Every year on Christmas day, since the untimely death of his wife, John Davies had religiously made the effort, no matter where in the World he was, to return home and lay one single red rose down on the well kept grave. He would also bring along a small miniature bottle of his wife's favourite drink, and would then pour half on the grave and drink half himself. As customary, he would smoke a cigar, a tradition started when he was first courting and tried to impress his friends by smoking a cigar through his nose, then having to be steered outside, by his mates, were he luckily recovered. Had he not staggered out into the cold night air after smoking that cigar, he might not have bumped into a young lady who he later bought a drink for. She drank rum and coke, a fairly popular drink amongst some women, but a drink he personally detested after sharing a few and turning a shade of pale. This was the first night he had met his future wife, it was a Christmas Eve, and the following year they were engaged. Thus began the traditional joke present of the cigars. And so it continued, 8 years after his marriage, with the traditional journey to the Cemetery each Christmas day.

His wife was young when she died. The second World war was not long over, and John had served for the 3 years of the war, seeing action from the Normandy landings onwards as the World seemed torn apart all around him. Like most of the men in that war, he'd seen horrors that would never leave him. He'd lost friends, or men who seemed more like brothers. He could reel off the names of the ones who never came back, and although there was a memorial to the lads in the Cemetery, John would not spend time there like some who he would notice from time to time. He had always kept the memories of the men he fought with. To his dying day he would be able to close his eyes and see them all, laughing over a game of cards or chatting about the women they were courting or the plans they had. He could still recall the jokes and the conversations which they shared. All of them, himself included, had volunteered and to a point had put there lives on the line. Cannon fodder they called themselves. In his darkest days he wished maybe that a Jerry Shell had landed on him before he met his wife. He wondered why his wife, who had never hurt anyone or so much as upset a soul, had been so cruelly taken.

John was never alone in the Cemetery. Like many who have lost loved ones, it was only natural that some would visit there loved ones on a Christmas day. As the world unwraps presents and chatters excitedly, there will be many who make the journey to the place of rest for those they loved.

John turned up very early. Again this was in memory of his wife and her habit of waking him up early on Christmas day. Later on in the day there would be a fair number of visitors, and over the years he'd gotten to know a few of the faces. Some of the older men still wore black armbands, women in scarves and thick coats might tend the grave, cleaning up as if the husband might still be leaving socks were he shouldn't or had perhaps spilt some gravy. John found some peacefulness in observing the affection of the various visitors. Even the careless shouts of a few children did not bother him. Over the years, more people arrived by car, but most seemed to be local people who walked or took a bus.

1964 was the year he met Peter Thompson in the cemetery. Like John, Peter had lost a young wife who had tragically died young and in childbirth. A double tragedy. He learned later that it was a daughter who died along with his good wife. Peter had also served in the Army, and fought through Normandy just like John. Peter Thompson also made this visit to the cemetery once a year. John would learn this the following year when they would formally introduce each other and partake in an exchange of some conversation. When John first spotted the man, he was wary, though later felt bad when he realised it was wrong to resent someone like himself who was simply grieving in the cemetery on a Christmas day. John liked to be alone for one hour and had never had anyone tend a grave so close to him before. But Peter, apart from simply nodding his head when he first appeared, simply left John to carry on his 'ceremony', and to have his private thoughts. John soon forgot the man was there. Only when he finished and was walking way did the man speak. All he said was "It's a beautiful morning all the same"

The day was indeed a beautiful one. John wondered how often the sun shone on Christmas day, maybe more than he'd noticed. He turned to answer the man, but he was gone - a few other people were arriving so he thought perhaps the man had perhaps met someone or maybe had a car.

The next year was the year that Peter really spoke to him. They shook hands and gradually opened up as to there reason for visiting. Johns mood was lifted that year, and he'd opened up more than he had for a while. Like himself, Peter had been very much in love with his wife, but he seemed to have somehow found his way towards accepting things.

Peter Thompson never seemed to be sad, he had the cheery demeanour of an old soldier and after Johns initial discomfort with having to share this special day, he warmed to the man. He grew used to his company over the years as would be custom if perhaps a distant relative might visit once a year. After 3 years of meeting, they spent an hour or so chatting away with the ease of old mates. Maybe it was because Peter was an old soldier that he felt at ease with him. John listened to his advice and each year they seemed to chat more. It grew into a custom, another 'part' of Christmas day, and yet it seemed to have eased his own pain knowing someone else had been through the same experiences as he had.

It was 1976 when John last saw Peter Thompson, and as usual they had met after tending the graves and paying respects to there own loved ones. They both spoke as usual and John himself had gotten through the worse times and was less mournful as he left the Cemetery each year. He'd told Peter about the early days of his wife's illness, the sudden headaches, the tests and then the gradual worsening of her condition. He spoke about the day he came home to find his wife collapsed. She'd died after an operation on a brain haemorrhage.

Peter seemed philosophical, his own wife had died in childbirth and yet he always spoke warmly of them, as if they were alive. John rarely mentioned the name of his wife apart from conversations with family and friends, yet he would not feel the usual unease in mentioning her name in the conversations. As for Peter Thompson, he was fighting a war against the cruelty of man, whilst his wife and only daughter lost a battle against the seeming cruelty of Mother Nature. John had asked Peter how he coped with the pain in his darkest days. The answer he gave was fairly prompt. "Dying hurts those left behind more, that's all" he'd say. Often as not he'd smile, the hint of a smile in his eyes always seemed present even when he wasn't smiling. This cheeriness would always force a smile on Johns face.

By the time Christmas 1977 came, John had himself been diagnosed with what was a terminal illness. The news had come in August, but he'd not been held back by the news and was not resentful. He'd spent a lot of times wishing he was dead, and now he knew his time was coming, he was glad he'd stayed around. When the doctor told him the news, he'd accepted it almost cheerily, smiling to ease the doctors own discomfort at telling someone the bad news. That year, John woke early as usual, and though it was still dark outside, he sensed it was going to be a decent day, maybe some sun later on. He could hear the first early birds beginning to chirp already.

He'd filled the miniature bottle, as usual the night before. The cigar box was on his bedside cabinet, along with a photo of his dear departed wife Pauline. The photo had been bought out of its hiding place and dusted off. Funnily enough, this was Peter Thompsons advice. Peter said he'd feel better if one was put on display or somewhere he could see it and as usual he was right. There'd been a time when looking at this very photograph had led John to drink 2 bottles of whiskey. Nowadays, the memories seemed to rest more easy on his mind. The drinking had stopped long ago, apart from a sociable pint once a week down the local pub.

He arrived at just past 6.00am that day. There was no wind and a clear sky held a promise of sun later. He looked around, no sign of Peter, which was unusual. He hadn't planned to tell him about his illness, but would play it by ear, and even wondered whether Peter would somehow sense he was ill. He seemed to be a very perceptive person and could pick up on a mans thoughts. Over the years, he'd come to like the man, and was a bit disappointed to see he was not there.

As customary, he concentrated on his ceremony, and knew in his heart this may well be the last year he would be here. He lost himself for an hour in his private thoughts, first laying down the rose, then smoking the small cigar, and drinking half the small miniature bottle after pouring half onto the earth. He even managed a smile just before he looked at the gravestone and turned to walk away.

The weather was improving, and the sun beginning to melt the slight frost which could be seen glinting off the grass blades. The sky was a clear blue with just a few streaks of white cloud in the distance. He looked over to were Peter would be tending his wife and child's grave, and was surprised to see that he was still not there. This was the first year that he had not seen Peter tending the grave, nodding towards him, then meeting up afterwards.

That's when the thought came to John. Poor lad might have died. He was sad at this thought, and would miss Peter Thompson if this were so. He could be ill or maybe visiting other family. His little conversations just one day each year had meant a lot to him now that he thought back. In truth, the first year he met him, John was close to drinking himself to death.

John looked again. No Peter.

He decided to walk over towards the grave which Peter tended. He knew the grave as it was one of perhaps a dozen larger ones in the vicinity of his own, about 20 foot from his wife's resting place. He often read other peoples gravestones as he walked through the cemetery but had never read the grave stone which was tended close by underneath an old Oak Tree. He walked over and slowly read the inscription

Here lies the dearly departed Margaret and Victoria Thompson

Taken from there Earthly bonds on 6th December 1943

Re-united with Peter Thompson.

Husband to Margaret and Father to Victoria

Killed in Action. Normandy. June 7th 1944.

A chill went down Johns spine as he read the stone. He thought back to the times he had spoken to Peter, and he had specifically said it was his wife and his daughter buried there. He'd said he had fought at Normandy, and John could recall with clarity Peters description. "Many good men died that day". He thought back to the past conversations. What was it that Peter had said? "Dying hurts those left behind more, that's all".

John Davies spent the longest day he had ever spent in the cemetery that day. The sun had come out as promised in the earlier gloom of the day. He spent another hour by his own wife's grave, smoking another cigar just for the hell of it. After all, he laughed to himself, 'it's not going to kill me'.

Later, he walked over to the monument built to commemorate the fallen of the Second World War. He saw a man aged perhaps 40 or so, looking fairly down in the dumps. He'd noticed him on years previous as he laid a few flowers down on the newer memorial to the lads who'd died in Northern Ireland.

John merely nodded to the younger man, likely an ex soldier mourning someone he fought with. It's funny how an old soldier can always pick another soldier out. John himself later headed out towards the gates to go home, and as he passed the young man, he smiled and said "It's a beautiful day all the same."

For John Davies, this was the last time he would visit the cemetery alive. But, as he strolled out underneath the shade of the oak trees, he felt certain it would not be the last time he visited the cemetery on a Christmas day.

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Happy Christmas to all the Kirkby Times Readers and especially those who are spending Christmas without loved ones.