By Heather Allen
At this time of year, there are so many lovely windows to look at in our street. Everyone seems to have made a particularly splendid effort this year – we even have a window advent in this town; that’s how seriously people take their Christmas decorations. I am a naturally nosey person, so I feel compelled to take a look in people’s houses whenever and wherever I can. When I’m walking down the road on my daily constitutional, I can’t help but peer in. It’s even more interesting when I walk in the evening, although walking in the dark goes against my instincts to seek daylight and company. At night, though, the Christmas lights are all on and shining brightly; and I can see the faces of my neighbours, lined up on their sofas, reading books or looking at their phones, watching TV or eating. It’s comforting.
Yes, I am nosey, and I have to look away quickly before their innate ‘being watched’ sense kicks in, but just seeing them gives me a happy little thrill in my heart, the idea that they are all there, in their houses, surrounding me, most of them good, kind people, living good, kind lives.
I was walking home from the shops in the early evening yesterday, thinking thoughts like this, window gazing and not really engaging with the world around me, when something made me stop short. I had admired the technicolour display at number 75, waved at the kids at number 73, then looked at the pretty tree in number 69, the house next to ours.. Number 71 was dark. But – I forced my steps back and looked in the window of number 71: the house where until her death in April a lovely old lady had lived, alone. She never went to much effort at Christmas, being on her own, but there was always a small tree inside, decorated with a smattering of coloured lights.
No, it was dark, of course it was. I could just make out her heavy old furniture, the desiccated plants lined along the windowsill, waiting for the clearance team to come now that the house had been sold at auction.
But when I walked past, as my eyes skimmed the window, for a few seconds I thought I saw my neighbour sitting in her big old armchair, her little tree twinkling beside her, holding something in her hand – a mince pie, maybe? I could have sworn that she raised her eyes for a split second and met mine, raised her other hand to wave as she bit down on what could well have been one of the mince pies I used to take round to her house every Christmas.
But no, it must have been my overactive mind. I shivered.
“Goodbye, Mary, Happy Christmas in Heaven,” I whispered.
I turned towards home, but as I did so, for a split second I thought I saw her pale face behind the glass, returning my smile, heard in my mind’s ear: “Happy Christmas, dear.”
I walked the few paces to my front gate, to the the welcome sight of my family in the front room, our beautiful tree and all our fairy lights. I shook my head.
“Thank you, Mary,” I murmured, and turned the key in the lock.