Grudge was in a state of high excitement. It reminded him of a blissful time in his early childhood when Ma and Pa had secretly celebrated Christmas with him—explaining in tones of hushed wonder the story of the child in the manger and the three wise men coming from afar with their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. One December 24th when he was seven he had gone off to a (brief) night’s sleep tingling at the prospect of the red-suited fat man with the white beard and the rosy cheeks coming to leave presents. He remembered it as a time of absolute joy. Sure enough when he did awake—it was about two a.m.—Father Christmas had been and gone and there were some modest gifts in a stocking at the end of his bed. Of course, the whole notion of Christmas wasn’t recognised in Runway Four. He managed upon strict instructions from his parents to keep schtum about it and he certainly never mentioned to anyone be they teachers or school friends or people in their apartment complex that a mysterious and loving man had left him a jigsaw and some crayons and a tin whistle as Christmas presents in the middle of the night. Naturally, too, he never mentioned the Christ to anyone.
© Brian Ahern 2014
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