Read The Snowing and Greening of Thomas Passmore for Free Online Page A

which fills the glass panel and spills darkness down the hallway. I stand behind her, not wanting to miss out.
    â€œMrs Passmore?” the policeman says in a voice that’s deep, but which he softens in a way that makes it sound misplaced.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIt’s about your husband. I wonder if I might come in.”
    She stands a moment, unmoving.
    â€œGo to your room, Thomas.”
    I scramble upstairs and lay on the freezing lino, hoping to hear from there, but can’t. All I hear is the murmur of a deep voice, which sounds like water burbling over rocks from where I am, and then a silence, followed by my mother saying, “Thank you.”
    Only that is clear: ‘Thank you’.
    There are no tears or screams to remember.
    I find her sitting in my dad’s armchair. She doesn’t see or hear me at first, but is looking down, staring at her clenched hands, pinched tight and frozen.
    â€œWhy did the policeman call?” I ask. Twice. “Mum?”
    â€œWeak,” she mutters. “So weak.” And I wonder whether she’s talking about the policeman, me, my father or herself.
    Extending an arm to draw me to her, she then withdraws it and folds her arms, squeezing herself in and upright.
    â€œGo to your room, Thomas. Go straight to your room. No, wait; come here first. Stand here. I have to tell you something.”
    To begin with, my childhood imagination paints a simple picture of his death. I imagine a cartoon-like collision between two cars, similar to scenes from my favourite comics. Kerpow, bang, crash! The smash snaps something vital in his body, like the filament in a light bulb, the snuffing of a candle, but everything else remains intact. Kerplonk! Dead. No blood, no gore, no disembowelling agony; no chest-embedded steering wheel, no shredded limbs or dismemberment; no ebbing, waning, draining of consciousness among shards of plastic, chrome and rubber littering the bitumen; no expanding puddle of oil, petrol, brake fluid, blood, piss.
    Our house becomes crowded with visitors, relatives, well-wishers, busy-bodies, who suffocate Christmas with their shrouded whispers and morbid clothes, and their stink of eau-de-Cologne and mothballs. There are aunts I’ve never seen before, who expect me to sit still or play in silence without toys, and when I ask if I too can go to the funeral they ignore me so furiously that I daren’t suggest it again. So I find pleasure where I can, and it sits in a bucket, decorated with red crêpe paper and a painting of Father Christmas.
    Each morning I turn the tree lights on and leave the rest of the room to winter darkness. Sitting cross-legged in front of our tree, I soak up the warmth of its brightness and the richness of its scent, until Mum comes in and switches them off again.
    On the second morning, she says, “Leave the lights alone. I don’t want those bloody things on.”
    Someone calls and delivers a clear plastic bag that contains Dad’s ‘effects’. Mum thanks them and leaves it untouched, unopened, on the cabinet near the front door, at the bottom of the stairs. When she’s not looking, I stare at the contents: keys, his wallet, some coins, his wristwatch on its brown leather strap, his tobacco pouch and his comb. I want to open the bag and touch these things, but daren’t.
    On Christmas Eve, I know everything’s gonna be okay again – we can’t forget Christmas, even if there’s no presents under the tree yet. And I turn the prism by its cotton until one of the lights shines through, although I can’t find the rainbow among the baubles and tinsel, among the shadows behind the needles. It’s the first day the house doesn’t fill with visitors by lunchtime and the first day I don’t have to squeeze my nostrils against the stink of their mothballed Sunday finery.
    I sit in front of the tree until mid-morning, building a farm out of wooden blocks and