Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without writing a little holiday story.

Here's this year's offering - an episode from Mick's childhood, accompanied by a verse from one of my favourite Christmas carols, In the Bleak Midwinter:

What can I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb
If I were a wise man, I would do my part
What can I give him? Give my heart.

Bone tired after another long workday, Alice put on her coat and tied her scarf around her neck tightly.

She loathed this awful winter weather. She never seemed to find a way to keep herself warm for more than a few minutes, and she dreaded the moment she would step outside and the cold would pounce on her like a predator and never let go until she had walked the two miles home.

She pulled a pair of soft black leather gloves from her pocket and slipped them on. In the dim light of the back hallway, it wasn't apparent how badly scratched they were and there was a little tear at the bottom of the left one.

They weren't very presentable any more, but she couldn't bear to throw them out.

Henry had given them to her the first Christmas after their wedding.

Her lips twitched into a sad wry smile when she remembered how young and hopeful and happy they had been, and how much she had loved him for not wasting what little money he had on some flashy piece of jewelry. Instead, he had thoughtfully chosen something that had appealed both to her love of beautiful things and her practical sense.

She had never cared much for silver and gold. She had always thought there would be enough time for that later, once he had earned a good name as the skillful tailor he was and the little workshop he had opened in the largest room of their modest home yielded some more profit.

One year later, when Henry presented her with a new coat of thick, soft charcoal wool, perfectly cut to fit her figure, they had already been a family, with a little boy of not quite two months sleeping peacefully by the small Christmas tree in the old cradle Alice herself had once lain in.

How he had managed to make it without her noticing anything she had never found out, but he must have invested hours and hours of loving, accurate work to produce such a beautiful garment.

The fine fabric had long since worn thin at the elbows and, like her gloves, bore the traces of many years of use, but she could not bring herself to replace it either.

It was not just that she couldn't afford a new coat of comparable quality, although financial worries had been her permanent companions for three years now and she was glad that she had managed to buy her boy something small but nice for Christmas, something that he wouldn't have needed anyway, and a gift for each of her parents who had done so much to help her.

Mostly, it was because of him.

Suddenly this terrible, consuming loneliness grabbed hold of her again, like a cold knife plunged into that spot just above her stomach, reopening a deep wound she'd thought had healed a bit.

Alice bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut for a second, forcing herself to get a grip. Nothing would be gained by crying in this chilly tiled hallway.

She couldn't change the fact that she was alone with her only child. That she barely had enough money to provide the most necessary staples of everyday life, and wouldn't have known what to do if it hadn't been for her parents' unconditional help. That the beautiful, funny, caring man she had wanted to grow old with had not been hers for more than half a dozen years when the war had claimed his life.

She wiped away the tear that had escaped her eye with her gloved hand, took a deep breath and walked down the corridor to leave through the back door, carefully making sure it was properly closed.

She rounded the corner of the large house and passed the front entrance, where a large wreath of fir green hung, adorned with red ribbons and tasteful white and golden ornaments.

Just as she walked by, the door opened and Mrs. Phillips appeared, fashionable as ever in a striped dress of a rather daring length and a white cashmere shawl thrown carelessly around her shoulders.

"Alice!" she called out, beckoning her to the doorstep. "I'm sorry - there's something I forgot …"

For a split second, Alice considered ignoring her and just trudging on through the snow that lay three inches high after a day of repeated snowfall.

Esther Phillips was a nice enough woman, but she tended to be a little unfocused and had the unfortunate tendency to intercept Alice when she was just about to go home, asking her very politely and very urgently to take care of some matter she had neglected to mention earlier.

Of course, Alice did not simply walk on. It was not in her nature to be disobedient, and anyway, she could not afford to lose this position.

Resignedly, she waited for Mrs. Phillips to ask her to brush up the green velvet dress or to mend a rip she had discovered in the silk slip she intended to wear tonight.

"Come up here, Alice, don't stand around in that snow", Mrs. Phillips added a trifle impatiently.

Alice had not even noticed that it had begun to snow again, very lightly.

Feeling dumpy and outdated in her old coat and sturdy boots, she joined the other woman, bracing herself for the assignment that would keep her from her boy, and from the rest she craved so much, for yet another hour or so.

Only when Mrs. Phillips stretched out a manicured hand that held a small cream-coloured envelope did she realize this was not about extra work for once.

"You know we're leaving early tomorrow morning to see my sister in Boston, and we won't be back until after the holiday, so here's a little premature present for you. I want you to treat yourself to something lovely, and get something nice for dear young Mick, too."

Alice was utterly surprised - at the gift and, even more so, at the fact that the woman remembered her son's name.

Mrs. Phillips had always been a reliable employer who paid her wages punctually every month and treated her well, but she had never seemed to care a lot about Alice's private life and had never bestowed any gifts on her, not for her birthday, not for Christmas nor any other occasion.

Stammering her thanks, she carefully tucked the envelope into her pocket and went on her way, feeling a little warmer and a little more light-hearted.

She smiled silently to herself when she hung up her coat in the tiny hallway of her childhood home, thinking of how she had paused below a street lamp to peek inside the envelope of classy vat paper, incredulously gaping at the ten-dollar note it contained.

She wasn't going to tell anyone about this sudden wealth.

She'd just go into town after work tomorrow, taking advantage of the Phillipses' absence, which meant she'd be off early, and get the train set Mick had so admired in a toyshop window, sure that it was one of many things he'd never own, and a pretty new scarf for her mother, and some of the good pipe tobacco her father loved but hardly ever bought because he found it too expensive.

The kitchen was quiet when she entered, greeting her parents in a low voice. Her mother was mending one of Mick's wool stockings, while her father puffed his pipe, a tiny smile playing around his lips, his eyes trained on the brown sofa in the corner by the door.

This was where Mick was sleeping, as always with one arm firmly wrapped around a corner of the quilt, his face half buried in the pillow so that only his right cheek was visible among a tumble of black curls.

A stab of guilt went through her as she knelt on the worn rag rug, gently smoothed some locks away from his face and kissed him very softly on the cheek that had already begun to lose some of its childish plumpness.

He was growing up so fast, and she was missing so much of it while she was away to keep the Phillipses' house in order, spending most of her time catering to a spoiled woman's needs instead of her own son's.

She hadn't even been around when he had fallen from the pear tree last summer, breaking his arm. It had been her father who had taken him to the doctor's and her mother who had dried his tears. By the time she came home, he had been over the shock and the worst of the pain and seemed to be finding it quite amusing to try and eat his dinner one-handed, barely pausing to show her his plaster cast.

The memory still made her want to weep now, half a year later, with the fracture all healed and the whole episode just a little adventure story her son liked to tell once in a while.

Mick burrowed his head deeper into his pillow and made a little sleepy sound. Alice kissed the back of his neck below the mass of curls and kept her face there for a moment, inhaling the scent of clean little boy, willing him to forgive her for yet another late night, before she got to her feet and walked over to the table.

"Have you eaten, Alice?" her mother asked in this particular, all-too-caring tone she hated. The peaceful happiness she had felt earlier was gone already.

"Yes, Mother. They aren't treating me like a slave, you know. They allow me to eat and drink occasionally, and I can even go to the bathroom if I have to." When she saw the hurt look in her mother's eyes, she grudgingly added, "Sorry for being grumpy, Ma. I'm awfully tired, and it has been the third time this week that I came home after Mick had gone to bed. I think it's best if I go to bed now, too."

She went upstairs and lay down in her old room, finding she was too tired to even sleep.

Behind closed eyelids, her thoughts were running riot.

She tried to picture Mick's face when he would unwrap his unexpected big present. His large green eyes lighting up in genuine joyful surprise were a sight she had seen way too rarely in those recent years.

He knew that his family was not rich and pricey presents were out of the question, and Alice was glad that he accepted the fact without ever complaining and seemed happy with what small gifts he received for his birthday and for Christmas, but she was sure he must have some big secret desires, however unrealistic, as every eight-year-old does.

But not every eight-year-old would keep from uttering them aloud the way Mick did.

This year, Mick's letter to Santa Claus only asked for a little Christmas tree, and some candy, a new pair of gloves, some very small items of fishing gear and a wind-up airplane. Behind the latter, he had written in his childish block letters, Only if it isent too expansive!

While she was somewhat proud of him for not making things even harder for her by demanding too much, his modesty and his rational attitude broke her heart.

Once again, Mick was being far too sensible for his young age.

A kid like him should put lots of unreasonable, expensive, fantastic item on his wish list, should gripe and grouch and argue when he was told this was way beyond the family budget.

Alice wished she could give him all that he dreamed of. He would have deserved it; he was such a good boy, the light of her dreary life, the one reason that kept her going, kept her striving and struggling to save as much as she could so they would be able to live on their own again one day. Whatever she was doing, she was doing it for him so he would have a perspective, a good life in the future.

The least she could do was get him the small things he asked for, and she always had.

Almost always.

The year Henry had died, she had inquired what he wanted for Christmas, and all he had said was, "I want Daddy back."

She had closed her eyes to keep from crying and said very softly, "I know you do, but you see … that's … that's not possible."

"Not even if I won't ask for any other presents?" he had pleaded earnestly. "I just want Daddy to come back, nothing else."

"Oh, Mickey … you know your daddy's in heaven now, don't you?"

"Yes, but … what if I promise to be good all the time? Won't he come back then?"

She had not been able to answer him immediately, tears choking up her voice. She had hugged the child to her chest and whispered, "It's not possible, lovey, it just isn't. Please … please stop asking, will you?"

He had given her a tearful look of utter dejection and disappointment and never broached the subject again.

The moment remained burned into her memory to this day, and she felt her throat constrict again at the thought.

Sleep, she told herself firmly. Don't get stuck on painful memories. Sleep and dream a happy dream of this year's Christmas. It will be almost too good to be true, thanks to that little green note in your coat pocket.

The next morning, Alice hardly felt the chill of the unheated room when she threw back the covers. When sleep had finally come, she had not awoken until her alarm clock sounded at six, and she felt well rested and full of energy, fueled by the prospect of a mercifully short workday and the little shopping spree she was planning.

Over night, more snow had fallen. Just perfect for the first day of the children's Christmas break. Mick was no doubt going to have a lot of fun out in the snow with a friend or two.

She tiptoed downstairs to brew herself a cup of tea and have a slice of toast, making as little noise as possible so the boy wouldn't wake up.

He kept sleeping soundly all through her hurried breakfast and didn't even stir when she kissed him goodbye.

The day flew by quickly. Today, Alice wasn't fighting tears and exhaustion in the tiled hallway as she geared up for her walk through the snow and the cold. Her heart was singing. She felt like a millionaire with the ten-dollar note in her pocket that would bring some additional Christmas joy to her family the day after tomorrow.

She found herself humming O Come All Ye Faithful as she let the back door snap shut behind her and walked through the snow with a spring in her step despite the clunky boots she wore.

How Mick would love his train set, and her mother her scarf, and her father probably wouldn't say much but be quick to pack his pipe and smoke it luxuriously.

She pushed a hand into her pocket as she went, just to make sure the little envelope was still there, to feel it was real.

There was nothing.

Hastily, she checked the other pocket, although she was sure she had tucked it into the right one.

The left pocket was just as empty except for a crumpled handkerchief.

This was impossible. Maybe she just hadn't felt the envelope with the leather gloves on.

She pulled one of them off, but all her bare fingertips touched was the smooth cool lining of the pocket. There was a small hole in the corner, but it was way too small for the envelope to have slipped through.

She had lost it somehow.

"No, no, no!" she murmured, close to tears, retracing her steps back to the Phillipses' home, her eyes frantically scanning the ground.

Nothing.

Not in the snow, not under a bush or scrub along the way, not in the Phillipses' hallway.

"Damn!" The oath had escaped her before she knew it. She leaned against the back door, buried her face in her hands, pressing her palms to her burning cheeks and willing herself not to weep and not to give up so easily. Maybe the precious envelope had slid out of her pocket unnoticed when she had come home the night before, or on her way to work this morning. She mustn't lose hope so quickly.

She had no eye for the beauty of the sunny winter day as she took the familiar route back home. The only thing she actually saw was what wasn't there. No soaked envelope, no ten-dollar bill, nobody who had found anything.

Mick was playing in the street with Thomas Corcoran and Billy Mulligan. They were so busy building a snow fortress that he only called a casual "Hi, Mommy" out to her as she passed.

She hardly noticed.

Both her parents were out. She was glad no one saw her as she searched all over the house and in the end had to admit it had all been in vain.

How could she have been so careless? Why hadn't she put the money into her purse to keep it safe? Why hadn't she made sure she still had the envelope when she arrived home?

She remembered blowing her nose once or twice on the way to work in the morning. Maybe the envelope had been tangled up with the hankie and dropped to the ground unnoticed, getting snowed over or whipped away by a gust of wind.

No use crying over spilt milk, she told herself. Too late now.

She cried anyway.

"What's wrong? Has something happened, Mommy?"

She hadn't realized Mick had come in until he spoke to her. For a minute, she just stared at him.

"Mommy! Is it something bad? Like … like when Daddy …" His voice trailed off.

"No, nothing like that."

His relief was palpable. He had never got over that moment in the kitchen three years ago that had shattered his carefree little world.

Still, he sensed something was off and repeated, "What's wrong, Mommy?"

"You know how it feels when you have done something stupid, don't you, Mickey?"

He nodded meaningfully, and she told him about the stupid thing she had done, losing ten precious dollars.

He listened attentively, but he didn't seem to understand fully why she was so worked up, having no concept of how much ten dollars would buy.

"You see, it would … it would have meant Santa Claus could bring you the wind-up train set we saw at Livingston's, the big one. I thought you'd love it so much. Grandpa would have helped you build a little landscape around the tracks with little trees and houses and …" She broke off helplessly.

The boy's expressive face showed a rapid succession of emotions before he said in a very grown-up, very matter-of-fact tone, "Oh, don't worry, Mommy. In a year or two, I'd have been too old for it anyway, and all the money would have been wasted."

Alice swallowed hard. It was plain to see that he was disappointed, but he just wouldn't allow himself to rage and rant and blame her.

His resigned acceptance of things as they were left her feeling worse than a childish tantrum would have.

It was not for the first time that she felt her son had somehow been cheated of his childhood.

She tried hard not to let her parents see how upset she was and somehow got through the day, and the next, by helping her mother with the holiday cleaning until every room the house was spick and span from floor to ceiling.

Mick was on his grandfather's heels as they went to get their Christmas tree. He proudly helped him carry it home and put it up in the sitting-room.

It was a small tree, and a little bent, too, but Mick was all aglow with excitement, eyes glittering and cheeks bright pink, when they had finished decorating it. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" he said, beaming up at his mother as he pressed himself against her side in a rare show of affection.

She put her arm around his slim wiry frame and held him tight. "Yes, it is. Very well done, Mickey. Santa Claus will be very pleased."

"Really? You know, I wish I could stay up all night and watch him bring the gifts!"

"But you can't", Alice said sternly.

"Don't you know he's going to turn around without leaving any presents behind if he sees as much as the shadow of a child?" her father chimed in. "I'd rather not take any chances if I were you."

Mick grinned and nodded. "No, better not take any chances about the gifts. Oh!" he exclaimed suddenly, as if he had remembered something. "I need to … do something, alone. Can I use your room for a while, Mommy?"

"Why, yes, if you're finished by dinner time. Don't forget we're eating at six!"

He was already halfway up the stairs by the time she had finished speaking.

"Have you got any idea what he is up to?" Alice asked her mother.

"No, I don't. Do you, John?" Mary called into the direction of her husband who was picking a few fir needles off the carpet.

"Not at all. I guess he's putting his finishing touches on some gift or other, a drawing or some other handicraft. Remember the little boat he carved me last year, Alice?"

"Of course I do. I just hope he's not going to leave wood shavings all over my bed", Alice said dryly.

"Oh, come on, Alice. Don't be too strict with him." John Walsh laid a callused hand on his daughter's thin shoulder and squeezed it, the closest he ever came to a loving embrace. "It is Christmas after all."

Alice only gave him a tired smile and wished she hadn't spoiled the Christmas spirit for herself so badly.

Knowing from experience that he would be too agitated to sleep early, Alice allowed Mick to stay up long past his usual bedtime and played cards with him at the kitchen table, something the boy enjoyed immensely because it was such a rare thing to happen.

Around nine o'clock, when he could hardly keep his eyes open, Alice gently urged him to go to bed.

As she tucked him in, he gave her a sleepy grin and said, "Can't wait for tomorrow. I have such a great gift for you. Something really special."

"I'm sure you have, love." She gave him a kiss. "Good night, Mickey. Sleep tight, and have sweet Christmas dreams."

Christmas Day dawned bright and clear, and Alice was in a festive mood despite the misfortune that was still grating on her.

She got dressed and went to wake Mick, who was lying on the sofa so quietly, with his eyes so firmly shut, that it was clear he was just pretending to sleep.

"Good morning, darling. Time to get up and see if Santa Claus was here in the night!"

Mick was off the sofa in no time and dashed upstairs to get changed. No five minutes later, he was back in his best clothes, with his blue V-neck sweater inside out and only one shoe laced up properly.

Alice laughed and set about putting things right against her son's protest, then made him eat a bit of breakfast with her and his grandparents, although he pulled a face at this unnecessary delay.

Finally, the women and Mick got up and went into the sitting-room.

Alice's father had sneaked out under some pretence earlier to light the candles on the tree, which was a splendid sight now. The soft golden glow took away the slight shabbiness of the room and made the old-fashioned furniture look almost stylish.

Mick gave a heartfelt "Ooooh" when he entered the room, and he seemed very happy and satisfied with his Christmas loot once he had inspected the contents of his stocking and opened the presents.

"Look, I even got the model airplane, Mommy!" he cried. "It can really fly! I'll show you in a minute! But first of all …" He paused and looked about under the tree, where one small colourful package was left. He went to pick it up and ceremoniously presented it to Alice. "Here's yours. Merry Christmas, Mommy!" He wrapped his arms around her waist, and she bent to kiss him on the forehead before she solemnly accepted her gift.

It was not actually a package, she saw now, it was a small colourful envelope, folded from a notepad sheet, its size not unlike that fateful one she had lost. It was decorated with stars and trees and Santa Claus, all done in coloured pencil, and two crooked lines in black ink said, "To Dearest Mommy! Merry Chrismas!"

She slowly turned it over in her hands. Mick called out impatiently, "Open it, Mommy! Open it!"

She untucked the flap and froze when she saw what was inside.

A folded ten-dollar bill.

"Mick", she said, her voice quivering. "Mick, where did you get this?"

"But Mommy … aren't you happy?"

"Yes, yes, I am … very happy. But, Mickey … that's a lot of money, and I'm really curious to know where you got it."

"Um … I … I found it", he replied haltingly.

"You found it?" Alice could hardly believe her ears.

She hoped to God he was telling the truth and at the same time feared that he wasn't.

"Yes. I found it yesterday."

He had been playing in the snow again in the morning of Christmas Eve with a bunch of other boys from the neighbourhood.

He, Billy and Thomas had erected a solid wall of snow, a real fortress, the previous day, and now they wanted to have a jolly good snowball fight with the other kids.

Mick had ventured into the Sheltons' front yard to harvest some more snow for ammunition when his gaze suddenly fell on something below the hazel bush, something half sticking out of the snow. It was a little envelope that might once have been white or cream-coloured. Now it was wet and dirty and looked like it had blown away from an overflowing garbage can.

Well, he could still use it to play, couldn't he?

Pretending he had stumbled on a secret message from a spy, he took it over to where his friends were busy making loads of snowballs and opened it with all the others watching.

He had expected it to be empty, and the sight of the ten-dollar note struck him like lightning.

He immediately thought of what his mother had told him the evening before.

She had been so terribly sad about the lost money, and now he had come across this!

But could he really keep it? Surely someone was going to miss it just as badly as his mom had missed hers, and he'd be in big trouble if anyone found out he had taken it.

He had a heated discussion with his friends about what to do now.

In the end, they went knocking on all the doors in the neighbourhood, asking had someone lost ten dollars.

"I'd have noticed long before", old Mr. Shelton said.

"I wish", Mrs. Friars said.

"I keep a tight grip on my cash if I have any", Mr. Tillotson said.

"No need to ask our parents", Billy's brother Jack said. "We're dirt poor. If we ever have a ten-dollar bill, it goes right into food or clothes or Daddy's workshop. No chance of it fluttering away without anyone noticing."

"Look at that envelope", Thomas said. "That's an expensive one. My mother's got stationery like that, from Aunt Clarissa in New York, which she only ever uses for very special occasions."

"So it's probably some posh sumbitch that lost it", Billy concluded, belatedly looking about for his mother, who would have washed his mouth with soap had she heard him use such language. She was sweeping the yard but safely out of earshot. "What do you think, boys? If no one misses it, I'd say you can keep it, Mick!"

Glad that nobody had suggested that he share his find with the rest of them, Mick had carried it home with a warm feeling in his tummy.

This was going to be one special Christmas after all.

He pictured his mother opening the envelope, clapping her hands to her mouth, overwhelmed with joy.

A few times, his conscience piped up, asking if he was really sure it was a posh sumbitch who had lost the money.

He silenced the nagging voice by telling himself that he had tried his best to find the owner of the note, that a posh sumbitch certainly wouldn't starve if he was stupid enough to lose ten dollars, and besides, he was going to make his mother very happy, which was a good thing, wasn't it?

When she didn't comment on his tale right after he had finished, he looked at her big-eyed, lip trembling. "Are you angry? Do you think it was wrong to take it, Mommy?" he asked in a pleading voice.

She hesitated, trying to find the right words.

"Oh, it was wrong!" His eyes grew moist. "It was wrong after all!" A large tear rolled down his face. "I thought I had such a terrific gift for you, a real gift, not just a silly child's gift, and now you're mad at me!"

Alice gently wiped his tears away with the back of her hand. She sat down in a worn armchair and had Mick sit on the armrest. He kept his face turned away and his back rigid, utterly mortified.

She touched his shoulder and said, "I'm not mad at you. You haven't done anything wrong, love. You wanted to make me happy, which is a lovely thing to do. It was also very good of you to try and find the owner of the money. Not every boy would have done that. Many would simply have kept it without thinking someone might be missing it. But did it never occur to you it might be the very money I'd lost? Why didn't you think to ask me when you went to ask the neighbours?"

His eyes widened in horror, and his mouth dropped open.

"It was a little cream-coloured envelope, made of a thick kind of paper, wasn't it?" Alice said softly.

Mick nodded, staring at the swirling floral pattern of the carpet, shifting uneasily, sniffling. "I wanted it to be a surprise", he said tonelessly, tears streaming down his cheeks again. "I just wanted to make you happy because you were so sad."

In his distress, he gave up his big-boy attitude, turned and crumpled into a miserable heap at his mother's shoulder. "And if it was yours all along, it wasn't a real gift at all", he sobbed.

"But you did make me happy, love", she said, stroking his silky black curls. "And don't you think it is a beautiful gift to get something back you thought you'd lost, something precious?"

"That's not a gift", Mick murmured into her dress. "Not a real one."

"Real gift or no - what Christmas is actually about is not gifts. It's about love, and about making people happy, which is exactly what you did." Alice kissed him on the top of his head.

"And now stop crying, my lad", John, who had been watching in silence all the time, told his grandson. "No more talk about that dratted money. Your mom is happy to have it back, and I want to see if that airplane thingy really flies."

Mick looked up with a shaky smile, wiped his face with his sleeve and was soon engrossed in demonstrating the wind-up airplane with the important attitude of an expert technician.

His grandfather duly admired it zipping around the room and once or twice lunged to prevent a fatal collision with the glass ornaments on the tree.

Alice and her mother watched them with an amused eye, talking in low voices about what had just happened.

Half seriously, Alice mused, "If only he'd given me the money before Christmas. Just think of the gifts it would have bought."

Apparently, her tone had not been hushed enough.

Mick looked up from his plane, smiled at her brightly across the room and said in a grown-up tone, "Mommy. Christmas isn't all about the presents! No more talk about those dratted gifts!"