Brake Lights (A Short Story For Christmas)

Brake Lights

  (A Short Story For Christmas)

  By

  Craig Donovan

  Copyright © 2013 Craig Donovan

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Dee Rainbow

  Grateful thanks to Carol Jamieson

  “Dashing through the snow, on a one horse open sleigh.

  Over fields we go, laughing all the way…”

  He stabbed off the radio simply unable to tolerate any further cheesy goodwill underlining his growing sense of frustration at the slow crawl the threat of a little bit of ice had brought about. It wasn’t even snowing; just a mischievous teasing of sleet and now brake pedals were being overused like consonants on Countdown. No chance of a white Christmas; just the usual miserable wet greyness – matching his mood.

  Christmas Eve was no time to be stuck in traffic, especially this far from home. But for that matter it was no time to travel up to Newcastle for a sales presentation that could have easily waited until New Year. As it was he’d trapped seven prospective clients in a magnolia conference room for the entire day. Death by PowerPoint slides. They’d clearly had more than enough; his sales patter falling on increasingly distracted ears, slowly reducing any chance he had of securing the project at all. At first he’d turned down their half hearted invitation for a quick Christmas drink, citing his long journey home, but in the end had indulged their hospitality. After all, building relationships was the most important part of his job so he politely took just the one before joining the long meandering procession back towards his Midlands home.

  The rep-mobiles all blended into one long snake; well who else would be sitting on a motorway tonight? Relatives and friends would doubtless have planned ahead and were probably all tucked up with loved ones clutching a glass of red in front of a warm fire before stumbling out into the night for Midnight Mass. Each car contained a solitary driver; drumming their fingers on the leather clad steering wheel, dark blue suit jacket hanging across the rear near-side window. It was the clone’s Christmas parade.

  His rapidly developing sulk, spawned from a particularly long stretch of traffic cones protecting imaginary workers from speeding cars, was interrupted by a manic series of bleeps and whistles that reminded him of R2D2 on speed. It was the latest ring tone he’d downloaded to amuse his young daughter, Abigail.

  ‘SARAH’ flashed the display. He flicked on the hands free, not that he was technically driving.

  “Where are you?” asked an anxious sounding voice. “It’s gone nine.”

  “Don’t ask,” he replied, trying to sound happier than he really was. “Do you want me to say goodnight to Abi? I’m not going to be home for a good while yet.”

  “You poor thing. I’ll put her on. Drive safely.”

  There were muffled sounds, a protest probably, as the TV was turned down. Finally a high pitched voice broke through the white noise.

  “Ant and Dec are going to interview Santa tomorrow!” Her voice was practically squeaking with excitement, all the words banging into each other like a motorway pile up. He quickly banished that particular image from his thoughts – why tempt fate?

  “Hello sweetie, are you being a good girl for Mummy?”

  “Mummy let me put the star on the top of the tree.” The squeaky voice continued.

  It was yet another thing he’d missed. He hadn’t licked paper chains. He’d failed to get to her pre-school nativity (she was, for once, an angel). He hadn’t even wrapped her presents.

  “And we had carol singers. I sang too!”

  “What did you sing?” He imagined a high pitched chorus of Away in a Manger, the first line repeated over and over. They were the only words she’d learnt.

  “And Mummy says I can leave a drink and a mince pie for Santa, in case he’s hungry.”

  He’d already resigned himself to the fact that this was conversation in its lowest form. He knew how distracted Abi got once excitement took hold, and wasn’t surprised at the one way flow of information. This time of year had the same effect on all kids; it was like feeding them nothing but blue Smarties and Coke.

  “And Nan’s coming tomorrow. She’s bringing presents just like San…”

  A particularly high pitched squeal was followed by a thud and the phone went dead. It appeared Santa really had made space in his disproportionately busy schedule for Ant and Dec. Something, apparently, far more exciting than a chat with your dad, at least when you are four and three quarters and a good few hours past bedtime.

  He’d never felt homesick before they’d had Abi. Travel came as part and parcel of the job, a perk some called it. If you got off on airports and hotels they might be right. It wasn’t that he didn’t miss Sarah, quite the opposite; it was just that there was so much more to miss with Abi. Every day she grew a little more, changed a little more. A long weekend in Paris couldn’t recapture those moments.

  Red brake lights continued to light his way. In his rear view mirror he watched the silent trail of headlamps, stretched out like the tinsel on the tree he hadn’t helped decorate. Cars crawled to within an inch of each other, willing the driver in front to squeeze another couple of inches forward, shortening the journey by another fraction.

  Oh, for a flying reindeer…

  Minute by minute, mile by mile, stop starting his way. Slowly with each passing junction a few less cars seemed to bar his way. Accelerating to a heady 15, 20, even 30 miles an hour, he almost felt like he was making progress.

  The radio had stayed off. There was only so much cheery Christmas music someone can listen to when struggling to get home. Images of open fires, chestnuts roasting, babies in stables and turkey dinners just didn’t gel with his current vehicular-incarceration. Besides, he’d reached a sort of auto pilot state, switching off most of his brain as the car trawled along behind the blue, little-person-on-board, upper medium saloon he’d followed since joining the M1 – the last leg he’d promised himself at the time.

  Mile continued to follow weary mile but eventually he spied signs to the junction he’d been waiting for…praying for. Leaving the motorway he resisted the urge to re-enact Grand Theft Auto and made his way into Birmingham as patiently as he could, navigating the final few streets.

  Finally he spotted the familiar steeple, bathed in the orange glow of flood lights. He felt a surge of exhilaration. Relief that the journey was almost over coupled with resentment that the sound of bells from the church tower summoning people to Mass meant it was almost half past eleven.

  Parking his car on the gravel drive he ignored the garage, simply wanting to get into the house and out of his creased clothes. Christmas tree lights danced in the front window, triggered by a timer, set to dress the street outside in festive apparel. He cursed silently, trying the wrong key in the porch door, leaning against the glass for support as if he’d been in the pub all this time. The double glazed door relented at the second attempt, opening with a groan. Carefully stepping over the abandoned trainers and red Wellington boots, he opened the scratched wooden door and at long last stepped into his house.

  Home.

  He sighed, breathing out slowly as if he’d held his breath throughout the entire journey.

  The hall light had been left on, like a beacon to help him find his way and the door to the lounge was still ajar. He was surprised to see his wife dozing in her favourite armchair, her head leaning to one side; her long, newly blonde hair covering one eye, lifting gently as she breathed. On the coffee table, just as Abi had described, was a glass of sherry and a mince pie. Quite why they had any sherry in the ho
use was beyond him but he downed the sweet liquid in one gulp, grimacing as he swallowed. He was more of a red wine man.

  Even though he carefully replaced the glass the faintest of sounds was enough to disturb Sarah, who looked confused for a moment but then, smiling, pressed her finger to her lips and pointed. He followed the line of her finger and saw Abi, stretched across the sofa on her stomach. For a moment he just watched her lying there; the Christmas lights sending flickering shadows across her pale face and curly ginger hair. He felt a warm, comfortable softness as his wife quietly embraced him, planting a gentle kiss on his cheek. He closed his eyes and returned her kiss, savouring the familiarity, his home, and his family.

  Then, resisting the mince pie, he bent down and lifted Abi gently into his arms. Instinctively she reached her arms around his neck, her closed eyes twitching, no longer quite asleep.

  “Santa?” she enquired breathily, unable to quite open her eyes.

  “Sleep now,” he told her, and began slowly climbing the stairs toward her room where her bed, adorned with assorted fluffy Disney characters, awaited her.

  He pushed open the door with his foot. In a practised sweeping motion he pulled back the covers and laid her gently down. She rolled onto her side, instinctively curling, her knees pulled towards her chin.

  “Sweet dreams little one,” he whispered, hardly louder than her breathing, stroking her slightly wrinkled forehead and pulling the duvet up to her chin. “What are you wishing for?”

  “My Daddy,” she sighed.

  He blinked away a warm, unexpected tear and whispered in reply “Merry Christmas…”

  end

  Also by Craig Donovan

  The Wrong Girlfriend

  Boy meets girl.

  Boy falls in love.

  Boy sleeps with girl’s sister.

  As Christmas approaches Rob desperately tries to repair the damage of a drunken one-night-stand by embarking on a reluctant relationship. His ‘plan’ is that the relationship will eventually fail but in doing so will bring him close to the sister who is the real object of his affections. His happily coupled up friends, all of whom regard him as their surrogate single, dabble and encourage his hapless approach with a mixture of fascination and amusement.

  A story of love, lager and the eternal hope that one thing really does lead to another.

  Letters to Rosemary

  Joanna May has been receiving love letters but they aren't for her and now she is compelled to find Rosemary - whoever she is...

  It was the summer of 1991 and Jo had recognised she’d been stuck in a particularly uncomfortable rut. She knew she needed to move, needed to change. So here she was, a fresh start in a fresh place, even if it was little more than a mile as the funicular climbs. In just three short weeks she had painstakingly created her perfect cottage. Antique brass hung over the open red brick fireplace. Two slightly battered leather armchairs already dominated the tiny lounge, which at night would be lit almost entirely by candles – due to there being no ceiling or wall lights installed. And how she loved it.

  Resting against the plain white walls the two letters offered a rare splash of colour but hurrying through her daily routine Jo ignored them. Well, mostly. Occasionally she’d pick one up, glance at the boyish, spidery handwriting, intrigued by what secrets the envelop might contain, but that was all.

  At least that was until a week later. When a third letter arrived.