I'm excited for all of you to read this short story by Martin Laverty, a friend and colleague from the day job in the "salt mine". This is Martin's first venture into the world of storytelling, and I sincerely hope it's not his last.
So, fetch a mug of tea or coffee or a glass of something stronger and sit back and enjoy Wonder.
Wonder
I have no idea how they find me. I don't think they know either.
But they always do.
It plays out the same every time. There are some slight differences but each one follows the same general pattern.
They come to the door not quite sure of themselves. Their knock apologises for its own intrusion. A sheepish look as they say hello.
I invite them in before they can continue. Most have no idea how to adequately frame the question they feel they should ask.
It'd be impolite to watch them fumble for the words.
I take their coat and offer them tea. Most take a cup and sit awkwardly on the sofa. The vast majority are of a similar age; and while some of them may be worldly, or successful, they appear to me just as lost as the ones who aren't.
They're all lost - or to put it more accurately, something has been lost.
We often describe things as wonderful, but the word has been watered down and has lost some of its meaning. But to be filled with wonder - or to have a sense of wonder. That's something else entirely.
What happens next is wonderful.
We begin to talk. Nothing special. I ask their name.
"Tell me about yourself."
I ask them about their job, their family, their childhood and slowly they begin to open up. From then it's easy to find out what they need. To them, I am a complete stranger. I doubt any of them could tell you the name on my door or how they found my house - but it's here they are. Answering my questions. Uneasily at first but they soon relax.
After a while, moving from stories of childhood to include reminisces of Christmases past is an easy segue.
"What's your favourite Christmas memory?" I ask.
Even if they can't pinpoint a year - I can always find a date range to work from.
Once they answer I get to my feet. "I have something which I think you'll find very interesting," I say. "Finish your tea and I'll go and get it."
Something piques their interest when I return with the polished wooden box.
It's a wonderful box.
I've never measured it; but it must be a good 30 inches wide and perhaps 10 inches deep. Not too heavy but you wouldn't want to be carrying it for too long.
They remark on the beauty of the wood. The different hues of amber and burnt sienna in the grain and the silver lock and hinges which hold it closed. They're right to be intrigued. What's inside will change their lives forever. I'm almost jealous.
I sit across from them with the box resting on my knees. I turn it around so the lock is facing them.
It'll be more helpful at this stage if I stop describing my visitors in general and move to specifics. So let's take Martha who visited me last week. Martha is in her early fifties. She is married, has three children and a moderately successful career. But something's off.
"What a beautiful box…"
"Thank you."
I open it - and as I do I watch her face slowly react.
Inside, the lid of the box is neatly lined with red felt. The felt runs throughout the box which is divided into 30 or so small compartments. I don't know the exact number. I've never counted them. Never needed to, I suppose.
Each compartment holds a small glass vial. Each one is different from its brothers and sisters. Every vial has a cork stopper, the tops of which are all you can see to begin with.
"Actually, I'm driving" said Martha, her eyes still scanning the box's interior.
"Don't worry, it isn't alcohol. What year was the Christmas you were telling me about earlier? The seventies, wasn't it?"
"71" she said with the coy disposition of someone who thinks they're about to be tricked.
"That was it," I said. "71" and I reached into the box.
The vial marked 1971 is an odd little fellow. It's shape and design are instantly recognisable, although you've no idea why. It triggers the kind of reaction usually awoken by a familiar smell you haven't experienced in years. You wouldn't necessarily buy such an item if you came across it in a charity shop nowadays, but you've seen something similar before and you're glad you have.
The neck of the vial is bound with a thin white ribbon. From it hangs a simple paper label - on which is written "1971". I hand it to Martha.
"What's this?" She asked, taking the vial.
"Something to help you find it" I say. "Open it."
"I'm sorry? Find what?"
"Whatever you've lost."
Some of my visitors need a little encouragement at this stage. Martha, I could tell, was beginning to lose her nerve. "What do you mean whatever I've lost?" She said, slightly prickled.
"Just that" I replied. "Take out the stopper."
As she did, the same look as when she first saw the wooden box came across her face. Something familiar, yet forgotten, like the face of a long-lost friend whose name you can't quite grasp.
She took the vial closer to her nose and inhaled deeply.
A noise.
Martha spun around on the sofa to face the living room door. I don't always catch whatever they sense initially, but whatever it is they recognise it.
Some part of her brain was telling her that none of this made sense. But it's now a receding concern. Martha is hooked and unafraid - she couldn't ignore it now even if she wanted to.
Martha handed me the vial without turning to face me. The cork slipped from her hand and fell to the floor. "Do you mind if I just go and see what that is?"
"Of course" I said.
I bend down to pick up the stopper and replace it in the vial before returning it to the box. "Be my guest."
Martha got up and sniffed the air and listened again as she moved to the living room door.
"I think it's coming from upstairs; do you mind?"
"Not at all."
Martha climbed the stairs and stopped outside the spare room door. She was shaking. She reached for the doorknob. "S-Sorry, do you mind?" She asked again.
"Not at all."
She opened the door. I could hear laughter and conversation. I smelled pipe tobacco and heard what could have been Eric and Ernie on a television set. In she went. The door closed behind her.
I returned to my chair and waited for Martha to return.
About ten minutes later, or so it seemed to me, she came back downstairs and into the living room. She didn't sit down. She looked…younger. As though a light long since dimmed had been switched back on.
"Thank you!" She said. Her eyes were wet and red with tears. "How did you…?"
"It doesn't matter."
"No, I suppose it doesn't." She stopped, still processing everything she'd seen. "Mum and Dad were so young" she said. "You forget that…" her voice trailed off.
"Did you have a nice time?" I asked.
She was still looking towards the living room door. "It was……yes, yes, I did. Can I come back?"
I shook my head. "I'm sorry. Strictly a one-time thing."
She was disappointed, but on some level, she seemed to understand.
"I'd better get going - it was lovely to meet you."
"It was lovely to meet you too Martha - take care."
Off she went - as they all do. Each one different to how they were when they arrived.
By the time they're halfway down the street I've almost slipped completely from their mind.
An explanation…of sorts
There's a room in my house which constantly changes.
I've never visited it. I've never gone in or opened the door. I never will. It isn't my room. It's your room.
I can't always see, hear or smell what my visitors experience. It's not all silver bells and cinnamon. It's much more nuanced than that. Every one is different and to each their own. Millions over the years. A million Christmases and a million chances to rediscover something long-thought lost.
Where are my manners? Don't think me rude, but my name is of no importance, nor is my age or any physical attribute. I'm not sure I even look the same from visitor to visitor. I've been here for a long, long time. I don't know how long, and I don't really remember anything from before I got here.
But it's here I am. You don't really need to know any more than that.
I may see you one day and if we ever meet, I'll be glad of your company.
Your vial will be waiting. As will I.
Just knock. I'm always in.
Merry Christmas.
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