This Must Be The Place and Other Stories

The Christmas Thaddeus Came To Call

Manchester, England 1875

"Lizzie?" Nathaniel stuck his head around the kitchen door. "There's a man at the door saying he's your brother, Thaddeus. I was going to send him packing, but since it's Chri -"

The heavy skillet slipped from my hand and landed with a loud clatter on the hob, splattering droplets of gravy for the pie onto the cast-iron surface of the stove where they sizzled and spat. I hardly noticed, the shock of hearing the name had plucked my nerves. 

"-mas I thought. . . I'll send him packing." Nathaniel disappeared.

"No! No, wait. . ."

I hurried after him, while wiping my fingers quickly on a cloth only to run them through my hair seconds later. And no doubt leaving white trails of flour in their wake.

Thaddeus at the door? No one had seen him in a flock of years. He'd taken off for London when he was only fourteen, pocketing money out of Pa's desk and, somehow, managing to do the same with Aunt Lindy's market money when he'd spent the night under her roof in Stoke.

He was a bad egg, they said, shaking their heads and clucking. It was a blessing he'd be finding his way to the end of the hangman's rope down London way, and not where we'd be bearing the shame of it before the eyes of our neighbours.

Nathaniel was stood by the closed front door, tugging away at his moustache as he did when he was undecided. "If he's not your brother, just walk away. I'll handle it. One can never be too careful."

I nodded, not knowing if I'd be able to tell Thadd from a box of soap. I'd been a mere nine years when he'd gone. But if it would soothe my worrying husband, I'd say it really was him. Or wasn't, depending on the look of the man.

Nathaniel opened the door, revealing a thin man standing a few feet away on the narrow pavement that runs before our house, gazing intently towards the top of the street. Snowflakes swirled down from the heavens, dusting his heavy overcoat and black top hat with a fine layer of white. He held a package of brown paper tied with a faded red ribbon under one arm.

"Lizzie!" he cried, turning as he heard the creaking of the opening door, "It's been sheer ages! How you've grown, lass! And wedded, too, I see. Congratulations!"

His face had the same shape as Mum's, and his nose, which was a bright red from the biting cold, looked much the same as Uncle Bert's. He. . .well, yes, he could well be Thaddeus a little over a decade on!

"I'm just up from London for a short visit," he went on, "and since it's Christmas Day, it took me fancy to call upon my closest relative and bring her a bit of cheer. . . and a present. The snow's just for decoration. Ha ha."

Alas, Nathaniel had never been good at making what you'd call 'polite conversation', God bless him. That being one of his known faults, I wasn't surprised to see my brother appear in the kitchen a short while later, having abandoned Nathaniel to his reading by the hearth. 

Thaddeus stood quietly in the doorway, surveying my chaotic table cluttered with mixing bowls, small sacks of this and that, the open recipe book propped up against a boot in the centre. His eyes then moving on to the walls and ceiling.

"I've brought you a little something," he held up the package, which I could now see was longish and somewhat flat. "Where can I set it?" he said with a smile.

"Oh, no bother. I'll open it straight away," I said, reaching out for it.

I was curious. We normally gave oranges or something practical for Christmas. Nathaniel had presented me with a lovely new pair of gloves, and I'd knitted him a warm cap for wearing under his hat when he took the omnibus to work. He gets such a cold head, my poor dear.