We clippity-clop near the Astronomical Clock, the market stalls and the Christmas trees on the square. Since it is higher up in here than by foot, I notice pretty, decorated windows and Gothic arcaded houses that I missed when walking around. What a way to spend Christmas Day!
As we turn a corner, the wind catches me, and I try not to show Tomas that I am shivering. But I can’t seem to hide anything from him. He is one of those people who notices everything.
‘Are you cold?’ asks Tomas.
‘I am a bit.’
Tomas leans forward to the two empty seats in front of us and grabs a blanket.
‘Here, put this over you.’
‘What about you?’ I notice there is only one blanket on board.
‘I’m fine.’
‘No, you’re not. It’s really cold.’
‘Excuse me, driver, do you have any more blankets?’ I ask.
‘No, they got wet earlier with the snow.’
Tomas pulls the collar of his coat up towards his chin, and I feel terrible. It is such a lovely ride that I can’t have him cold like this. I shift closer to him and spread the blanket over both of us.
‘You’ll just have to share this,’ I say.
As we sit tight under the blanket, with the sound of the horse’s hooves hitting the cobbles, more snow starts to fall.
‘It’s snowing again!’
‘I love how enthusiastic you are about the snow,’ laughs Tomas.
‘Well, it’s just the icing on the cake, isn’t it? I mean, could this day be any better?’
Tomas looks at me seriously and puts his arm around my shoulder.
‘No, it doesn’t get much better than this.’
‘I agree. This has to be one of the best Christmases ever.’
‘For me too,’ grins Tomas. ‘For me too.’
Chapter Seventeen
At home, Boxing Day with Craig was normally spent in a food coma, trying to muster up the energy to clear up all the mess left from the day before. Then Craig and I would try to polish off more of the food that we had overestimated we would need. It is dreadful the amount of wastage that Christmas brings with it. But, here in Prague, we have none of that. Everything has been simpler and much more intimate.
Back at Albert’s flat, the Christmas tree continues to light up the corner of the room, and I think how it is just the right size. It is simple but perfect and, I suspect, much easier to clear away than the seven-foot tree we used to get from our garden. At least there are no shed pine needles to discover for months afterwards when you have a small fake tree.
The three of us sit around talking about what a wonderful Christmas it has been before we begin the box of letters. Last night we stayed up late reading through the correspondence from Aunt Grace telling Marek what she had been up to and general news about our family. Now it is time to begin the next round of letter-opening. Tomas hands me a coffee and then passes over the box so that I can start going through them again.
‘I’m looking forward to the next letter,’ says Albert.
This one is dated two days before Marek had his accident. I tear at the unopened envelope and feel a mixture of emotions when I scan over the words. I am relieved that he never opened this one.
‘20 September 1994
Dearest Marek,
I’ve tried to write this letter so many times, but all I ended up with was a piece of paper with splashes of mascara. When you finish reading this, you may understand why.
