Finding Father Christmas Read online

  I realized that what I had just revealed to Katharine sufficiently explained why I wasn’t on speaking terms with the theater. Even without my boycott of all things make-believe, this information was enough. Katharine certainly would withdraw her invitation to the Dickens performance.

  She seemed unruffled, though. “I’m quite sad for your loss.”

  I nodded my appreciation for the care in her voice. Now that we had that piece out of the way, as often happened in my relationships, I felt we could go on to the business at hand. My business, as I saw it, was to be on my way to the train station.

  Katharine’s business seemed to be waiting for an answer about the play.

  “I need to go back to London.” I pushed the chair away from the table and slung my big purse over my shoulder. “Thank you again for the tea and the scones. They were delicious.” I paused at the front door. “Are you sure I can’t pay you, though?”

  “Next time,” she said with a smile. A silver earring peeking out from under her dark hair caught the light of the candle on the table and gave me a silvery goodbye twinkle.

  I stepped out into the cold with much less gusto than the kilt-clad “Christmas Present” had earlier. Immediately, the chill went through me, and I wished for a longer coat.

  “That’s what I’ll give myself for Christmas,” I said as I headed downhill on Bexley Lane.

  This time I knew I was expressing my thoughts aloud. It didn’t matter. No one was around to hear me. I decided I would spend tomorrow, Christmas Day, in my London hotel room. Understandably, I felt most nostalgically at home whenever I was in a hotel room.

  Then the day after Christmas I would go out shopping for a new coat. Surely London had after-Christmas sales that rivaled the ones in San Francisco.

  That way, when I returned to the office next week, I would have something to show for my on-a-whim spree to London.

  My legs stretched to their full length as I picked up my pace and retraced the path to the train station. Windows on either side of the lane were lined with festive decorations that jived in the gale that accompanied me, whistling down the lane. One of the two-story brick buildings was adorned with a single lit candle on each windowsill of the four symmetrical windows. Another place of residence had a large pot by the front door in which a four-feet-tall evergreen was strung with twinkling white lights and red bows tied to the ends of the branches.

  I turned the corner toward the train station and pulled the collar of my peacoat closer to my ears. The charm of the Tea Cosy pervaded the village of Carlton Heath. If I ever decided to believe in fairy tales again, this would be the setting in my mind’s eye.

  Long, slender branches on the tall trees spread their protective embrace over glowing streetlights and stone cottages. The trees didn’t seem to notice that they had lost all their foliage. Their role hadn’t changed with the fierceness of the seasons,-they still sheltered the people and the dwelling places on Bex-ley Lane.

  I kept walking. Down the hill, around the corner, and past the ivy-covered chapel. I paused only a moment to have a look at the softly lit church with the arched entryway. It seemed to me as if the church were wearing her rambling cemetery like an appliquéd blanket. The blanket tumbled from the foot of the rose bed and fell haphazardly over a hundred sleeping kernels of life, lives that had built the chapel, paved the roads, and taken tea beside many a soot-covered hearth.

  Now they were all silent.

  One life. That’s all we get. When will mine be silenced? Or should I be asking when will it truly begin?

  I crossed the street and tried not to think of anything but my numb feet all the way to the train station. The station had a covered platform and a little station house. A single bench rested against the waiting area’s back wall. A newspaper kiosk was positioned in one corner, and the ticket booth filled the opposite corner next to the blinking cash machine.

  Aside from the ATM, everything else about the room I sat in to be away from the cold looked and felt as if it hadn’t changed in fifty years. I noticed one modern addition. An electronic sign was positioned over the door listing the trains’ times and destinations in a trailing news flash. To the right of the contemporary timetable was an old-fashioned, round-faced clock. I consulted the clock and then the sign with the trailing, red-dotted letters. The next train to London was scheduled to leave in twenty minutes.

  My watch still gave the time as 11:58. I tapped it again and held it up to my ear. No sign of life could be heard.

  Maybe I’ll buy myself a coat and a new watch for Christmas. Or at least a new battery.

  I sighed and leaned back. I was the sole traveler at the station. The only other person in the building was a dozing gentleman who sat on a stool, manning the newspaper kiosk.

  Glancing again at the wall clock I wondered, What time is it in San Francisco?

  Not that it mattered. I didn’t have anyone back in the City by the Bay waiting for me to call him or her. No one would wonder why I wasn’t coming to dinner on Christmas Day. I had covered all the bases at the office. I was a holiday nonentity.

  That thought wasn’t a comforting one. I could leave the country—or this planet, for that matter—and very few people would realize I was gone.

  How did my life come to this?

  Apparently the career I had begun at such an early age as a backstage apparition was still in effect. I was invisible.

  Discontentment over my invisibility had fueled my passion-fire last week when I decided to book a ticket to London. I had been lying alone in bed, wide awake in the middle of the night, when I concluded that I had lingered too long at the shallow end of my life, staring across the divide at the unblinking father I had chosen to believe in. If he did exist, I needed to know. If for some reason he wasn’t ready, willing, or able to come to me, then I would make the first move. I would float toward him and see what happened.

  Hence, here I was in England. And nothing had happened.

  “Well, I tried,” I muttered defensively. I had followed the few clues and had tracked down the village of Carlton Heath only to find that the photography studio no longer existed. What more could I do?

  There was Katharine’s statement that she thought she recognized the photo. Someone in Carlton Heath quite possibly had a copy of the same photo I had. Someone who might know something.

  Could I really leave now and have no regrets? Would I be content returning to San Francisco with nothing more than a new coat or other after-Christmas-sale merchandise? What about the answers I had come in search of?

  No one else knew the purpose of my trip. But I knew. And I knew that a week from now, when I lay awake in the middle of the night, I would ask myself why I had given up so easily. Especially when one small lead still dangled in front of me.

  I thought of what Katharine said about decisions.

  You can make a new one whenever you like.

  For several long minutes I didn’t move. I thought briefly—only briefly—about what it would be like for the kernel of my short life to be tucked under a blanket of cold earth. Could I die knowing I had not exhausted all possible leads to finding my father?

  Rising and pressing back my shoulders, I stepped away from the waiting room bench, drew in a deep breath, and made a new decision. I decided to go to the theater.

  “Merry Christmas, Mother,” I muttered. “I am going to see a play.”

  Chapter Six

  Grey Hall, where the Dickens performance was being held, was easy enough to find. I had roused the dozing clerk at the newspaper kiosk inside the station, and he had given me clear directions in the most charming accent I had heard yet during my nearly seven hours on English soil.

  The walk from the train station was uphill, and the temperature had dropped another few degrees. At least the wind had died down. The exertion of heading uphill warmed me as I walked. The distance was farther than I had estimated, and I hesitated at the second crossroad.

  It’s not too late to go back to the train sta
tion. You don’t have to do this.

  “Yes I do.”

  The abiding thought that kept me walking was that I needed to know. I needed to know who my father was, and I needed to know him. The only clues I had to his existence had led me to Carlton Heath. Although I didn’t understand my trailing thought, I sensed that as much as I needed to know, I also needed to be known.

  One determined foot in front of the other brought me into Brumpton Square and there, set a short distance off the main road, stood the Victorian-style meeting hall. Eight metal shepherd’s hooks lined the walkway, and from each hook hung a lantern, illuminating the path in the crystalline air. Ropes of evergreen garlands draped the entrance, and magnificent curls of gingerbread façade on the building’s face disguised its true age. The name, Grey Hall, appeared across the front of the theater in raised letters.

  A large dedication plaque beside the entrance read, “Dedicated May 19, 1987, The Society of Grey Hall Community Theatre.” The building had been constructed over a century too late for a Dickens appearance, yet it felt easy to believe that the author himself might be in attendance this evening where past and present seemed to have merged.

  No other theatergoers were in view as I stood in front of the closed doors. My guess was that I had missed the opening curtain. I reached for the long handles on the double doors and slowly opened the right side just enough to slip into the foyer.

  A short woman in a flowing pink evening dress came to my side. With a gloved finger held to her lips, she motioned for me to follow her to the far left of the reception area where a thick, blue velvet curtain separated us from the theater seating.

  The woman’s short, tousled hair was as pink as her dress and dotted with sparkles. Her perfectly shaped lips were painted the same cotton candy shade and dotted with a jewel above her top lip on the right side, a distinguishing beauty mark. She appeared to be in her early forties; yet, dressed up as she was, her heart seemed much younger.

  Without a word, she drew back the curtain and nodded for me to step inside the dark arena. I entered and stood to the side, waiting for my eyes to adjust.

  A booming voice called out, “Come in, come in!”

  It was the merry Scotsman. For a moment I froze, thinking he was extending the invitation to me.

  In actuality he was delivering the line onstage to a very short Scrooge who stood trembling before the ominous presence of the kilted greeter. Behind the Scotsman was an open door.

  The invitation was repeated by the man with the wide, wooly-white sideburns. “Come in, come in, and know me better, friend!”

  “Who are you and what is this place?” Scrooge cried in a pipsqueak voice. Under a long nightshirt and floppy cap, the leading actor was obviously a child.

  My spirit softened to all things theatrical. Some images of make-believe had never truly left me, no matter how belligerent I had been about them. Just as I had earlier remembered wanting to be Lucy walking through the wardrobe into Narnia, I now found myself disarmed by this classic Dickens character, who brought an Oliver Twist feel to the role of the miserly Scrooge. I could see myself in the pint-sized presence who now held center stage.

  The Scotsman wore a trim jacket atop his kilt and finished the look with a flat sort of hat perched slightly to the side and sporting a feather. From under the hat flowed a cascade of wavy white hair. I’d seen his balding head uncovered at the tea cottage and knew the tresses were part of his costume, but the tumble of hair was convincing.

  Taking his cue, the Scotsman declared, “I am the Spirit of Christmas Present.”

  I smiled. So he really was a Christmas Present, just as he said.

  “What will you do to me, Oh Spirit of Christmas Present?” Young Scrooge asked.

  “Enter, and you shall see.” Christmas Present stepped to the side, and the sliding prop door was moved off-center by unseen stagehands. Where a dark closure had been, a wonderful spread of Christmas cheer was revealed, with a flickering fireplace, a tree trimmed in lights, a stack of gifts, and a table spread with a feast.

  “All has been made ready for you,” the Spirit of Christmas Present declared. “Come.”

  Scrooge hesitated.

  In that moment, I felt my defenses slide off me like pool water. All had been made ready for Scrooge, and yet he hesitated. I saw how I had been in that same Bah Humbug role for many years. I understood the hesitation. The standing back and not trusting. But no one had ever made a celebration ready for me and invited me to come in.

  An old fountain of tears I had kept capped for ages began to leak. Instead of looking for a seat in the back of the hall where I could watch the rest of the play anonymously, I slid through the velvet curtains and returned to the reception area.

  Feeling around in my large shoulder bag for a tissue, I didn’t notice the woman in pink as she came to my side.

  “Here,” she whispered. She held out to me a handkerchief with a pink rosebud embroidered in the corner. Once I’d dried my eyes and curbed my tears, I held onto the handkerchief and stared at the crumpled cotton in my hands as the woman patted my arm.

  I told her in a mumble that it had been a long day, hoping that would explain my breakdown. But I wasn’t sure I could even explain to myself why the image of a feast and gifts accompanied by a warm invitation to Scrooge had struck such a chord of longing inside me. I sensed that Young Scrooge was being offered everything I wanted but didn’t know how to find.

  Taking a deep breath and summoning another round of fortitude, I whispered that I was fine. Really.

  With a nod of understanding, she continued with the gentle pats on my arm. All the while she seemed to be trying to fix her gaze on my eyes. Even in the dimmed lobby lights, I was sure the weariness of jet lag showed. No doubt she was checking for more tears. I had successfully repressed them and my eyelids were now puffing up with the reserves. Dabbing my nose, I continued to look away. She continued trying to look me in the eye.

  “Well, thank you.” I awkwardly held out the used handkerchief. I wasn’t sure if I should offer to have it laundered before returning it. I had never been given a handkerchief before.

  “Keep it,” she said softly.

  I hadn’t decided if I was ready to go back for the rest of the performance. But she made the decision for me by ushering me through the velvet curtain and pointing to an empty chair in the second row from the back. I had just enough time to settle in and refocus before Scrooge began to argue with the Spirit of Christmas Present over his discomfort at the revelations he had faced during his waking dream.

  With his skinny arm dramatically shading his gaze, Scrooge cried out, “Take me from this place, I beg of you, oh, Spirit of Christmas Present. Do not force me to look any longer at what I have become. Tell me instead what is to come.”

  “And so it shall be.” The Spirit of Christmas Present turned, and his kilt’s pleats kicked up. Scrooge stood alone on the stage. The lights dimmed as Scrooge drew both fists to his mouth, frightened as a mouse.

  “Please! I beg of you! Do not leave me like this!”

  All the lights extinguished, and silence covered us all. Then a shuffling of feet and clicking of theater seats rolled across the room as the curtain closed and the lights came up slowly.

  While the rest of the audience rose and made their way to the lobby for intermission, I stayed in my seat, taking in my surroundings. The auditorium was smaller and narrower than I had pictured in the dark when I entered. Fresh boughs of evergreen had been shaped into huge Christmas wreaths that hung from Victorian-style lighting sconces. The ceiling was inlaid with plaster frescos that had a repeating pattern of mellow golden white on purer white. The padded seats were covered in deep blue velvet and matched the dark blue velvet of the stage curtains that were trimmed across the top with golden tassels.

  The deep blues reminded me of my mother’s eyes. She would have liked this theater. She liked small, intimate settings where she felt she could wrap her arms around the audience and keep it in her
embrace.

  I settled into the comfortable seat and took in the whole “envelope”—the size and shape of the theater and the deep blue velvet stage curtains with the golden tassels. In a strange way, I felt as if I were sitting inside an enlarged version of my mother’s secret blue silk purse. Now I had become one of the curious clues hidden under the tasseled flap.

  Chapter Seven

  The blue velvet purse had been given to me along with the rest of my mother’s meager possessions after her death. She had no other surprises in her green Samsonite suitcase nor in any previously unrevealed secret places such as a safe-deposit box. She left this earth without providing a clue as to how to find another living relative such as a grandparent or aunt.

  In light of my true orphan status, Doralee, the bald woman in Santa Cruz with the seven cats and no television, gathered me up.

  When I first went to live with Doralee, she was determined to track down my father and do the right thing—give him the option of claiming me. All we had to go on was the name listed on my birth certificate, Jay Ames.

  Doralee checked all the “Ameses” she could find. Nothing matched up. After weeks of diligent searching, we came to the conclusion that, true to form, my mother had invented my father’s name on the birth certificate.

  I then became Doralee’s “niece.” My new aunt proved to be as skilled as my mother had been at fabricating information to fit comfortably into what people wanted to hear. Documents were created as needed to enroll me in public school for the first time in my life. Stories of my genealogical history were embellished to satisfy probing principals, and Doralee made sure that I was well clothed with her own sewing-machine creations.

  Whenever I started to sink into myself, she would do this funny little wiggle of a dance and sing, “Everybody doesn’t like something, but nobody doesn’t like Doralee.” I trusted myself to her.

  One day at school a girl I didn’t like was singing Doralee’s song.