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The Snow Angels
It had been an amazing year,
a life changing year, a year never to be forgotten, beginning with love at first
sight and ending with a miracle.
It all began, of course, as all years do, on New Year’s Day. You might think
that very little occurs, let alone starts, on New Year’s Day as everyone is
either nursing a hangover or is just too tired to even contemplate participation
in anything very much at all. Now, that may well be true for some, but not for
everyone.
For me, New Year’s Day is no different to any other day of the year … after all,
isn’t every day the first day of another year? You might deduce from this that
if I have such disdain for the first day of the year that my feeling for the
last day of the old year might be likewise, and you would be right.
I am, and always have been, a Christmas person, I love every aspect of that
season … but New Years Eve has always left me cold. In fact, I dislike every
thing about it. I hate the crowded pubs, the noisy house parties, “old lang syne”,
first footing and, of course, the bloody fireworks.
I always spent the evening with likeminded people, namely, my younger brother,
Greg, eating Chinese takeaway and watching DVDS. We would prefer to go out to
eat but, to go anywhere decent, you have to book at Easter.
On the other hand, my friends, Dave and his wife, Emma, loved New Years Eve but
didn’t celebrate it for quite different reasons. Dave worked shifts as a porter
at the local hospital. He’d been there since he left school, which was nearly
fifteen years. It didn’t pay well but he really loved it. As a family man he
always managed to trade shifts so he had Christmas off but, subsequently, he
always had to work New Years Eve.
Emma was a housewife or homemaker or domestic goddess, or whatever the pc speak
is. She had worked at the hospital as well until she fell pregnant with their
first child. Now they had three boys, all under 5 years old, so she never had
time off.
So, with all those in mind who do not participate in the Old Year's Night rituals
either by design, as in my case, or by circumstance, as with Dave and Emma, I
set the scene for this tale. With all that said, let’s get back to the beginning
of the story, the start of that amazing year.
It was New Year’s Day and I was invited to spend the evening with my good
friends, the Parkers, for one of Emma’s wonderful dinners … a culinary
experience for which I would have gladly paid a king’s ransom but for which the
only charge was my attendance. Well, as the saying goes, “there’s no
such thing as a free lunch” and that goes for dinner as well.
I was a bachelor and happy to be so. I was comfortable in my own company. I
liked my life, I could do what I wanted when I wanted and I had a good job
which paid well and allowed me to indulge myself, if I wanted to.
This, for Dave and Emma, was an alien concept. They were a couple and were
happy, ergo I was single and therefore must be unhappy. So every time they had a
dinner party, a picnic or BBQ, there was always some poor, unfortunate,
unattached female guest who was propelled towards me. Even at their wedding they
tried to pair me up with the matron of honour’s younger sister.
They were relentless and never gave up but it was always to no avail. It wasn’t
because they were horrible or unattractive young women. In fact, they were
normally very nice. It was just that they were not for me … we didn’t connect.
So the price for a very excellent dinner was to be aimed at yet another
single/unattached/divorced woman. Still, it was a price worth paying for a very
exceptional meal, with good company.
I arrived late afternoon so I could spend some time with the kids before they
went off to bed. It was sufficiently dark for the Christmas lights to be on, and
Dave did like a good Christmas light. His house was in no way as gaudy as many
were but he did like his lights.
I was greeted at the door by a very bleary-eyed Dave, who had clearly just risen
from his pit.
“Oh dear,” I said, as I looked at his sleep filled eyes and the unmistakable bed
head, “Night shift?”
“Yeh,” he replied, then yawned.
I had known Dave from infant school and we had been best friends for most of the
years since. I had been best man at his wedding and godfather to his first born.
I followed him into the kitchen where I was greeted by Emma who, standing on her
tip toes, drew her self up to all of five feet four, hugged me and kissed my
cheek. I breathed in her scent, a mixture of heady musk and baby sick. Noticing
the bemused look on my face, she pointed to the milky stain on her top and
laughed.
I hadn’t known Emma as long as Dave, just over 10 years, but we became friends
instantly. She was one of that rare breed of humans who are just impossible to
dislike. You feel instantly at ease with them.
“Happy New Year,” she said, still chuckling.
“Ditto,” I replied.
“You won’t even say the words,” she said incredulously,
“I can’t believe you dislike New Year that much.” She left the room laughing.
While all this was going on, Dave had boiled the kettle and made drinks. He put
a steaming mug of instant coffee on the kitchen table and I sat down on the
chair nearest to it.
“What are you doing here so early anyway?” Dave asked.
“I thought I could help out by entertaining the ankle biters while you two got
yourselves ready.”
“That’s very sweet of you, Bernie,” Emma said as she came back into the kitchen
and sat down next to me, ”But Jake and Kenny are at Karen’s until tomorrow and
Molly is asleep.”
Jake was my godson and almost five years old. Kenny was three and Molly was
barely six months.
“Your sister, Karen?”
Emma nodded.
“I thought you didn’t get on with her.”
“I don’t, but I made a New Year’s resolution to get closer to her,” she said,
without enthusiasm. ”She’s the only family I have so I thought I should make an
effort.”
I was going to ask Dave if he had made a similar resolution but thought better
of it. I knew there was too much bad blood there.
“Well, as my entertainment skills are not required I will ...” I was about to
suggest that I would finish my coffee and come back later when Emma interrupted
me.
“I can use you in other ways.”
“Oh,” I said and raised my eyebrows slightly as I considered the erotic image
in my mind of my best friend’s wife, naked and smelling of baby sick “using me”,
when she placed a potato peeler in front of me.
“Ah.”
The next three hours passed by in the same way as so many of the hours we had
spent together. Good, old fashioned fun. I could imagine nothing better than
spending time in their glorious company.
As I said, I liked my life.
By seven thirty, everything was done that could be done. Dave and Emma had made
themselves presentable though, in truth, Emma scrubbed up better than Dave. So I
took my self upstairs to change into a clean shirt which I swiped from
Dave’s wardrobe.
Just as I was coming downstairs, the doorbell rang. Dave headed for the door and
I ducked into the lounge. I didn’t want to be hovering in the hall when the
desperate, single woman arrived, in case I gave her the impression I was keen to
meet her ... although, I confess, I was curious to see what the latest offering, in
a long line of potential life partners, looked like ... but not curious enough to
hover in the hallway.
As it turned out, the doorbell was rung by Colin, who worked with Dave at the
hospital, and his wife, Clair, who was a nurse. I knew them very well and they
were good company. There were to be six for dinner - Dave and Emma, Colin and
Clair, myself and the mystery woman.
The new arrivals soon joined me in the lounge and the volume rose as the banter
began with barbed jibes, mainly aimed at me. Colin went through a whole tirade
of remarks questioning my manhood and my sexuality.
“What’s the matter, Bernie, couldn’t they scrape up a date for you this time?”
Colin inquired, “Perhaps you should try something in the inflatable line … the
conversations not up to much and they always have the same expression on their
face, but they never judge.”
Thankfully, the doorbell went again.
“Saved by the bell,” Emma said, as she went towards the door.
This didn’t knock Colin off his stride for a second, as he continued to
elaborate on the advantages of having an inflatable girlfriend, until Emma led a
very attractive brunette into the room. Colin stopped mid sentence with his
mouth open which he only closed after Clair had inserted her elbow into his rib
cage.
“Everybody, this is Angela,” Emma said,
“Dave, you know already. The one with his mouth open is Colin, and his long
suffering wife, Clair,” then she turned to me, “and this is Bernie.”
I would be hard pressed to put a figure on the number of attractive, young women
Emma had steered in my direction over the years. In many ways, Angela was just
another in a very long line, but there was something else to her which I
couldn’t put my finger on. Maybe it was the way she held herself and how she was
un-phased by the realization that she was making up the numbers. Sometimes, when
Emma has introduced me, you see shoulders slump in disappointment or you see
excitement on the faces of the keen ones that give them the look of kittens on
speed. Angela was poised and confident and …
“Hi,” I said and offered my hand, which she took.
We obviously held hands for longer than we should have and, as soon as we
realized, we let go. She laughed nervously. I felt myself blush.
“Where do you know Emma from?” I asked, trying to regain my composure while
being painfully aware that no one else in the room was speaking.
“We were at school together,” she said, “And then, after university, I moved
away and we lost touch.”
“And now?” I asked, suddenly aware the question made no sense; I was normally
much more coherent than this.
“And now what?”
“I think he means, where are you living now?” said Emma, coming to my rescue.
“Oh, I see, yes. I moved back in November. I’m living with my parents, at the
moment, until I find somewhere I like.”
I became aware of a low murmur in the background so I relaxed in the knowledge I
was no longer being watched.
“And how did you two get back in touch?”
Emma laughed and Angela said, “It was in Sainsbury’s and I inadvertently walked
off with Emma’s trolley when …”
“I was about to draw it to her attention by throwing a tin of baked beans at
her,” interrupted Emma.
“But I turned round just in time.”
They were both laughing now and, soon, Angela’s soft, infectious giggle had
circled the room until we were all laughing.
That kind of set the tone for the rest of the evening. As we enjoyed Emma’s
wondrous culinary offerings, each course was punctuated with a mixture of
rehashed old anecdotes and previously unheard tales regaled to us by Emma and
Angela.
All through the evening my eyes were drawn to Angela, almost to the point of
staring and, once or twice, Emma noticed my interest. I quickly glanced away
but then she and Dave exchanged a knowing look. It was when we reached the
liqueur stage of the evening, when we were all slightly the worse for drink, all
guilty of over-imbibing, that I finally let myself down.
As a veteran guest of the Parkers, it always fell to me to raise a toast which I
gladly did, “Please raise your glasses to the hostess with the mostest, Emma,
and yet another outstanding feast, Emma.”
This was greeted with a chorus of “Hear, Hear” and much table tapping.
“And to the man whose mastery of the bottle opener is second to none – Dave.”
More cheers and more table tapping.
“And, last but by no means least, old friends.”
And that is where I should have left it but, no ...
“And new friends,” raising my glass, looking straight at her, I said, “Angel”.
Everybody just cracked up. Dave laughed so much he fell off his chair which only
managed to fuel the flames.
I just turned crimson and slumped into my chair.
Angel smiled at me through the tears rolling down her cheeks, so I thought maybe
I hadn’t ruined my chances.
Colin stood up and did a very credible impression of me, saying “We have an
angel in our midst” which isn’t easy to say, even when you're sober. Then Dave
clambered back onto his chair and exclaimed, “It’s better than that … I’ve just
realized, we have two angels!”
“What are you on about,” said Emma.
I had a bad feeling about what was coming next, so I interceded, “Just ignore
him, he’s pissed.”
But Dave was not to be deterred.
“We have the beautiful, young angel, Angela, and we have the angel, Gabriel.”
“What are you talking about?” quizzed Emma.
He resorted to pointing to illustrate his meaning. First, he pointed at Angela
and slowly said, “Angel” and then he pointed at me, “Gabriel”.
“What?” Emma asked again, with a very puzzled expression.
So he pointed at me again and said, “GABRIEL Bernard Brophy”.
Finally the penny dropped and everybody fell about. Except me. I just leant
forward and started banging my head on the table.
I sat up and looked at Dave, “Over twenty five years you’ve kept that secret
and you chose tonight to give it up!”
“It's alright, you’re among friends,” Emma said, and then broke down again.
“It won’t stay among friends though. Not now ‘loose lips’ knows,” I said,
gesturing in Colin’s direction, “It will be all round the hospital tomorrow.”
“Oh, now, that’s not fair,” said Emma.
“No, it is,” said Colin.
“No, it won’t be all over the hospital tomorrow,” added Dave, reassuringly,
“He’s off until Thursday.”
The next day was one of
reflection and I was left with a feeling of what might have been had I not
dropped the ball.
How ironic it was that, after all the young women Dave and Emma had put in my
path over the years in the hope of finding me a wife which I always managed to
side step, I finally met the woman whom I didn’t want to swerve to avoid and the
fates conspired against me.
I had finally met a girl who was attractive, funny, intelligent, well spoken,
had a sense of humour and good table manners (which was a definite plus) and who
left me tongue tied, like a lovesick schoolboy, someone who ticked all the boxes
and quite simply bowled me over, and I blew it, in the most humiliating manner.
It seemed like we had a number of things in common,
we had the same spiritual
beliefs, we both liked film and cinema,
walking in the country, to name but three and I was looking forward to finding
out more about her and if there were any other boxes I could tick.
I couldn’t believe what a gibbering idiot I had been; I had been complimented in
the past, more than once, for my eloquence at such occasions and I had never
been tongue-tied before, well, not since I was fifteen, and why, oh why, did I
call her Angel and why did Dave have to blurt out my Christian name?
I didn’t even bother asking her out or getting her number. There didn’t seem
much point, though I did feel that we had made a connection and that my
overtures, for want of a better term, would not have been rejected out of hand.
I could still have gotten her number from Emma but how would I ever have been
able to ask her out now that she knew that my name was Gabriel? So, I resigned
myself to the fact that, due to circumstances beyond my control and my total
inability to string even the simplest of semi-coherent sentences together, she
would be forever viewed as “the one that got away”.
So I turned my full attentions to work and started getting things ready for my
return to harness the next day. I was ironing myself a shirt when the phone
rang. I ignored it … it was probably one of my mates who, having heard the
revelation about my name, was just phoning to take the piss.
It rang again. I ignored it again. I knew it wouldn’t take long for Colin to
spread the word. It rang a third time.
“I suppose I’d better get it over with,” I said, and headed towards the phone.
It rang again before I got to it and the answer phone kicked in.
My first reaction was “good, now leave your poisonous message and then I can
delete it without even hearing it” but curiosity got the better of me. I braced
myself and decided to listen to the message.
“Hi. Oh dear, I hope you don’t mind me ringing,” said a faltering voice, “uhrm,
I got your number from Emma.”
There was a pause then a nervous laugh.
“It’s Angel.”
I quickly grabbed the phone
and almost shouted, “Hello”.
If I had gone with my first instinct and deleted the message unheard, she would
never have called again. I would still have thought of her as “the one that got
away” and the remarkable year would simply not have happened. But, thankfully, I
did listen and what a remarkably good decision it was.
The conversation began in a rather stumbling and embarrassed fashion, with lots
of nervous laughter and hesitation, but ended in a date. It was decided that a
meal would be best, so we could relax and find out more about each other, but
where to eat proved more a difficult choice.
We ruled out restaurants that used unusual eating utensils which excluded most
oriental places, and any French establishments serving escargot. The food had to
be cooked which eliminated sushi and it could not be any food which the eater
might end up wearing i.e. spaghetti, ribs, etc. Eventually, we reached the
conclusion that beer and pizza was probably the safest option.
The phone call lasted more than an hour and I was reluctant to end it but my
bladder had the last word. As it turned out, this one carefully selected date
proved to be the last difficult decision we had to make together. The first date
led to another and then another and another. We dined at all the establishments
we excluded for our first date and ate all the foods previously mentioned.
Between New Years and Easter we were rarely apart and we did everything
together; bowling, swimming, walking, you name it, we did it. We were also
regular guests at the Parkers, where Emma would gloat shamelessly at her
matchmaking success.
In April, I had to go to the
States on business, unexpectedly, for two weeks. Angela wasn’t able to get
any time off, at such short notice, so I went alone and, although we spoke on the
phone and emailed everyday, I missed her terribly.
When I returned to home, on the last day of April, she was waiting for me as I
came through the gate. She ran to meet me and I took her in my arms.
“I missed you so much,” Angela said.
“I never want us to be apart again, Angel,” I replied.
Then I knelt in front of her and proposed to her, right there, at the arrivals
gate.
We were married in June, at St Lucy’s Church, in the village of Brookley. Dave
was my best man and Emma was matron of honour and their boys, Jake and Kenny,
were page boys. It was a small affair, just close friends and what family we
had, my brother Greg and Angela’s parents ... mine were both gone years before
... but
it was a wonderful day, one that we will never forget.
Then another dream came true and an ambition was fulfilled when we honeymooned
in Italy, travelling to Venice on the Orient Express.
After the honeymoon we moved into my flat, a short term arrangement while we
found a house. Angela never had found a place of her own and had been living at
her parent's home where most of her stuff remained.
There was an old, rundown farm, with a derelict farmhouse, that we often walked
past on one of our many country walks. We had often wondered what it would be
like to live there. It was beautifully situated, on a nice plot of land, far
enough into the country to be peaceful yet close enough to the village to be
part of a community. One day, I noticed it was up for sale. It was lucky I
noticed really because I only drove past it due to a bus breaking down on my
usual route to work, ensuring I went cross country.
I called the agent. It had been empty for about ten years after the owner, an
elderly widow, moved into a home. There had been no next of kin to keep an eye
on the property so it had fallen into disuse. Now, due to the recent death of
the old lady, the farm was to be sold to settle her estate. I arranged an
appointment but I kept it secret from Angela. I just told her we had a viewing.
“So where are we going first?” Angel asked, as we were about to leave.
“It’s over Brookley way,” I said vaguely.
She sat in the car, flicking through a pile of A4 sheets containing estate
agents blurb.
“Where are the details then,” she quizzed, “I can’t find it.”
“I must have left it at work but, don’t worry, the agent will have a copy.”
We had quite a few places to look at … some Angela had chosen and some of mine,
but the old farmhouse was first on the list.
As we drove down the lane towards the farm Angela asked, “Where are we going?”
“It’s not far now. It’s just down here, I think.”
Then we turned the corner and the entrance was on the left. On the right hand
side of the entrance, there was a half-rotten, five-bar gate, leaning askew
against a crumbling brick wall, held in place by a solitary well-rusted hinge
and tied to the gate. While, on the left hand side, was a once-sturdy signpost,
leaning at a precarious angle, adorned by a board bearing the name of the farm
which could not be read from that angle.
As I drove through the entrance into the yard, Angela said, “It’s our farmhouse.”
There was already a car in the yard, which was unnecessarily flash and could
only belong to an estate agent. The door opened and a preening peacock of a man
climbed out, pausing briefly to brush away an invisible speck of dust off his
sleeve.
I opened my door first but, by the time I climbed out, Angela was already out,
fidgeting and transferring her weight from one foot to the other, eager to get
on.
The agent glanced briefly at the paper he was holding and enquired, “Mr.
Brophy?”
“Yes,” I said and proffered my hand.
He inspected it briefly then shook it limply in his clammy, manicured hand.
“And this is my wife.”
I waved my hand in the direction of where she had been standing but she had
already bounded off like Tigger.
It took about an hour to view everything, the farmhouse, out buildings and the
couple of acres of land. The agent didn’t fancy leaving the confines of the
yard, presumably he didn’t want to get mud on his expensive Italian shoes, so we
explored the land by ourselves.
We had both fallen instantly in love with the old ramshackle farm and, by the
time Angela and I had wandered back to the yard, we had decided to make an offer
on the place. We had good jobs, well-paid jobs, and, for a number of years, had
earned more than we could spend. As a result, we both had substantial savings
plus Angela had sold her house the previous year and I only had a tiny mortgage
on my flat so we worked out that we could easily afford to buy the farm,
renovate the farmhouse for ourselves, and convert the out-buildings into another
property which could then earn a little income as either a summer let or a
normal rental, provided, of course, we could get it for under the asking price.
It would be a gamble and, after years of playing safe and being sensible, it was
not an easy decision to make but, because we had already seriously invested
ourselves in our long term relationship, we went for it with gay abandon. We
made our offer to the agent.
“That may not be good enough. There are other people interested,” he said,
looking down his nose. “In fact I have another viewing this afternoon.”
“Well, actually, that appointment is with me,” Angela said sheepishly.
As we drove out of the yard, I stopped just inside the gate when something
caught my eye. “Look at that,” I said, pointing out the window. From that angle,
I could clearly see the signboard that bore the name of the farm. It read
“Angels Farm”.
“Well, now we know, it’s definitely meant to be.”
Our offer was accepted.
It had taken one day to find the house of our dreams but it was to be several
months before we could move in properly. The first thing we did, after we sold
the flat, was to buy a second-hand caravan that we parked in the farmyard. It
would be our home until the house was finished. We had decided we didn’t want to
move in until absolutely everything was done, although that would very much
depend on the severity of the winter.
All of our furniture and worldly goods were put in the barn which we were using
for storage.
Now, as an accountant and a software engineer, Angela and I were of very little
use in regard to the major work that was required but, as project managers, we
were second to none.
We were very lucky securing the professional help we needed, so many of them
were between jobs or had another job that had fallen through and were,
unexpectedly, available. We employed a constant stream of them, builders,
roofers, plumbers, plasterers, electricians, telecoms engineers and tree
surgeons and, apart from our talents for project management, we were excellent
tea and coffee makers. On the practical side, we were gainfully employed with
clearing rubbish and shrubbery from the site and filling skips with anything and
everything.
To all intents and purposes, we dropped out of sight for the duration of the
project and spent every available minute we had working on the farm, although we
did make great use of baby-brother Greg on several occasions. We were quite
selfish and single minded really but we were even handed about it, ignoring
friends and family alike. We did feel guilty about it but, if we could get everything done by Christmas, we would be able to see whoever we liked, whenever we
liked.
Angela did touch base briefly with her parents, by phone, and we spoke
occasionally to Dave and Emma but we didn’t see them after August. Throughout
October, we made great progress whipping a large section of the acreage into
something resembling a garden and, in November, our hard wok was rewarded when
the turf was laid.
By the end of November, we were able to get into the farmhouse and start
decorating while the professionals made progress on the outbuilding conversion.
As we completed each room, the carpets were laid and then we moved the furniture
in. Room by room, we worked our way through the house and were counting the days
until we could abandon the caravan forever. We had both accrued quite a lot of
holidays and lieu time over the last few years so we decided to use them up for
the final push which meant we only worked, at our jobs, for about five days in
December.
Then, on the twentieth of December, with great ceremony (a recording of a
fanfare and a bottle of Cava), we took up residence in our dream home.
The next morning, when we awoke for the first time in our own bedroom, it was
with a certain smug satisfaction. After all, we had achieved our target with
four days to spare and a few pounds left in the budget. It was going to be the
best Christmas ever.
“CHRISTMAS!” Angela shouted and sat bolt upright.
“What?” I said, as she leapt out of bed.
“CHRISTMAS, CHRISTMAS,” she was shouting and running around like a headless
chicken, trying to dress and run at the same time. She fell over twice.
I just looked on, in amusement, as she flitted from bedroom to bathroom, in
various states of undress.
Then she stood in the bathroom door and said, “We don’t have anything for
Christmas, no decorations, no tree, no cards, no food, no presents, no crackers,
no drink. We have nothing for Christmas.”
Then the penny dropped. We had been so focused on getting into the house by
Christmas, we had forgotten about Christmas itself.
“OH GOD!” I shouted and then joined in the headless chicken dance.
So, for the next three days,
we did battle at the mall amidst the throngs of Christmas shoppers, all of us
taking part in the supermarket trolley dash, all of us filling our trolleys with
enough food to feed small armies. Then we wrote endless cards, wrapped numerous
presents, decked the halls and trimmed the tree, so, by the time darkness fell
on the third day, everything was done and presents stood in neat piles ready to
be delivered the next day.
I opened a bottle of wine and we sat on the sofa, beside the glowing fireplace.
I put my arm around Angela and asked, “Can we be smug now?”
“Oh yes, I think we most certainly can,” she replied, smiling, then she turned
her head and kissed me.
On Christmas Eve morning, we
woke up late. Well, late for us anyway. It was 9.30am when we stirred and it was
so quiet. Angela snuggled up to me and I held her close.
“What time is it?” she asked, sleepily.
“Half past nine.”
“Wow, that’s late. We’d better get on.”
“It’s not that late,” I said, nuzzling her neck.
“Its too late for that,” she said, pushing me away, “Go and put the kettle on.”
“Ok,” I said, and got out of bed.
Angela got out the other side, pulled on a T-shirt and went to the window. I
looked at her and wished we had stayed in bed.
She drew back the curtain.
“Snow!” she exclaimed, and then Tigger was back, bouncing all over the room,
squealing, “Snow “, every time she left the floor.
I walked to the window and looked out on the scene. It had snowed heavily in the
night. Snow was still falling, though more softly, and everything was coated in
five or six inches of snow.
“It just gets better and better,” I mused.
“Ok,” I said, as I turned from the window, “What’s it to be … coffee in bed or
play in the snow?”
“Play in the snow,” Angel shouted before bounding across the room and launching
herself at me, knocking me backwards onto the bed and wrapping her arms round my
neck.
She kissed me passionately on the mouth and asked, “Is there a third choice?”
So, after we made love, we got dressed in our play clothes, wrapped up against
the cold, and went out to play in the freshly fallen snow.
It was like being children again as we rushed around, throwing snowballs and
wrestling in the snow. Where our newly turfed lawn used to be, was a vast area
of virgin white so we took turns making snow angels and building a snowman,
until we started to feel cold and wet and our bodies told us to act our age. So,
then, we went inside and had hot showers and, for lunch, we had piping hot soup
in front of a roaring fire.
After lunch, Angela was pottering about in the kitchen while I dozed off in
front of the fire. I started to dream and, in the dream, I was woken by an icy
blast of air from the patio door as it slid open. A figure stepped through the
door. It was white and translucent, and its outline was made of snow. It was one
of the snow angels we had made on the lawn. It walked towards me then stopped as
it became aware of the heat from the fire. Then it looked directly at me and
spoke.
“You must help them, they need you.”
“Who? Who must I help?”
“You must help your friends.”
Then the snow angel turned and left the way it came.
Then I woke up.
“Well, that wasn’t weird at all,” I said out loud and gave a nervous laugh.
I stood up and walked towards the kitchen so I could tell Angela and, then, I
stopped. I felt something beneath my feet. I looked down. There was a patch of
melted snow on the carpet.
“That’s odd,” I said to myself.
It was odd. We hadn’t come into that room with our snowy shoes, and it was the
exact spot were the snow angel had been standing in my dream.
I moved again and, as I reached the kitchen door, I could see Angela standing
motionless, staring out of the window, open-mouthed. I entered the room and
walked up behind her, following her gaze. On our snow covered lawn were a dozen
snow angels, all pointing in the same direction.
Then, in an instant, they were gone.
Angela turned around and buried her face in my chest, “Tell me you saw them as
well; tell me I’m not going mad.”
“I saw them too,” I said, reassuringly, then told tell her about my dream.
But we didn’t really understand what they were trying to tell us. Who were we
supposed to help? What were the angels pointing at?
They seemed to be pointing at, what used to be, the old out-buildings which were
now a house but, why, we couldn’t fathom.
The only friends we had in common were Dave and Emma, so it had to be them. I
phoned the landline and got the “out of service” tone. Angela phoned Emma’s
mobile - no answer, so I phoned Dave’s and I got no answer as well.
“Well, that settles it,” I said.
Angela agreed. If it wasn’t Dave and Emma who needed our help, it would be great
to see them anyway. And, just in case we were both completely barking mad, we
loaded their presents in the car.
As we drove past the snowman in the yard, I was sure it had moved. It was now
facing the opposite way. Its stick arm was pointing at the empty house.
I turned to look at Emma. She was looking at the snowman as well.
“It’s moved hasn’t it? And look where it’s pointing,” she said.
As we drove up the road to their house, it was obvious something wasn’t quite
right.
To begin with, there were no Christmas lights. If fact, there were virtually no
lights on in the house, just a dull kind of flickering glow.
We parked the car quickly and hurried up the path. We knocked on the door.
It took a while, then the door opened a few inches. A gaunt, pale face peered
through the crack with frightened, tired eyes.
“Emma?” we both said at once.
Then the door swung open, as Emma broke down and fell against me. I scooped her
up and carried her through to the lounge. Angela followed me in, after quickly
shutting the door to keep out the cold but, once in the lounge, we realized it
was little warmer than the street.
There was a paraffin heater in the middle of the room and the only light came
from candles.
I set Emma down on the sofa and she wrapped herself in the duvet that was laying
there. Two of her children were sitting on another sofa, beneath another duvet,
reading books. The youngest was asleep, next to Emma.
Emma was a mere shadow of the confident, self-assured woman I had last seen in
August.
“What happened?” I asked, and it all poured out of her.
She told us that Dave lost his job, in September, when they started a phased
closure of the hospital and, try as he might, he couldn’t find anything else.
“At first, I got a part time job, cash in hand, you know, which helped a bit but
then I fell off my bike and broke my arm and I couldn’t work.”
“Why didn’t you call us?” Angela asked.
“Dave wouldn’t let me,” she sobbed.
“What about Karen? Wouldn’t she help?” I added.
“We had another falling out. We haven’t spoken since Easter.”
Karen was Emma’s sister. They had never been close, but Emma had resolved to
know her better.
“What about when we phoned you? Why didn’t you tell us then?”
“Dave was so ashamed that he couldn’t look after his family, he didn’t want
anyone to know.”
Emma went on to say that, after that, the bills just kept mounting up and then
the phone was cut off, then the mobiles had to go … and the electricity was
likely to be next.
“You should have called us,” I said.
“When it got so bad, I didn’t know what to say.”
I looked at Angela and I could tell we were sharing the same thought. We had
been so wrapped up in the farm, we had forgotten our friends.
Emma continued, “We owe three months rent. What will we do when the council
evicts us?”
“It won’t come to that,” I said and looked again at Angela.
She nodded agreement. In that moment, the meaning of the angel’s message had
become clear.
“No, it won’t,” Angela agreed.
“Where is Dave now?” I asked.
“He’s upstairs in bed,” Emma sobbed heavily, “he’s very ill but he won’t let me
call a doctor. He hasn’t eaten for two days.”
“Well, he’s not going to get better if he stays here,” I said. “You can all come
to stay with us for Christmas. We’ve got plenty of room.”
I suddenly thought I may have overstepped the mark so I looked across at Angela.
She nodded her approval and smiled.
“Then, after the holidays, when the other house is finished, you can move in
there until you’re all well and back on your feet,” Angela added.
It was my turn to nod approval. That was what the angels meant. I was sure of
it.
Emma leapt off the sofa and hugged us both.
“We can sort things out with the council after Christmas, so don’t worry,” I
assured her.
“Now, you go and pack some clothes and toys for the children,” Angela ordered,
wiping away her own tears.
The logistics took a little thinking about … it was obvious we couldn’t all get
in our car and I was going to need help with Dave … so I phoned my brother,
Greg. He was coming to us for Christmas anyway and, between the two of us, we
transported everyone, plus baggage and Molly’s cot.
Back at Angels Farm, Angela got everyone settled while Greg and I unloaded the
cars.
As we took the last bags out of his boot, I said, “You do realize, I’ve given
your bed away to someone else?”
“No, you’ve given it to someone who needs it more,” he replied, “I’ll be all
right. I’ll sleep in the caravan.”
Once we were all inside in the warm, Greg played with the children, in front of
the fire, while Angela prepared some hot food and I called a doctor for Dave.
After everyone was settled in bed, Angela and I were clearing up when we looked
out the window and noticed it was snowing again. I opened the kitchen door and
stepped down onto the patio. Angela stood on the step behind me and wrapped her
arms round my neck and kissed my cheek.
“It’s going to be a white Christmas,” she whispered in my ear.
Suddenly the floodlight came on, illuminating the whole patio, and standing at
the edge of the lawn was a Snow Angel, with a gentle smile on its face.
“Did we do the right thing?” I asked it.
The Angel nodded.
“And the house is for people who need help?”
The Angel nodded again.
“We will use it well,” Angela added.
And with that, the angel smiled again then lay down upon the lawn and the light
flicked off. The snow was falling fast now.
“All trace of them will be gone by morning,” I said.
“There will always be angels at the farm,” Angela replied, and kissed my cheek
again.
Then we went back inside.
It had been an amazing year for Angela and me, a life changing year, a year
never to be forgotten, beginning with love at first sight and ending with a
miracle. At first, we chastened ourselves for being such poor friends, by being
so self-absorbed in our own priorities that we forgot what was important but,
when we looked back over that eventful year, we realized that we were merely
adhering to a greater plan.
Throughout the year, we were being guided and steered towards our destiny by the
angels.
It was no coincidence that the farm went on the market the very day we began our
search for a home. Nor was it happenstance that a bus breakdown led me to take a
diversion that took me past the farm so I would see the “for sale” sign … and
all those workmen being available, just at the time we needed them. Then,
finally, in an area of the country that had not seen a significant fall of
December snow for more than 50 years, a beautiful snowfall on Christmas Eve,
giving us the opportunity to make the snow angels.
Some might say we had been manipulated but, we think, we had been guided and we
were happy to be so.
We never saw the snow angels again, for the rest of our lifetimes. But, for all
our days, we were the angels of Angel’s Farm.
Guardian Angel
Art Print
Amrhein, Elvira
Buy at AllPosters.com
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