Thursday 24th December 2003.  22 Moss Lane, Blackroad, Bolton. 
“Good morning Mrs Chesire, how are we today?” Cathleen Samson asked her patient, closing the front door.  She shook off her raincoat and hung it on the stand.  Mrs Chesire sat in her red sofa chair, stained with last night’s dinner, silent and still. 
“Sweetie, I’ve got cancer, assume that the answer to that question is always ‘I feel bloody awful,’ please,” Cathleen heard her reply as she went to the kitchen to turn the heating up.  Rubbing her hands together, she looked around the two-room first floor.
“Do you know what day it is today Mrs Chesire?” she asked, oblivious to her patient’s vicious response.  Mrs Chesire didn’t look up from the television, and made no effort to respond.  Cathleen sighed.  “It’s Christmas Eve, Mrs Chesire, do you know what that means?”
“Haven’t the foggiest, Cathleen.  Only that your eager enthusiasm is going to annoy me to no end,” she replied, closing her eyes.  Almost looks peaceful like that, Cathleen thought to herself.  It’s when she opens her spiteful gob when the problems begin.
“No, it means we need to decorate your house for Christmas,” she told her, dusting the coffee table.  “Have you had your breakfast?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“Not hungry,” Mrs Chesire mumbled.  Cathleen retreated to the kitchen to whip up some milk and cornflakes.  It would remain untouched by the chair for the whole morning, but Cathleen lived in hope.
“Try and eat that if you can, Mrs Chesire.  You don’t want to be on a drip for Christmas day,” Cathleen whispered gently, patting her shoulder.  Mrs Chesire pretended to not hear, but Cathleen knew her hearing was still as good as ever.
Cathleen tidied the living room up, turned the channel over so Mrs Chesire didn’t have to watch Eastenders, and then went back out to her car.  She was only gone for a few minutes, but Mrs Chesire felt the absence.  When Cathleen returned, Mrs Chesire was rocking herself to and fro, singing some unintelligible tune.
“Mrs Chesire, it’s okay, I’m here,” Cathleen dropped the large box to sit opposite her patient and hold her hand.  After a while Mrs Chesire stopped singing and opened her eyes.
“You left me alone,” she hissed, no more than a scared child.  “They’ve all left me alone.”
“Just to get some Christmas decorations,” Cathleen told her, brushing some grey strands of hair away from her face.  “Now, do you want to help me decorate the room?” she smiled at the old lady who, after some hesitation, began to nod.

Monday 24th December 1991.  22 Moss Lane, Blackroad, Bolton. 
Eliza left the kitchen, with the turkey roasting in the oven, to join the rest of the family.  Her wrinkled hands shook as she opened up the Christmas cards which were delivered this morning.  Her grandchildren gathered around the dinner table munching on cookies and singing Christmas carols whose versions were new to Eliza.  At least they make the time at Granny’s go quickly, she thought to herself, smiling.
“Mum, come and listen to Gavin,” Janie hurried her to the other corner of the room, where the adults were gathered around wearing paper hats out of Christmas crackers.
Eliza placed the cards on the shelf, and hurried over to her three children and their partners, listening to her son-in-laws stories of their holiday to Thailand.
“We rode elephants, and the kids loved it.  I’ve got some great photos, I’ll have to mail copies to you,” he continued. 
“And where are you going skiing, Janie?” Sandra asked her sister.  Janie put her wine glass on the coffee table, patting her lips with a napkin. 
“Saas Fee,” she replied, “It’s costing us a fortune, but Drake has been dying to go skiing since he could walk.”  At the sound of his name, plump, eight-year-old Drake turned to look at his mother, who smiled and blew a kiss.  Her only child, the boy was spoilt, but Eliza did not see it her place to say so. 
“It’s been lovely, Mum, but we best be going,” Sandra got up to leave.  The atmosphere changed immediately.  Eliza’s heart sunk. 
“I’ve just put the turkey in, and we still have to put the tree lights on,” she tried to convince her youngest daughter to stay, which she knew would come to nothing.  Sandra, and everyone else, most likely, had better places to be.
“I know, but the kids need to have an early night, we’ll see you after Christmas,” Sandra said as she rounded up her three children.  “It’s been lovely Mum, really, but we do need to leave.”
“But it’s Christmas Eve,” Eliza tried one last time.
“Yes, and we’ve had an amazing time.  But we’re leaving for London tomorrow, and I still have to pack.  I’ll call you,” she kissed her mum goodbye, and the children waved from the door.
“Goodbye Grandma,” they called as they walked to the car.  Snow was falling in the dark, and as Eliza waved at them drive away, she could feel the rest of the room getting ready to depart too.

Saturday 24th December 1967.  22 Moss Lane, Blackroad, Bolton. 
The pair sat together in front of the fireplace, hand in hand, watching the flames dance about.  “That was a lovely meal,” Daniel told his wife.  He patted his feet gently on the oak floorboards.
“It was so lovely to have the children here again,” Eliza replied, resting her head on Daniel’s shoulder.  There were dirty dishes piled high in the other room, with leftover turkey and gravy on the dinner table.  But at that moment, neither Eliza nor Daniel saw it fit to clean up. 
“Sandra’s so big now, but I still see her as the little seven-year-old that fell in the river during our caravan holiday,” Daniel laughed to himself.
“Won’t be long until she’s finished university,” Eliza recalled, pulling a blanket over her pyjama trousers.  Sandra would then be a fully-trained biologist (or at least Eliza thought – she didn’t quite understand what Sandra studied).  And Janie was engaged, and James was moving out to Japan next year. 
“Aren’t you proud, Liza?” Daniel whispered, hugging her tightly.  He traced his fingers gently across her palm as they reminisced.
“It’s sad though, too,” she replied. Daniel didn’t respond.  He sat there, contemplating her thoughts.
“We’ll have to find a way to keep them close, even just for a little while,” he told her.  They stared back at the fire, deep in thought.
“We could do it every year?” Eliza suggested, rubbing her nose against his flannel shirt.
“Do what every year?” he asked.
“This.  Christmas Eve, here, with us.”  Eliza looked up at her husband, who returned her gaze.  He pondered on the thought for a moment, and then smiled.
“That’s a lovely idea, Liza.” 

Wednesday 24th December 1945.  22 Moss Lane, Blackroad, Bolton. 
“Mummy, when is Daddy coming home?” James tugged at his mother’s nightdress as she put the remaining presents under the coffee table – on top of which the quaint Christmas tree which they had collected from the woods sat.
“He’ll be home soon,” Eliza picked her son up and took him over to the large red chair.  Slowly, she put the shoes on his feet, as he fidgeted.  Her husband had spent more time in France, helping the villages recover from the war.  But now he was on his way home.
“But will he be home for Christmas?” James urged for more information.
“Perhaps,” she replied, eager not to give away the surprise.  He smiled at the uncertainty and, once his coat was zipped up, he ran out the front door.  “Be home for dinner,” she called to him.  She heard him shout out to his sister as he joined the other children.  Snow fell thickly onto the empty street, and from the door Eliza could see the beginnings of the children’s snowman. 
An hour or so later, the three of them were sitting down to eat when the door was flung open.  “Daddy!” Janie and James exclaimed immediately.  A clatter of cutlery was all that was left on the table as they sprinted to meet their father.  Eliza laughed, and got up to join them.  There, standing in the cold draft, was her husband.  
“Hello you two scoundrels, what have you been up to?” he asked, taking them into his arms. 
“We’ve been good Daddy,” Janie told him, grabbing his hat and pulling it onto her head.
“Well we’ll have to see about that,” he chuckled as they wriggled out of his arms to go and get his welcome-home present.
“Hey Liza,” he muttered.
“Hello Officer Daniel Chesire,” she embraced Daniel, and he swung her around, carrying her into the living room.

Tuesday 24th December 1922.  22 Moss Lane, Blackroad, Bolton. 
“Eliza, come and open your Christmas Eve present,” Harriet called her youngest daughter.  Eliza appeared from behind the sofa, her large round blue eyes staring intently at her mother. 
“Really, Mummy?” she asked shyly.  She wandered over to the Christmas tree and opened her arms out to meet Harriet.
“George has opened his, now it’s your turn,” Harriet told her, brushing the blonde curls out of Eliza’s face.  Slowly, cautiously, Eliza bent down to examine the presents closely.  A small pile labelled “Liza” was right underneath the tree.  She scanned the assortment before picking up a small round parcel. 
“That one?” Jack, her father came into the living room, “I thought you’d want to open the big one first.”  He sat next to her on the floor, sipping his tea. 
Eliza shook her head.  “I want this one,” she told him, and tried to open up.  After a bit of difficulty, Jack helped her tear the paper. 
“What is it?” he whispered as Eliza held the present tightly.  It was a blue and silver ball, painted intricately.  She turned the object around two or three times, before her mother explained it to the five year old.
“It’s an ornament, for the Christmas tree.”  Harriet took the ball-ball by the string attached to it, and spun it around so Eliza could see.  The decoration shimmered in the light, as Eliza sat, mesmerised by the object.
“Would you like to put it on the tree?” Jack asked her.  Eliza nodded eagerly, taking the string from her mother.
“Be careful,” Harriet told them both.  Jack lifted Eliza up onto his shoulders, so she could reach the top branches.  Careful not to drop it, Eliza wrapped the string around a branch.  A few pine needles fell to the floor as Eliza was lowered to the ground.
“Now, Liza, let’s go to bed and get a good night’s sleep.  Do you know what day it is tomorrow?” George came in and took his sister’s hand.
“Christmas day!” she exclaimed, and followed her brother up the stairs.  Jack and Harriet were close behind, ready to tuck their children in for the night.