“Three lovers made Christmas special for me,” she said, smiling shyly, “but the best was my husband.”
The beautiful woman with the long blonde hair, that cascaded like golden corn across her shoulders, shifted uneasily in the hard wooden seat that had served for so many years as the story telling chair in this ancient rural inn that rested in the heart of the Somerset countryside hills.
Her audience were clustered silently around her in rows. She was seated to one side of the huge fireplace that burned great logs, fiercely emitting small explosions and bright sparks as new pieces of wood ignited and sent the soft smell of burning wood up the ancient chimney to the fir forests all around and the dark skies above.
She paused for a moment, reached up and drew back a strand of golden hair in silent contemplation. Demurely, she crossed her legs but such was her beauty that not one man in the audience could help but watch fascinated as her skirt rose up a further inch towards her thighs.
The women in the audience glanced at each other, some disapproving, but all thought the same.
“Men’s minds!”
The landlord bustled from behind the old wooden bar to replenish the mulled wine that tradition dictated should be drunk during the annual Christmas short story at this hostelry. The aroma of the mulled wine with it’s strong herbs and spices drifted past the old brown beams and brought roses to the cheeks of the onlookers.
Old Tom sat on the other side of the huge fire. He was the resident storyteller of this ancient inn. Tom had told tales for more years than anyone could remember. He’d chilled the spines of his listeners, brought tears to the eyes of soft hearted ladies and quickened the pulses of young men. But at Christmas time, he would relinquish the storytelling chair and pass it over to someone special so they could tell their story. That story would then become the inn’s special story for Christmas, to be passed from person to person and retold by warm fire sides throughout the generations.
“My name is Marianne,” she said, “and my story relates to five years ago at Christmas time.”
“I had a problem. I knew I wanted to get married and was fortunate enough to have three wonderful suiters that I’d been dating. The question was which of these perfect men should be the man with whom I should spend the rest of my life.”
“They were all tall, slim, and amusing. They all had good jobs and I cared for all of them. One had curly fair hair, one had masses of brown hair that grew in a fringe above his face. The last of the three had jet black hair but he kept it cut really short.”
“Each of them pleaded with me to become their wife and they were all getting a bit cross because I couldn’t decide which of them would be my husband.”
“Eventually, I decided, after much thought, that I would set them each a task for Christmas. Naturally, they all wanted to buy me a Christmas present and I told them that I would look at the single Christmas present each of them brought me and then decide who I would marry.”
“Christmas Day came and I met my fair curly haired beau at lunch time in a quiet country pub just like this one but much closer to London. We sat at a small table, by the window, with the sun streaming through the small panes of glass and he asked me once more to marry him and then handed me the most beautiful diamond ring you could ever imagine.”
“We hugged each other and kissed the sweetest of kisses and I almost accepted his offer there and then. But I had made the rules to this competition and I had to abide by them, so I left him at that small table and proceeded to the next country pub down the road.”
“Again, I and my lover sat at a small table in the sunny window, gazing into each other’s eyes. Solemnly, he handed me a letter.”
“I’ve got a new job,” he said. “I’m now head of the company where I work. It’s been a long struggle to climb to this position but I didn’t mind because all the work was for you. The letter you have in front of you is the letter offering me the top job. If you marry me, you will never want for money again. My Christmas present to you is security. You will have all the money you need and all of my love.”
“My eyes filled with tears as I realised that, with this man, I would really never have to worry about money again. He would be a wonderful provider for me for the rest of my life. We kissed long and deep and held hands, gazing into each other’s eyes with love and affection. He made me feel so safe and secure and I knew he loved me truly.”
“Leaving him was so hard, and we stood and embraced in the car park on that chilly day and I felt that I must be crazy to even think about anybody else. But leave him I must because I was already late for my third lover. As I drove away, I still remember the longing in his dark brown eyes and the way he pushed his fingers through his tousled brown hair in frustration that I was leaving.”
“My third lover was getting anxious as he sat alone in the window of the third country pub. The sky was no longer sunny and there was a chill to the air as I opened the door to the country inn and joined him.”
“We kissed our welcome and he brought me a glass of white wine from the bar. His black tight curled hair was even shorter than usual, I could see his skin shining under the Christmas lights and his expression was strangely serene. I felt afraid. He seemed different, somehow, and I no longer felt in control.”
“He took my hand and gazed as if into my soul. I noticed for the first time that his eyes had flecks of blue amongst the green and grey.”
“Marianne,” he said. “You know that I love you more than anything else in the world. I want you to be my wife and I will love you for ever, even if we can’t be together. I’m sorry, I haven’t brought you a Christmas present. Under the rules of the competition, therefore, must I lose you?”
“I was astounded. I knew he loved me greatly and he had agreed to the rules of the competition. Why then had he changed his mind and why was he saying he had no Christmas present to give me? Even a single flower, would have kept him in the competition so I could decide who would be my husband.”
“If you marry me,” he continued, “I cannot even offer you money, for I have recently spent all my savings. You know I will always work hard for you and will love you, but, right now, I’m as poor as a church mouse.”
“Have you nothing at all to give me?” I asked him. “I love you as much as I love the others and would be saddened if I couldn’t even give you a chance of being my husband.”
“He reached inside his breast pocket and drew out a photograph. There was a wooden hut with some young children playing around it and I could see from the sand and scrubby trees all around that the place was in Africa. Above the door to the wooden hut, there was a sign saying that it was a school for the local orphans. He smiled at me tenderly and explained.”
“When we first met, you told me that you could never have children. I love children and I’ve always wanted to have some of my own. Now, I want you to be my wife and I want these to be our children. This is why I sent all my savings to this school. I also promised that I would send more money to help the school in future so they can keep working to help these wonderful young people.”
Marianne paused, sighed deeply, as she sat quietly besides the fire remembering and there was many an eye in the audience that was glistening too. The bar was completely silent except for the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the grandfather clock by the entrance.
“I married that man,” said Marianne, suddenly with a smile.
“He gave me nothing for Christmas yet he gave me much more than I could have imagined.”
“And now I must ask you to make a way to the door.”
“You can’t leave yet,” said Tom, “for you have told us a fine story that has brought a tear to many an eye and you must stay awhile and have some more mulled wine.”
“On the contrary,” said Marianne, “my story is not over yet, please make a way to the door.”
Like the seas that parted in biblical times, the audience in that small rural pub made a way from Marianne to the old grey wooden door and, suddenly, it opened and in came six young children who scampered right up to Marianne and clambered into her arms, hugging her with glee.
“Welcome to some very special representatives of the school,” said Marianne, smiling.
“As a special treat they have come across the world to spend Christmas with us and I asked them to come here so you could see how wonderful they are and how they were my best Christmas present ever.”
The pub was no longer silent and the bravos, from the assembled drinkers, almost raised the roof.
“Three cheers for Marianne,” said Tom, “and we thank you, my dear, not only for the Christmas story but also for bringing these wonderful children to share our Christmas Day.”
“But hush for my story is not yet ended,” said Marianne. “Make a way to the door again please.”
This time the crowds parted without questioning.
The door opened and a tall man, with tight curly black hair, strode into the bar and in his arms he held a tiny baby wrapped in a soft white blanket.
He kissed Marianne and she kissed the baby which she now held tenderly in her arms as he hugged the children from the orphanage.
Tears were brimming in Marianne’s eyes but her smile was serene and happy.
“I’d always been told that I couldn’t have a child. How the miracle happened, I don’t know but this baby is that miracle and now that really is the end of my Christmas story.”
The End
Rob Hopcott 1999 - 2007, all rights reserved. All characters are fictitious in this story and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
