Judy Walker lives in Hexham and runs a public relations consultancy from home.  She has written on and 
off for many years but, when she noticed many of the novels she now read were by authors half her age, 
she decided she had betterget more serious if she wanted to be published in her lifetime.  
She has won a short story competition, read at the Blue Room in Newcastle and was runner up in a 
competition, organised by Radio Four arts programme Front Row, to write the opening of a novel about 
an accountant as the main character. She writes short stories, plays, some poetry and is working on a 
children’s novel. 
 

CHRISTMAS VISITORS
By Judy Walker

The mother and the grandmother stared at the mince pies for the longest 
time.  The grandmother burst into tears.  The mother pinched her arm like she 
was pinching pastry.
	“Will you give over?” she said.  “You’ll make them all soggy.”
The grandmother smiled.  “I can’t help it.  Don’t mind me.”
The mother put her arm round the grandmother’s shoulder.  “Come on, we’ve 
got a turkey to stuff for tomorrow.”

The grandmother looked out through the kitchen window.  Great bruises of 
cloud travelled past a white jag of moon, onwards.

They worked together, a routine developed and refined over many years, 
each anticipating the other’s needs.  The mother moved aside as the 
grandmother made towards the drawer for a spoon; the grandmother handed 
the mother the egg whisk as she plucked eggs from their box.  They spoke 
little and thought plenty.

	“It will be strange,” the grandmother spooned breadcrumbs into the 
bowl.
	“Different, of course,” the mother whisked her eggs and glanced out of 
the window.  The moon glared back at her and she bent her head to her work.

When the turkey was stuffed, trussed, basted and trimmed to both women’s 
satisfaction, the grandmother opened the over door and the mother slid the 
large roasting tin with its heavy load carefully in.

The grandmother wiped her hands on her apron and leant against the rail of 
the Aga, looking at the mother, who stood at the sink.

	“You know, I was just wondering….”

The doorbell rang and the mother went to answer it.  In the porch stood a man 
in a Barbour jacket and a checked cap.  He shifted his weight from foot to foot 
and the mother kept a hand on the latch.
	“It’s my cat.  I think she’s in your shed, locked in.  I heard her 
meowing.”

The grandmother was behind the daughter.

	“Can I see if she’s there?” The Barbour jacket man took a step.  The 
mother dropped her hand from the door and moved aside to let him in.
	“Come through the house, this way.”

	The granddaughter came running down the stairs and tugged at her 
mother’s arm.  “What is it?  What’s happened?”
	“It’s nothing, just a lost cat.  It’s all right.”
They all went out to the shed.  The mother put the key into the padlock.  It 
was awkward.

	“Shall I…?” the Barbour jacket man made to help.
	“She can do it,” the grandmother moved forward.

The padlock sprang open at last and the mother unhooked it and pulled on 
the door.
	“I’ve got a torch.”  They let the Barbour jacket man through and he 
shone the light into the darkness.
	“Look – there she is,” the granddaughter pointed.  The grandmother 
took her arm.  “Don’t frighten her.”

The Barbour jacket man stepped over the lawnmower, the hosepipe and the 
broken pogo stick, he moved the barbecue to one side, knocked the watering 
can over.  She was just a little thing, black and white fur panting, curled on an 
oily tarpaulin and crooked in her belly were three tiny wet parcels – one tabby, 
one black and one quite white, like a piece of dough.

The humans each made a different little sound in their throats of surprise, 
wonder, relief, joy.  Then the grandmother took charge, sending the 
granddaughter for old clothes to make a bed, the mother to clear a place in 
the kitchen, the Barbour jacket man to bring them into the house.

The granddaughter brought armfuls of old jumpers, offered them for her 
grandmother’s approval.  She took a sleeve that dangled, felt the wool, soft, 
rough, brought it up to her nose for a moment, then let it drop from her hand 
with a sigh.

	“There, put them down there by the Aga, quickly, he’s bringing them 
now.”

The Barbour jacket man laid the mother cat on the nest of clothes, with her 
kittens.  The granddaughter knelt beside them.  “Can we keep them here?”

The mother looked at the Barbour jacket man.  “It might be better – just for 
tonight?”
	“If it’s not too much trouble.”  He shifted his weight from foot to foot.

The doorbell rang again and it was next door with Christmas presents.  Then 
carol singers came, walking frosty feet into the house, their cold cheeks 
turning pink in the warm.  Word got round and the kitchen was crowded with 
people who wanted to see the newborn kittens.  

Some of them stood in a circle, others leant against the walls and the Barbour 
jacket man pulled out a chair from the table and sat down.   The mother 
opened her mouth to speak, took a step, looked at the grandmother, who 
shook her head and mouthed some words.  The granddaughter looked from 
her mother to her grandmother, anxious, relieved.

Someone brought a baby blanket, another a hot water bottle in a pink knitted 
cover and a child brought a soft toy mouse and placed it next to the kittens.  
Everyone smiled.   The grandmother, still in her white cotton apron, patterned 
with stars in royal blue, handed round mince pies and the mother poured 
wine.	 

Later, when the visitors had gone and the granddaughter had hung up her 
stocking and left a mince pie and a glass of whisky for Father Christmas and a 
carrot for his reindeer, the mother said they should go to bed.

	“I’ll stay a while, “ said the grandmother.  “Just to make sure they settle.  
You go on up.”  She looked at her daughter.  “It’s all right.”

In the quiet of the kitchen she pulled up a chair – his chair – close to the Aga 
and sat, her hands folded on her lap, old hands wrinkled and liverspotted, with 
knobbly blue veins in the shape of a tree.  She twisted the gold ring on her 
finger, worn as thin as wire over the years and her gaze moved to the new 
family at her feet.  She stared at them for the longest time while the kittens 
suckled at the mother cat, their eyes still tight shut, while she lay sleeping, 
exhausted, her stomach rising and falling, purring, content, proud.

Through the steamed window snow wandered down through the stars from a 
shivery sky, covering the ground like pastry over a pie, covering the past with 
a fresh shroud.  And in the morning it was Christmas.