Emma Picard
She wakes up to ginger and hot chocolate flooding her senses. The morning air chills her skin despite the warmth of her blankets. A song is playing, slow, melodic, but everything is fuzzy. Her eyelids flutter against the light coming from the early sun and she sits up with a broad grin stretched upon her face. It’s Christmas!
She slides on her rudolf slippers and zooms out of the room to the tree. Oh, that beautiful tree with every ornament you can think of lining it from top to bottom. The lights give it a golden glow and make the angel at the top seem as if it’s shining with ethereal light. And who could forget about the presents at the bottom of it? Oh, how she hoped to receive those new paints she had begged and begged for these past few months. Stockings filled to the brink line the unlit fireplace that is more there for decoration than anything. Maybe she could just sneak a peek at what was inside before everyone else woke up.
The jolly music started to get quicker and quicker until it was no longer a song but it sounded like a blaring―
Ugh. Alarm.
I shut it off with a groan and look around my apartment, or flat as they say around here. The commoners always roll their eyes when they hear me talk with my accent and mutter, “Americans” to which I then reply that I’m not and that I’m actually Canadian.
Gotta love the Brits.
I stretch out my stiff limbs and climb out of bed and make my way to the tiny kitchen. I fill my kettle with water and let it sit on the hot stove.
Shivering, I rush for the nearest jumper, yes I've learned some of the terminology here, and throw it on over my head.
The first snow of the season falls in heavy slumps, littering everything it touches. Spreading itself over the city no doubt. I see nothing but the next building crammed next to mine through my window. People are talking and laughing below as cars hurry from place to place not far in the distance. There’s never a quiet moment, everything being so… lively. I lived in a small town in the countryside in the middle of nowhere New Brunswick, Canada. Don’t get me wrong, I love the quiet scenery but the city is something I was just made for. There was never a dull moment, not when there was so much to do or say. And that’s only when I have time to break away from my schooling.
I open up the brown, wooden basket on the small counter. I take out a biscuit and set it on a plate just as the kettle starts to scream. I pour the boiling water and watch as the water flows through the pot. I add in the black leaves and let them dissolve into the liquid.
I let it cool down and grab a simple jumper, oversized blue jeans and fuzzy socks to put on. I brush through my long, wavy hair with a comb and decide on two simple braids. Once I deem that I’m presentable enough for the day I go back to the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea. I let the bitter liquid burn its way down my throat. Definitely too hot but I don’t have much time. My first class is at 9:00 but the only metro train that brings me close to Camberwell College on time leaves at 8:00. I stuff my feet in a pair of fuzzy, knee-high boots and throw on the first and only jacket hanging off the coat rack. I fumble for my tote bag that carries my laptop, papers, and art supplies and throw it over my shoulder. My gloves and hat remain forgotten on the floor as I hurry out the door. I rush down the stairs, my feet carrying me faster than I can keep track of.
The cold bite of fresh air on my cheeks is the first thing that welcomes me once I get out of the building.
I’m halfway down the street when I realise that my cup of tea is still in my hands. I drain it quickly and debate whether I should head back to my apartment on the top fifth floor and miss my train or throw it out.
I decide on doing neither and pile it under some snow next to a decent looking building. I pray that it doesn’t get destroyed seeing as it’s the only cup I have and simply can’t afford another one.
I check my phone and curse under my breath as I pick up my speed. If I go any faster, I’ll be jogging. I wrap my coat closer to my body and zip it up as a gust of wind and snow rattles my teeth. I sigh in relief when I see the stairs leading underground. My bag swings around wildly at my side as I trip down the stairs, slipping on the frosted ground. My body sprawls to the bottom floor as I sprout out some colourful words. Just my luck.
I get stares from every direction but I ignore them as I groan from the pain shooting through my body. I pick myself up and my eyes go wide as the doors start closing for my station. I sprint and manage to squeeze through them just in time.
“Sorry, sorry,” I mutter as I accidentally shove into the people in front of me from my momentum. I look around the cart through panting breaths trying to spot any available seats for my aching body and groan again when I find none. I instead clutch the pole for dear life and let out an exasperated breath.
“Not your morning?”
My head snaps in the direction of the low, gravelly voice. He looks up at me through soft, fluffy, honey blonde hair. His green eyes peer at me in amusement and his mouth is curved into the slightest of smirks. Freckles litter the cheeks and nose of his ivory skin. He’s wearing loose blue jeans and black combat boots, his black, long coat lies unbuttoned to reveal a light beige sweater and silver chain that rests around his neck.
“I guess you could say that,” I say, frustratedly, not very much in the mood to talk to other people. I turn myself back around and hear him chuckle softly behind me.
“Something funny?” I spit out, piercing him with one of my glares.
“It’s nothing,” he says, “you just have a very interesting sense of style.” He laughs to himself again.
“Glad you find my clothing so amusing,” I mutter.
I see him look around the train as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Here,” he says, getting up, “take my seat. You look like you need it more than I do.”
“I’m good, thanks,” I refuse even though my body urges me to say yes.
“I insist,” he says impatiently.
“And like I said, I appreciate the offer but I’m good where I am.”
“Look,” he says, running a hand through his hair, “I’m trying to be nice here, just accept my damn offer.” When I shake my head no he steps closer and whispers in my ear, “Your pants are ripped and I’m not the only one who's noticed. My offer still stands, your choice.”
I gape up at him in horror and try to subtly reach for the back of my pants. Sure enough, there’s a hole big enough that my entire hand could fit through. “Oh my god,” I say in panic as I shoot for the seat. A small smile blossoms on his lips at my reaction and removes his coat and hands it over to me. “Here.”
“Oh, no,” I refuse, automatically, “you’ve done enough.”
“You mean common courtesy?” His eyebrows raise and he looks down at me like I’m the most aggravating person he’s ever met.
“You’ve been too kind,” I insist. “I can figure out what to do myself, there’s no need to trouble yourself.”
“Kindness is not a chore, and you can blame it on the holiday cheer if you want but my mother would hang me if I did not have good manners enough to help you out.”
“But it’s freezing out,” I say weakly, knowing that he won’t be convinced so easily. He’s already one of the most stubborn people I’ve ever met.
He surprises me by bringing the coat back to his body but instead of putting it back on he tosses it at me. I don’t bother arguing as I remove my coat in favour of his and button it up. It’s huge. I look as though I was swallowed by a curtain. I see him still watching me, the humour never leaving his eyes. I give him my jacket in exchange, “Here, we’ll switch.”
His eyes narrow at my jacket, then to me, then back to the jacket. He shakes his head, “It’s not going to fit. Keep your coat.”
“Now look at who's being difficult,” I tease.
His nostrils flare and he seems as though he wants to argue but he opts to rip the jacket from my hands and fit his arms through it.
Or at least try to do so.
I giggle as he struggles but finally manages to fit into it. It looks like he bought it from the kids section. “It suits you,” I smile.
He grunts and turns around without another word.
I pick up my bag and rise from my seat as the train stops at my stop. My boots click on the cool, cement ground. I’m at the entry gates to Camberwell when I see someone in my peripheral vision. And not just anyone, train guy whose name I had no idea. What was he doing here? Was he following me?
I ignore him and continue on my path to the building my class is in. He’s still following me. I stop to look at him and he’s scrolling on his phone, not even looking at me. As if he can sense me watching him, he looks up, smiles and walks up to me. “I didn’t know you went to Camberwell,” he says as a greeting. “How come we’ve never met until now?”
“Maybe ‘cause this is my first year? Wait, what year are you?”
“Second,” he says, pondering for a minute. “So you’re a newbie.”
“I guess,” I shrug.
“And you’re American,” he observes.
“Canadian,” I correct.
“My apologies. You never want to be associated with one of them.”
“It’s alright,” I say, “I’m used to it by now.”
“Still, must be a bit of a tosser, always getting mixed up with another country.”
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” I say, “everyone here has treated me well.”
“Well that’s just lovely then. I’m sorry, I feel like a complete wanker, I never asked you for your name.”
“Lila Harris. And you?”
“Wesley. Wesley Jones.”
“It’s very nice to meet you Wesley,” I say with a smile. “So how come we’ve never run into each other if you’re in this building and we take the same train?”
“I thought we already established that, we’re in different years.”
“Yes, but I’m just saying that it’s weird that we wouldn’t have at least seen each other before,” I argue.
“Ah, that’s because I don’t have class right now,” He begins. “One of my old professors from last year asked me to give a demonstration of an art piece I made for a project of his last year. Rest assured, I’ve arranged my schedule so that I have no early classes, I have no pleasure in torturing myself.”
“Dr. Williams? Diagnostic investigation into creative practices?” He nods. “Yeah he umm… he mentioned one of his old students would be coming in.”
“Here, I’ll walk you there.”
“I’m no dog,” I protest.
“Hardly,” he agrees.
I don’t throw in anymore arguments as he walks me around campus to our building. We fall into a sort of silence. But this one was comfortable. Neither of us feel the need to fill in the gap with conversation, it isn’t needed. I see the exact moment our steps align and our paces become identical. When we enter the classroom, Wesley gives a quick goodbye as he goes down the stairs to talk with the professor.
My friend, Vivienne, loops her arm through mine. “He’s new,” she grins.
“I just met him this morning Viv, so stop looking at me like that, you look like an idiot.”
“I never said anything but a completely accurate statement.”
“Uh-huh,” I murmur. “Is that…” I give a little sniff, “gingerbread?”
She flashes me a smile and pulls a tin out of her satchel. “My mum and I made a triple batch last night.” She opens the lid for me to take one and says, “They’re better fresh out of the oven but I bet they’ll still be the best thing you’ve ever tasted.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I say before taking a bite. I give a sound of appreciation as my eyes roll back. The cookie is as soft and moist as freshly baked cake that gives it a mouth-watering texture. It’s sweet but not too much so with a hint of salt. The cheesecake icing tops it off and completes it without overpowering the rest of the cookie. “I don’t know how it could be any better than this,” I say with my mouth full.
“I’ll send you the recipe so you can see for yourself,” she adds with a wink.
We find some seats in the surprisingly already full classroom. In high school, nobody ever showed up until two minutes before the class started. That’s the downside to university, everyone gets to class thirty to forty five minutes early and chairs get filled up quickly.
We find our spots in the back and start ranting about the Bridget Jones movies we had binged over the weekend. We get interrupted by our discussion as Dr. Williams claps his hands together to get our attention. “Good morning my lovely pupils,” his voice booms out. “As you know, the Christmas holidays are coming up rapidly, starting at the end of the day. However, you won’t be let off so easily. By the time we see each other again in the new year, I would like to see an art piece—any art piece—that represents who you are.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “I should be able to look at it and see not what I see when I look at you, but your soul. Who you are at your core. This is no simple assignment, it not only takes artistic skill which you have already exhibited but also, a deep personal reflection. I want to be wowed. So wow me.” Excited whispers spread across the room. “Before you begin, I would like to introduce you to a former student of mine. Mr. Jones here made a fabulous ceramic piece last year that left me and some of the staff mesmerised.”
My mouth falls open as I see what Wesley created. A clay head with no colour lays atop a bust. Even from afar, I can see the intricate details in the face, his face I realise. Small symbols that I can’t make out, lie around it. I slightly rise out of my seat to take a closer look when I realise that there is no top to the head but instead, you could see the vibrant colours inside. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, pink, in so many shades and yet there is more. Amid the chaos, in the centre is a flame surrounded by darkness. The glow that allows for the other colours to shine through. An anchor.
My daze is interrupted when the professor speaks up again, “Mr. Jones will be here for this lesson to help you with any questions you may have. He will circulate to see and examine your ideas and help push you in the right direction. Now, don’t let me hold you any longer, get started.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I pull out my sketchbook to the next empty page and stare blankly at the paper, realising that I don’t know.
Half an hour goes by and still, I have nothing. Nothing at all. Vivi, on the other hand, doesn't share my problem as I see her scribbling furiously beside me. After a couple of minutes, she finally looks back up and catches me eyeing her work. She knows not to push and instead opts to change the subject. “So, have you any plans for the holidays?”
I have no answer and so I direct the question right back at her, “Do you?”
Her face brightens with a warmth so genuine, I could feel the heat. “It should be a quiet one this year, just how I like it. Mum and dad and grandpapa and grandmama. Even my older brother Charlie is coming to visit us from Ireland with his wife and my wonderful nephews.”
I smile sadly, “That sounds fantastic Viv.” Because it is. I try my best to look happy for her because I don’t want to dim her day by my gloominess.
“Orright, master at changing the topic, stop dodging my question.”
I take a deep breath. “The truth is that I’m not doing anything this year.”
She gasps. “Oh Lila, I’m so sorry, and you’ve been hearing me ramble on about my plans for Christmas the entire month. I feel horrible.” I try to reassure her but she keeps rambling on. “I wish I could take you in, but with my brother and his family coming over… it’s already tight.”
“Viv, don’t worry about it. I’ll just spend my time… baking new recipes or something.” With what money? Shut up!
She raises her eyebrows in disbelief. “You don’t believe me,” I say.
“Not for a second,” she says. “How come you can’t see your family?”
“Well,” I say, swallowing back the lump in my throat, “you know I come from Canada. That’s where my family lives but I was so passionate about my art and I got accepted to go here so… I’m here but let’s just say I don’t have a secret vault with millions hiding behind its walls.” She gives me a sympathetic look which I dutifully ignore. “We’re already under mounds of debt paying for me to go here and for the flat so paying thousands of dollars for plane tickets during the Christmas season is pretty much out of the question.” Her hands cup mine and she gives them a light squeeze. “I don’t want you feeling sorry for me.” When she tries to speak, I cut her off. “I don’t need your pity, I never have, it doesn’t fix anything.”
She licks her lips, unsure of what to say. “Okay then.”
“Okay then,” I echo.
“What can I do to help?”
“Let’s just live in the moment and figure out what the hell we’re going to do with this project,” I snicker.
We continue on chatting and sprouting out ideas when I hear someone clear their throat behind me. “Any progress?”
“Oh absolutely,” Vivienne says from behind me. She starts talking to him about her plan and shoots a couple of suggestions her way. After a few moments, they both seem satisfied with the logistics of it.
“What about you, Lila? Any brilliant ideas you’d like to share?”
“I actually think that this is something that I have to let my gut decide. I already have an idea forming.” The nonexistent one you mean? “Thank you for offering anyway.”
“You know this whole ‘I don’t need help from anyone’ thing was admirable at first but it’s really starting to bloody piss me off.” He blows out a breath and raises his arms on either side of him. “But hey, if you don’t want my advice, I can’t force you to take it.” He moves on to the next person.
When the professor calls for the end of the sessions, Vivi waves me goodbye before Wesley pulls me to the side. “May I have a word?”
“Sure,” I say. “What is it you’d like to speak with me about?”
He looks around, as if to make sure that nobody’s around. “So, I might have overheard a bit of your conversation earlier.”
“About?” My voice trails off.
“About you not having anywhere to go for the holidays.” I bite back a groan. “See, I don't exactly spend time with my family and so usually it’s just me on these occasions so I help with volunteer work. I was wondering if maybe you’d like to join me.” My eyes go wide in appreciation as his words settle in.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. I actually don’t have any classes today if you’d fancy a cuppa. Unless you’re booked with sessions today.”
“No, no, not at all. I’d love to.” I try to stop myself but before I even realise it, I’m saying, “Would you like to swing by my place. It’s not much but I have a bunch of gingerbread cookies that I have to go through if you want. I also have tea in case you’re worried.”
He grins, “Sounds great.”
We walk together to the metro and get off at my stop. We’re on the road my flat is on with the snow practically melted when he laughs and points at the ground of one of the shops. “Who would leave their teacup in a London alleyway?”
“Oops?” He startles and looks at me as if I’ve grown two heads. I, however, am rushing over to my surprisingly intact cup thanking the heavens that it’s okay. When I walk back over to Wesley, it’s to see him shaking his head profusely and muttering something I can’t hear under his breath.
When we reach the floor of the apartment, he tells me, “Are you always this bloody bonkers?”
“I try,” I laugh.
I use the scoop to fill another bowl of soup and set it on the boy’s tray. “Merry Christmas.”
“Happy Christmas,” he beams before moving on to the next food station. Wesley’s scooping potatoes beside me. It’s clear that he’s done this before, he’s so easygoing with everyone in a way that warms my heart to see.
He knows these people, he likes these people, he’s friends with these people. When everyone is served at the charity dinner, Wesley and I make our own plates and sit at the table with the other volunteers.
We all talk and exchange stories and I can't help but feel oh, so grateful. So grateful to have met this guy who took me in and took care of me when I was in need. All from the goodness of his heart. I get up and excuse myself, suddenly feeling the need for fresh air.
“Going somewhere?”
I roll my eyes, “Relax, Wesley, I’m only getting some air.”
He stands up now too. “I’ll come with you.” When he sees my pointed stare he adds, “You don’t think I’m going to let you go out there all alone do you? It’s dark out, nobody should be alone for a minute on Christmas day.”
“Technically it’s the night,” I point out.
“Don’t be such a bummer, mate,” he complains.
“Mate?” I question.
“Sorry,” he apologises, “what I meant to say was ‘don’t be such a bummer, gorgeous.’” He winks. Of course he does. I laugh at his ridiculousness and grab my coat while I make my way for the exit of the cathedral, Wesley only steps behind me.
My breath clouds the air in front of me.
“Figure out what you’re doing for your project yet?” I stand there unmoving for a moment. How did he know that I haven’t come up with anything yet? “It was obvious,” he says, reading my thoughts. “Come on,” he says, gesturing for me to follow him, “I want to show you something.”
Against my better judgement, I follow him up a sketchy, narrow flight of stairs. We climb them until we reach the roof of the cathedral. I can see everything from up here. The lights of the city and the smell and taste of Christmas wraps me up in its warm embrace.
“I thought you might appreciate this view,” he says.
“It’s beautiful,” I let out. I look him in the eyes, “Thank you.”
Up here, surrounded by this beautiful city, at this moment, I finally know what I’m going to do. I finally found who I am.
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