An Enchanting Hideaway
Festive reflection and fruit cake
The kitchen smelt of baking: a fruit loaf made with bran, sugar, milk and raisins soaked overnight, to which little helpers had added marzipan, hazelnuts and mixed spice. Though the mix looked unpromising, once cooked it proved to be fine. When spread with Irish butter, it almost passed as Christmas cake, large slices eaten with cups of tea, whilst gazing out the window.
Resisting the slow holiday rhythm that made it tempting to stay indoors, I placed the empty plate in the sink, took a coat and ventured out to the damp garden and into the shed. Throwing a blanket round my shoulders to keep warm, I perched on the edge of a stepladder, searching for the moon and stars through the sloping glass, as if in a hide, hearing the wind, and noticing how the trees’ branches barely moved.
Away from the glitz of Christmas this was a wintery place, snug with stillness, surrounded by fir branches, trails of ivy and dried foliage: old man’s beard and eucalyptus, ready to be cobbled into a centrepiece using a silver foil-covered potato, and a red candle, not expected to last more than a couple of days.
This was a fleeting visit, like a memory prompted by comfort cooking; a diversion from wrapping presents and digging out board games from the back of the cupboard, a reminder of the wendy house that was built from old palettes near the sunken sandpit. It had curtains to draw across the Perspex windows, and a wooden table with two chairs, one either side. The door was glossy midnight blue, smooth to the touch, and the roof was tiled. It was a magical present for a child.
** HAPPY CHRISTMAS! **