When We Were Rich

by Tim Lott

  Owen takes the water in a long draught very slowly. Nodge watches his Adams apple bob up and down, feels faint and puzzled with concern.

  I should call the ambulance now.

  Stop fussing. I was just tired.

  If something happened to you.

  Nothing’s going to happen to me. Come here.

  Nodge sits on the end of the sofa.

  No, I mean come here.

  Owen holds out the blanket. Nodge lies down beside him and draws himself close. Owen covers him with the blanket and pulls his arm around him. Nodge can feel the curve of his raw bones under his shirt.

  Thank you for tonight, Nodge. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.

  Nearly choking you on cordite?

  The rocket was spectacular.

  Lot of money for something that lasted about fifteen seconds.

  That’s why it was so lovely, Nodge. Things that don’t last are the loveliest.

  Is that some kind of, what? Some kind of secret message? Some Christmas cracker prophecy of doom?

  Just don’t get too far ahead of me, Nodge.

  I’m not ahead of you. I’m with you.

  Owen closes his eyes, as if considering this closely. When he opens them again, he finds Nodge, his eyes full of concern, looking directly into them. Owen tries to breathe deeply, but his lungs won’t allow it.

  Listen, Nodge. You proposed to me and you lit a firework for me and you looked after me when I fainted. As you always do. You are everything I want and hope for, Nodge. I hate to put this burden on you, but . . .

  He hesitates. Nodge sees his eyes flicker back and forth in his sockets. Then his face composes itself, and the eyes come into focus.

  Ask me again, Nodge.

  Ask you what again?

  You know.

  Nodge’s mind searches for the solution, finds it. Finally, he smiles.

  Owen. Will you marry me?

  Sort yourself out, Nodge. I already told you. I can’t marry you.

  What?

  God, give me strength.

  Stop playing mind games!

  Ask me if I will be your civil partner.

  Oh. Right. Will you be . . .

  Get down on one knee.

  Nodge hastily pushes the blanket off himself and gets down on his knee. He takes Owen’s shrivelled white left hand in both of his.

  Owen Driscoll. Will you be my civil partner?

  Owen pauses.

  What are you waiting for now? demands Nodge.

  Just to build the tension a bit, says Owen.

  God, you’re annoying.

  Owen laughs, and, as firmly as he can manage, squeezes Nodge’s hand.

  Yes, Nodge. Jon. I will be your civil partner. Now you can get up. And I’m so happy that you asked me. Amazed, actually. So thank you. But just let me get better. I need to get better. You understand, don’t you?

  Nodge does not speak, but simply rises from his knees and burrows under the blanket again, his face close enough to Owen’s to feel his breath. Owen plants a kiss on his stubbled cheek.

  They fall asleep together, and do not wake until morning reveals a street strewn with used gunpowder, fallen sticks, charred paper.

  * * *

  It’s eight o’clock in the evening and Frankie comes in from work. He’s been at it since seven that morning. Veronica is in the living room reading The Elephant and the Bad Baby to China. He kisses them both, then goes silently upstairs to the bedroom to hang up his suit jacket. Inside the wardrobe, there is a teetering pile of presents blocking his way. He notices an immense, empty Christmas stocking draped over the bed. He knew that Veronica was going Christmas shopping with Roxy that day, but hadn’t imagined they would produce such a haul. He tries to scratch his head out of puzzlement, but instead his fingers meet the bandage on his head from the operation to remove his birthmark. Neither he nor Veronica has seen the result yet.

  Veronica appears in the doorway.

  I’ve put China in the bath.

  You’ve been busy, says Frankie.

  Too much? says Veronica.

  Frankie says nothing.

  I know. It’s sort of revolting, isn’t it? says Veronica, ruefully regarding the pile of booty from Oxford Street.

  Christmas is a time when excess is allowed.

  But it’s Christmas all the time. People just spending on mad things, 365 days a year. At Christmas it just gets sillier. It’s like a magnifying window into how greedy we are the rest of the time. Ridiculous thing is, though, I can’t stop myself. I feel like I would be being a bad mother, if I didn’t get her everything I could. I want her so much to be happy.

  Don’t worry about it. She’ll love it. And she’s already happy. Children are, so long as you don’t mess them up too much.

  Frankie pulls at the base of the mountain of presents and they tumble out onto the carpet.

  Look at this. A Tamagochi. A Spongebob action figure. A battery-operated hamster. What’s not to like?

  The word that keeps coming into my mind is decadent.

  That’s just your middle-class guilt. Bung some money to charity if you’re feeling so down about it. I hear on the grapevine that donkeys are having a hard time of it.

  If everyone bought hardly anything at Christmas like in the old days, she’d be sort of happier. We all would be.

  Last year China had rushed through the berg of toys, discarding them one after another at a great speed, hardly any of them holding her attention, then spent the morning angry and tired, or playing with the boxes that the toys had come in.

  Don’t worry about it, Vronky. We’re going to have a great Christmas. A good old old-fashioned avaricious, consumerist Christmas. With the artificial fire going and the artificial tree in the living room.

  Veronica opens the windows to the cold night air and lights a joint that Roxy has slipped her earlier in the day to relax with.

  Frankie looks anxiously towards the door.

  Don’t worry. China can’t get out of the bath by herself. And I know she’s all right because I can hear her.

  China is chanting a line from the book: rumpetarumpetaumptera.

  Veronica lights the joint and the sour smell of skunk fills the room. After taking a few puffs she holds it out to Frankie, who refuses it.

  I don’t know how anyone gets through a marriage without drugs, says Veronica.

  Or a Christmas. Don’t you think we should wrap up those presents?

  Suddenly I can’t be bothered. Veronica pulls deeply on the joint. We’re not getting an artificial tree, by the way. Not this year. Just too tacky.

  You were the one worrying about the extravagance. Okay, we’ll get a proper one that will shit pines all over the carpet and which we won’t be able to get out again.

  Daddy said a bad word.

  China has appeared at the doorway, naked, dripping with water, holding a Miffy towel in one hand.

  What are all those toys for? she says, rondel-eyed.

  They are both too stunned to respond.

  You shouldn’t get out of the bath by yourself, says Veronica who stares at China with the joint burning openly in her hand. You could fall and hurt yourself.

  There’s a horrid smell in here.

  Veronica tries to cast the stub of the joint out of the window, but it misses the gap, and bounces back onto the carpet. Frankie rushes to retrieve it and throws the remnant out of the opening.

  Daddy’s been smoking.

  Frankie throws Veronica a look.

  Daddy! You mustn’t smoke! It’s bad for you! You promised.

  Frankie scoops up China and tries to guide her eyes away from the pile of toys and the yawning Christmas stocking.

  I’m sorry, darling, but it was just the one. It’s herbal, so it’s not really bad for you. I don’t really smoke proper cigarettes.

  Why are all these toys here?

  We’re going to give something for charity, for the poor children who Santa sometimes can’t find. Now come on, let�
��s get you into bed.

  He wraps China in the towel and hustles her out of the room. Veronica hurriedly opens the rest of the windows to help fumigate it. She sets about putting all the presents and the stocking away. A few minutes after she has finished, Frankie returns.

  Locking the stable door after the horse has bolted.

  Shit, says Veronica. Shit shit shit.

  It’s not that bad.

  It is that bad. It’s totally that bad. I just fucking killed Santa. While I was blazed. It’s not exactly Parent of the Year, is it?

  Mummy said a bad word, says Frankie.

  Frankie takes Veronica in his arms. She smells pungent.

  She’ll forget all about it. I’ll tell her on Christmas Day it was all a dream. Or something. Children will believe pretty much anything you tell them when all’s said and done.

  I wish adults were like that.

  They are, in my experience.

  Frankie . . .

  Yes?

  Veronica takes a step closer to Frankie and kisses him on the lips. He tastes the acrid aftertaste of the roach.

  Thank you for taking the rap for me.

  Always, Vronky. Always.

  * * *

  At 7 a.m. on Christmas day, China bursts into their bedroom.

  Mummy. Santa came!

  They haul themselves out of bed and make their way to China’s room, the walls hung with pony pictures, posters of Charlie and Lola and Fifi and the Flowertots. Frankie has donned his red Santa cap.

  It takes a full half an hour to unwrap all the presents. In truth, China is tired after the first five minutes and is tossing aside gifts to get on to the next one like a heavy smoker, lighting their next cigarette before the previous one has finished, just like the year before. Exhausted, they stand by a pile of torn, tumbled Christmas wrapping.

  Daddy? Is Santa Claus real? Like, really real?

  Of course he’s real.

  How does he get down the chimney?

  He’s magic.

  Is Jesus real too?

  Yes, he’s real too. Probably.

  Where does Santa buy his presents?

  He doesn’t. His elves make them.

  She seems satisfied with this answer and begins to play with a set of Sylvanian Families, but grows quickly bored.

  Can I watch telly downstairs?

  Don’t you want to play with your presents? says Frankie, barely concealing his irritation.

  It’s okay, poppet, interrupts Veronica. It’s Christmas.

  Can I eat these? asks China.

  She holds up a packet of six mini chocolate elves that were in her stocking.

  I suppose so. But don’t eat them all. There’ll be a lot of food today. You can have three. Okay?

  Okay.

  Promise?

  I promise.

  Clutching the chocolate elves, she leaves the whole pile of detritus, paper and all, on her floor and heads down to the living room. Veronica begins to put the paper into a plastic bin liner. Frankie in the meantime tries to stack the presents into some sort of pile. It takes them fifteen minutes to finish tidying the room. They go back to their bedroom to exchange cards.

  Hold on, before we start. I want to show you something. You get first look.

  Veronica stares at him in puzzlement. Then she sees his hand move up to the bandage on his forehead.

  Is it ready?

  The surgeon said it should be fully healed by today. Ready? It’s my Christmas present to you. A beautiful, unblemished husband.

  You never told me how much it cost you. I hope you went to one of the best.

  Best I could afford. They’re all much of a muchness.

  What should I expect?

  Like I said. Fully healed. It should look perfect.

  Okay.

  Very slowly, Frankie peels the bandage from his head. Veronica is very aware of how her face should look. All the same she can’t stop recoiling slightly when the bandage is removed.

  What do you think? says Frankie.

  Great, says Veronica. It’s really a great job. You look . . .

  She runs out of words. Frankie seizes a mirror and examines himself. The wound is, apparently, and as promised, fully healed. But a not-so-faint blemish remains, from the surgery, almost as purple and distinct as the original.

  That will fade in time, I suppose, says Frankie, squinting at the mark, palpably disappointed.

  Of course it will, says Veronica, half-heartedly.

  Anyway, I love it! I feel like a new man.

  Let’s open our cards, shall we?

  Anxious to move on, Veronica tears open the envelope of her card from Frankie. It depicts Father Christmas coming down the stairs into a warmly coloured sitting room with a blazing fire. At the bottom of the stairs is a small wide-eyed boy, looking up at him, standing next to the Christmas tree which awaits its presents.

  Santa Claus is saying, I’m sorry you’ve seen me, Timmy. Now I’m going to have to kill you.

  Veronica laughs.

  That’s a good one.

  Yeh, Roxy found it for me. She’s good on jokes.

  Now Frankie, leaving the incessant exploration of his new scar with his fingertips, opens the card from Veronica. Hers is always much the same – minimal. A little heart, or a drawing of something, an ‘I love you’ or ‘I love you very much’ – always the same three to five words – and an indeterminate number of kisses.

  The card from Veronica shows a dead robin on its back with ‘May Yours Be a Joyful Christmas’.

  What this? says Frankie

  It’s Victorian, says Veronica. A curiosity. Ironic. You know.

  Funny.

  He opens the card. Inside, written in Veronica’s copperplate are the words, With Love to You. Frankie tosses it to one side, registering it, incorrectly, as the standard offering. He gives Veronica a peck on the cheek and a hug.

  Thanks, darling.

  Already from downstairs they can hear the sound of Peppa Pig blaring from the TV.

  ‘Everybody loves jumping in muddy puddles . . .’

  Why is Daddy Pig such a useless twat? says Frankie.

  Is he? says Veronica, still stuffing glossy paper into the bin bag, and picking up hers and Frankie’s cards.

  He’s well-meaning enough, says Frankie, but he’s stupid. Even for a pig. He doesn’t get anything, does he.

  Did you take a few bites of the carrots and the cookies we left for Santa in the living room? And drink the milk?

  You told me you had already done that.

  No, I didn’t.

  Are you sure?

  Frankie remembers now that he told Veronica that he had already done it because he was meant to have done it and hadn’t, so he’d decided to avoid mentioning his incompetence and go and do it later. And then he forgot.

  Right.

  But you told me you’d done it.

  China probably won’t notice.

  Frankie exchanges glances with Veronica and sees anger sparking in her eyes. He starts towards the door.

  You should probably put the bandage back on. China might, you know . . . be surprised.

  Right.

  Frankie goes to the bathroom and applies a new plaster, then makes his way downstairs to the living room. In front of the fireplace is the plate with cookies, milk and a carrot, which are all entirely untouched.

  China seems oblivious. Her face and hands are covered in chocolate. She is watching Peppa Pig with her usual addict’s intensity. Convinced that she is suitably absorbed, Frankie with a swift movement picks up the milk, cookies and carrot, and heads out of the room again to the kitchen, disposes of the evidence, than goes back up to the bedroom.

  I think we got away with it, he says.

  One thing I ask you to do, says Veronica. One thing.

  Sorry.

  I wrapped all the presents.

  Sorry.

  I went out and got them all.

  I was busy.

  You’re always busy.
/>   Don’t start on me. You fucked up by not hiding the presents.

  There is a silence, while Veronica hopes that Frankie isn’t then going to say what she thinks he’s going to say.

  And on top of that, I paid for them all.

  She nods, as if finally acknowledging something she has known for a long time.

  You know something, Frankie?

  What, Vronky?

  She hesitates. It is, after all, Christmas Day.

  Nothing.

  Fifi and the Flowertots can be heard from the living room in place of Peppa Pig.

  I’ll go and see if she wants some breakfast, says Frankie. Veronica doesn’t reply.

  When he reaches the living room, the chocolate has spread from China’s mouth and hands to the sofa.

  Did you eat just three of the chocolate elves?

  Yes.

  Do you promise?

  Yes.

  She does not take her eyes off the TV.

  Frankie searches around on the floor until he locates the empty cellophane packet that the elves had been factory shrink-wrapped in.

  He holds up the empty packet in front of China.

  You’ve eaten all of them. Haven’t you?

  No.

  Don’t lie to me.

  Not lying.

  Where are the rest of them then?

  Don’t know.

  Frankie kneels down on the floor.

  You know that it’s very, very bad to lie, don’t you?

  Her voice starts to quaver.

  Why?

  He thinks of telling her the story of the ‘boy who cried wolf’ for the umpteenth time, but decides that it will be a waste of time.

  Uncle Nodge told me that you used to be called ‘Frankie the Fib’. Fibbing is the same as lying.

  Uncle Nodge told you that?

  Yes.

  Fibbing isn’t the same as lying, says Frankie, sternly, trying in his mind to work out the distinction.

  What’s the difference?

  Fibbing is tiny little . . . sort of . . . white lies. You don’t mean any harm by them, see. Not like bad lies.

  China nods as if she understands.

  So. Did you eat all the chocolate elves?

  Now, to Frankie’s horror, China bursts into floods of desperate tears. Her whole body shakes. Her eyes become rimmed red and she gasps for breath.

  Moments later, Veronica appears at the door.

  What did you say to her? says Veronica.

  He holds up the pack of empty chocolate elves. She picks up China and holds her over her shoulder but she will not stop crying. It simply becomes more intense. Shamed, Frankie retreats to the kitchen.