Closed for Christmas

Artwork by Amina

I hold my canvas bag in one hand and my walking stick in the other as I carefully negotiate the cracks and crevices in the pavement. Luckily for me, I know this route like the back of my hand -- literally. I feel I know all the side roads, the junctions better than the bluish veins visible beneath my loose, white skin.

This is the same road where I played as a child. I remember the days when that mosque over there was a school -- my school. And the temple over there was our library. That bookshop sold gardening and recipe books, not Qurans. But all that has changed now. The front doors to the houses, formerly all a uniform slate grey, have been painted an artist's palette of colours. Brick red, cobalt blue, mint green, burnt umber. It's strange to think how much the street has changed in my lifetime.

I arrive at the corner -- through the window, the shop looks different somehow. Then I realise that the lights that normally cast a yellow glow on the goods displayed in the shop window are off. I reach the door to be greeted by a sign saying 'Closed until 2nd January. Sorry for the inconvenience. We wish all our patrons a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year'. Oh dear, I thought to myself. I'll have to go to those other shops now. Those new ones down on the high street.

I turn around and shuffle back, muttering the names of the neighbours who have passed on, or moved away, as I go. Mr and Mrs Peter's at number 42 who've gone to live with their daughter in Australia, Mrs Jenkins at number 48, who used to live, squeezed into the 2-bed house, with her four boys. She's passed away of course, and the boys have all moved down to Kent. Mr and Mrs Baine at number 54, whose daughter had married young Stilton from number 63. The two sisters, Blythe and Mabel, had been parted by the cruel reaper...

I arrive at the other corner of the road and already things seem different. The high street is busy -- brown-skinned faces wearing bright jewel colours and swathed in thick, brown, checked woollen scarves around ears, heads, noses, mouths. Teenagers screeching in some strange language punctuated with 'innit's, 'dudes' and 'yeah mans'. Toddlers wearing trousers with knee-length lace dresses, thick, padded coats, and hand-knitted woolly hats.

The crowds of people surround me and I start to feel dizzy. I walk into the first shop that pronounces 'grocers and minimarket' in green and yellow. Immediately the pungent smell of spices enters my nose. I look around, but the store is packed with people and I see nothing that I recognise. I turn back and go to the shop next door. Inside there are stacks of fruits of different shapes and sizes, most of which I don't recognise. Custard apples, guavas, jackfruits -- all unfamiliar names to me. Of course, I recognise the things like mangoes, dates and pineapples, but other than the dates and pineapples, I have never tasted this tropical fare -- and never desired to do so.

I reach out for a shopping basket. A voice calls out to me 'Hello, over there, hello' -- a man with a long beard and a white cotton hat on his head. He runs over.

What does he want? My heart pounds. Have I done something wrong? What will he do to me? He looms over me -- tall and broad chested.

"My dear, you can't manage that basket alone, not with your walking stick -- let me carry it for you."

I hesitate. Is he after my money? -- will he steal my purse (full of my precious pension pennies)? Or does he expect some kind of tip that I can't afford to pay?

I start to explain... "I can't afford to pay for you to hold my basket...."

"What!?" says the man. "Pay me for holding your basket?! I wouldn't dream of it, my dear."

I look at him. Maybe he looks at me kindly. But am I being too trusting? I hear how people are always fooling elderly people out of their money.

I smile weakly -- "Thank you."

"Now, what can I get you, my dear?" he asks.

I hesitate.

"Yes?" he prompts.

"I would like two oranges please," I say quietly.

"Of course -- let me get you the best." And as he says this, he reaches up to the top of the shelf, way out of my reach, to pull down two perfectly formed, round oranges.

"How would you like an extra one?" he says.

"Oh no, I don't have the money..."

He cuts me short. "No, no, no extra money needed. On the house. It's Christmas!'

I look across at this strange man with his garb of a different religion talking about Christmas. What is it to him?

"Now, do you have a shopping list, young lady?" he asks me, smiling.

(I laugh -- I haven't been called 'young lady' for a long time!)

"I do," I say, and falteringly hand my scribbled list over to him.

"Ah, Brazil nuts, chestnuts, almonds -- are you getting ready for the festivities then?" he asks. A lady comes over to join him and places her hand on his shoulder. Must be his wife, I think.

"It's a lot of hard work, getting ready, isn't it?" she says sympathetically.

"Oh, not really -- it's just me, you know. On my own," I reply, a little discomfited. Am I telling them too much about myself? Will a gang of youths break in to my house tonight and take away my treasured possessions?

"Just you, my dear? That isn't good. Where are your family?" asks the man, as he collects items from my list into my basket.

"My husband died in the war, you know." And then, thinking they may not know what I am talking about, I add "The Second World war you know, the one where we fought the Nazis."

"Oh, yes, like my grandfather," says the woman. I want to disagree. But then I recall seeing pictures of elderly, dark-skinned people, some with turbans, being awarded medals by the Queen on TV recently.

"Don't you have any children, my dear?" she asks.

"No, no, we were not blessed...."

"That's like us," she sighs. "But we don't lose hope -- maybe one day."

I find myself hoping, indeed, that this woman will have her hopes fulfilled. I know what she must feel like. I was once like her.

Another customer comes in, a jovial, rather rotund man.

"Assalamalaikum, Abdul-Shaab,' he calls out.

Abdul Shaab waves his hand. "Walaikum assalam, Uddin-Shaab -- how are you today?"

"Good, good, but the weather is so cold, there are fewer customers than we would like."

"Yes, the restaurant is quiet too -- no so many Christmas parties."

"How are the children?"

"Mashallah, they are doing well. You know, Masud will be doing his A levels this year."

"Really, my, my -- how fast children grow."

I am surprised as I listen to this conversation. Somehow I can relate to it. But now it seems silly to think how I thought any differently. Why shouldn't their conversations be the same, revolve around weather, business, family? What did I expect? I was learning something new.

Mr Abdul comes over to me with my basket full of his items.

"All done my dear. Now tell us what you are doing for your celebrations."

"Err, not much. I shall attend church in the morning, and then I'll make some carrot soup in the morning and grill a piece of chicken. Of course I'll watch our dear old Queen's speech."

"Oh, no, no, no, dear," Mrs Abdul says, patting my hand. "That isn't right. You must come over to our house -- we'll have several of the neighbours and family members over. We'll have a lovely big feast. Do come." She points to her house over the road. "No need to tell me now, just turn up on the day."

Christmas day arrives. I attend our church service as usual. Everyone gives me a hug and wishes me a 'Merry Christmas'. But no-one invites me to celebrate with them; they all have their own plans, and an elderly spinster is not part of those. I start to walk home, alone. The weather is still bitterly cold. As I enter the flat, it feels rather bleak, the TV seems unwelcoming. I think of the day ahead of me, and wonder if I should pop in to say hello to the Abduls. After all, they were very kind to me, and I really ought to thank them. I walk over to the kitchen and pick up the nuts. And write 'Season's greetings' on a card and address it to the Abduls. And, with card and nuts in my hands, walk back out of the door.

I arrive at the Abduls -- I can hear the noise of people from outside. I press the doorbell -- Mrs Abdul opens the door.

"Oh, hello, my dear. I'm so delighted you've come over!" She gives me a big hug. "Come in, come in and warm up. Let me introduce you to everyone. This is Mr Ali and his son, Navin. His wife has just popped upstairs to look at our loft conversion with Mrs Rahman. This is Mrs Moizuddin...and this is Mrs Malik -- she's from India. Over there is my brother, and outside, by the stairs is my sister-in-law. Everyone, this is...?"

She hesitates. She doesn't know my name.

"Jameson, Mrs. Jameson" I tell everyone.

They smile and welcome me. The boys jump out of their chairs to let me sit. The ladies come over with warm cups of Ribena. Youngsters come and mill around at our feet. A toddler waddles over to me and drops a teddy bear in my lap before her legs give way beneath her. A little boy comes over and huddles next to me.

"You remind me of my Nanu in Dhaka," he says. "She's old and wrinkled like you!"

His frankness makes me laugh.

We are called over for our meal. The children want to pull crackers. They make us wear paper hats. There is laughter in the air. We sit down to a delicious meal of spicy roast chicken with Brussel sprouts, potatoes and carrots. This is followed by a whole array of desserts and fruit that the various families have brought with them -- creamy, colourful, and very sweet. I take a nibble of everything, and the new flavours vitalise my weary palate.

Stomachs full, we all sit in the front room and switch on the TV.

'The Queen's speech' -- everyone hushes one another.

The National Anthem plays. The children giggle. Her Majesty appears on screen. She starts to talk. The toddler burbles, I miss the first few words. And then my ears pick out one phrase: "Everyone is our neighbour, no matter what race, creed or colour. The need to look after a fellow human being is far more important than any cultural or religious differences."

"Agreed," calls out everyone sitting around me.

And you know what, I think to myself. They're right.

Surely this has been the best Christmas I've had for a long time?

Julie Reza is a doctor in the United Kingdom.