The Lamplighter’s Christmas

The lamp outside the baker’s shop would not take a flame.

He lowered the pole, looked up at the glass, and waited. After thirty-seven winters, he knew the difference between a lamp that needed attention and one that wanted an argument.

“Christmas Eve,” he told it. “You might make an effort.”

Above him, a woman pushed open a window.

“Are you speaking to me?”

“No, madam.”

“Good. My husband has been at it since breakfast.”

The window shut. He warmed his fingers beneath his arms, then lifted the pole again. This time the wick caught. A narrow yellow flame steadied behind the glass, and the baker’s doorway emerged from the gathering dark: worn step, iron latch, a drift of flour in the seam beneath the door.

Inside, someone laughed. A tray struck a table. The smell of warm bread reached him so suddenly that he remembered he had eaten nothing since morning.

There was soup at home.

There had been soup yesterday, too. He had made enough for three evenings, which was an achievement his wife would have regarded with suspicion. She had believed that a man who called boiling water cooking ought not to be trusted alone with a kitchen.

He could almost hear her asking what he had put in it.

He shifted the pole to his other shoulder and walked on.

Snow had begun to settle in the hollows between the cobbles. Along the canal, the water took what little light remained in the sky and broke it against the moored boats. A boy hurried past carrying a covered dish in both hands. He held it carefully, his chin tucked into his scarf, and did not look up.

At the next doorway, a woman was trying to fasten a sprig of greenery above the lintel while a smaller child offered advice from below. Neither noticed him stop beside the lamp. He waited until the child had stepped clear before raising his pole.

The flame caught at once.

“There,” the woman said, looking at her greenery. “That’s better.”

He looked up, too. The sprig leaned badly to the left. He decided it was none of his business.

By the time he reached the turning, the light behind him had found the child’s face. She was holding out both arms to be lifted. The woman bent, caught her beneath the elbows, and raised her high enough to straighten the branch.

He stayed a moment, resting the pole against his shoulder. Then he felt the cold through the worn place in his glove and went on toward the next lamp.