Page 29 of Pyg

CHRISTMAS MIRACLES

T ime ticked by; the months after Mum had gone, and the weeks after losing Pyg. Our grandmother remained convalescing in hospital, recovering from the fall and the burns she’d effectively inflicted upon herself. And we settled into a quiet, ordinary routine with Ms Bray — or Ruth, as she eventually relented to us calling her.

Whilst the loss of the studio, along with all our treasured possessions, had been traumatic, with Ruth at least there was less of a need to retreat. Unlike Grandmother, Ruth didn’t seem to mind when Bernard and I sat at the kitchen table to do our homework. Neither did she mind us chatting quietly between ourselves. From time to time, she even joined in. Her company wasn’t entirely discordant, at least when she wasn’t quoting biblical verses, which seemed to spill out of her randomly, like a pot bubbling over.

Ruth was the polar opposite of our mother. She appeared to be around the same age, but unlike Mum, she was an austere woman of the church, dowdy in cardigans and thick brown stockings that bunched around her ankles. If Mum was a gloriously sunny afternoon in May, Ruth was a dreary grey morning in January. Despite all that, she wasn’t cold-hearted; her kindness could be measured in small gestures — the sprinkling of sugar on our porridge, or the occasional hand on the shoulder or pat on the head. Lukewarm, but warm nonetheless. And infinitely better than living with Grandmother.

The only remarkable thing that happened in the weeks that passed was an alarming sight I glimpsed one morning on my way downstairs. On hearing a gasp and noticing Ruth’s bedroom door ajar, I’d been unable to resist the urge to peer through the gap. There she stood with her long black skirt hitched high and one leg up on the bed. She sucked air through her teeth and yanked tight a chain-link belt around her upper thigh. It looked like a medieval torture device.

What the ? —

She spun around, and I darted away from the door and had the good sense not to ask her about it. But, unable to shake the mental image of either the spikes cutting into her flesh, or her bare leg exposed, I hadn’t been able to look Ruth in the eye for a good week afterwards.

Our first Christmas without Mum looked to be a sombre affair. Bernard and I chopped down a small spruce and between us, we dragged it inside and propped it up in the drawing room. We rifled in a box under the stairs and pulled out a string of fairy lights and a few dusty baubles. Without Mum’s artistic flair and her handcrafted decorations, the tree looked a sorry state. But still, it was more festive than no tree.

Christmas Eve started with a forced visit to our grandmother in hospital. Scrubbed and in our Sunday best, we stood by the old woman’s bedside for thirty minutes listening to her moan about her ills and chastise us for our sins. All the while, I seethed with indignation and Bernard stared down at his polished shoes. The hospital visit was followed by the second of our mandatory obligations for the day, church. We attended mass and listened to Father Sutherland preach about the ills of the world and condemn the congregation for their sins. Once again, I seethed, and Bernard stared at his shoes.

For supper, Ruth served a watery parsnip and potato soup and even though it was lumpy and tasteless, my stomach rumbled for more. Then she permitted us to sit by the tree. It’d been one of our Christmas Eve traditions, except it used to take place in the studio. We’d pull up cushions and huddle around our little tree, sip from mugs of cocoa and munch homemade biscuits, whilst reading each other Christmas stories from a heavy old book, which Mum had told us was her most treasured possession.

The book had been burned, along with so many of the things we loved, so we sat by the tree, watery mugs of cocoa in hand, and I hummed a Christmas song I’d learned from the older boys at school. Quite a lot of the lyrics were inappropriate, so I mumbled those, but Bernard giggled because he knew the words.

“Why not sing a nice carol, boys?” Ruth sat in our grandmother’s wing-backed chair, the low-light casting sinister shadows on her face and her eyes closed behind her glasses. “ O Come All Ye Faithful , perhaps? Or Away in a Manger ?”

Bernard looked at me and scrunched up his nose. But we indulged her with our finest rendition of Silent Night . She smiled on, tapping her foot like a metronome, and after the second refrain puffy snores emanated from her beaky little nose.

“I, er… I’ve got something for you, Georgie,” Bernard whispered. He got up and scurried out of the room, then returned with a parcel crudely wrapped in brown paper. He retook his place on the rug and presented the package to me.

“Don’t get mad at me, alright?”

I frowned. “Why would I be mad?”

“You just might. But don’t be because I was careful.”

As I tentatively pulled at the corners of the brown paper, a bitter burnt scent wafted from the package. I peeled the paper away, revealing a book, its spine and cover charred and blackened. I looked from the book to my brother.

“I told you not to go in there. It isn’t safe.”

Bernard held up his hands. “I know what you said, but when Bill came to clean the gutters because of that leak, I asked him to help me. I wanted to see if there was anything worth saving.”

“You could’ve come across anything in there. What if… what if you’d seen Pyg?”

“Well, I didn’t see Pyg. But I did find this.” Bernard touched his hand to the book in my lap. “I cleaned it up as best I could. I couldn’t save the cover, but I think it protected the inside a little bit.” Bernard’s eyes shone with enthusiasm. “Well, go on, open it. You’ll see.”

I carefully opened the cover. The spine creaked and black flecks chipped off onto the floor. Water lines rippled down the page, but there inside the cover, intact and legible, were our years of Christmas messages. Tears prickled my eyes as I ran my finger down the decades of words, a sort-of scrawled family timeline.

1935. Dearest Eleanor, Merry Christmas. All my love, Papa x

1937. I think you’re starting to enjoy these stories, darling! You giggled at the ghosts. Or maybe it was my silly voices for them? Papa x

1940. It isn’t Christmas without you. Wish you were here. Eleanor x

1945. It’s all over, Papa, but not for us. E x

1953. I couldn’t pick this book up for a long time. My heart forgot joy, but lately my cup is full. I read our stories, Papa, and giggled, remembering your voices. I still miss you, Ella x

1955. Oh Papa, I’ve made the happiest mistake of my life. Merry Christmas, Ella and large, capitalised letters announced my name with all the self-importance of a five-year-old.

1960. GEORGE HENRY SHAW… and Ella and Bernard xxx

I could almost hear her chuckling as she added their names too; blue smoke curling from the thin roll-up pinched between her fingers, as she frowned and carefully scratched the ink into the book. Then the writing switched to Bernard’s hand. He’d scrawled his name, but I’d crossed through it and put mine first, a battle I’d conceded by 1964.

1964. Pyg ate all my biscuits and George wouldn’t share his. Bernard, aged six and a half. Love from the rest of us too, Ella, George and Pyg (the piggy little biscuit thief) x

I sniffed and swiped away my tears with the coarse sleeve of my jumper. Tracing my fingers down the years, I landed on the final one; written in Bernard’s handwriting and finished by Mum. I recalled how I’d been sulking and too stubborn to join in with the fun, and how she’d poked me in the ribs when I wouldn’t do the voices.

“You do them best, Georgie,” Bernard had whined, and so I relented and did the damn voices, my brother’s giggles rising like bubbles of pride in my chest.

1967. My brother does the best ghost voices, ever. Merry Christmas, Bernard, George, Mum and Pyg (the dog) xxxx

My heart lurched as I blinked at the message underneath written in the swooping, elaborate loops of our mother’s handwriting, but scrawled, as if written in a hurry — perhaps an afterthought as she dashed out the door and abandoned us.

Boys — If things have gone to plan, then we’ll be reading this together, enjoying our first Christmas in our new home. If not, then know that I love you so very much and I’ll be back for you soon. You have my word. Merry Christmas, Mum x

I looked at Bernard through tear-filled eyes. “Did you read it?”

Bernard pinched his lips together and nodded. “She did say she’d send for us.”

“But when? She hasn’t yet. We haven’t heard a thing from her.”

Bernard reached out and rubbed my arm. “What is it they’re always saying at church? Have faith .”

I scoffed. “You really believe in all that stuff?”

“No, but I believe in Mum.” Bernard smiled, and it reached my heart. The book fell from my lap as I threw my arms around him.

“Thank you, Bernie.”

Bernard sniffed, and I held him tighter.

“Shall we read a story?”

“Only if you do the ghosts.”

I grinned. “Alright, I’ll do the ghosts.”

* * *

“Bernard, did you hear that?” I sat bolt upright and blinked into the darkness. Bernard grunted and from the clanging protest of his bedsprings, it sounded like he turned over and burrowed himself further into his blankets.

I cocked my head to listen out. Nothing. Perhaps I dreamt it?

With a teeth-chattering shiver, I lay back down and pulled the blankets up to my chin. I closed my eyes and patterns swirled in the blackness behind them. I concentrated on breathing the way Mum had taught me to whenever I woke from a bad dream. In through the nose — hold — out through the mouth. In, hold, out. In, hold —

My eyes snapped open, not that the blackness in the room was any different to the darkness behind my eyelids. No, there it was again. Urgent scratching — claws on wood. And not the scurrying little paws of mice in the attic, but much bigger paws.

“Bernard, wake up. There’s a noise.”

He groaned, and sleepy words drawled out of him. “Whassit you want?”

I pulled the feather pillow from behind my back and lobbed it across the room. It hit the target with a heavy flop.

“Oi, what d’you do that for?” Bernard lobbed the pillow back. It missed my bed and landed on the floorboards with a whoosh.

“There’s a noise. I think it’s downstairs. Listen.”

The scratching grew louder, and the monster grew in my mind.

“Perhaps it’s Father Christmas?”

I scoffed. “Seriously?”

“Well, what else could it be? It is Christmas Eve.”

“I guess we better go take a look.” Fighting the urge to hide under them, I flung back my blankets and swung my feet out of bed. “Come on, I’m not going on my own.”

Bernard whined but shuffled to his feet. “Shall we bring a weapon?”

“Like what?”

“I dunno.”

“We’ll just have to rely on our wits. Failing that, our fists.”

“Alright, but you first, because you’re bigger… and smarter.”

I scoffed a laugh. “That’s the first time you’ve ever admitted that.”

With practised stealth, we crept out of our room and past Mum’s room, currently occupied by Ruth. I stilled halfway down the stairs when the scratches came again, this time accompanied by a loud whine. Bernard took a deep breath, which made me realise I’d been holding mine.

“It’s at the back door,” I whispered and continued my descent.

With the kitchen door shut behind us, Bernard flicked on the light, blinding us both. “Bloody hell, why’d you do that?” I shielded my eyes.

“I thought it might scare it off.”

“Or advertise that there’s someone in here?”

“I didn’t think of that. Shall I turn it off?”

“Bit late now.”

Another scratch came at the door, and for a horrifying moment, we just looked at each other. Before I could change my mind, I swung the back door open, admitting a gush of frosty December air and a filthy, matted black dog.

“Pyg!”

We dropped to our knees and wrapped our arms around our girl, her bushy black tail swishing in reciprocated joy.

“She’s alive,” squealed Bernard, his voice still able to reach a pitch that mine couldn’t.

I held her head in my hands and looked into those trusting round eyes. “Where have you been, girl?”

Pyg responded by licking my face, licking away the tears that I hadn’t realised were running down my cheeks.

“Oh my God, she’s so much better than Father Christmas. All we need is Mum to come back and?—”

“Don’t get your hopes up about that, Bernie. Let’s just be happy we’ve got our Pyg back.”

Bernard’s face fell, but seconds later, it lit up with a goofy grin. He ruffled his fingers in the dog’s greasy fur. “You’re so stinky, Pyg!”

“We’ll bathe her in the morning, but for now let’s get her some food. We can sneak her upstairs and I’ll explain everything to Ruth tomorrow.”

“What if she doesn’t let us keep her?”

“It’s not up to her,” I said with a confidence I wished I felt.

* * *

“And you’re sure that your grandmother doesn’t mind a dog being in the house?” Ruth blinked at us through her thick glasses.

Bernard and I shook our heads in unison as if we’d rehearsed it.

“When we go to the hospital next time, I will check with her.” She sniffed. “And if you’re lying…”

“We’re not, Miss, promise,” blurted Bernard. I elbowed him in the ribs.

She narrowed her eyes. “Alright. Well, you better give it a bath. It smells putrid. And you can scrub the tub when you’re done. I don’t want to see a speck of dirt, you hear me?”

Ruth wasn’t wrong. The stench was the first thing that had struck me when I woke; musty and sour, like rotting garbage. I’d covered my nose and breathed into my blanket with a smile stretching across my face as Pyg’s tail thudded on the floorboards, where she’d slept.

“She must’ve been sleeping in the same bins she was eating out of,” said Bernard, screwing up his face.

We led Pyg into the washroom and filled the tub with cold water. I didn’t dare ask for some to be heated on the stove; that request was only grudgingly upheld for our own bath time. Pyg didn’t seem to mind. She jumped into the tub with a splash, panting as her eyes shone with excitement.

The harsh antiseptic smell of the red carbolic soap cut through Pyg’s stench as we lathered it up and massaged it through her thick fur. We rinsed her until the water ran clear and our laughter erupted when Pyg shook, spraying everything and soaking us.

“That doesn’t sound very much like washing the dog,” Ruth called through the door.

We giggled again, and Pyg wagged her tail, flicking water with every swish.

I ruffled an old towel over her, but although clean, her fur was badly matted.

Bernard disappeared, returning minutes later.

“I got this from Grandmother’s room. Do you think she’ll mind?” He produced a hairbrush from behind his back and I whooped a laugh.

“She’ll kill you if she finds out. But I’m not gonna tell.”

Bernard brushed out Pyg’s mats as best he could whilst I cleaned up. When we left the washroom, we were shivering in our damp clothes, so I offered to light the fire, which thankfully Ruth agreed was a good idea.

Not wanting to take our eyes or hands off Pyg for a moment, we sat beside her on the hearthrug. She curled into a tight ball between us and slept, drying in the warm glow of the fire.

The church had gifted us a stuffed goose, which Ruth roasted, and the house filled with a mouth-watering aroma. Come dinnertime we were famished, and after a drawn-out grace, during which our stomachs rumbled louder than Ruth’s chants, we stuffed ourselves as much as the goose, filling up on roast potatoes, carrots and parsnips, and feeding the pink tender goose meat under the table to Pyg when Ruth wasn’t looking.

“St. Mary’s sent us another treat, boys?—”

The shrill tone of the telephone in the hallway cut into Ruth’s sentence, leaving us hanging as she flitted off to answer it. Bernard shot me a wide-eyed look, and for a moment I allowed my own hopes to rise too. Could it be?

Ruth turned her back and spoke into the receiver. Mirroring Bernard, I tilted on my chair and listened in, my hopes dashed with every overheard word and soon replaced with a sickening swirl that wasn’t agreeing with the rich dinner.

“Yes, speaking…

Right, I see…

Oh, goodness, how awful…

Prepare for the worst?…

Yes, I’ll break it to them.

Our thoughts and prayers are with her.”

Ruth returned to the kitchen, the colour leached from her cheeks. “I’m so sorry to tell you this, boys, especially on Christmas Day. Your grandmother suffered a stroke this afternoon.”

“Is she dead then?”

“No, Bernard.” Ruth glared at him until he hung his head. “But she’s not at all well. We need to be brave and send all our thoughts and prayers.” Ruth placed a hand on each of our shoulders, which I suppose she meant as a comforting gesture, but her bony fingers were freezing, even through my woolly jumper.

Bernard and I eyeballed each other as Ruth chanted a prayer at double-speed and punctuated the “Amen” with a wet sniff and the sign of the cross.

“Good boys. Now, Father Sutherland sent us a Christmas pudding. Wasn’t that kind of him? I’ll make some custard to go with it. George, clear the table, please.” She fluttered to the stove and set to work.

Bernard tugged my sleeve as I stacked the dirty plates. “What now?” he mouthed.

I could only shrug because I honestly didn’t know. It didn’t feel like entirely bad news — suffering, a stroke or otherwise, was no less than our grandmother deserved after everything she’d inflicted on us. But it didn’t feel like good news either — our fate and future hung in the balance of whether a sick old woman survived. With no Mum around, what would happen if Grandmother died?

Adding Christmas pudding to the mix in my twisting gut suddenly felt like a bad idea.