She took him into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He saw the carrier bag, from swimming, bulging with his damp towel and trunks; the washing machine was broken. The bag had big letters: VIRGIN MEGASTORE. He stared at it, hypnotised.
Swaddling clothes…Virgin Mary…He tried to work it out but it was all so difficult. He was in bed now, his eyes shut. What was wrapped up in swaddling clothes, lying in the Virgin bag?
His granny kissed him goodnight. 'Poor little thing,' she sighed.
In the morning he didn't open the next door in his Advent calendar. He didn't want to get to the end. There was something terrible inside the door, just as there was something terrible inside the Virgin bag.
Granny rang up while he was watching TV. He heard his mother talking to her. '…honestly, Ma, the dustmen have just taken away all the bottles I was going to recycle, two months' worth!' Her voice lowered. '…I know, but I wish you wouldn't interfere. Not in that, either. He's all right. I know it's all very difficult, you needn't tell me, but it's not all my fault, do you know what Alan did last week.…'
Duncan climbed to his feet and turned up the sound of the TV, very loud.
His mother tried to make him go swimming on Tuesday, after school, but he refused to go. He knew exactly what she was planning. She was going to wrap him up in a towel and put him into the crib. Jesus had no father, just like him. Granny said: 'We're all children of God.'
He heard his mother on the phone, talking to one of her friends. 'I know why Duncan doesn't want to go swimming,' she whispered. 'It's because his father goes and we sometimes see him there. These bloody freelancers, never know where they'll pop up. When he sees his father unexpectedly he gets really upset.’
It was odd. She never called him 'Dad' any more. She called him 'his father'. It made his dad sound awesome, like somebody in the Lord's Prayer. Our Father, which art in heaven.…
She had got it all wrong, of course, about swimming. But he couldn't possibly tell her. He started crying, so she took him out to buy a Christmas tree instead. It was much bigger than Dad's. They decorated it with tinsel and bags of chocolate money that made the branches droop, but when she switched on the lights they didn't work. She shouted a rude word. Then she muttered: 'First the washing machine, then the guttering, now the bloody lights. Christ, I need a man!' She went to the phone and dialled a number. 'Is Mr Weisman home yet?' she asked. 'I've been phoning him for two days!'
Duncan stopped peeling a chocolate coin. He sat bolt upright. Mr Wise Man?
It was all getting more and more confusing. The next day his dad collected him from school and took him back to his flat. He had put the very small Christmas tree into a flowerpot.
Duncan sat in front of the TV. There wasn't a lot to do in his dad's flat. He thought about the Wise Man. He mustn't come! If he came, Christmas would start and it would all be wrong! It was already going horribly wrong. He had to do something about it.
Dad was in the kitchen part of the room, frying sausages. His jacket lay over a chair. Duncan put his hand in the pocket and pulled out his dad's wallet. He wanted to see if his photo was still inside.
There he was. And there was the photo of his mother, holding him when he was a baby. She was smiling. But he wasn't reassured. The room grew smokier. 'Baked beans or baked beans?’ called out his dad.
He pulled out his dad's credit card, and his video club card. Then he pulled out another one. It said: I would like to help someone live after my death. He turned the card over. Kidneys, it said on the back, Eyes, Heart, Pancreas, Liver, it said. I request, that after my death, any part of my body be used for the treatment of others.
On Thursday Mr Wise Man still hadn't come. His mother cried: 'My life's going to pieces!'
So was his. When the Wise Man came, he was going to take somebody away. Jesus died on the cross, said Granny, so that the rest of us could live. That's what his dad was going to do; that's why he had the card in his wallet. And then everybody ate him because he was God.
'Why don't you want to go swimming?' asked his mother. 'You used to love it.'
That night he heard her on the phone. 'We've got to settle this, Alan.' Even upstairs, he could smell her cigarette smoke. 'What are we going to do about Christmas? Are you going to have him, or me?'
Duncan pulled the duvet over his head. They were going to saw him in half, like a leg of lamb.
The next morning the phone rang. His mother was in the lavatory so he answered it. A voice said: 'Mr Weisman here, chief. Can I speak to your mother?'
'No!' he shouted, and put the receiver back.
But the Wise Man was going to come. It was Duncan's last day at school and his granny fetched him home. When they opened the door his mum said: 'Thank God Mr Weisman's coming. He'll be here at six.'
Duncan thought, fast. Then he had an idea. He pulled at his mother's leg. 'I want to go swimming!' he said urgently. 'Let's go!'
And it worked. His mother smiled. 'Darling, I'm so glad!' she said.
Granny said: 'I'll stay here and let Mr Weisman in.'
While they were talking Duncan ran upstairs and dialled his dad's number. He needed to see him, badly. But only the answerphone answered, his dad's voice all stiff and formal, so he left a message. 'Come to the swimming pool. Please!’
In the changing room he scuttled past the crib, fast. And then he was in the water, with his mother. There wasn't pop music today; they were playing Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer. He was bobbing around when the whistle blew and the waves started, tossing him up and down, and suddenly his father was there, his arms outstretched. His parents were shouting at each other but Duncan couldn't hear, there were so many people in the pool, their voices echoing. They squealed when the waves came, rocking the water and splashing over the sides. Duncan was tossed towards his father, who held him; then he was tossed back to his mother, who pulled him to her. Spluttering, he was grabbed by strong arms, then the waves pulled him away.
He was in the changing room now, and his mother was rubbing him dry. His dad's voice shouted, from the men's cubicles. 'You can't live without me, Victoria! You know that!'
'Shut up!' she shouted. 'I'm managing perfectly well!'
'I love you!' he shouted.
Duncan cowered; everybody was listening. This was worse than them being bare.
'Look at what it's doing to Duncan!' shouted his dad. 'He doesn't understand. He thinks it's all his fault, he's terribly disturbed. He's started wetting the bed again!'
Duncan froze. How could his dad say that? He darted out of the cubicle, into the open part. There was a baby lying in the crib; its mother was changing its nappy. He dashed for the exit, but just then his dad appeared, nearly naked. He grabbed Duncan and held him tightly.
Duncan pressed his face against him; he smelt of chlorine.
When they got home Mr Weisman had been. The lights sparkled on the Christmas tree. The washing machine worked; his mother bundled the damp towels into it. She was panting; she seemed out of breath.
Later that night his dad came home. Duncan heard his suitcase bumping against the banisters as he came upstairs. The next morning his stripy sponge bag was back in the bidet and his computer was back on his desk. On Christmas Eve he helped Duncan open the last door on his Advent calendar, and there was the baby Jesus. He had been there all the time.
In fact, his dad didn't just stay for Christmas. He stayed at home for good. When Duncan was older, he sometimes thought of his father's six-month absence, and the way it had ended. And he told himself: the swimming pool wasn't just for changing babies. Not as it turned out. It was for changing grown-ups too.
END
Selected Work by Deborah Moggach
Novels
The Ex-Wives (1993)
Seesaw (1996)
Close Relations (1997)
Tulip Fever (1999)
Final Demand (2001)
These Foolish Things (2004) (Adapted into a film called The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. The tie-in has the same title.
)
In the Dark (2007)
Heartbreak Hotel (2013)
Short Story Collections
Smile and Other Stories (1987)
Changing Babies and Other Stories (1995)
Deborah Moggach Page 5