With Love at Christmas

by Carole Matthews

  We cuddle up on the sofa together and I pour us out a generous measure of advocaat.

  ‘I don’t really like advocaat,’ Rick says.

  ‘It’s Christmas,’ I point out. I don’t really like it either, but you only have to drink it once a year. I think it’s the sickly yellow colour that’s so off-putting.

  ‘Oh, OK.’ Rick shrugs his compliance. So we knock back a couple of glasses of the sticky liqueur. We both wrinkle our noses.

  ‘That’s terrible,’ Rick says. ‘Shall we have some more?’

  ‘Why not?’

  He tops up our glasses again and, second time, it doesn’t taste quite so bad.

  ‘Hmm,’ Rick says. ‘I’m getting to like this. I’ve heard that it has aphrodisiac properties.’

  ‘Advocaat?’

  ‘Mmm.’ He leans in to kiss me deeply. ‘See. It’s working already.’

  I giggle and we kiss again. More advocaat. And, pretty soon, we’re lying full length on the sofa and are kissing like teenagers again. If this is what advocaat can do for you, then bring it on!

  ‘Shall we leave them all here,’ Rick whispers against my neck as his hands rove my body, ‘and go and buy a onebedroom apartment somewhere far away?’

  ‘Mmm,’ I murmur back. ‘Sounds good to me.’

  Undoing Rick’s shirt, I kiss his chest, now covered with a fine fuzz of grey hair but still taut due to the physical work he does. I have been intimate with this chest since it belonged to a skinny boy, and I know and love every inch of it.

  He unzips my dress and helps me to slip it off, surprised to find the sexy underwear secreted beneath.

  ‘Wow,’ he says. ‘You still have it, Mrs Joyce. You are one sexy lady.’

  ‘Ha! You ain’t seen nothing yet,’ I tell him in my best Mae West voice. Reaching back, I produce my red feather boa and fluffy handcuffs from behind the cushion where I’d hidden them earlier.

  Rick laughs. ‘Oh yeah?’

  Seconds later he’s taken off all his clothes – even his socks, and Rick does not part with his socks lightly – and we’re on the living room carpet, rolling around on the rug.

  Oh, this is lovely. We haven’t had fun like this for a long, long time.

  ‘Come on, you saucy minx,’ Rick says. ‘Come to Daddy.’ He pulls me to him with my feather boa. Seconds later, the handcuffs click round one of my wrists.

  I don’t think I’ve ever been physically restrained before, and I get a buzz of excitement. I did once quite like the idea of being bound and blindfolded by silk scarves while Rick had his wicked way with me, but we somehow never quite got round to it. So this is very risqué for us.

  I’m trying not to think of the fact that we could do with a new carpet in here, or how comfortable our bed is in comparison, when Rick clips my wrists to the leg of the coffee table. We both giggle together. ‘I feel very silly.’

  ‘Not sexy?’ he asks.

  ‘This is not what we do, is it?’

  Rick grins at me. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I think I’m rising to the occasion.’

  And so we make love on the floor with me handcuffed to the coffee table and draped in nothing but a feather boa. It’s funny rather than steamy, and we laugh a lot, which is nice. We do our very best to be passionate, and I think it’s a night that we’ll remember.

  Sometime later, I’m happily basking there in my sleepy afterglow, Rick lying along the length of me, when a yawn overtakes me again. Oh, I need my bed now as I’ve got an early start in the morning. The turkey is massive and will have to go in first thing. I think I’ll take the legs off and roast them on another shelf. Then, while I’m pondering my culinary dilemma, I realise that blood is no longer reaching my arms as they’re still above my head and attached to the coffee table. ‘Rick,’ I murmur, ‘undo the handcuffs now. I’m getting pins and needles.’

  Nothing but a grunt comes from my husband.

  ‘Rick!’ More urgently now. ‘You’re not asleep, are you?’

  More grunting.

  I nudge him with my knee. ‘Rick! Wake up!’

  He snuggles against me.

  ‘God almighty,’ I mutter, ‘I could be here all night!’ I know just how soundly Rick sleeps once he nods off.

  I try to lift the coffee table from my prone position to slip the handcuffs underneath the leg, but it’s far too heavy. Trust it to be the one piece of furniture in the house that we actually spent a decent amount of money on. So I wriggle and wriggle and jiggle and jiggle for what seems like hours – giving Rick the occasional rousing boot. But to no avail – on he sleeps. I try to make my hands as small and narrow as possible, not that easy when you’ve got workaday hands. Finally, one last big jiggle and I do manage to get one hand free! Hurrah! Rick snores on, oblivious. It’s a good job these cuffs aren’t too tight. But then, just as I’m twisting and turning to free the other wrist, I hear the sound of a key in the front door, followed by a lot of laughing.

  ‘Oh no. Oh, no!’ I make a valiant snatch for my feather boa, and not a second later the living-room door bursts open.

  I don’t know who screams first, whether it’s Tom or me, I can’t tell.

  ‘Aaargh,’ he shouts. ‘Aaargh! What are you doing?’

  I would have thought that was obvious enough. My son has more than his fair share of experience on which to draw.

  But what’s worse, it seems as if he’s brought a bunch of his mates back to the house for a party. When they hear him shout out, they push behind him in the doorway as, ineffectually, he tries to stop them peering at his mother in the nip and half handcuffed to the coffee table.

  With the commotion, now Rick wakes up. A bit bloody late! ‘What on earth’s going on?’

  He sits up and rubs his eyes. What bit of him was covering my nakedness now isn’t, and I try in vain to make the feather boa as big as an overcoat.

  ‘I don’t need to see this!’ Tom cries. ‘You’re my parents! This is gross.’

  ‘Close the bloody door!’ Rick shouts, hands positioned in a futile attempt to be modest. ‘You don’t need to keep staring!’

  ‘It’s like a car crash,’ Tom protests. ‘I want to look away, but I can’t. I didn’t even know you still had sex. Let alone like this!’

  His friends are all agog now. I can feel that my face has turned the colour of my fancy feather boa.

  ‘Just go, Tom!’ I say. ‘Please go.’

  With that, my son shuts the door and a second later the front door slams too.

  Rick turns to me and our eyes meet. Myriad emotions cross our faces – horror, embarrassment, shock. I can’t believe that our son has seen us in this compromising position. Normally it’s the other way round.

  ‘Was it good for you?’ Rick asks.

  Then we both dissolve into fits of giggles. And I’m sure that we’d fall into each other’s arms, but these bloody silly handcuffs prevent me from moving.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  I am never drinking advocaat again. Or having sex on the living-room carpet.

  Rick and I sit in the kitchen drinking tea, the start of a heavy, bright yellow headache threatening. All the candles have been blown out, the feather boa and handcuffs hidden away again. Now we’re not feeling fruity any more, just silly. But we’re still holding hands across the table, so it wasn’t a complete disaster and, in one way or another, it will always be a night that we’ll remember. I’m sure Tom won’t forget it in a hurry, either.

  We’re both in our dressing gowns now, ready for bed. I thought about going to midnight mass, perhaps take Mum and Dad, but it’s far too late now. We’re not regular churchgoers, but try to make the effort at Christmas mainly because the church looks pretty and everyone else we know goes. The Church Women’s Committee bake very good mince pies, too.

  Now that our romantic evening is well and truly over, my mind is drifting to all the things I have to do in the morning.

  Rick nods towards his shed. ‘What do you think of my new lights?’

  ‘It looks lov
ely.’ In truth, it looks like someone has transported a mad Santa’s grotto to our back garden. ‘Very festive.’

  ‘It’s a shame that Neil Harrison can’t see it.’

  I suspect, like the Great Wall of China, you could actually see it from the moon. Then, as I’m staring at it, I see a shadowy movement. ‘Rick? Is that someone going inside?’ The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. ‘I’m sure I just saw the door open.’

  My husband is up and out of his chair in seconds. He sprints across the kitchen, flings open the door and races out into the garden, even though he’s in his pyjamas and slippers. ‘Hey,’ he shouts as he’s powering across the lawn. ‘Hey, you! What are you doing in my shed?’

  Abandoning my tea, I’m hot on his heels, as is Buster who, as usual, is barking and wagging his tail in a more cheerful manner than is suitable for a crack guard dog.

  The door of the shed bangs open and a dark figure comes out and starts to run across the garden towards the fence. Whoever it is has on a hoodie with the hood pulled over his head. It looks like he’s trying to make his getaway.

  This time Rick won’t be thwarted, and he gives chase even though he’s slithering and slipping on the snow. Buster barks happily and bounds playfully after Rick.

  The figure starts to climb our fence, but bravely Rick hurls himself at his legs and pulls him down.

  My heart is in my mouth. What if the intruder’s got a knife or a knuckleduster? What if he’s high on drugs? What if there are six of his mates waiting on the other side of the fence?

  The man collapses to the ground and Rick sits astride him, panting heavily. Doesn’t seem too long ago since we were in a similar position.

  ‘What are you after?’ Rick shouts. ‘There’s nothing in there.’ I finally catch up with them and drop down on my knees next to Rick. Then he pulls the man’s hood from his face. Rick gasps, wide-eyed. Buster goes and licks his cheeks.

  My husband turns to me, open-mouthed, lost for words.

  ‘Merak?’ I say. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Back at the kitchen table. More tea. And biscuits. We all need a sugar rush. Including Buster.

  Merak hangs his head. ‘I am sorry, Rick.’

  My husband rubs his hands through his hair, making it all stand on end, trying to get his brain to take this in. ‘You’re living in the shed? My shed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re living there?’

  Rick has been repeating the same thing for some time now.

  ‘Why?’

  Merak sips his tea and then clears his throat. ‘I realise that it is wrong thing to do. But to rent – even small room – is expensive. I send money home every week. My family in Poland are poor. Your shed is very comfortable.’

  ‘But you live there?’

  I touch my husband’s arm. ‘I think we’ve established that now.’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Rick says. ‘Do I not pay you enough?’

  ‘Yes. But money here does not go far.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Rick agrees.

  ‘Oh, Merak,’ I offer. ‘All this time I thought we were looking after you, and yet you’ve been living rough under our noses.’

  ‘Living in my shed is hardly living rough,’ Rick says indignantly.

  ‘It’s hardly ideal either,’ I point out. ‘You can’t sleep on a sunlounger when you’ve got a full day of physical work ahead of you.’

  ‘I manage,’ Merak says.

  ‘I don’t want you to manage,’ I tell Merak. ‘I want you to be happy and comfortable.’

  His face takes on an even more serious expression than usual. ‘I do not wish to lose my job.’

  ‘There’s no question of that, lad,’ Rick says. ‘I’m just, just . . . flabbergasted that we didn’t know. How did you get in there?’

  Merak’s pale face flushes furiously. ‘I borrow spare key from drawer.’ He glances guiltily at the relevant drawer.

  Oh. As easy as that. So much for the security-conscious Joyces. The key was missing all the time and we didn’t even notice.

  ‘We thought someone was trying to burgle us,’ Rick says.

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘No. I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to do this. It’s not right. Where do you shower? Go to the loo? Eat?’

  ‘The manager of the bar I work in lets me use his shower. I use the public conveniences in the town centre and, mostly – ’ he looks sheepishly at me ‘– I eat here.’

  ‘At least we’ve got something right, then,’ I tell him.

  ‘I lost my room,’ Merak says. ‘The landlord says that he can rent it for more. But I cannot get back my deposit. He is a bad man and keeps it.’

  ‘Did you not threaten him with the “Russian mafia”?’

  ‘He is Russian mafia.’ Merak sighs. ‘I do not want my legs broken. So I lose money. I cannot take another room as I have no money for deposit. My mother has six children. My father died many years ago. I am oldest son. She needs me to help her. This is why I come to England. To work hard to provide for them. How can I spend money when they need it more?’

  ‘Why didn’t you come to me, lad? Why didn’t you tell me that you couldn’t afford to rent anywhere?’

  ‘You have both done enough for me,’ Merak says. ‘I did not want to trouble you more. I thought if I could sleep in shed for short time, it would help me to save money.’

  Rick tuts sadly.

  ‘You’re like family to us now.’ I glance at Rick as I say this, and he knows where this conversation is going and nods imperceptibly. ‘We want to look after you.’

  ‘Thank you, Juliet.’

  ‘I take it you’re not going home for Christmas?’

  He shrugs. ‘The flight was too much money.’

  ‘You must stay here tonight and join us for Christmas tomorrow.’

  His face, his pale solemn face, lights up in a big grin. ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course. I won’t have it any other way. I’ve been asking Rick for weeks to find out what you were doing.’

  ‘You are not angry?’

  ‘Only angry that you didn’t feel able to come and talk to us about your difficulties.’

  ‘You are both too nice to me.’

  ‘Please say you’ll stay for Christmas.’

  Merak smiles shyly. ‘That would make me very happy.’

  ‘Then it’s settled.’

  He comes over and hugs me. ‘You are very kind lady.’

  ‘You can sleep in Mum’s room for tonight.’ Or is the spare room free? Oh, I can’t remember. We’re going to have to start a booking system at this rate. It’s easier if I just go and change the sheets. ‘Tomorrow, we can sort out something more permanent. Something that doesn’t involve you sleeping in the shed.’

  Merak’s eyes light up. ‘You mean this?’

  He looks so happy that it brings a tear to my eye. ‘Absolutely.’

  Rick claps him on the back. ‘I must say that you’ve kept that shed very clean and tidy, Merak. A man after my own heart.’

  They laugh together, and it’s good to see them both happy. Then I make a mental note to myself to remember that we’ve got an extra mouth to feed and to peel some extra potatoes in the morning.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  When Merak is settled for the night in Mum’s bed, I go and put Buster in the utility room – much to his consternation. The turkey is defrosting in the kitchen and, though I love our dear dog, I don’t want him helping himself to a tasty snack in the wee small hours.

  It’s nearly two o’clock now, and my eyes are rolling with tiredness. I hear that some couples enjoy a lie-in on Christmas morning, a gentle walk perhaps in a snowy landscape, some convivial drinks and canapés with neighbours before a relaxing lunch. Not me. I’ll be up and at the coalface shortly after six o’clock, making sure all is ready for the tribe arriving. Looks as if we’ll be having a few extra mouths to feed this year. But that’s fine. I’m never knowingly
under-catered. The turkey’s so big that it probably won’t go in the oven – again.

  ‘We’re all locked up,’ Rick says as he slips his arms round my waist. ‘Ready for bed?’

  ‘I can hardly stand up straight,’ I concede.

  ‘It’s been quite an entertaining evening, all things considered,’ Rick concludes.

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t imagine that we’d be providing the entertainment.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘One last job,’ I tell him.

  He looks at me quizzically. I go over to the fridge and produce a carrot.

  ‘Ah!’ The penny has dropped. ‘Shall I pour the sherry?’

  I nod and put a mince pie on a plate.

  In the living room, we take in the Christmas tree, still sparkling away, a pile of presents waiting beneath it. On the hearth I place the mince pie and carrot. Rick puts down the sherry.

  ‘Got to look after Santa,’ he says.

  ‘We’ve been doing this since the children were born.’ We twine our arms together and hold each other close. ‘Do you think they’ll do it for their children too?’

  ‘Chloe won’t,’ we say in unison.

  I laugh. ‘I hope she’ll be OK with this new baby.’

  ‘She will be,’ Rick assures me. ‘And we’ll still be here for her.’

  ‘How do you think we’ll face Tom tomorrow?’

  ‘I think he might understand how it feels for us now when we keep interrupting his sex life.’

  ‘It was funny,’ I say.

  ‘You know we’ll never live it down,’ Rick tells me.

  ‘I’m not sure I want to live it down. I rather like the idea that we’re the last of the Chadwick Close groovers.’

  ‘I think the fact that you’re using the word “groovers” shows that we’re not.’ Rick pulls me closer. ‘I love you, Mrs Joyce.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I am. What else could I want? I’ve a beautiful wife and a wonderful family. Well, mostly.’

  ‘And you’re happy?’

  ‘Very.’