Across the Miles for Christmas

Across the Miles for Christmas

written by Sandra Behan

(This story is in memory of my Aunty May who died on 26 October 2009

May She Rest in Peace)

You travelled for twenty years alone from London to Ireland in all weathers to spend Christmas with us. Uncle Peter died on Christmas day as he knelt beside you in Ealing Abbey; his heart had given out unexpectedly.

You arrived in your red coat and scarf with arms full of gifts. Your cheerful voice and big smile warmed the house. My girls ran to hug you, all chatting at the same time fighting for your attention. You bent down and spoke softly to them. You reached into your handbag and sneaked them a chocolate treat when you thought I wasn’t looking.

I asked you to sit down and rest but you would have none of it. ‘Where’s my apron?’ you would say and we would spend hours chatting while peeling endless vegetables for the Christmas dinner.

I remember the year you danced around the kitchen with the Turkey, holding its legs. The children screamed as they ran for cover. We fell around the place laughing.

You turned on the Christmas tree lights, brandy in hand and a big smile on your face. I can still hear you say ‘play Daniel O’Donnell for me’ and without complaint I played Daniel’s Christmas Carols and we sang at the top of our voices.

On Christmas Eve when all the chores were done we would all sit together around the fire, the girls sat crossed legged on the floor and listened to every word, their eyes dancing with excitement as I read “It was the night before Christmas”. You always insisted they open one present from under the tree, which they did with giggles throwing wrapping paper everywhere.

I was in work when I received the news. My mum said you were in intensive care. I panicked. I was shaking as I hung up the phone. My friend took one look at me and asked ‘what’s happened, I couldn’t speak’ she put her arms around me. All I could say was ‘it’s my aunt, I have to go to London’.

The train journey home was spent on my laptop booking the earliest flight possible. When I opened my door there was an envelope on the mat, I picked it up and recognised the writing, I couldn’t read your letter through my tears. You stuck euro coins to the letter as you always did saying they were left over from your holidays in Ireland. I grabbed my passport and threw some clothes into a suitcase and was out the door in twenty minutes. I phoned my mum before I boarded the plane and she said you were holding on for me.

When I arrived at the hospital my mum and my sister were waiting for me. I took one look at their puffy eyes and I knew. I went straight to your Ward. I had to stop myself from running. I put on gloves and a gown to go into the Ward. You were lying very still. I ran to your side fighting back the tears. I called your name and you opened your eyes. I will never forget that look. I asked you if you knew I was there and you opened and closed your eyes in quick succession.

You drifted in and out of consciousness. Your body was shutting down. I pleaded with you to fight and told you I would look after you. You opened your eyes and tried to focus on your surroundings, you tried to speak but the words wouldn’t come out. Over and over I told you to fight.

My girls flew to London to be by my side. We sat by your bedside on your last night and reminisced. The girls filed and painted your nails and combed your hair. You always took such pride in your appearance and liked to look your best.

The doctor called us in and said you were getting weaker; he turned off the machines and took away the tubes. The room fell silent and all that could be heard was your laboured breathing. We joined hands around your bed and prayed as you floated away.

I kissed you for the last time and let you go.

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