Christmas Morning

'I don’t understand what this child of mine eats. How is there no corn meal, no sweetened condensed milk, nutmeg and things like that.'

I woke to the most clawing hunger pain, not helped by the scent of nostalgia coming from the kitchen. The smell of Christmas morning's saltfish. Somewhere downstairs, the original 'Mary's Boy Child is in competition with my Aunty Shelly's singing and the pattering of pots and pans. I eased myself upright. David wasn’t in the bed. Instead a gift sat where he should have been but a listening ear confirmed where he was. In the kitchen between Aunty Shelley’s gospel singing and preaching of what was lacking in our kitchen.

‘Aunty Shell, some things are a little more difficult to find here.’ David trying to sooth the situ.

‘Not even a cinnamon stick, not one.’ I heard her ask, then went back to her singing. ‘A woman with child needs proper ground food.’ She cut the singing to say, then went right back to her singing.

I was in two minds whether to leave them to it or save my husband. But the smell of fried dumplings decided that. I hauled myself out of bed and down the stairs. On my decent I heard her ask David for some thyme. We didn’t have any. I could almost see her face. The weight of the silence sufficient for me to start praying for my sins. I guessed she’d accepted that this household didn’t stock Caribbean staples because there was no comeback.

By the time I entered the kitchen, she was onto her version of Grace Thrillers’ Precious Jesus. And today she is singing both the lead and backing chorus. That Precious Jesus line aimed squarely at my husband and me.

I walked into the kitchen. Leaned on David in an exchange of physical and emotional support. Kissed him Merry Christmas.

‘Morning, Aunty Shell. Merry Christmas.’ I greeted. Gave her a hug from the back.

Still surprised that the woman who raised me had flown all that way to take care of me. And chose to stay with us over Christmas, instead of returning to her own family back home. 

She spun around from the cooker, when I let her go.

‘Ah look who’s risen from the dead.’

David chuckles first, steps half a pace forward.

‘She means you’re looking stronger today,’ he said.

Warm words for someone who’d just miscarried, but then, this was Aunty Shelley. Her love is of the tough kind. She just as quickly swung back to the plantain she's frying. You know they wait for that moment just to burn. Anyway, I sat because I got wobbly. David’s hand already on the back of the chair, steadying it before I fully felt myself tilt. Sitting, I saw the rest of the feast she’d prepared for Christmas morning, as if she was feeding half the church. She'd baked plain bread and sweet bread. There was ackee and saltfish, boiled eggs, callaloo, avocado, fried dumplings and breadfruit. She'd managed to run some Tinsel down the middle of the table too.

She passed me the glass she sipped from. The smell alone knocking me back. I took a sip anyway and the Ponche Crema, home made, took me right back home to Jamaica.

It was only three of us for breakfast and looking at the spread again, I pointed that out.

‘You don’t know who might drop in.’

David and I looked at each other. Other than Mr Monroe (who’d now been here twice), and Maggie, no one else had been.

‘Aunty Shelley, this is England not the Caribbean, that doesn’t happen here.’

‘Well if all-you don’t eat it now, you can eat it later. Besides, I never raised you to cook no bare pot.

’David set the table, first clearing a pile of unopened cards (Christmas and otherwise) from the third chair. Aunty Shelley plated our food as if we were still teenagers, then sat and wrapped her frock-tail with her usual, ‘Oh thank you Jesus.’

For a while only the cutlery on the crockery made conversation. Because I was hungry, I didn't speak. Because it tasted good, I ate. For a moment, I forgot why my heart had been heavy. 

Aunty Shelly was the one to break the silence.

She put down her cutlery and looked at us.

‘Wait. Why the two of you eating as if you never see food?’

David had already finished and was offered seconds. I’d eaten too fast and had to massage my chest for the food to go down. Aunty Shelley turned back to me.

‘It tastes so good,’ I said, scraping the last of the saltfish from my plate.

‘Liv, why there no tinned milk in this house?’

‘I no longer drink it.’

‘What you mean by that? How you make macaroni pie and porridge?’

‘I use fresh milk.’

She looked at me like I’d cursed, then turned to David. He backed me up. That single look shrank us both into kids.

Somewhere along the line she mentioned church. ‘We’ve been trying one not too far from here,’ David said easily, reaching for the eggnog. Other than St Paul's Cathedral, neither David or I knew where any other church was. We weren't about to admit we hadn’t been going. But Christmas made the lie heavier. 

The door bell went. Had us all looking at each other. At the door, Dr Maggie Monroe, still in her scrubs. She had no plans to stay, only see how I was doing and wish us a Merry Christmas. Of course that was never going to happen. David cleared the fourth table place and Aunty Shelly sat her down to breakfast.

Maggie 'licked her lips and ate everything. While Aunty Shelly told her she was welcomed back anytime. We had to warn her it was a one off.

Still Aunty Shelly filled her up with leftovers. Packing and stacking her with plastic containers to go. Because there was enough to feed us well into the New Year, or at least until she decided we were starving again.

But the truth is, despite what had been taken from us during the year, we didn't need much else. Just us, a good old Caribbean home cooked meal, a little music and laughter and the comfort of knowing we still had each other.

We'd agreed not to exchange presents this year and despite that my table was full. He was there, my Aunty Shelly and Maggie who was fast becoming family. And as a Christmas gift, that was enough.

Because what is Christmas without the ones you love.