Christmas!” Barry stood in the office doorway, the red paper crown on his head as lopsided as his grin. “I’m after scissors. Can’t break the ribbon on Aunty Kathleen’s gift. You know what it’s like.”
Actually, I didn’t know what it was like. We never had ribbon on gifts.
The packages under my arm jabbed into my ribs. “I was out for a ride and …” I shrugged. “Here I am.”
“Well, come in!”
“I can’t. I …”
“‘Course you can. Have a Christmas beer with us. As your boss, I insist.” He beckoned, not just with his hand, but his whole arm.
“I can’t stay long.”
“Come on.” He stepped aside. I walked through the office to a door that opened onto the sitting room. Beyond that I could see the kitchen and dining room.
“Are you sure this is all right?”
“Mum will be delighted.” Barry glanced at the parcels under my arm but didn’t mention them.
The moment I entered the house, smells of pine tree and roast meat and the sound of Christmas carols from the record player wrapped around me, as comforting as a hug.
The bright kitchen was a shambles. A baking dish and dirty plates filled the sink. A plum pudding carcass, two bowls, exploded crackers and crumpled linen napkins were scattered across the table.
Yesterday there had been Christmas gifts under the tree – now there was only one, wrapped in Santa and reindeer paper and tied with green ribbon. Used, folded wrapping was stacked beside the tree.
Mrs Gregory sat in her usual seat, a blue paper crown on her head and a plastic holly brooch on her shirt. “Robbie! Merry Christmas.” In a flash she’d wrapped me in a hug. She stepped back. “Like my jewels?” she pointed to the crown and holly. “You need a crown, too.”
She took a cracker from the table and held it towards me. “Make a wish.”
I set the parcels on the table and tugged the end of the cracker. Mrs Gregory unfurled a green crown. She handed me a scrap of paper and a plastic ring from inside the cardboard tube. “Share your joke,” she said.
I read the joke to myself first before reading it aloud. “What do you get if you cross Santa with a duck?”
Barry groaned. “A Christmas quacker.”
“Oh, Barry, you spoiler.” Mrs Gregory pretended to be angry. “Now, Robbie, you’ll have pudding? It’s still warm. There’s custard. And ice-cream. Or cream if you prefer.”
She’d cut a slice, scooped ice-cream from the tub Barry brought to the table and poured custard before I could answer. She passed me the bowl.
“Watch out for the sixpences.” Barry nodded at the small pile in front of him.
Nan only put one sixpence in our pudding. The person who found it was said to have a lucky year. Dad always found it.
“Have you had a lovely day?” asked Mrs Gregory.
“Yes, thank you.” I didn’t look at her. “This is delicious.” Moist, rich and golden, unlike Nan’s crispy, bitter pudding.
I ate and plucked sixpences from my mouth. By the time I’d finished, I had five piled beside me.
“Lucky year ahead for you, mate,” said Barry.
I grinned.
“There’s plenty more, Robbie,” said Mrs Gregory. Did she mean pudding or luck?
“It was the best. Ever. But I couldn’t.”
Barry returned to the table with a glass and the last gift from under the tree. He refilled his mother’s drink and his own, then poured a third beer and passed it to me.
“Barry,” said Mrs Gregory, “I’m not sure Mrs Bower would approve.”
Barry shrugged. “It’s Christmas. And it’s just the one.”
Barry raised his glass to his mum then me. “Cheers.”
“To us,” said Mrs Gregory.
I echoed Barry and sipped. The froth was soft against my lip, the beer bitter and cold. It fizzled in my nose and bubbled down my throat. The smell reminded me of snorts and rants, silences and scoffs. I placed the glass on the table.
Mrs Gregory started when she spied the gift beside her. “Oh, Barry, thank you. I nearly forgot!” She passed it to me.
Actually, I didn’t know what it was like. We never had ribbon on gifts.
The packages under my arm jabbed into my ribs. “I was out for a ride and …” I shrugged. “Here I am.”
“Well, come in!”
“I can’t. I …”
“‘Course you can. Have a Christmas beer with us. As your boss, I insist.” He beckoned, not just with his hand, but his whole arm.
“I can’t stay long.”
“Come on.” He stepped aside. I walked through the office to a door that opened onto the sitting room. Beyond that I could see the kitchen and dining room.
“Are you sure this is all right?”
“Mum will be delighted.” Barry glanced at the parcels under my arm but didn’t mention them.
The moment I entered the house, smells of pine tree and roast meat and the sound of Christmas carols from the record player wrapped around me, as comforting as a hug.
The bright kitchen was a shambles. A baking dish and dirty plates filled the sink. A plum pudding carcass, two bowls, exploded crackers and crumpled linen napkins were scattered across the table.
Yesterday there had been Christmas gifts under the tree – now there was only one, wrapped in Santa and reindeer paper and tied with green ribbon. Used, folded wrapping was stacked beside the tree.
Mrs Gregory sat in her usual seat, a blue paper crown on her head and a plastic holly brooch on her shirt. “Robbie! Merry Christmas.” In a flash she’d wrapped me in a hug. She stepped back. “Like my jewels?” she pointed to the crown and holly. “You need a crown, too.”
She took a cracker from the table and held it towards me. “Make a wish.”
I set the parcels on the table and tugged the end of the cracker. Mrs Gregory unfurled a green crown. She handed me a scrap of paper and a plastic ring from inside the cardboard tube. “Share your joke,” she said.
I read the joke to myself first before reading it aloud. “What do you get if you cross Santa with a duck?”
Barry groaned. “A Christmas quacker.”
“Oh, Barry, you spoiler.” Mrs Gregory pretended to be angry. “Now, Robbie, you’ll have pudding? It’s still warm. There’s custard. And ice-cream. Or cream if you prefer.”
She’d cut a slice, scooped ice-cream from the tub Barry brought to the table and poured custard before I could answer. She passed me the bowl.
“Watch out for the sixpences.” Barry nodded at the small pile in front of him.
Nan only put one sixpence in our pudding. The person who found it was said to have a lucky year. Dad always found it.
“Have you had a lovely day?” asked Mrs Gregory.
“Yes, thank you.” I didn’t look at her. “This is delicious.” Moist, rich and golden, unlike Nan’s crispy, bitter pudding.
I ate and plucked sixpences from my mouth. By the time I’d finished, I had five piled beside me.
“Lucky year ahead for you, mate,” said Barry.
I grinned.
“There’s plenty more, Robbie,” said Mrs Gregory. Did she mean pudding or luck?
“It was the best. Ever. But I couldn’t.”
Barry returned to the table with a glass and the last gift from under the tree. He refilled his mother’s drink and his own, then poured a third beer and passed it to me.
“Barry,” said Mrs Gregory, “I’m not sure Mrs Bower would approve.”
Barry shrugged. “It’s Christmas. And it’s just the one.”
Barry raised his glass to his mum then me. “Cheers.”
“To us,” said Mrs Gregory.
I echoed Barry and sipped. The froth was soft against my lip, the beer bitter and cold. It fizzled in my nose and bubbled down my throat. The smell reminded me of snorts and rants, silences and scoffs. I placed the glass on the table.
Mrs Gregory started when she spied the gift beside her. “Oh, Barry, thank you. I nearly forgot!” She passed it to me.
Similar Books
