A Christmas Gift

by Sue Moorcroft

  ‘Nobody would have guessed how things would end up,’ Georgine said, as if reading his mind. ‘After several strokes, he has a crooked arm, a crooked smile, but a battling heart. His flat has a pull-cord if he needs assistance and he has a cleaner and other help.’

  He nodded, almost embarrassed to realise he was glad his mum didn’t still live here, feeling a curious mixture of relief for his parent and pity for Georgine’s. Was that the way she’d felt all those years ago? Sort of self-conscious at having so much when some people had so little?

  Maybe he’d become too pleased with himself over his bit of philanthropy in shoring up funding at Acting Instrumental. He’d made sure there was a sturdy community programme for weekends and holidays with big discounts for kids from poorer backgrounds, but Middledip was four or five miles away from the Shetland estate. He should have provided transport. He’d talk to Oggie about it.

  ‘What?’ Georgine said, interrupting his uncomfortable thoughts. ‘You look like you’ve just eaten a pin.’

  He shivered in the wind. ‘Just thinking.’

  ‘Not particularly pleasant thoughts, judging by your expression.’ She nodded in the direction of a yellow-brick building. ‘Ralph’s place is in Swallow House over there. I’m hoping he’ll know how we can get a vehicle closer. It’s not clear on Google Earth.’

  He fell into step as she set off down a concrete path cast in a brick-like pattern. ‘I don’t remember a Swallow House.’

  ‘It’s new. Much lower rise than what it replaced.’ She glanced his way. ‘Has your old home survived?’

  He’d wondered the same. ‘Can’t see from here. It’s no loss, if not. It was the scruffiest place on a scruffy estate.’

  They passed the grassy area, where children still shrieked over their game. In Joe’s day – or Rich Garrit’s day – the only greenery had grown through the cracks in the concrete area designed for washing lines and dustbins, but also used as a hang out.

  Swallow House was the other side of the green. Ralph’s flat was on the first floor but there was a lift. ‘Good news,’ Georgine observed, when she’d pressed the button and the lift arrived.

  Ralph, who looked to be in his late sixties, opened his door with a smile on his seamed face. He sported two cardigans, one over the other. ‘Come in, come in! If you can,’ he added, grinning at a mountain of cardboard boxes and black bin bags. ‘I’ll be glad to get this lot out of my little flat. I’ve tried to put all the Christmas stuff together.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Georgine said, surveying the pile with wide eyes.

  Ralph told them to bring their cars up on the grass outside. ‘Everybody does. How would we pack our cars up for holidays, otherwise?’ There followed a couple of hours of strenuous work as they filled first Georgine’s Fiesta and then Joe’s GLA to bursting.

  Even with both sets of rear seats folded down Joe wasn’t convinced they were going to get everything in, especially with Ralph puffing instructions such as, ‘Don’t squash that! It’s a big bleedin’ bauble and you’ll dent it.’

  Several passers-by spoke to Ralph as they worked. Joe was uneasy, half-expecting to know one of them. Ralph was old enough to have known Garrit. Might know him yet. He didn’t tell Ralph he’d used to live on the Shetland estate, though he took a quiet satisfaction in seeing from the windows of the flat that the row of pale brick, flat-roofed houses he’d lived in had been replaced by maisonettes.

  As the short winter day began to wane, lights came on over the walkways. It reminded Joe of when hardly a lamp had been left whole and mothers kept their kids indoors as the local miscreants slunk out of the shadows. He stepped up his pace, keen to load up and get the hell out.

  ‘You’re very quiet. Are you OK?’ Georgine whispered to him as they squashed sacks of costumes into the front passenger seat of his car, now beginning to bear a resemblance to the vehicles the band had half lived in before they began to make money.

  ‘Sure,’ he answered briefly.

  When every sack and box was crammed in somewhere, they took their leave of Ralph then clattered downstairs, feeling no need to take the lift without a burden to transport.

  Georgine fished out her car keys. ‘I’ll meet you back at Acting Instrumental.’

  ‘Yep.’ He placed his hand onto his door handle.

  She hovered closer. ‘Have you been battling ghosts all afternoon?’

  He managed a smile at her perceptiveness. ‘I’m a big boy now but it’s uncomfortable to remember the old gang. The fights.’ The thumps from Garrit.

  Compassion shone from her eyes. ‘I suppose I didn’t see much of that side of you.’

  ‘Good. I didn’t want you to.’ Just as he didn’t want her to know about him landing one on Billy. ‘I’m glad there’s an improvement to the standard of living for the kids now. I’d forgotten how hopeless I felt here, seeing no way out.’

  ‘Thank you for facing your ghosts so you could help me this afternoon.’ Georgine gave him a quick hug, then broke away, flushing as if embarrassed at her impulsiveness. Or as if she too had felt the heat that had flashed between them.

  Joe couldn’t speak.

  As JJ Blacker he was used to being on view on stage, in the music press, even on TV.

  What he wasn’t used to was the sensation of someone really seeing him, clear through to his heart and soul.

  Someone who knew the worst of him and didn’t mind.

  Chapter Twenty

  On Sunday morning, Joe jumped awake as if anxiety had bounced on the end of his bed.

  He forced his eyes to remain closed, trying to kid himself that he didn’t feel twitchy about meeting the band at Pete’s today. He’d see Billy for the first time since his explosion of temper. Shame was like a slimy area in his heart. Whatever the meeting brought, however tense it got, even if everyone aligned themselves with Billy to oust Joe from The Hungry Years, he would not stoop to violence again. It was never the solution.

  Sleep having deserted him, he got up and dressed in his tattiest jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt with a thick sweatshirt on top. Then he left the apartment, jogging through the thin winter air down the steps and around to the main entrance to the new building where he knew he could switch off the alarm. Then he found the nearest rehearsal room with a drum kit, threw off the practice pads, grabbed the heaviest drumsticks from a nearby box and on seeing the sound system had airplay, paired it with his phone. Seating himself on the stool, he pulled the snare drum a smidgen closer, then located his favourite playlist on his phone.

  One spin of his sticks as the first track hit the air, Green Day’s ‘16’, and he hit the skins, throwing himself into the boom-catta-cha-cha rhythm. The track ended and he threw off his sweatshirt, warmed by the physical effort of beating the drums and cymbals, calming a bit for the quieter passages of ‘Nicotine’ by Panic! at the Disco then getting completely taken over by the manic, train-like rhythm of My Chemical Romance’s ‘I’m Not OK (I Promise)’.

  By the time it had finished, he was beginning to relax. He switched off the sound system and dropped the sticks back in the box, restoring the practice pads to the snare and toms.

  Then he moved on to the piano and idled away half an hour on the strict tempo exercises Shaun used to give him – legato quavers in the left hand and staccato crotchets in the right, not that hard for someone who knew the limb independence of a drummer. He stopped, absently using the hem of his T-shirt to wipe fingerprints from the black keys.

  A slow, deep breath, then he returned his fingers to the keys and began the introduction to – his version of – ‘Running on Empty’.

  Inside I’m pinched

  My skin is chill

  I don’t need the nurse

  I’m not ill

  Dizzy and stupid

  But not thick

  I don’t need the nurse

  I’m not sick

  He moved into the chorus.

  I’m sorry, lady

  I’m sorry I stole

  Have you ever be
en hungry?

  Ashamed?

  Alone?

  He stopped. Closed his eyes, remembering that day in Tesco. He’d been eleven. Someone in the gang said it was time he ‘showed he wouldn’t put up with starving’ and stood outside while Joe went in with his heart banging around in his chest. A woman caught him sliding a pork pie into his pocket and set up a fuss. His voice had squeaked out. ‘I’m sorry, lady, but I’m ever so hungry.’ Suspicion and pity had warred in her eyes until he couldn’t stand it.

  Then it had been too late to take advantage of her moment of indecision because the sweaty security man in a blue shirt and a peaked cap had hauled him into the manager’s room. They’d rung the police. He’d sat frozen on an orange plastic chair, dizzy and scarcely breathing, like a bird caught in a snare.

  All he knew about the police had been learned from his fellow gang members. The police locked you up, treated you with contempt. The instant the office door had opened to let the two police officers in he’d thrown himself at the gap between their legs and the door, hardly feeling the bumps and scratches as they tried to stop him.

  His shirt tore and he was free. He’d raced through the store, dodging another security guy at the big glass doors, then across the car park – from where the older gang member was now conspicuously absent – and flown through the streets until he came to a grassy patch where two roads met. There, he’d dropped to the ground, his legs giving out from lack of food. Or from shame.

  Shame that had never left him.

  Luckily, there had been food at home that night and he’d eaten as much as he could fit in without feeling the back of Garrit’s hand or depriving Chrissy.

  The next time his mother’s chaos or Garrit’s bullying caused food to be withdrawn, he’d returned to Tesco in a jacket with pockets big enough to supply him and Chrissy. But he’d made sure nobody caught him. Humiliated he might be, but at least now he had a full stomach.

  His fingers moved over the keys again, taking comfort from the easy, well-known tunes that Shaun used to teach him: ‘Für Elise’ and ‘Hallelujah!’. Finally, calmer, he pulled his sweatshirt back on, made sure everything was as he’d found it, set the alarm and left.

  Back in his apartment he showered and dressed in black jeans and a favourite shirt. Then he did what he probably should have done more often. He rang Shaun, connecting his ear buds so he could drop the phone in a pocket and make himself toast while they talked.

  ‘Hey, kid.’ Shaun sounded pleased to hear from him. It was evening in Sydney and he and Louise were chilling after dinner.

  His uncle was one of the most unflappable people Joe knew though, so now he’d decided to make contact, he didn’t hold back. ‘Can I run something by you? I’m at a bit of a crossroads with the band.’

  ‘Go for it,’ Shaun said easily.

  So Joe, between mouthfuls of hot buttered toast, recounted the whole story, not glossing over the moment he’d lost control of his fists. What Jerome had said, and Nathan, Raf and Liam. How he’d enjoyed stepping away from the madness and losing himself at Acting Instrumental. What he did there.

  Shaun listened. Asked questions like, ‘What do you want most?’

  ‘If I knew that …’ Joe laughed. ‘All I’ve decided at the moment is not to decide.’

  ‘Good decision.’ Shaun’s voice was soothing. ‘Don’t rush into anything, Joe. The rest of the guys will have their agendas, but keep your eye on your own. If you need more time, say so.’ He paused. ‘Maybe you could go into the meeting with a game plan. Some compromise you could offer to move things in the direction you’d like.’

  Struck by this good sense, Joe poured himself coffee. ‘Thanks. Great thought.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Shaun’s end of the conversation became muffled, then he came back on. ‘Louise says come and spend Christmas in Oz with us.’

  A warm feeling settled in Joe’s chest and he found himself smiling. ‘I’d love it, but I need to be here for the show. I’m to go through a ton of old costumes and props tomorrow to inventory anything to do with Christmas or gangsters.’

  Shaun grunted a laugh. ‘I hope the kids and the staff know what they’re getting in you.’

  ‘They don’t. That’s the pleasure of it. I’m Joe Blackthorn, I can set up lights and sound. I’m assistant to the events director.’ Never dissembling when it came to Shaun, he added, ‘The events director is someone I used to know at school. The posh kid who was my friend.’

  ‘I remember you telling me about her.’ Shaun sounded interested. ‘Has she grown up into a posh woman?’

  ‘She’s grown up differently than I’d have expected,’ Joe admitted. ‘Her dad lost all his money so she’s had to make her own way. It hasn’t stopped her being a good person though.’ They chatted for a few moments more about Joe’s role at Acting Instrumental, and when the call ended Joe felt grounded by his uncle’s quiet good sense and more prepared to face whatever the day brought.

  It wasn’t until he was driving down the M11 and mulling over Shaun’s words about having a game plan that he realised he’d committed, at least mentally, to being around for A Very Kerry Christmas in show week.

  A couple of hours later, having enjoyed putting his car and its sat nav through their paces on the journey to Blackheath, he turned onto the drive of Pete’s big, ivory-coloured Georgian detached house on the gated Cator estate, with its fascinating mix of traditional houses and grand designs. Pete had moved his wife, Luanne, and their two boys there from a smaller place in Putney and brought his office under the same roof from Hammersmith. Blackheath was a gorgeous place to live, he could get from the station to London Bridge in half an hour and it was a cinch to get his acts into the On Blackheath festival. The house had come with the kind of price tag it could be hard to distinguish from the estate agent’s phone number.

  Joe had barely locked the car when the glossy red front door opened and Pete emerged, closing the door behind him before strolling down the steps. ‘Joe. Great to see you.’

  ‘How are you?’ Joe replied, not quite able to pretend it was great to see Pete. In fact, the chilly climate affecting him had more to do with Pete than the winter.

  Pete scratched where his steel-grey quiff dangled over his forehead. ‘I’ll be better when we’ve got this situation sorted. Anything you want to ask me before we go in? Or say?’

  Joe shook his head and Pete ushered him up the steps, taking his coat, complimenting his new car and being affable as he ushered him along the hall and beneath the staircase, then through a door to what had once been a coach house but was now Pete’s workspace. A door in the far corner led to a smaller office with a couple of desks, but the main office reminded Joe of a lounge-diner, boasting sofas and armchairs around a coffee table in one half and a rectangular meeting table with eight chairs around it in the other.

  Currently decorating one sofa were Liam and Raf; Nathan and Billy had taken the other. Joe paused just inside the door.

  For a frozen moment it seemed as if everybody was waiting for a lead. Then all four band members jumped up; Liam, Raf and Nathan tripping over each other as they hugged Joe or shook his hand and slapped his shoulder.

  Last came Billy. His platinum-blond dead-straight hair fell into his eyes and his skinny jeans made his legs look like liquorice sticks, shiny and thin. He halted in front of Joe and they eyed one another. Then Billy offered his hand. ‘Friends, man? Didn’t mean to piss you off.’ A ghost of a smile crossed his face. ‘Had a few problems to take care of and I got unreasonable.’

  Whatever was to happen from here on, Joe knew acting on the olive branch was key. He took Billy’s hand and let himself be pulled into a man-hug. ‘Sorry I hit you. The red mist descended.’

  Billy rolled his eyes. ‘Luckily, there was no lasting damage to my amazing good looks.’

  Everyone laughed and the atmosphere warmed a degree or two. Joe took an armchair. Pete’s assistant, Marek, a squat man with a jutting beard, got everybody coffee, placing a plate of biscuits on
the coffee table before vanishing into the other office and closing the door.

  ‘OK,’ Pete began. He whooshed out a breath as if he were a weightlifter preparing to lift. ‘In a nutshell …’ Then he proceeded to set out the areas of acrimony, taking a good fifteen minutes longer than needed, which would have made even a coconut shell burst at the seams.

  Joe listened, nodding occasionally.

  ‘I think everyone with an apology to make has made it,’ Pete concluded, not looking at either Joe or Billy. ‘So let’s take things forward. My first concern is that we stick to the March launch date for the album, to support the tour. The label wants to get into production, obviously.’

  ‘That’s my first concern, too,’ Billy put in, leaning forward as if he wanted to rush off and launch the album with his bare hands.

  ‘My first concern is the content of the album,’ Joe said quietly.

  Nathan played with a button on his shirt. ‘I want it settled whether Joe’s still with us. It affects the tour, the promo, everything.’

  ‘Me, too,’ chorused Liam and Raf.

  Joe nodded in acknowledgement, though as he didn’t know what he wanted, resolving that particular concern might be tricky.

  ‘OK, good.’ Pete wrote several notes on a pad balanced on his knee. ‘So would it be fair to say that if we can sort out Joe’s concern, the content of the album, the other two items would fall into place?’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Billy, Nathan, Liam and Raf.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Joe.

  Five pairs of eyes swivelled in his direction.

  ‘But it’s a good starting point,’ he added.

  Pete tapped his pen, regarding Joe with a frown. ‘Then maybe you’d like to say what would need to happen for you to be in accord with the rest of the band?’

  ‘I don’t have a ready answer.’ Joe looked around at the faces he knew almost as well as his own. ‘Sorry. I’ve given it loads of thought but I can’t say, “If you want me in the band, I’ll stay”. Album content was only part of what led up to the argument, and it’s bothering me.’