Three Christmases: A Things We Never Said short story bonus.

by Nick Alexander

  I licked my lips. This news had produced a curious pick and mix of feelings. There was undoubtedly a fair dose of jealousy in there, but the overriding sensation was one of profound relief. “You should definitely invite them both,” I said.

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Your argument thing is all forgotten now then?”

  “I don’t even remember what it was about.”

  “Really?”

  “I probably could, if I tried. But I’d rather not,” I said. “It was pretty silly.”

  “Right,” April said. “You’re right. Don’t try to remember. And you’ll cook for five, if they come? That’s not a problem?”

  “Three or five, it makes no odds,” I told her. “You still want curry?”

  “Oh, totally. Ronan’s been telling everyone for weeks about our Kerala Curry Christmas.”

  “We may even be six,” I said. “Seven with Jake, of course. I may have to buy a couple of folding chairs.”

  “We can bring those,” April said. “But why? Who else is coming?”

  “Just someone I met,” I told her. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Just a friend who’s alone for Christmas. Someone I feel a bit sorry for. You know.”

  “Go for it,” April said. “Invite whoever you want. It’s your place, Dad, and you’re cooking, after all. Does this mystery friend have a name?”

  “She does,” I said. “Her name’s Cora.”

  “Cora?”

  “It’s Greek. She’s Greek.”

  “Oh,” April said. I could hear the cogwheels turning as she wondered whether to inquire further. “Um, OK. You know, the more the merrier. Should I, um, buy Cora a Christmas present?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Something little, some chocolates or something, but yes. I’m sure she’d be really touched by that.”

  I had met Cora a month previously. I had gone straight from work one evening to quiz night at The Brook, and had arrived early.

  The pub had been almost empty so I had ordered scampi and chips and a pint from the new barmaid. While I’d eaten at the bar, we had chatted.

  Cora was a fifty-something Greek beauty with grey, soulful eyes and a thick Greek accent. She reminded me of the old photos of Maria Callas and had a presence about her that struck me from the moment I saw her.

  There was something solid about her, that was the thing. There was something about the way she held herself, and the way she held your gaze when she spoke, that implied that she knew exactly who she was – she seemed to know where she came from and where she was going.

  Though she was new to the pub, she served me – and those who followed – as if they were old friends she had known forever. There were no fake smiles, no service clichés, learned by rote. But nothing implied that she resented having to serve either. It all seemed totally natural. I liked her immediately even as I struggled to define quite why.

  Between pulling pints, we chatted easily and I asked her how a Greek woman like her came to be pulling pints in a pub in Cambridge. I sensed there was a story there, and I wasn’t wrong.

  Everything was awful back in Greece, she told me, ever since the financial crisis. She’d been a university professor in Thessaloniki – her subject was philosophy – but she’d been laid off due to cutbacks.

  Her brother, a microchip developer, had found work on Cambridge Science Park, and out of work and with no hope of ever finding work, she’d come over to join him.

  She was working two jobs, she told me. She was serving coffee in Starbucks by day and pulling pints in The Brook by night. “I like this better,” she said. “Starbucks is like… you know… a factory line, yes? Sometimes I make coffees for eight hours and I’m saying, please, no more coffee!”

  I had thought about her all week. I had tried again to analyse what it was about her that seemed so different, but other than a certain nobility in the way she held herself, as if the top of her head was attached, by a cord, to the ceiling, and the combination of the gentle smile with those grey eyes, I couldn’t really put my finger on it. There was something interesting, too, I thought, in the way she seemed to approach her life, her changed circumstances, without any hint of resentment.

  A week later, I was back there, even earlier, to chat to her about it.

  “Why would I resent?” she said, matter of factly. “I like it. Life is for experience, and this is all new experience. At first I am trying to find work in the university. But you know, I think this is more happy. And what is life, if not for happy, huh?”

  It was then that I’d asked her what her plans were for Christmas. When she’d told me that she was staying, that Argus – yes her brother’s name was Argus – was going home, but she was staying, I’d known what I had to do. I merely had to run it by April.

  Today, Christmas Day.

  The first people to arrive on Christmas morning, are April, Ronan and Jake. It’s raining gently as they carry their stuff from the car.

  “I’m dreaming of a wet Christmas,” April says, as she dumps her box of wrapped packages next to the tree and pulls down the glistening hood of her parka. “Yuck.”

  “Hello miserable, moaning daughter,” Sean says as he crosses the room while wiping his hands on his blue chef’s apron. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas,” April says, kissing him on the cheek and then wriggling out of her coat. “In full flow, I see,” she adds, nodding towards the kitchen area where every surface is covered with pots and pans and cooking ingredients.

  “Of course,” Sean says. “These things don’t cook themselves.”

  “I’ll give you a hand in a bit.”

  “No thanks.”

  April laughs. She knows only too well how her father hates to have help in the kitchen. “Then I’ll tidy,” she says.

  “Ooh, yes please to that!” Sean replies. “Where are the boys?”

  As he says this, the door to the flat opens and Jake appears, closely followed by a heavily laden Ronan.

  Jake pauses in the centre of the room and looks around. “See, no chim-er-ley,” he says, putting his hands on his hips. “I told you, Dad.”

  “Jake’s extremely concerned about your lack of a chim-er-ly,” Ronan explains. “He’s worried about Santa’s access strategy with his sacks of presents and all.”

  “Oh, well, don’t worry about that,” Sean tells Jake. “He’s already been. Look.”

  He plucks Jake from the floor and carries him, wriggling, to the tree. “He brought all those presents.”

  “But how?” Jake asks.

  “I left a window open,” Sean tells him. “I think he landed on the balcony and just walked straight in. I even put lights out there so he could find us, see?”

  “Did you feed the rain-horses?” Jake asks.

  “The rain-horses?” Sean laughs. “Yes, I did. I left them mince pies and chocolates.”

  Jake nods at this thoughtfully. “Was there any chock-lits left over?”

  “No there weren’t,” April tells him. “But we’ll see if we can find some later.”

  By twelve, when Maggie and Dan arrive, Sean’s three curries are bubbling away nicely and the surfaces have been cleared. The dishwasher is chugging rhythmically.

  Maggie hands Sean her wet umbrella which Sean carries out to the balcony. “Still raining then,” he comments.

  “Just spotting,” Maggie says. “But we walked.”

  “Exercise,” Dan says, flashing the whites of his eyes at Sean and patting his stomach.

  “Yes, we’re trying to walk more,” Maggie says. “So hello everyone! This is Sean, April, Rolan… sorry, Ronan – I always call him that... Brain problems… And Jake. And this is Dan.”

  “Can we open them now?” Jake asks.

  “No,” April tells him. “Not until everyone’s here.”

  “Actually, we can,” Sean tells her. “Cora’s not coming till late. She’s working till two, so…”

  Ronan serves everyone with drinks a
nd once Sean has given Dan a brief guided tour of the apartment, the adults gather in the lounge to hand out the gifts.

  There’s a pullover for Sean and a scarf for Maggie. Some perfume for April and a whole heap of plastic for Jake. It’s standard Christmas fare.

  Within half an hour, Jake is overwrought at the sheer volume of gifts and is showing more interest in the wrapping paper than the gifts themselves. So despite a brief flood of tears, April removes the remaining gifts to the bedroom. “You can open the rest with Cora when she arrives,” she tells her son.

  “I don’t want to,” Jake says, stamping his little feet.

  “Well tough,” April laughs. “Because that’s what’s happening.”

  At two, Sean switches on the rice cooker and starts to lay the pull-out-table. “I’m glad you could come,” he tells Dan, as he hands him a pile of plates. “I know it was a bit last minute, but none of us knew what we were doing for a while.”

  “Oh, you had me at curry,” Dan says. “I was about to buy two ready meals from Iceland.”

  “He so wasn’t,” Maggie comments, rifling in the cutlery drawer for knives and forks. He cooks like Gordon Ramsay.

  “Yeah,” Dan laughs. “It’s a kitchen nightmare and I swear a lot.”

  “Right, that’s all done,” Sean says, once the table has been laid, and decorated by Maggie with tinsel and candles. “Now, if you’ll just excuse me, I’m going to have a Christmas ciggy.”

  “I’ll join you,” Maggie says, following Sean towards the picture window and then out onto the balcony.

  “I’m loving these Christmas lights,” Maggie comments.

  The multicoloured fairy lights that Sean has attached along the underside of the balcony railing are twinkling festively.

  “They’re landing lights for Santa’s sleigh. A bit kitsch, I know, but Jake loves them. That’s the great thing about having children around. No one tells you off for being too Christmassy.”

  As Sean slides the window closed behind them he sees Dan looking momentarily anxious without Mags at his side, but then sees that April has noticed too, and is engaging him in conversation.

  “You haven’t started, I take it?” Sean asks, turning and pointing the cigarette packet at Maggie.

  She shakes her head. “No, and I’m surprised you’re still smoking. You really need to stop that nonsense.”

  “I bought this packet in August,” Sean says. “So, I wouldn’t worry overly.”

  “How nice that you can sit out here when it rains, though,” Maggie comments.

  “Yes,” Sean agrees, glancing up at the balcony above them. “Whoever designed that overhang was spot on.”

  “You’re such a clever pumpkin, aren’t you?”

  Sean winks at Maggie and then lights his cigarette.

  “I just wanted a moment to thank you, properly,” Maggie says. “For inviting us, I mean. I was touched.”

  “Touched?”

  “Yeah… Especially after last Christmas and everything. I am sorry about all of that.”

  “No, I’m sorry about all of that,” Sean says. “I was out of order.”

  “You really weren’t. And it all worked out for the best, actually, so...”

  “Did it?”

  “Yes, it really did. I’ll tell you all about it some day. I’ll tell you about the weird Christmas Day I had.”

  “Tell me what?”

  Maggie wrinkles her nose. “Not now. But I’ll tell you one day. I promise.”

  “So, Dan,” Sean says. “Tell me about Dan.”

  “Ah, Dan,” Maggie says.

  “He seems nice.”

  Maggie laughs at this and Sean suddenly expects that she’s going to tell him all the ways that Dan isn’t nice. He’s had that many conversations about that many men with Maggie in the past. In anticipation, he starts to feel surprisingly angry on her behalf.

  Instead, Maggie says, “You’ve no idea. I think he’s probably the nicest person on the planet. Present company excepted, of course.”

  “Well, thank God for that,” Sean says. “How long have you known him?”

  “Quite a while, actually.”

  “So you’re fairly sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. He’s generous and funny, he’s thoughtful and kind. He’s worried about – well, you know… all the things people are supposed to be worried about.”

  “Which things are people supposed to be worried about?” Sean asks.

  “Oh, you know: the polar bears and the factory farms and what have you. All those poor refugees drowning in the Med. All of it.”

  “A man with a social conscience, then.”

  “Exactly. And he never argues with me, which is a miracle, really.”

  “That is exceptional,” Sean mugs.

  “Of course, I still argue with him,” Maggie says, “but even then he just smiles at me and waits for me to stop. Plus he’s not gay. Which, after Ian, is hugely important.”

  “Hugely! So, sounding a bit like love, here, Mags,” Sean says, fighting an unexpected pique of jealousy.

  Mags frowns lopsidedly as she thinks about this. “I’m smitten,” she says. “I love that word, don’t you? Smitten.”

  “Is smitten more or less than in love?”

  “I don’t know… Oh, I might as well admit it. I’m in love, too. He’s so easygoing. And funny. Did I already say funny? But anyway, enough of Dan. His ears will be burning. Or his head swelling... What about you? April tells me you have a mystery guest coming.”

  “A mystery guest?”

  “A-huh. Cora, is it?”

  “Yes,” Sean says slowly.

  “Are you just friends? Or is this something more?”

  Sean laughs. “I’m not sure, really,” he says. “We’ll see. Early days and all that…”

  “Hum, well… I’m looking forward to meeting her. I feel a bit jealous, actually. A bit protective about you, too.”

  Sean laughs again. “Yes,” he says. “Well, I know those feelings.”

  Maggie reaches out to stroke Sean’s arm. “I know things have been… strange… between us. But I do care about you, you know.”

  “I know, Mags,” Sean says. “Me too.”

  “So, I suppose I had better get in there and quiz her.”

  “And I’d better interrogate Dan!” Sean says. “I hope you’ll like her, anyway. I think you probably will. Shall we?” Sean gestures towards the interior and stubs out his cigarette on the underside of the railing.

  “Yes,” Maggie says. “Let’s.”

  Once everyone is seated, Dan gestures towards the curry bowls and claps his hands. “So tell me about these!” he says. “They smell incredible.”

  “Well, this one’s Kerala chicken,” Sean tells him, tapping the lid of a cook-pot to his right. “That one’s Koottu, which is chickpeas and plantain. And that one’s a mushroom Thoran. They shouldn’t be too spicy, in deference to your girlfriend’s tastebuds.”

  “I like the spices,” Maggie says. “I just don’t like it when I need reconstructive surgery for the roof of my mouth afterwards.”

  “How come I haven’t heard of any of these?” Dan asks. “I mean, I’ve eaten a thousand Biryanis in my time, and quite a few Baltis, but I’ve never heard of Koo… what was it?”

  “Koottu. They’re Kerala recipes, that’s why. It’s a region. On the coast. In the tropics. And the food’s quite different. You’ll see.”

  “Dad grinds all the spices himself,” April explains.

  “Well, if you’re going to follow a Kerala recipe, that’s pretty much the only option. So come on. Dig in! Before it all goes cold. Maybe you can serve that one, Dan? They’re a bit hot to pass around.”

  “You’re sure you don’t want to wait for your friend?” Dan replies.

  “I’m sure,” Sean says. “She could be ages. So go for it.”

  “And Jake?” Maggie asks. “What’s Jake eating?”

  “Oh, he’ll eat some of mine,” April says, jiggling him up and down o
n one knee. “He loves curry, don’t you?”

  Jake nods exaggeratedly. “But I like chock-lit better,” he says.

  “Can almost-three-year-olds eat curry?” Maggie asks.

  “Apparently so,” April says. “But then our paediatrician is called Doctor Patel, so her answer to that particular question was always going to be a foregone conclusion.”

  They have just finished passing their plates back and forth when Sean’s intercom buzzes. “Perfect timing!” he exclaims, jumping up and crossing the room. He buzzes Cora in and then vanishes into the stairwell to greet her.

  “Have you met her?” Maggie whispers to April, nodding towards the door.

  April shakes her head and pulls a nervous face.

  Sean reappears and ushers Cora into the room. “You’re just in time,” he’s saying. “We were just about to eat. Or maybe you already ate, at the pub?”

  “I had a snack, but this smell wonderful,” Cora says, handing Sean her coat and turning to look at the expectant faces around the table. “Hello everyone!” she says, giving a little wave.

  “The presents!” Jake exclaims. “Can we get the other presents now?”

  “After dinner,” April tells him, wrapping one arm around him and yanking him back onto her lap.

  Sean does a round of introductions and then serves a final plate of food for Cora.

  “This is so very nice of you,” she says. “I’m a little bit over... over well?”

  “Overwhelmed?” Maggie offers.

  “Yes, overwhelm.”

  “Sean tells me you’re Greek, yes?”

  “I am.”

  “I loved Greece,” Maggie says causing Sean to raise an eyebrow.

  “I did!” Maggie insists. “It wasn’t the most successful holiday, perhaps, but the place itself was stunning.” She turns back to Cora and continues, “I went years ago. With Sean and Catherine. To the Greek Islands.”

  “The Cyclades,” Sean explains. “Santorini. And Mykonos. Classic stuff.”

  “It was beautiful,” Maggie says. “Especially Santorini.”

  Cora is looking confused. “But not success,” she says. She looks at Sean. “You went together?”