Carole Harris: Be glad for the joy in the eyes of a child

Opinion

"'Twas Christmas day in the workhouse and the bugs were biting hard."

The old limerick tumbled around my mind as I cast a meditative gaze over my empty, silent library. Merely opening the place on Christmas Eve was a bit silly. For the small township of Kirakira, on the Solomon Island of Makira, was as empty as a politician's promise.

The annual population exodus to home villages had taken place and even my assistant, Joanne, had caught a boat out, back to Ulawa.

But I was stubbornly determined that my library would do Christmas justice; thus it was the only building in the township that bore any hint of the festive occasion. Well, that's not strictly true, the hardware store where we buy our sausages and mince had a banner proclaiming Merry Christmas strung across the back wall.

I didn't count that, since it was there when I arrived in June. I wasn't sure if they were late taking decorations down, or early putting them up. Such is Solomon time.

Ten more minutes I thought, then I'd call it a day; knock off lunchtime. The power was down and the only light in the place was a timid escapee from an overcast cobalt sky.

My eyes swept critically over the decorations. The red, white and blue balloons, hung only a few days before, were already shrunken and wrinkled - victims of heat and humidity. Trimmings drooped, lacklustre and indolent. My Christmas tree was the oddest-looking fir this side of the equator, which was understandable seeing it was in fact a bushy branch from a mango tree.

It was extensively draped with opulent trimmings, glittering orbs and a string of fairy lights I'd draped over it that morning. In pride of place was a fairy Barbie lookalike waving her wand from the pinnacle.

Nearby, the town generator grunted, then roared into life. On impulse, I switched on the cassette player and chirpy, dulcet tones extolling a winter wonderland echoed around the cavernous room.

I turned on the Christmas tree lights and they immediately twinkled at me. I focused a small spotlight on the nativity scene model and it sprang to life. The trimmings, as though responding to the mood, glistened and sparkled in the half-light and a gentle breeze through slatted windows made them dance in delight. Even my soggy balloons appeared to perk up.

It was then that I committed the cardinal sin of Volunteer Service Abroad of allowing nostalgia to infiltrate my contentment. The ghost of Christmas past came to haunt me.

This was our first Christmas in 25 years without the children. An image of our old cottage in England appeared, and two small, shiny, excited faces were grinning from ear to ear, tearing the wrappings off their presents under the fragrant pine Christmas tree.

Ten years slipped by and we were all sitting in the Whangarei sunshine, around our neighbours' outside table, enjoying some board game and drinking chilled chardonnay. Pohutukawa glowed ruby red in the background.

I protested as the ghost of Christmas past departed, leaving me alone once more.

My hand reached hesitantly for the cassette player, when the ghost of Christmas-to-come challenged me. Was this Christmas a pattern for the future? Alone? Miles from family and old friends? Scavenging for luxuries you take for granted at home? Sitting in semi-darkness each evening as we waited for the capricious power to return?

No more surprise visits from good friends, bursting through the door laughing, waving bottles of wine and ...

Then he was gone, leaving me to my apprehensions and listening to Snoopy shoot down the red baron.

My chest heaved in a half sob; I bit my lip and brushed away a tear. "Humbug, Carole!" I snorted to myself, somewhat unconvincingly, and made for to switch off the damn noise, when a faint cough caused me to swing around.

She was no more than 6 years old, wide-eyed and tightly clutching her brightly coloured little library book. But she wasn't looking at me. She was gazing with undisguised wonder at the lights on the tree.

Behind her, one by one, others entered, shyly looking about them. Finally, a small crowd of pikaninis was huddled around the decorations.

They spoke in hushed whispers, pointing and occasionally giggling. "Wanem nao daeswan?" came an awed whisper. The First Noel was announced from the cassette player, and the small girl turned to me and pointed at the tree.

"Hemi magic nomoa?", she asked cautiously.

I smiled, and shook my head: "Hemi no magic," I answered. I paused to reach up to the top of the tree to pluck off Barbie. I knelt and handed it to the little girl. Her mouth dropped open and for a moment she just stared unbelievingly. Finally, she gently took it, raising it to her cheek.

I rose and addressed them all, "Hem Christmas, Merry Christmas olkata pikaninis!" There was a burst of laughter and excited chatter. I turned up the tape.

I switched on the fluorescent lights and the library awoke. A box of mixed lollies appeared out of my desk drawer and I quickly filled eager hands.

I hoped Richard, my husband, would remember to take the precious chicken we'd saved for Christmas out of our freezer. I savoured the anticipation of our bottle of good Merlot brought back from Honiara on our last visit. Oh, and the thought of a stroll along the beautiful, palm-fringed beach on Christmas Day sounded just wonderful.

And I thanked the spirit of Christmas present for his timely arrival.

* Carole and Richard Harris, of Whangarei, are coming the end of a two-year VSA assignment in Kirakira on the island of Makira.