Lost Christmas

by David Logan

  ‘We need to go and find him,’ said Goose.

  ‘What d’you mean, “we”?’ Frank really didn’t have any plans to leave the sofa today. Miracle on 34th Street was on in half an hour. The old version, with Edmund Gwenn and Natalie Wood when she was little, not the colour one with Dickie Attenborough.

  ‘He might be a total nutjob, Frank,’ said Goose.

  ‘All the more reason to leave him well alone, I’d say.’

  ‘But what if he’s got Mutt?’ asked Goose. The desperation and need in his voice were plain to hear. Frank tried to block them out. He flipped through different answers in his head. What could he say to avoid having to go out, trudge down to the park and confront a loony? While Frank was considering his response, Goose said the one thing Frank couldn’t ignore. The one thing that meant Frank had to go with him.

  ‘My dad would have come.’

  Frank grated his teeth together and thought of a dozen choice swear words, each more inventive and angry than the one before, but he didn’t say any of them out loud. Once he’d finished muttering them all to himself he couldn’t do anything but grunt out a laugh and shake his head.

  ‘You’re a manipulative little git, Goose, you know that?’

  Goose smiled, picked up Frank’s tatty leather coat and held it out to him. Frank knew he wasn’t going to get to see Miracle on 34th Street after all.

  11

  BUTTERED CHRISTMAS CARDS

  Henry Taylor worked for the Greater Manchester Probation Trust. Their headquarters were housed in an eyesore of a building in Old Trafford, about halfway between United’s home ground and the cricket ground. His was just one desk out of forty-two in a vast open-plan office. However, Henry was the only person in the office that day. His desk (fourth row from the door, sixth along) stood out from all the others as it was the only one that bore no Yuletide additions. Some of his neighbours seemed to be competing to see who loved Christmas the most. The desk to his right had a small potted tree caked in baubles weighing down its little branches, a doll of Santa, eight reindeer whose noses all flashed, two snowmen and a garland of holly running around the table’s edge. The desk to his left looked like an explosion in a tinsel factory. There was practically a canopy of tinsel of all colours and mistletoe. The woman who sat there, Audrey Toohey, a pleasant woman though with alarmingly distracting cankles, had a crush on Henry, which he did his best to pretend to be oblivious to. Henry didn’t even know what a cankle was until he met Audrey. It turned out to be the ankle of heavily overweight people where there was no discernible slimming between calf and ankle, hence cankle.

  Henry’s desk, in contrast to all the others, was mostly clear. There were several folders stacked in his in and out trays positioned just so on one side of the desk, the telephone on the opposite side and a single Manila folder sitting in front of him with a Bic biro placed on top. Henry sat with his fingers spired, his mouth and nose resting on them. He listened to the tick-tick-tick of the office clock and glanced up at it every ten seconds or so. He was waiting for someone, and whoever that someone was, they were late.

  Finally Henry grew tired of waiting and watching the clock. He opened the folder in front of him, revealing the details of one of his juvenile probationers: ‘Richard M. Thornhill’. A dour-looking photograph of Goose stared up at him. Henry ran his finger down the page until he found the home phone number. He picked up the phone and dialled. It started ringing.

  Across town, in Goose’s kitchen, Nan was baking bread. She was white with flour. Great puffs of it filled the air. She heard a muffled ringing and paused to listen with a frown on her face. Where was that ringing coming from?

  She followed the sound around the kitchen from the oven to the washing machine and finally to the fridge. As she opened the door, the ringing became louder and Nan saw the cordless phone standing in the door. She saw a carton of milk on the worktop and swapped the two over. As she closed the refrigerator door and turned her attention to the phone, it stopped ringing. Nan looked annoyed. She liked to get phone calls. She opened the fridge and put the phone back inside. Then she returned to her mixing bowl.

  Back in Henry’s office, he replaced the handset and sat with his thoughts for a few moments. He looked at his watch and then up at the office clock. Both said the same time. It was getting late. He made a decision and stood up, gathering Goose’s file, sliding his biro into his jacket pocket and throwing his topcoat over his arm. He left the office.

  Henry drove across town in silence. He tried listening to the radio, but the chattering voices annoyed him. Most things annoyed him now. At some traffic lights a man on a bicycle slipped in front of him and stopped. This annoyed him. When the lights turned green it took the man on the bicycle almost three seconds to get going. This annoyed him. The man on the bicycle was forced to pedal directly in front of Henry’s Volvo because the cycle lane to the left was blocked ahead with road works. This annoyed him.

  Henry parked his car across the road from Nan and Goose’s house and got out. He looked around, not comfortable in this neighbourhood. Further along the road he saw gaggles of children playing happily in the snow. He glared at them as if to say, I’ve seen you, and if you mess with my car I’ll know who you are. The thing was, not one of the children was paying any attention to either Henry or his rather dull car.

  Henry crossed the road and rang the doorbell. He waited, though he started to fidget with impatience almost immediately. After several moments he was about to ring the bell again when he heard movement on the other side of the door and he could hear Nan shuffling towards him. The door opened and Nan poked her head out. She was covered in flour now and looked like a courtier from eighteenth-century France, with white make-up and a powdered wig.

  ‘Yes, what do you want?’ asked Nan.

  ‘Mrs Thornhill? My name’s Henry Taylor. I’m Richard’s probation officer.’

  Nan frowned, looking blank. She shook her head. ‘There’s no Richard here, dear. No.’ And with that, Nan closed the door in Henry’s face. He closed his eyes and growled under his breath. He rang the doorbell again.

  A few moments later, Nan reappeared. She smiled politely, as if seeing him for the first time.

  ‘Can I help you, dear?’

  ‘Mrs Thornhill, I’m talking about Richard, your grandson. He missed his appointment this morning.’

  Nan blinked several times as she considered what Henry had said. ‘Richard?’ she repeated softly and slowly. ‘My grandson?’ Then, as if a switch had been flicked, she smiled genuinely this time. ‘Oh, you mean Goose. No one calls him Richard. He’s not in, dear. Sorry.’

  Nan started to close the door, but Henry held up a hand to stop her.

  ‘Mrs Thornhill, this is serious. The rules of Rich–’ He stopped himself. ‘The rules of Goose’s probation are very clear. He can’t miss any of his appointments with me. If he does, he could find himself taken into detention again.’

  Somehow the severity of Henry’s tone more than the words he was saying registered with Nan. Her cheeks flushed and she felt her pulse racing.

  ‘I suppose you had better come in,’ she said. Henry nodded and entered. Nan closed the door after him.

  *

  Nan picked up some post from the doormat, mostly Christmas cards. Henry followed her into the kitchen, where it looked as if it had been snowing inside. Nan sat at the table in front of a breadboard with the ingredients needed for a cheese and peanut-butter sandwich.

  ‘I was just about to make Goose a sandwich for his lunch,’ said Nan. ‘Do you want one?’

  Henry took out his handkerchief and dusted the flour from a chair so that he could sit down. He shook his head.

  ‘Er … No, thank you,’ he said. ‘So you’re expecting Goose home soon then?’

  ‘Well, he’ll be back for his lunch,’ said Nan. ‘He’s always back for his lunch.’

  ‘But it’s only a quarter past ten.’

  ‘Oh, is it? That late?’ Nan shook her head and buttered tw
o slices of bread. Henry watched in surprise as she then proceeded to open the Christmas cards she had just received in the post, read them and then butter them. Henry considered pointing out what she was doing, but decided, somewhat wimpishly, to ignore it.

  ‘Have you any idea where Goose might be, Mrs Thornhill?’

  Nan let out a long sigh and shook her head. ‘“Somewhere between the moon and here.” That’s what my mother always used to say. He went out with Mutt this morning. Had an appointment …’ Nan lowered her voice to divulge a little secret, ‘with his probation officer.’

  ‘That’s me, Mrs Thornhill. Remember? Goose didn’t show up. That’s why I’m here.’

  Nan furrowed her brow as she concentrated especially hard, trying to force her failing mind to focus.

  ‘Well, he’s usually back for lunch. I was just doing him a sandwich.’

  Henry’s shoulders sagged. He knew he wouldn’t get any help from Nan. She was incapable of giving it. ‘Would you like to stay?’ she asked.

  Henry realized at that moment that he wasn’t angry with this old woman. Which was unusual for him. He felt desperately sorry for her as she gestured to a buttered Christmas card.

  ‘No, thank you,’ he said kindly. ‘I can’t today. It’s not a good day.’

  Nan put down the butter knife and let her hands flop into her lap. Her great rheumy eyes, which were magnified by her glasses, were filled with melancholy.

  ‘No, it’s not, is it?’ said Nan in little more than a whisper.

  ‘You’re not very well, are you, Mrs Thornhill?’ Henry asked, trying to sound as compassionate as he could.

  Nan shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think I am.’

  ‘Have you seen anyone? Has anyone seen you?’ But Nan didn’t answer. She sat staring blankly into the space between them. ‘It must be very hard looking after a boy like Goose.’

  At the sound of Goose’s name, Nan seemed to snap back into the moment and she smiled.

  ‘He’s a bit of a handful,’ she said. ‘But “in time all flowers turn towards the sun”. That’s what my mother used to say.

  ‘Well, until then, I think we should be giving you a lot more help.’ In his head Henry was already running through the myriad of forms he would need to fill out in order to place Goose with a foster family, if possible, or into care if not; find a residential home for Nan; put the dog into kennels. And that would only be the beginning. There was the house, the possessions. It was a thankless task. He knew from experience that no one involved would be pleased with the changes that were about to befall them. Even if it was for the best. When people were in the middle of it, they could rarely see that. Fortunately for them, he could. He could see the big picture and make the hard decisions. That was his job and he took pride in performing it efficiently. Henry paused. When he was a kid he had wanted to be an astronaut and fly to the moon. Now he took pride in being efficient at filling out bureaucratic paperwork. When had that change happened?

  Henry shook such thoughts from his head and focused on the job ahead of him. He needed to start the ball rolling. Today. Now.

  12

  THE HAPPY PRINCE

  It was a ten-minute walk to the park, but they made it in seven. Even though his legs were long, Frank had to walk twice as fast as his usual amble to keep up with Goose, who would have sprinted all the way if he could. They came in from the Hazlett Road side, squeezing through a gap in the hedge there. The middle of the hedge had been hacked out to create a little den favoured by junkies. Syringes and twisted pieces of foil littered the ground, but other than that it was empty at the moment.

  As they emerged into the park they stopped to scour the landscape around them. This was where Goose had spoken with Anthony earlier, but now there was no sign of him. Goose’s heart sank. What if he had vanished? Moved on? Taken Mutt with him? What if he never found him? What if he never saw Mutt again? All these thoughts raged through his head, making it throb with anxiety.

  ‘There he is,’ said Frank. Goose turned quickly to look at Frank, followed his gaze and saw Anthony standing under an old Victorian bridge with frosted green brickwork walls. Only then did Goose realize he had been holding his breath. He exhaled and his heart went bombom! bombom! in his chest.

  Frank and Goose crossed the damp patchy grass towards the canal. They saw Anthony watching them approach. He was absent-mindedly spinning the poker chip back and forth between his fingers, like a distracted conjurer.

  ‘Leave this to me,’ said Frank, with a metal edge to his voice. Goose had never heard him speak like that. A ripple of fear ran through him.

  They had to cross the bridge and come down a steep set of steps that had been chopped into the embankment there. The bridge itself was jewelled with icicles, dripping down from the tiled voussoirs. The green of the tiles stimulated a memory embedded deep in Goose’s mind and he remembered a trip he took south with his parents years ago, when he was three or four. It was a place called Saltdean and there was an old outdoor swimming pool called the Saltdean Lido. This bridge was the exact same shade of green as the tiles at the bottom of that pool. Goose realized it was a strange thing to think about at that precise moment. He remembered his dad throwing him up into the air. He remembered his own weightlessness as he threw his little arms back and closed his eyes. He remembered time slowing down as he fell through the air and crashed into the water. He remembered sinking down and down and down, but he wasn’t scared. He remembered opening his eyes and looking up, seeing blue sky above and his father’s distorted face smiling down at him. His arms reached up and he pulled at the water, starting to rise, and as he broke the surface he was suddenly back in Manchester, in a park, on Christmas Eve, under a frosted green bridge and looking at a man who might or might not be called Anthony.

  Frank stepped towards Anthony. Frank was the taller of the two, but Anthony looked the more solid. Frank used his height to try to intimidate, but Anthony didn’t seem to notice. He had a blank smile on his face. Frank had the same hard edge to his voice when he spoke.

  ‘Need a word, fella,’ he growled.

  Anthony breathed in, thinking, and then said, ‘Floccinaucinihilipilification. There’s a word. Long word. Twenty-nine letters. One more than antidisestablishmentarianism.’

  This response took the wind out of Frank’s previously aggressive sails.

  ‘He does that,’ said Goose. ‘Should have warned you.’

  ‘Have you seen an angel with a monkey’s head anywhere around here?’ Anthony asked, seemingly a genuine enquiry.

  This further flummoxed Frank. He opened his mouth, left it open for a moment and then closed it again. The fight had gone out of him. He turned to Goose and shook his head. ‘I think we should go. He’s clearly a nutter.’ Then, suddenly remembering Anthony was right next to him, he winced and smiled apologetically. ‘No offence.’

  Anthony shrugged. ‘None taken. I can see how you might think that. Thought had crossed my mind. I was saying something similar to a pigeon earlier. That sounds odd now I say it out loud.’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Frank, his head spinning.

  ‘Now that’s a question and a half,’ said Anthony. Then he reconsidered and shook his head. ‘Well, no, I suppose “What’s the capital of Peru and how does a duck … ?” is a question and a half.’

  ‘We should definitely go,’ said Frank, already edging away.

  Goose could see he would have to take charge. He stepped forward, rising to his full height of four foot five (he was small for his age) and puffed out his chest. ‘What have you done with my dog?’ he demanded.

  ‘I haven’t done anything with your dog,’ said Anthony.

  ‘So what’s on your wrist?’ Goose looked down at the three dog collars Anthony wore on his left wrist. Anthony lifted his arm and looked at them. He and Goose had the exact same quizzical look on their faces as they regarded them. Anthony struggled to remember the significance of the collars. His brow knitted. ‘You nick dogs, don’tcha?’ said Goos
e.

  ‘Why would I do that?’ asked Anthony, genuinely interested in the reply.

  ‘For the reward!’

  ‘Is there a reward?’

  ‘NO! Gimme my dog back!’ Goose was shaking with anger now. His fists were clenched and he was breathing heavily through his nose.

  ‘I haven’t got your dog,’ said Anthony calmly.

  Frank looked at Goose squaring up against the much bigger Anthony and decided he had to say something before things got out of hand. ‘How did you know about the bangle?’ he asked.

  Anthony looked at him and considered his answer before speaking. ‘I don’t think you’d believe me. I’m not sure I believe me yet.’

  Frank looked at Goose, and Goose looked back. Neither knew what that meant. Goose turned back to Anthony.

  ‘Try us,’ he said.

  Anthony replied a dozen times in his head, trying out a variety of ways in which to answer, looking for one that didn’t sound too crazy. There wasn’t one. ‘I saw you take it,’ he said out loud finally.

  ‘No, you never!’ Goose snapped back. Then he caught himself and played the words over in his head. That wasn’t an admission of guilt, he told himself. He could have meant Anthony couldn’t have seen him steal the bangle because he hadn’t stolen it. Was never in that house. In fact, doesn’t even know which house they’re talking about. Anyway, he was somewhere else entirely when it was happening. Whenever that was.

  ‘It’s the truth,’ said Anthony, as much to himself as to Goose and Frank. He looked at his own hand. ‘It was an old Indian lady. I touched her hand and I saw … so many things. I saw her whole life. I saw her grow old. I watched her marriage in another country, in another time. I saw her husband give her the bangle. He died. Which made it all the more precious to her.’ Anthony looked up from his hand to Goose. ‘I saw you at her window with a torch. You jimmied the door from the garden. It was sitting on the arm of the chair. Two cobras in a circle. You took it and left.’