Since living alone Vera likes to sit by the window late mornings and watch the happenings up and down the road. She wraps her hands around a mug covered in decorated Christmas trees, one of a set given by her granddaughter. Neighbors and the postman walk by only yards from her and her grey head, set once a week by the hairdresser, inclines in a nod of recognition and her square face breaks into a smile. She knows everyone who lives on her road, and most of their visitors.

Sally Palmer from number forty-six comes walking down the road pushing her toddler in a navy blue pushchair. A halo of golden curls surrounds the child’s red, bob-hat and shine in the pale sunshine. Red cheeks hang on his face like apples. Vera watches every breath he takes escape from his mouth in little puffs of winter.

Sally all muffled up steps in through the gate and up to the window asking loudly, “Are you all right, Mrs. Stuart? Is there anything I can bring you from the shops?” She stamps her feet in leather fashion boots with needle heels. Vera wriggles her fingers at the child. No warmth in those, she thinks, dangerous too, but knows that at Sally’s age she’d have snapped her hand off for them.

“As right as rain, dear, thank you. A quarter of roast beef would be lovely; save me the trouble.” Under her breath she mutters, “And you can stop shouting; I’m not deaf yet.” Sally smiles, doesn’t let on she has read Vera’s lips, and goes on her way. A blue Citroën drives slowly by taking a Health Visitor to see the bilious new baby at number three, Vera sucks her breath in as it barely squeezes between a carpenters van and a red mini parked too far from the curb.

Rows of terraced houses strung out like garlands are a familiar sight up north, built long before cars drove in to clutter them up. Each home claims a concreted yard at the back. A smaller gardened area in front is separated from pavement flags by a low stone wall and wrought-iron gate. Roses predominate. To walk along Wellington Road is to discover specimens as sweet as any at Kew and gardeners as proud.

Images of her own toddlers roll into Vera’s head. All from long ago but Vera is back there in a heartbeat holding a precious child, dancing, and singing to the radio. The days when her children were young are a well-loved story that Vera tells herself more and more often. Most days it warms her and sometimes changes as she remembers another long-forgotten detail; but on her lonely days it leaves her empty and steeped in loss.

Ted Baldwin stands at his gate in brown corduroys, tall, grey haired, cold hands rubbing together straight up and down like pistons. After a few words with Sally, he turns to look for Vera. She waves. He waves back, a big expansive wave that swings loose from his elbow side to side above his head. He walks up to his next-door-but-one neighbors of forty years. Vera’s nimble step takes her to the kitchen to freshen the pot, and back up the hall before Ted arrives.

“Good morning! You gorgeous creature.” His huge smile belies the years.

“I don’t know what you’ve go to be so cheerful about.” Vera laughs, repositioning a stray lock of hair, “You’re falling apart.”

But Ted is always cheerful; it’s a religion with him. “Well now, it’s a beautiful day. I woke up this morning, and I see you did too. What could be better than that?” Ted fixes Vera with clear blue eyes. Two pools of youth marooned in his craggy face.

“You always were a charmer.” She replies coolly, and steadfastly ignores the way Ted makes her feel.

Ted’s morning visit became a regular event a year or so after his wife’s death. Dot had a heart attack on a Sunday morning frying breakfast, let go of the pan fell to the floor, and was gone. Vera said at the time, “Out of the blue on a Sunday morning, that’s a good way to go. But think of her, spending eternity smelling of bacon.”

Later she declared even the eternal reek of bacon preferable to slow and painful the way her Dennis went. She nursed him until every bit of him was gone, and dreaded living alone for the first time in her life. Over the past five years she’s inched her way into getting used to it.

Vera turns her chair back to face the room and Ted sits on the sofa. He talks about Canada. He knows a lot about it. It was a blow to him and Dot when Andy left. Their only child emigrating anywhere hadn’t been part of their dream.

“I don’t understand why you never went to visit. I know how much Dot missed Andy and those children.”

“We both did. We hated being long-distance grandparents. We missed so much, and it was always worse at Christmas.” Ted studies his trimmed fingernails. “It was work, hard to leave for any length of time. We planned to go often, after I retired.”

“That department store would have managed without you well enough.”

“Department, Vera, Men’s Department. We saved so we'd have plenty money to travel when I retired. But you’re right, because… you know,” his thin lips press together. “Dot went before we had the chance. I feel wrong going without her.”

Silence settles like a duvet after a good shake. Vera remembers becoming friends with Dot. Nineteen seventy-seven, they organized a street party for the Queen’s Silver Jubilee. Twenty years ago that was. Dot lead, full of energy and ideas, and Vera followed sprinkling commonsense. What an occasion! A lot of work but they’d had so much fun putting it together. After, they did a lot together, even dancing at the Palais as a foursome when they could pry Ted away from his books and Dennis his sports.

God willing, there’ll be a street party for the Golden Jubilee. Organization for that will fall to Sally Palmer and her generation. Vera wonders how they’ll cope. Most of them have jobs, at least part-time. How they look after their children properly as well as work she has no idea and suspects they don’t. Never mind taking on a project like a street party. There’s a lot about modern life and young women she doesn’t understand.

“I can’t believe it’s almost Christmas. It’s not what it used to be, is it? I’m staying home this year.” Vera’s tongue tuts. “Well, they insist on coming for me. It takes too long. Our Christine said: ‘But mother, you’ll be on your own.’ I said, I’ll be fine, love, we all have a ‘phone don’t we? So, I’m going mid-week and to Emily’s for New Year.” Vera laughs, “I had to promise I’d cook!”

“She worries about you, Vera. You’re her mum.”

“Anyway, it’ll be me and the telly and I’ll be fine.” She didn’t need to tell him that once she’d convinced them and posted presents to her grandchildren, she’d forgotten about Christmas altogether. Sometimes, being on the sidelines is harder than not attending at all.

The clock on the mantle strikes one. Ted rises to leave; although he’s in no hurry he’s afraid to outstay his welcome. Vera keeps him at arms length.

Ted remembers the jovial bus driver and his shapely wife moving in two doors up. Vera turned every head around. Thick dark hair and legs up to her armpits in those mini skirts, eyes popped when they saw her. His Dot wore mini skirts; too. Bright and bubbly and thin as a lat she was. Wore every daft fashion that came along, but Vera caused pileups.

Mini skirts passed into history much to Ted’s regret. Overnight, it seemed, women clomped about in shawls and long clothes like his mother had. All the delightful sights he’d grown accustomed to - after the first shock, that is, disappeared. He especially missed washing lines full of tiny, bold colored underwear, apparently necessary to accessorize every outfit, hoisted like arrays of gaily colored bunting. There was something so modern about them.

Only a few years previous no self-respecting woman would have dreamt of putting her knickers on the line in full view. Then they were all doing it. So much changed in such a short time, Ted saw the changes at the store. No stock turned over like young women’s fashions. Nowadays, he’s seen things called thongs that didn’t bear thinking about.

“See you tomorrow, girl, God willing,” He wags a finger at her, “and don’t be showing that smile to just anyone!” That smile spreads across Vera’s face and crinkles her eyes before she reins it in.

“Get on home with you, Ted Baldwin, and don’t be giving me any of your nonsense!” Surface lines that etch her face emphasize honest, hazel eyes and a complexion soft and clear. Her comfortable body moves as before, smooth and elegantly in contrast to her sense of humor, sharp and sometimes stinging. She stands at the window. I do look forward to his visits; laugh with him more than anyone. And fancy calling me girl at my age. Possibilities creep into her mind; she chases them out before they have a chance.

The next day when the clock strikes Ted hovers, sticks his hands in his pockets. “I’ve been thinking, Vera…”

“Ooh, could be dangerous.”

“Listen, about Christmas Day, you’re going to be alone, so am I. Maybe we should spend it together?”

Vera‘s smile vanishes. No! I can’t spend Christmas Day with him. It’s too long…intimate…What would Dennis think… and the neighbors? And . . . No! I can’t.

“I could bring something,” Ted adds quickly. “Help cook; I can cook.” His voice trails off; the look on Vera’s face gives him his answer. “Never mind, Vera, just a suggestion, I see you have other plans.” That comes out stiff, not like he meant it. Their friendship shifts into something uncomfortable and self-conscious.

Vera can’t think of a reason to say no. Her eyes swim in tears. A whispered, “I’m sorry, Ted.” is all she can manage.

“Don’t be sorry, girl.” his voice is tender, “I understand.” And he does. He felt disloyal when he thought of it, but Dot had been the one with all the progressive ideas.

Vera spends most of the afternoon crying tears of loss and confusion until there are none left. Dry-eyed she reminisces until the streetlights come on. Better draw the curtains before someone thinks I’ve died and they’re here to knock the door down. Sally comes through the gate at that moment. Opening the door Vera says, “Come in; love, while I get my purse.”

Sally breathes on her chilly fingers. “It is cold out there, Mrs. Stuart. Maybe snow for Christmas this year?” She studies a black and white photo hanging on the wall. “You and Dennis made a lovely couple; he was a big handsome chap, wasn’t he? And look at all your hair! You look so, in love.” she adds with a tease.

“Vera.” Vera corrects, coming up the hall, purse in hand, feelings in control. “Long time ago now, Sally. Yes, black as coal then, plenty of it, too. Still the same in here, though,” her fingers tap her generous chest, “but the packaging? Well, I look like I got trampled in the post. I don’t know who that is lives in my mirror.”

Sally laughs, and notices red rims circle Vera’s eyes. She opens her mouth to speak and shuts it again, she does this twice. “Sally, what is it? You look like a fish searching for a fishbowl in my hall.” Vera regrets the question as soon as it leaves her mouth.

“Mrs. Stuart, Vera…is everything all right?”

Vera looks past Sally at the door, fiddles with the clasp on her purse. “Of course, Sally, everything is fine. Thank you for the shopping, dear.” Vera moves to open the door. She needs Sally to leave.

“Is it Christmas, Vera? It must be hard to be alone. Um, I could stay a while; put the kettle on -if you like.” Vera blinks rapidly, and stares at Sally unable to answer. Heat invades her neck and cheeks. My God, am I going to cry? Don’t cry, Vera! She watches her own hands move. I can’t talk to her. She’s just a slip of a girl.

Sally waits with a steady gaze. An unaccustomed rush of helplessness overtakes Vera, and Sally leads her to the kitchen table. Vera sobs. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me.” Sally makes tea without a word. Only when she sits does she ask evenly, “Now, what is it? And don’t think because I’m young you can shock me.” She taps the side of her nose with a slender finger. “I’ve been around, you know!”

Vera wipes her eyes and forces a weak smile. Hugging her china mug covered in Christmas trees, she tells Sally about how she hurt Ted Baldwin’s feelings; about how she thinks Christmas is so special she isn’t even going to bother with it; about her loyalty to Dennis, and about how it’s too late and she’s too damn old to think about it. Her young neighbor listens; big brown eyes understand. Vera takes deep breaths; glad Sally is pushing her to talk. “It’s not that I don’t like him, Sally, I do, he’s calm and funny, but…” Vera looks away.

Lightly, Sally asks, “Vera, what are you most afraid of?”

Surprised, Vera’s eyes open wide. “Why, I’m not afraid of anything, Sally. I used to worry about living alone, but Dennis has been gone a long time. I’m used to it. I don’t mind it, now.”

Through the evening, the question haunts Vera. Her only fears are not being able to take care of herself and a painful death. She isn’t sure which is worse, but they have nothing to do with it. Still the question won’t leave her alone.

Vera goes to bed exhausted but unable to sleep. Her mind struggles. She murmurs to the streetlight staring in through the bedroom window: I’ll open my heart, get used to him being around and then boom; he’ll drop dead and leave. I can’t face it. A banquet after bread and water in the dungeon, then whoosh, hauled back to the dungeon. The door would slam shut. No! I won’t. It’s going through that all again that puts the fear of God into me.

Lying in bed, illuminated by peripheral light from the same streetlamp, Ted doesn’t sleep either. Wishes he’d left things the way they were. Wishes he’d kept his mouth shut. He hates that he hurt Vera’s feelings; still sees tears he brought to her eyes. We probably won’t even have a morning cuppa anymore. Turning onto his side, Ted realizes how much he’ll miss that. Damn! I should have kept my mouth shut. He tries hard to think of a way to put it right.

Glad when it’s morning he eats a somber breakfast. Wanders the house with a duster, and sits down to read his latest Country Connection. A magazine he receives from his son, all about life in Canada. Late morning he takes his usual stroll to the gate. He almost doesn’t bother, and as he fears Vera is not at the window.

--

Up to her elbows in boxes of decorations dragged down from the attic, Vera stands in her living room. Wake Up To Wogan chatters on the radio. There’s a lot to do, Christmas Eve already. Leave the tree till evening, finish the rest by mid morning when, hopefully, she’ll have a visitor. This afternoon, her hands will be covered in flour; a pound of butter is already softening in the airing cupboard.

Waking from a fretful sleep Vera knew something had changed. What, exactly, she isn’t sure, but she feels better, able to think about it. It won’t be a lifetime commitment after all. Even when Dennis couldn’t get out of bed he always said: live till you die, love, live till you die. So sod the neighbors, although that’s easier said than done. She sighs, still this new generation, it’s probably all normal to them.

Vera giggles, who knows, maybe another temporary seat is better than bread and water for the rest of my life. I suppose that’s all I ever had really, any of us have is a temporary seat. Goodness, I might be the one to go first, today, in the middle of pudding. She sees the picture in her head and laughs out loud. Vera puts up decorations that only yesterday she wasn’t going to bother with. Hands on hips she surveys the results. Nods with satisfaction, very nice indeed!

Vera isn’t at the window when Ted looks because she’s stepping out her door to walk down to meet him. Wearing a sure smile and the blue dress he likes her in so well. Her hand reaches for his arm and this time “I’m sorry, Ted” means something very different. He grins as he realizes things have changed. They walk together up to her house and talk in a way Vera never allowed before. At two o’clock she shoos him out. He sets off to town with a list. She sets to work.

Christmas Day dawns crisp and clear, covered in a layer of glitter frost. Vera wakes early with butterflies fluttering in her chest. Ted doesn’t stop to check the window but walks directly up the road and knocks at Vera’s door.

“Merry Christmas!” He holds a sprig of mistletoe over her head beaming like a teenager on his first date.

“Not so fast, Casanova!” Laughing, she gives him a fleeting peck on the cheek and ushers, him, the dozen red roses, and everything else that’s tumbling out of his arms, into the warm kitchen. Together they prepare a feast.

Vera can’t remember the last time she felt so good. Eyes shining she says, “I’m playing the lead in my own life, Ted, not a supporting role in someone else’s.” Ted gazes at her and watches ten years drop from her face.

“Now, let me show you just how well I can cook. Turkey and trimmings are mine.”

“Are you sure, Ted? Dennis couldn’t boil an egg.”

“Girl, just watch me sort out this bird.” He weighs his words, “Actually, it’s a bit of hobby lately, cooking. I watch those programs.”

“Well I never. You’re a new age man? How many more surprises have you got up your sleeve?”

Ted winks. “They’re not all up my sleeve, girl!” Vera looks down to study the mixing bowl. Her face is straight as she raises a finger of whipped cream to her lips, “I hope you like sherry trifle.” Her tongue extends to lick it. “It’s my specialty.” A faint blush of rose rises on her cheeks. Laughter fills the kitchen.

Morning passes into afternoon with phone calls and dinner and gayety. “You’ll have to stop making me laugh now, Ted, my jaw hurts.” She wipes tears from her eyes. Eventually, nothing is left but to sit in front of the fire with a glass of Bristol Cream, Vera’s favorite.

Ted pushes open the door to the front room, “My, the tree looks lovely, Vera, it sparkles near as much as you do.” They sit in silence; admiring twinkling lights that brighten as the day loses its light, the festive decorations, and the fire glowing in the grate. Vera thinks how good it feels to have Ted in the house. Ted produces a last gift, a CD, Phantom of the Opera. He stands to put it on the player.

“While you’re up,” Vera says slyly, face turned up to look him in the eye, “why don’t you go and find that mistletoe?”

“Vera Stuart!” Ted clutches his chest, but it’s the fastest Vera has seen him move in a long time. The kiss he gives her explodes in all directions before coming to rest like bonfire night sparklers in the pit of her stomach. It takes her breath away. Half choking on a peal of laughter she reports all parts in working order. Ted laughs too; his arms around her, and assures her that his bits and pieces operate like a well-oiled machine. “Only have trouble with the old leg standing up, lying down, it’s not a problem at all!”

The orchestra plays. There on the sofa, soaked in the warmth of Christmas and the music, they feel the deep and peaceful pleasure of each other’s company. If this man drops dead tomorrow, Vera decides, her head resting on his shoulder, it will be worth this one day. Her heart opens wide. She feels it expand in her chest as feelings dammed up for years flood in, dislodge debris, and teem in every nook and cranny. She looks up, “Merry Christmas, Ted.” her eyes glinting in the twinkling lights her face searching for a second kiss.

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