Finding Christmas

“I don’t want to be here!” Fighting back tears, I swung the car into a space beside our apartment building, “There’s no Christmas here…”

The narrow Ankara street echoed with the cries of bread sellers, goats and children. Some of them lifted their heads and eyed us with interest. It was cold. As I unloaded the car, a few flakes of snow wandered down and Molly began to cry. I picked her up, gathered shopping, reached for Michael’s hand.

“Why do we have to stay here for Christmas?” He pronounced it Cwistmas. We inched our way along the pavement with our heavy load. Dismissing his six-year-old honesty, I replied with studied enthusiasm.

“It’s more fun here! There’s snow!” He grunted and dragged his feet along the pavement.

As we approached our apartment block, I saw them again, the two boys. Thin and poorly dressed, they waited on the edge of the valley, opposite our apartment. I had often noticed them at this time of day as we returned from school, standing, waiting. I could not read the expression on their faces, but their eyes were hostile, and I did not trust them. Their brooding presence unnerved me.

I felt a familiar rush of panic as we slowed to descend the steps to the front door.

When my husband suggested a spell in Turkey for his travel company, I was excited. I knew it would be a fascinating and unusual place to live, and now, six months on, I had every reason to be happy. We liked our spacious apartment, the children had settled at school, we’d made friends. My Turkish neighbours visited, bringing gifts, but I could not understand them, and in their company I felt foolish. Sometimes I didn’t answer the door.

As I stooped to turn on the tree lights, I glanced into the street below. The boys were still there, standing on the pavement in the fading light, waiting. What for? I drew the curtains and turned away.

The next day it began to snow. Huge flakes drifted thickly down, blanketing roofs and thickening roads until the valley was wrapped in silk and silence. I eased the car into its usual space and collected our things while the children played in the snow.

As I groped in my purse for bread money, I wondered if those boys would be there, my eyes searching the road for them. Yes, there they were. Right opposite our building, standing on the pavement, watching us. I paid the bread seller and gathered our things.

“Come on!” I said firmly, “I’ll make hot chocolate.” The children protested.

“Oh Mum! Please! We want to play!”

“No!” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see one of the boys moving towards us. My voice rose.

“Now! I want you inside now!” I grabbed their arms and began to run, slipping and sliding on the icy ground.

“Hanimefendi! Madam!” They were calling me, following us. My heart was thudding in my chest as I tried to half pull, half drag the children down the steps towards the main door.

“Wait! Madam!” But I wasn’t waiting for anything. I knew now that they wanted to rob me, hurt me. Perhaps they had a chain, a knife even. We lurched into the main entrance and began to climb the stairs. In my haste, I tripped and pushed Michael against the wall. He began to sob quietly.

“Stop it! Hurry up!” I hissed, “They’re coming!”

“Who? Who’s coming?” The children looked round, fearfully.

The boys were running up the stairs behind us, shouting in Turkish. I rammed the key in the lock and wrenched it open, pushing the children through.

But the boys had run fast. The tall one pushed his foot inside the door and levered it open. I screamed.

The boys froze. The tall one stepped back, watching me strangely and before I could slam the door in their faces, he opened his hand. In it was a 10, 000, 000 Turkish Lira note. I stared at him, confused. But as I watched, his face broke into a smile.

Hanimefendi…yours,” he said, “In street…you drop it.”

I gasped. They were returning my money. I must have dropped it when I paid the bread man. 10, 000, 000 Turkish Lira. Enough to feed a family for weeks. I was speechless. We all were. We stood, open mouthed, watching them. They looked different close-up, softer, friendly almost. Suddenly one of them pointed through the door towards the Christmas tree. He smiled. I saw crinkled eyes and missing teeth.

“Tree!” he said, “We see…lights?” He asked this slowly, shyly, uncertain of my response.

“Of course!” Relief made me generous and I ushered them into the front room. I put in the plug and switched on the lights.

The boys sighed with pleasure. Hands by their sides, they gazed in wonder. I noticed their thin clothes and inadequate shoes and thought how cold they must be in this icy weather. But it was only when I saw their solemn eyes reflected in the window beyond, that I realised. It was the lights. They had come every day to see the lights. Not to hurt or steal. But to enjoy the simple joy of looking.

I thought I could have no sense of Christmas in this country. But here it was in the eyes of two children and in their empty hands, honest enough to return my money. I thought of my suspicions of yesterday and felt ashamed.

“Mutlu Noel…Happy Christmas,” I was warm as I showed them out, “Come again…”

That night we wrapped up presents to music and lamplight. But we left the curtains open.

“This will be the best Christmas ever,” I said, wrapping the envelope with the 10, 000, 000 Turkish Lira note.

And, as I put it under the tree, I glanced out into the waiting darkness and smiled.

*All photos from Pixabay, with thanks

If you enjoyed reading this, you might enjoy my book, Winter Lights. It’s a set of linked short stories set in a small English town in the run-up to Christmas. It came out in November 2023 and was a Love Reading Star Book and Book of the Month. Click here or here to buy the book.

What I’ve been up to: –

With the support of Ringmer Library, I recently ran a writing workshop sharing some tips for people at all stages of the process about how to nurture and prioritise their writing. The first workshop was called Getting Started and seemed to go down well. There are more on the way, so if you’re local and would enjoy doing this, please do get in touch with Ringmer Library and book a place (details below).

Apart from that I’ve been busy variously writing my new book, writing other bits and pieces, teaching, and trying to promote Winter Lights along with my publisher as it’s the only time of year we can do this really.

I’m trying to post something on here every month now, so I hope to see you back here in December 🙂