H- The Pudding Wish

It was Christmas Eve 1945.

In the village of Little Stampley in Oxfordshire the community was
getting ready to celebrate Christmas day in the little stone built
church that had been rooted to the landscape since Saxon times.

Along the street, in one of a row of farm worker's cottages, a family
were bustling around preparing such festive fare as they had, the
eldest son Jack was bringing in billets for the kitchen fire, Amy was
peeling and slicing vegetables and Mother was carefully lowering the
cloth bound Christmas pudding into the pot that was hanging over the
fire. Eve, the youngest sat be the fire topping and tailing Brussels
sprouts.

For the first time that most of them could remember there were lights
everywhere, the church was brightly lit and they could hear the sound
of the organist practising the carol tunes for the Midnight Mass.

The pudding had been made many weeks ago; each member of the family had
taken a turn at stirring the mixture and making a wish. It was a family
tradition, each member of the family would take the spoon, stir the
heavy glutinous mixture and, eyes screwed tight shut for fear that
somebody might see their thoughts, silently make the Christmas
Wish.

It had been a tough few years for the family, six years of world war
had affected everybody and resulted in an empty chair at the feast for
the last five Christmases.

Letters to the War Office and the Regimental offices had not helped the
situation. Father was either MIA or POW. They had received an official
letter stating that the War office had no record of the whereabouts of
954024 L Cpl Atkins, P.

That letter had been their only contact for six months until another
letter had arrived, this time from the Red Cross stating that he had
been seen in a prisoner of war camp in central Germany.
No further information was available.

Letters to Whitehall were either unanswered or acknowledged by small
brown cards with an inappropriate box ticked.
Now that the War was over surely they would hear something?
Central Europe was in chaos. Millions were dead or missing. Millions
more were misplaced, wandering from country to country, many were in
hospitals or living in strange places, their memory wiped to avoid
facing the horrors of the last few years.
It was very difficult to get any reliable information about individual
people, whether soldiers or civilians.

It was in this atmosphere that the family were preparing for
Christmas.

They felt guilty that they were planning to enjoy themselves, in a
Spartan kind of way.

Mother insisted that he could be back any day, that life should carry
on as normal and that Christmas was special wherever you are. She told
them that Daddy would think of them at Christmas wherever he was and
they should do the same for him.

This Christmas seemed to be a bit different to normal. For one thing
the weather had changed. Outside it was cold clear and crisp. There
were wisps of cloud that allowed bright stars to shine through. The air
was still and expectant.
The evening wore on. This year the children were going to be allowed to
go to Midnight mass and join in the Carols, hoping that they would, for
a few minutes, forget about their missing father and enjoy a little of
the magic of the occasion.
They listened to the wireless, there was a dance band playing and the
two girls jitterbugged around the tiny kitchen.

When midnight approached they out on their best coats, their only
coats, and walked up the frosty village street to the church. Inside
the church it was even colder. There were candles everywhere; somebody
must have been storing them for just such an occasion.

Boughs of holly and ivy were strung between the Saxon arches, an echo
of even more ancient times. The Vicar stood at the altar wearing his
best surplice and the choir; a strange assortment of villagers sang the
introit with more enthusiasm than skill.

Eve was still gloomy and as the carols echoed off the ancient timbers
of the roof a tear rolled down her cheek.
Amy put her arm round her shoulders and whispered:
"What's wrong?"
"I want Daddy, when's he coming back?"
"I don't know, but I'm sure he's OK, Mummy would know if anything had
happened to him." Amy held her hand and they sang the carol. When it
ended Eve said quietly:
"Can wishes come true?
Amy said nothing; she simply squeezed her hand.

The Vicar intoned:
"Let Us Pray!"
The congregation knelt and silence fell.
The sound of an engine could be heard from outside: there was a squeak
of brakes, and a crunch of missed gears. A door slammed, the gears
crunched again and the lorry drove off, the engine noise fading
gradually into the distance.
They were into the second lap of the Lord's Prayer:
"?and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil"

There was a noise at the back of the church; the heavy latch on the
door was lifting slowly, the door swung open
A thin bent figure was standing hesitantly in the porch, he was wearing
a ragged army great coat, his skin was nearly white and he was so thin
that he was like a walking skeleton.

The Vicar stopped his ritual chant and called out:
"Welcome to our service, come in and be amongst friends whoever you
are."

The stranger was frail and weak and collapsed in the porch.
Mother and some of the other members of the congregation ran to help
him to look at him.

They sat him up on the stone bench on the porch and pulled the tattered
woollen scarf away from his face.
"Amy!" she called "Come and look!"
Amy ran to them, screamed with excitement and threw her arms around the
stranger.
"Daddy!" she shouted, "My wish did come true!"