all conversations to a halt. The Master of Ceremonies, a portly man who could on any other day be found dominating the oche at the Lamb and Axe, bellowed out a welcoming toast for the newlyweds. A cheer went up and Enid turned to see Monica and Peter enter the room. Enid was almost blinded by how divine the bride looked. Monica’s hair had been arranged to show of her long neck, exposing two tiny moles at the nape, and she wore the pearls that Enid recognised as belonging to her mother. Her dress was plain and elegant, and her smile was a vision. She looked perfect. Next to Monica strode Peter in his Navy dress uniform. He cut a dash and Enid could not help but swoon a little at him. They were a perfect couple and had their futures laid out before them. Their lives would be perfect, and the district would rebuild itself in double time so as not to feel ashamed or embarrassed to be on its knees while Mr and Mrs Andrews lived within its borders. The knot in Enid’s belly was fierce and tight as the bride and groom walked down through the tables to take their places at the head of the room. Everybody applauded, but there was no sound coming from Enid’s hands. She stared at Monica and felt great envy. The envy turned to bile as she realised that she would forever be denied the exact happiness that Monica was enjoying and it tore her up. She looked to Peter and made a promise to make her way in between the two of them somehow and splinter everything apart. It was a dark vow that Enid carried with her all her life, but never fulfilled.
The cinema was packed and Geoff had his hand on Enid’s knee. The film was eagerly awaited and as the curtains parted and the projector bulb lit up, the auditorium was filled with whoops and hollers. Geoff clapped enthusiastically. Enid followed suit even though she knew she was just going along with it all. Enid desperately wanted to impress Geoff. More than that, Enid just wanted to fit in. At 23 and unmarried, she felt she stuck out like a sore thumb. The lights dimmed and the film began. Impossibly handsome men and women, forty feet high, swept before everybody’s eyes, spouting poetic dialogue like angels gifted with the gab of love. The repertoire was fierce, the rat-a-tat dialogue pinging between the leads at a stupefying rate. The audience began to laugh and clap as one punchline was outdone by the next. Enid began to feel a little queasy. The heat in the cinema, mixed with the cigarette smoke and stench of cheap beer and brandy made her head spin and a stomach tighten. She made her excuses and left to splash some water on her face. Geoff handed her a coin and asked her to bring him some cigarettes from the concession booth on her way back. Enid gave Geoff’s hand a squeeze as she climbed over his lap and stepped into the aisle. She instantly began to feel better as she approached the door. She was about to open it, when a couple pushed in from the outside. They were late for the show and were in no mood to slow down and see if they had knocked anyone over. Enid was pushed to the wall as the happy, tipsy couple clearly in love, shushed themselves excessively as they passed by. Enid, dizzy and disorientated, caught a snatched glimpse of the couple as they dashed through her life in a microsecond. Enid’s heart stopped. She could have sworn she recognised the perfume of the woman. She remembered the coin in her hand and left the auditorium to splash water on her face and buy her date some cigarettes. As she walked back to her seat and handed the pack to him, Geoff smiled. Enid looked up at the beautiful couple on the screen and thought that Geoff was indeed ‘the one’, and if that were the case then they would soon marry and the knot in her stomach would undo forever.
“He’s a good lad,” was how Enid’s mother pitched David to her in Enid’s 19th year. She had taken up employment in a newsagent and had taken to it well. Enid was only the ‘Saturday girl’ but after one month she had revolutionised the way stock was ordered and documented. She had reorganised the shelving and created a pleasant and efficient aisle system that allowed traffic to flow through at a good pace. Hargreaves, the old boy who had run the store since he was a young boy, was thankful for Enid. He was not so stuck in his ways, in direct contrast to his own stubborn father who had set up the store many years previously, taken his young son on as a paperboy, then promptly went off to get shot in the trenches. Hargreaves was open to change, and welcomed Enid’s happy meddling. The only reason he had not sought to change the shop was that he lacked the imagination to see problems or bottlenecks in productivity. He put this down to his age. Enid’s generation were supposed to be the ones with the bright ideas. Yes, Enid was quite taken with the newsagents’ trade. She was happily employed and the scratch at the back of her mouth hadn’t bothered her for a while.
Of course, Enid’s mother could not rest on the idea that Enid was happy and that she was going her own way. At 19, nearly 20, she was rapidly becoming a lost cause. A part-time job was fine, as it helped to have some extra money coming into the small household, but that was exactly what it was: a part-time thing. Enid’s mother, Grace, would wear her beloved carpets out with worry over Enid. She wanted her daughter to be happy – what mother doesn’t? – but more than that, she did not want people to start talking about her: 19, unmarried and without any suitors on her doorstep. The situation would not do. Grace took it upon herself to fix her daughter’s problems. She spent her days tirelessly walking around markets and stores, getting into conversations with the shop boys and grafters, constructing conversations that were barely disguised interviews. The pickings where slim in the district, especially after the war, but Enid didn’t need a movie star or a famous athlete, just someone to take care of her and give her some children. Enid did not resent her mother’s meddling. It was quieter and less fuss to relinquish her life choices to Grace. She could never have the happiness she craved, because nobody in the district got the happiness they deserved or desired. She knew it was best to just do what everybody else did, which was to live by the old Denmark Heights maxim: ‘Keep your head down and get on with things and let life sort itself out’.
David, the bag boy from the other end of the district, had been selected as the best candidate. Enid came home from work one Saturday to find David taking tea with Grace. David was handsome, it was true: tall, well-built (National Service) and with a kind smile. Grace introduced them to each other, told Enid he was a good lad, then made an excuse to go to the Lamb and Axe and deliver her pools money for 25 minutes or so. She picked up her large coat and hat, despite it being August.
Enid was soon left alone in the house with David. The gentleman was polite, even diffident. Enid did not want to waste much time because she was foolish in that respect. She just assumed it was how things went. Enid took David’s hand and led him up to her bedroom. Their love-making was perfunctory and clinically satisfying. Enid laughed a little during proceedings, which hurt David’s feelings somewhat. It was only because in that moment, she remembered years and years previously, when she was 13, that she had asked Monica about the art of love and Monica, always a few steps ahead, told her what her wild Grandmother had imparted – that if it’s not going well or is boring, not to say anything because it was not their place but to instead lay back and think about Christmas. Enid had never recalled that conversation until she found herself in the exact situation in which it was needed.
David did not hang around after their liaison. Their awkward courting season petered out after a month. It was so awkward and passionless that even Grace was thankful when it came to an end. She did not want her daughter to waste her time, nor for David to waste his own. It was back to square one for another year until, of her own volition, Enid one day brought home a squat, quiet boy called Geoff for tea. Geoff was nothing special, but the way he looked at Grace’s daughter allayed all her reservations. Enid was relieved that her life was sorting itself out.
It was Christmas as usual in Enid’s 14th year in the district. School was school and she was doing well. The boys in the class were being told to discuss their options, but most of them already had their career paths mapped out: military service or following in their father’s footsteps – labourers, carpenters, mechanics, shop boys. One or two thought about travelling to Universities in other districts, but these dreams were quickly quashed by the Careers Adviser. Enid herself did not consider the future at all. She knew what it would entail. A man would come to her, and then children. She didn’t particularly want to dwell on this eventuality, but she knew it was her only option. If she was lucky, she might be able to secure a part-time job to earn a few pennies and bide her time until destiny landed on her doorstep. On the Christmas morning of her 14th year, she had opened her presents and eaten her dry turkey. Her father had fallen sleep on the sofa, his trousers unbuttoned so his gut was unrestricted in its growth, his belt flopping to the side like a leathery tongue. Grace was in the kitchen clearing away the dishes. Enid was looking to the front door. She knew soon enough that Monica would come over. Monica always came over. They were almost inseparable. Monica lived just a street over and their respective fathers drank together. Monica came over after school and after dinner – and for the last 10 years or so, in the twilight hours of Christmas Day, she was allowed to come over to Enid’s house to compare presents and discuss their days. It was the absolute highlight of the year for Enid. Even though she and Monica spoke at length all day, every day, there was something different about their conversations on Christmas Day. They were special – more adult, more discerning, more intimate. They would poor their cheap soft drink into wine glasses and stow themselves away in Enid’s modest bedroom. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, facing each other, they would toast to the year ahead before discussing the year gone and how it had measured to their hopeful conversation on the same bedspread 12 months before. It was a sacred few hours. On the evening of Enid’s 14th Christmas Day, she stared at the door, hopeful that Monica would come over, and fearful that she might not. Enid was right to be fearful. Monica did not come over and with no real explanation they never shared an intimate Christmas Day together for the rest of their lives.
It was a week until the end of school for the Christmas Holidays and Enid sat at the back of the class and stared at the chalk equations on the blackboard for a few minutes. She could not decipher a single thing. Enid looked to her left and saw Richard Deakins scribbling away. She regarded his bulbous tongue clamped between his teeth and jutting out the side of his mouth as he ploughed through the assignment. On any normal day, Monica would be sitting there and they could share notes and help each other through the lesson. Quite why Enid needed to learn algebra was beyond even the teachers, but needs must as the district drives. Instead of Monica sitting there, was the portly Richard Deakins with that tongue. She cast her eyes around the class until they came to rest on the back of Monica’s head. She was sitting at the front of the class, on the left of the row. She had never sat there before, and Enid regarded her thin neck and fixated on the two small moles just at the nape. Enid understood why Monica had chosen to sit in that seat. It was not by accident, but by design. Enid then felt a strange knot forming in her stomach. A sensation she had never felt before. A scratch in the back of her throat opened up and announced itself. Enid looked at the two moles on Monica’s neck and felt sick and giddy at the same time. She wanted Christmas to roll around more than ever so that they could talk. She felt sweat beginning to bead across her forehead. She took her eyes from Monica’s neck and looked back at the equations. Enid smiled a little as she realised that not only did the equations make no sense whatsoever but that nothing else around her did either. Enid put her head down and got on her with assignment as best she could. Christmas was coming and she could talk it out with Monica.
Enid and Monica were just two weeks away from school breaking up for Christmas. Apart from the excitement about the forthcoming holidays, it was an otherwise nondescript December Wednesday. It was neither particularly cold nor warm for the time of year. Everything seemed to be progressing at its usual pedestrian rate. Monica and Enid lay on the floor in Enid’s room, looking up at the ceiling and listening to a vinyl on Enid’s red plastic, portable record player. Monica had the better collection and brought her records over in her cute little carry case. Enid could never remember the particular song that was playing. She would forever gloss over the sequence of events, instead choosing to describe it with that frustratingly vague phrase: one thing led to another. She didn’t know what exactly started the chain of events, only the breathless sea change that ended their mutual, unanticipated exploration of each other. They lay on their backs, staring up at the ceiling as their hands roamed. The record came to an end, and the arm clicked back into place. The break in the music did not bring to a halt their activities. It did nothing to bring them back into the room – their eyes on the ceiling, their hands blindly unbuttoning each other’s jeans. It was as simple as that. Monica left an hour later, with a strange look in her eyes that Enid did not pick up on at the time, but only revealed itself to her though 60-odd years of memory.
Enid realised the teacake was still in her mouth, unchewed. She wiped away a little tear and ate her cake. She folded the paper over and rested it on the counter so the notices were facing up. She took a sip of tea and read again the small square containing 45 words.
“Monica Martini, formerly Andrews, née Reece (68) died peacefully in her sleep after a short illness. She is survived by her wife, Bella, ex-husband and best friend Jonathan, and three children, Michael, David and Enid. She will be remembered for her verve, spirit and courage.”
Enid looked around at the commuters and felt a waft of fresh air blow through Denmark Heights metro station, taking with it the knot in her stomach and healing the scratch in the back of her throat. Life, to Enid, suddenly felt quite colourful and she experienced a strange feeling that she had not felt since she was very young. She felt that change was around the corner and that was both at once terrifying and exciting. Enid did not feel cheated out of six decades because of foolishness or denial, she just felt that it had taken her only 60-odd years to make her little journey all the way around the world to come right back around again. Life was funny like that for Enid, and she packed up her newsstand, ready to take a breathless walk home to her husband, who was happily also her best friend. There would be a long conversation. Then, in a fortnight, after Christmas Dinner and before Bollar drove them both home, Enid would have the conversation of her life with her daughter. Enid could not deny that the thought of the conversation and the road ahead was terrifying, but she hoped that she and her family would have the courage to help her go her own way. Enid hadn’t really hoped for anything before, but she hoped for this. Enid Boothe was quietly confident because it was Christmas and that is the time for miracles
'Christmas Without Miracles' is an original story by Graham Thomas, taken from 'Various Sorrows & Soys', a collections of short stories and poems by himself and Luke Searle. This book will be released by TheNeverPress soon.