A Story for Christmas
About 20 years ago, when I arrived in Edinburg from the south, I joined the EWC, the local writer’s club. I was warmly received by the chairman (who sadly passed away this week and whose funeral is next Saturday at St Giles). Most people were not openly hostile (to this black man), but there was usually a kind of reticence towards me. I did my best to ignore this and behaved as normally as I knew. After a couple of years, I was asked to edit the club’s bulletin. It was a straightforward task involving news of members’ publishing successes, forthcoming events, book launchings etc… There was always room for short pieces, funny anecdotes, poems by our members. I was pleased about my effort, although no one apart from the chairman, actually told me that.
One of the items regularly featured in the bulletin was a little note on who had won the club’s own writing competitions.
In one edition, there was the list of winners of the short story prize, presented as, First Prize, Second Prize, Third Prize, and the two Commended writers. I had written:
Highly Commended: Elizabeth X and John Y
A few days later, I receive a phone call from Mrs X. She seemed quite angry and told me that I had printed wrong information in the bulletin. She had indeed been highly commended, but John Y was only commended. She said that I should point that out in the next issue, and I said I would.
Next time our paths crossed at the club, she avoided eye contact with me. I thought that her pique would be short-lived, but in spite of my trying to nod or smile to her, she would have none of it. A few weeks later, when I was getting the next bulletin ready, I wrote out the erratum, and thought I would give her a call. The phone is answered by a man, presumably her husband.
Me: Can I have a word with Elizabeth please?
Man: I take it you mean Mrs X. You can tell me what you want and I will pass it on.
In the years that pass, our paths cross quite regularly, and sadly Mrs X never softened her position towards me, and after a while I stopped noticing her, or caring about the contretemps.
That was until a few years ago.
In December that year, just before we were going to have our Christmas break, at a time when people give each other a card or something, Elizabeth X came towards me, and blinking and stammering, she asked me if she could give me something, and I said sure. It was a small gift-wrapped packet. I probably said no more than thank you.
The packet contained a card and a small pocket diary. The words in the card were Happy Christmas. Please accept this token gift as well as my apologies for behaving badly to you all these years. Love, Elizabeth.
When we reconvened in January, she wasn’t there, and the Chairman announced that she had passed away in the New Year
