Christmas Delights 3 (22 page)

December 21

The first day of winter started like any other, with my
alarm going off at six am. The irritating sound started off slow and quiet,
coaxing me out of my peaceful slumber only to then raise its voice to a shout
and then a scream, not much unlike a toddler demanding attention on finding he
was being ignored.

“Okay, okay. You win,” I whined as I slid my arm from
underneath the duvet and hit the offending object before it could begin its
high-
pitched
and ear-splitting finale.

I swear, whoever invented the
alarm clock must have been trained in the art of torture. Forget waterboarding
.
I'm positive if you chained someone to a chair, bed or whatever was at hand and
placed a few alarm clocks around the room set to go off at different intervals,
the person you want information from would crack pretty quickly.

I pulled my arm back beneath the duvet, taking cover from
the freezing air that hung in my room. Like passing through wet sheets on a
washing line, the cold dampness clung to my skin and slowly sank in, sending a
sharp shiver through my body.

I cocooned myself in the warmth of my bed and lay there,
daring myself to get up. This was a game my brain and my body played most
mornings, leaving the rest of me to sit and watch from the side-lines. My brain
would try
to
convince my body to leave the
warm and comfy confines of its sanctuary, otherwise known as my bed, offering
as a reward a hot shower and food. I would love to say most of the time my
brain wins out, but there has been the odd occasion when my body has dug in its
heels and refused to let the icy touch of a December morning curl its cold
fingers around my skin.

Finally, my body conceded to my
brain’s
bribes
, and I rolled out of bed. I dragged the duvet with me and tightly
wrapped it around me, using it as a protective shield as I waded through the
freezing air. Coldness pooled around me, trying to stop me from my goal of
making it to the boiler and turning on the precious heating.

This had become another arduous ritual I had had to perform
for the past two weeks. The timer on the boiler had broken. I had called the
landlord and told him about it and he had promised to get it fixed, “Well
before Christmas.” But here we were, four days before Christmas
,
and I was still doing my Eskimo shuffle.

On hearing the heavenly sound of the heating clicking on, I
waddled towards the bathroom. I winced as my feet hit the cold tiles. Quickly,
I moved to the side of the bath, pulled back the shower curtain, reached in,
and turned on the water. I pulled my arm back inside my protective wrap and sat
down on the toilet seat. With my duvet pulled tightly around me, I waited for
the room to fill with warm clouds of steam, encouraging me to shed my winter
skin.

As the first beads of condensation formed and danced their
way down the tiled walls, I dropped the duvet and let the soft warmth of the
steam caress the bare skin of my upper body. The sensation of the warm air
meeting my cool body sent a pulse through me, causing the hairs on my arms and
on the back of my neck to stand up.

I kicked off my pyjama bottoms and stepped into the bath,
ducking under the warm flow of the water and letting it envelop me.

I stayed under the steady stream of warmth for as long as I
could, not only because I was cold, but to also give the rest of the flat time
to warm up.

Finally, as
much as I
wanted to, I couldn’t stay in the shower any longer, lack of time and money
putting paid
to that. Begrudgingly, I turned off the
water and reached for the towel that was hanging on the back of the door. I
dried myself as quickly as I could. Hanging the towel back up, I took the
dressing gown that hung next to it on the door. I pulled my pyjama bottoms back
on and tided the dressing gown tightly around me. I scooped up the duvet from
the floor and hoped the rest of the flat had warmed up a bit.

Opening the bathroom door, I gingerly stuck my head out to
find the air had warmed slightly. Slightly was better than not at all, I
thought, as I walked out of the bathroom and headed for the kitchen,
pausing to throw
the duvet back onto the bed as I
passed by the bedroom door.  

As I waited for the kettle to boil, I opened the blinds that
covered the kitchen window and took my first glance of the outside world. The
sun had yet to rise, but the pale yellow glow cast out from the street lights
showed Ivy Park had had a fresh layer of snow overnight. The tall oak and horse
chestnut trees that made the park their home also sat with their branches
dusted with a new powdery coating.

After eating a bowl of cereal and washing it down with a cup
of tea, I retreated back to the
bedroom
to
dress and get ready for work. As a care worker whose job it is to look after
people in their own homes, my role could be varied both in job description and
hours worked.

Some of my clients were more able bodied then others and
needed less help and care and therefore, less call time. Maybe I would just be
required to help with administering medication and making sure they had eaten,
or make them a cup of tea and check they are okay in general. To be honest, if
I get time I would pop my head in even if it isn’t required or written on my
list, just so they get the chance to see someone. Even if it’s for five minutes
before another
call, unfortunately
for some of them, it can be the most they see of
another human being all week, sometimes longer.

Then there are others who need more time and assistance:
helping them to get out of bed, washing and dressing them, making their
breakfast and making sure they're settled and comfortable. These are usually
the ones that would have three or even four visits during the day. Normally,
after the breakfast call their next visit would be at lunchtime. The third
visit would be at teatime, where depending on client, I would either help them
get ready for bed or I would go back
again
later to help then.

On a full day, I have get-ups first thing and put-to-beds
late at night. I can work from seven am to ten pm. It all depends on the number
of cares and the number of clients we have at any one time, and at the moment
we are way down on carers and seem to have more clients than ever.

After pinning on my name badge that stated my name was Mark
Cooper in black bold letters, I bundled myself into my warmest coat. Wrapping
my scarf around my neck and mouth, I pulled on my gloves and picked up my bag.
I checked its contents for my list of calls for today, headed down the stairs
to the front door, and braced myself for the winter cold.

As usual I had to pull on the front door a couple of times
before it finally opened. The cold and the moisture had warped the wood, making
it a pain in the arse to open and shut. When it finally did give, last night's
snow invited itself in, making itself at home on the doormat. I cursed under my
breath as I bent down and picked up the mat, unceremoniously dumping the snow
back outside where it belonged. I chucked the mat back in hallway and readied
myself for the tug of war contest I was going to have with the door to close
and lock it.

I picked my way across the road very gingerly. I had fallen
victim to the black ice that lay in patches along the cold tarmac only the
other day. Unfortunately for me, my impression of a newborn foal wasn’t at a
time of the morning when my embarrassment would have been hidden by darkness
and closed curtains, but instead during the lunch hour when everyone and his
uncle was out and about.

Once I had safely traversed the slippery road of death and
made it to the other side, I stood at the entrance to the park.

Ivy Park got its name from the Ivy owls that took residence
inside its boundaries. More commonly known as the Tawny owl, the birds had made
the park their home for generations, for as long as anyone
could remember and beyond, as the park, or wood
as it was, outdated the town.

I passed through the gates and entered the park to the soft
hoots of the owls as they went about their early morning routines.

Ivy Park is set over roughly seventy acres of land,
comprising of mostly flat terrain. The history and the origins of the park ran
deep in the veins of the people who lived there. After all, the park, or rather
the wood it had been and the river that dissected through its heart, were the
reasons the town was first built there. From then on, the park had been the
heart of the town, sharing in all its celebrations, events and gatherings. For
example, in two days’ time the annual Christmas fair would be held within the
confines of the park. Stalls and stands glowing with fairy lights would line
the pathways, selling local arts and crafts, food and drink and more. My
favourite stand is always the one the local primary school runs. Nothing could
beat a wonky angel made out of a polystyrene cone, pipe cleaners and a bit of
glitter, especially when sold by its creator who is standing there with the
biggest, proudest grin on their face.

Shadows and shapes started to form over the pristine white
canvas of the park's snow-covered ground as dawn stretched its arms and the sky
turned a lighter shade of grey. As I walked farther into the heart of the park,
I heard the sound of running water fill the air. I walked down the path a
little more until I reached the bend, where if you look down the small shallow
drop to the left, you can see the river.

I stood for a moment and took in the sight of the river.
Water flowed around ice-clad rocks, pushing small chunks of icy snow down
steam. The river itself is about fifteen metres wide, though that can vary
depending on the time of year, as can the depth. In summer and at its deepest,
the water level is about waist height. But in winter, with all the extra water
coming from ice and melting snow, it could probably reach as high as a grown
man’s chest, if not higher.

As I turned away something caught my eye. There was
something at the water’s edge. I strained to see. It looked like some debris
had washed up on the rocks, but I couldn’t make out what it was. I walked in
line with the river, hoping the change of position might offer me a better
view. In the slowly growing light, my eyes picked out the details that told me
what I was looking at was a piece of clothing, a hooded top if I was not
mistaken. Someone must have either lost or thrown away their clothes, though I
thought it would more likely have been the latter. Who in their right mind
would be taking their clothes off outside at this time of year?

I found myself mulling over that thought. I focused in on
the discarded item of clothing and suddenly my gut turned to stone and a cold
sensation not unlike freezing drops of water trickled down my spine. From the
sleeve of the hooded top lay a hand, its flesh almost the same colour as the
cold pale rocks it lay on. Dread rapidly filled me as other features slowly
revealed themselves. It was like looking at one of those magic eye pictures.
You stare and stare and see absolutely nothing until your eyes adjust and you
crack one part of it, and only then does the rest fall into place.

What had fallen into place in front of my eyes was a human
body.

Chapter 2

I started down the slope fast and ended up reaching the
bottom on my backside. The body was face down. The top half was washed up on
the rocky shore line, and the rest was in the water. I scrambled over the
ice-covered rocks, slipping and sliding until I reached the half-submerged
body. Without thinking, I rolled the body over and found myself looking down at
an unconscious man.

I quickly checked for a pulse and felt my own heart race
when I felt a faint throb against my fingertips. I then checked the man's
breathing. To my relief, when I placed my cheek next to his mouth, I could feel
shallow breaths.

I sat back on my heels and silently thanked whoever was
watching over us. I needed to get the man out and away from the water. I moved
to his head, hooked my arms underneath his armpits, and pulled as hard as I
could. I managed to get him to the base of the slope before I fell back,
slipping on the ice-coated rock.

Breathing heavily, I considered how to get him up the bank
and to safety. There was no way I'd get him up the ice-clad slope, and I didn't
want to risk hurting him further. Quickly, I pulled my mobile from my coat
pocket and called for an ambulance.

After ending the call, I checked on the man again, relieved
he was still breathing. I shrugged off my heavy coat and laid it over him. As I
tucked it tightly around him, I took the opportunity to properly look at the
unconscious man. Of course I had looked at him while I was checking his pulse
and his breathing, but who I had been looking at had never really registered. 

The first thing I noticed was his hair. The length of the
palest blond hair that I had ever seen in my life ended at his shoulders. I
took off my woolly hat and placed it on his head. His hair shone in contrast to
the dark grey wool.

His face was almost the same colour as his hair and had a
slender, almost angelic look to it. Without the hat for warmth, I imagined his
features accentuated by the way his hair would have framed his face. Honestly,
he looked like he was straight out of a fairy tale.

Finally I removed my thick gloves and slid them on to each
of his hands and sat back again to see if I had missed anything. Happy that I
had done all I could, I pulled my jumper's sleeves over my hands and hugged my
knees for warmth.

It wasn’t long before the sound of sirens pulled me from my
thoughts, and I looked up the bank as an ambulance appeared. Quickly I ran,
slipped, and stumbled my way up the bank to meet them. Having reached them, I
told them what I knew and what I had done, all the time watching as the
paramedics slipped their way down the bank and busied themselves around the
man. They moved so fast, and before I knew it they had retrieved the man and
put him in the back of the ambulance. Once the man was secured, one of the
paramedics came back and thanked me as he returned my items of clothing.