The salesgirl must have misheard ‘neutral’ as ‘natural’, since she pointed out the Nivea Natural Skin Collection – a fortunate error, actually, because Nivea was a reassuring brand, more associated with shower gels and hand creams than with amorous messages, or suggestively saucy subtexts, and so was, in fact, ideal. Tessa used Nivea sun-block on Daisy’s sensitive skin, and he himself had bought their shaving foam last time he was in Boots. ‘Yes, that’ll be perfect, thank you.’
‘Would you like to take advantage, sir, of our free gift-wrapping service?’
He readily agreed, since it would save a trek in search of suitable paper, Sellotape and all the rest of the palaver.
Rejecting the Christmassy-patterned gift-wrap, he opted for a plainish blue, to match Norah’s soulful eyes. And, once the beribboned package was safely in his hands, he mumbled his thanks again and, with a sigh of relief, left the stifling shop. However, he was about to head back home, when a large sign caught his eye:
THIS WAY TO SANTA’S GROTTO!
He dithered for a moment. One part of him was curious to see if Tessa’s glowing description matched the actuality; another part was worried that, without a child in tow, a grown man would be seen as an intruder. On the other hand, did he really want to sit idle in his flat for the next umpteen hours, trying not to clock-watch? The dilemma was solved by the merry sound of Christmas carols, which seemed to summon him inexorably to the grotto; Hark, the Herald Angels even putting a spring in his, admittedly halting, step.
And, yes, there was almost the exact same scene Tessa had described: the elves, the sturdy sleigh, the brace of feisty reindeer, the showers of innocuous snow – the best kind of snow, neither cold, nor messing up his glasses. (Couldn’t specs come complete with windscreen-wipers?) Santa Claus himself was concealed in his inner sanctum, and a long queue of excited children and their parents were waiting their turn to go in. He backed away, nervous of being branded a severe case of arrested development or, worse, a paedophile. But, all at once, he spotted a large red mail-box and stopped dead in his tracks. Will and Daisy had written a letter to Santa and posted it in just such a box and, suddenly he, too, yearned to write one. Forget Teddy bears or dolls or train-sets, forget even the latest video-games – he craved something more elusive, yet of more value than all the toys and games and diversions in the world.
Of course, he would feel decidedly foolish penning such a missive, but who would need to know? So, having found an unobtrusive corner, well away from the crowds, he searched his pockets for a scrap of paper, came up with an old shopping list, scratched out ‘bread, baked beans and toilet-cleaner’ and scrawled a few lines in the blank space underneath, using his large, flat wallet as support.
Dear Father Christmas… . He preferred the traditional term. Santa Claus was the Dutch name and, frankly, the whole Dutch thing always left him cold. Tulips, windmills, dykes, clogs, were hardly the stuff of passion.
… what I’d really like for Christmas is just plain and simple joy.
No – that was a contradiction. Joy, by its very nature, could never be plain and simple, oozing, as it did, extravagance, exuberance, ostentation, hyperbole. Having deleted the phrase, he added, politely, Thank you in anticipation, K. Gibson.
Still embarrassed by his idiocy, he sidled back to the post-box, then, waiting till a cluster of kids had safely moved away, slipped his folded paper through the slot. A cheery recorded voice crowed ‘Thank you!’, from deep inside the box and he realized, to his surprise, that he did indeed feel cheery. And, as he pulled on his gloves in readiness for the trek back to the station, Norah’s alluring alchemy seemed to have penetrated the grubby black wool, making it thicker, warmer, cosier, even cleaner.
He hovered close to the door, aghast at the scrum of people thronging the small newsagent’s – disorganized folk, most likely, remembering only at the eleventh hour that they needed chocolates, gift-wrap, Christmas cards, before everything shut down tomorrow. Norah was there, thank God, but without her usual assistant, and thus coping single-handed with the queue of impatient customers. Nonetheless, she appeared remarkably sanguine – which could hardly be said of him. He had stupidly imagined that, on Christmas Eve, they would have the shop almost to themselves. The last thing he wanted was a bunch of curious strangers watching as he handed over her gift. They might snigger at the sight of him – a guy in his mid-fifties, who hadn’t even worn that well – making advances to a woman who, although probably not much younger in terms of actual years, looked sprightlier altogether. And today she had obviously taken trouble to reflect the festive season; her comely curves accentuated by a red-and-green-checked frock, and her not-quite-greying hair adorned with strings of tinsel.
Deliberately, he hadn’t dressed up. Norah had never seen him in anything but his shabby cords and drab brown anorak, and, were she to guess he’d tried to transform himself from frump to fashion plate, solely in her honour, he knew he’d feel a fool. Now, however, he regretted the fact that he hadn’t at least splashed out on a new shirt, or one of those jokey Christmas jumpers that seemed all the rage at present. He also wished he had timed his visit much nearer to closing-time, when they might have had more privacy. Perhaps he could even have persuaded Norah to let him walk her home.
No, that was a fantasy too far. Probably best for him to go home and forget the whole idea of her gift. Suppose she didn’t recognize him? – an agonizing prospect, but not impossible. After all, the last few times he’d popped into the shop, to buy his usual Daily Mail, there had been only a vague nod from her; no acknowledgment of him as ‘the lost-gloves man’, deeply in her debt. Indeed, he had felt a certain sense of pique that his ardent devotion hadn’t merited so much as a ‘Good morning’.
Disconsolately, he slunk through the door and out into the street, only to turn straight round and re-enter, as a new idea occurred to him. He could ask her advice about chocolates for his mother, and that might spark a longer and more personal chat. His poor old Mum had passed away ten years ago, in fact, but Norah wouldn’t know that. And he could always give the chocolates to his sister – as well as Norah’s gift-set, which, he now decided, was too ostentatious in these unpropitious circumstances.
As he joined the queue, he thought up a little spiel: his mum preferred milk chocolates to plain and would love something rather special: a luxury brand like Lindt, maybe, or even hand-made chocolates, or a personalized box, imprinted with her name… .
No, he was getting carried away, as usual. A small, modest shop like Martin’s would probably stock nothing more ambitious than Black Magic or Milk Tray. Anyway, the brand was immaterial – the important thing was to sound spontaneous and casual, then gradually move the conversation from his mother to himself, in the hope of engaging Norah’s interest. The present could wait; the first step in his campaign was simply to make her conscious of his presence. Yet his nervousness was mounting as the feckless customers in front of him fumbled for their purses, or dropped their change on the floor, or used credit cards that the machine refused to accept. At this rate, the object of his devotion might begin to lose her cool, or even insist on shutting up shop at the official closing-time and refuse to serve the last few people in the queue. However, as far as her outward demeanour went, she still seemed the soul of patience, cheerfully smiling at some ancient crone, who was trying to pay for her purchases with a slow and shambling succession of one- and two-penny pieces.
And, miraculously, she was still smiling when, at last, he reached the head of the queue.
‘Oh, Ken, I’m really glad to see you!’ she exclaimed.
His mouth dropped open in astonishment. She had not just recognized him, she had even remembered his name – which he’d told her only in an awkward mumble as she was about to leave his flat, after handing over his gloves.
‘You see, I have this tiny thing for you.’
His amazement increased a hundredfold, as, reaching under the counter, she came up with a small, holly-printed, china bowl, adorned
with a red bow, and containing, of all things, a rather splendid-looking Christmas pudding.
‘It’s home-made,’ she told him, pushing it into his hands. ‘I always make a batch of them for customers and friends, and I wanted you to have one.’
This was the stuff of fantasy and, for a moment, he feared he must be inventing the whole scenario, indulging in his habitual make-believe. But, no, the china bowl was undoubtedly real, as it sat cool and heavy on his palm, and his pleasure and surprise were so rip-roaringly real they had affected his power of speech. ‘Th … thank you,’ he stuttered, aware, all at once, that here was his perfect opportunity instantly to reciprocate – and to hell with what people might think. ‘And I … I have a tiny thing for you,’ he countered, his king-sized smile all but obstructing the words. Withdrawing the gift-wrapped package from the depths of his old shopping-bag, he passed it across the counter.
‘Oh, Ken, how lovely! It looks exciting. But, really, you shouldn’t have.’
‘It’s nothing,’ he said, with a deprecating shrug. ‘Just, you know, a token, to thank you for returning my gloves.’
He could have continued this exchange for hours, for days, for centuries – maybe dared to use her name: a Norah in return for the two Kens. However, some irate female behind him was muttering ‘Get a bloody move on!’, even poking him in the back, for heaven’s sake.
No matter. As he thanked Norah again and left the shop, nothing could dent his elation. She hadn’t given a Christmas pudding to anyone else in the queue, which meant he must be special in some way. And that fact alone was enough to transform the overcast and lowering sky into a glittering vista of resplendent, radiant stars.
He didn’t bother with a turkey, of course, let alone ‘all the trimmings’, to borrow the phrase from his local’s Christmas menu. Norah’s pudding was sufficient unto itself as the alpha and omega of this super-special Christmas dinner. He had laid the table with a festive Tesco’s paper cloth, and a CD of Christmas carols (free in last week’s Mail) was playing softly in the background. He had even dressed for the occasion, in his smartest trousers and a crisp white shirt.
He checked the time by the kitchen clock. Dear, kind, thoughtful Norah had enclosed a printed slip at the bottom of the bowl, instructing him to re-heat the pudding for either three minutes in the microwave, or twenty minutes in a pan of boiling water on the hob. He had opted for the hob and, indeed, the eager sound of bubbling was increasing his sense of anticipation.
On the dot of one o’clock, he dished it up, inverting it on to his one-and-only real Royal Doulton plate – a treasure from a charity shop. Norah had made him the pudding with her own sweet, chubby hands, which meant this Christmas would outshine any other in his life, because it proved she felt something for him.
‘Look, she makes a whole batch every year,’ a cynical voice inside him sneered, ‘so you’re just one of many recipients – not special in any way, or singled out. Or she may be the bleeding-heart type, who deliberately gives her puddings only to poor, pitiable old souls, like loners, or no-hopers, or doddery, disabled folk. She must have noticed you walk with a limp and—‘
‘No!’ he all but shouted, refusing to spoil this once-in-a-lifetime occasion with negative speculations.
Having tossed all cynical voices into the waste-bin, to moulder with yesterday’s potato peelings and this morning’s soggy teabags, he seated himself at the table and, with due solemnity, took his first mouthful of the richly fruited pudding. A veritable kaleidoscope of taste-and-texture sensations fought for glorious supremacy in his mouth: the mellifluous moistness of sultanas, the sweet-sharp tang of candied peel, the zing of brandy, the crunch of nuts. And his eyes and ears were likewise engaged, in the jewel-like gleam of glace cherries, and the soft strains of Silent Night. He sat, in a happy trance, listening, as the next carol, God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen, cresecendoed through the room. And, when the choir embarked on the refrain: Oh, tidings of comfort and joy, he seized immediately, triumphantly on that last, important word.
Joy! Yes! Here and now, in his small and steamy kitchen, and on Christmas Day, of all days; a day to be endured, most years, rather than enjoyed. And this rare and blessed experience far surpassed enjoyment – it was very nearly bliss – equal, in fact to his six-year-old self’s first sighting of the sea, and equal to the proud pout-whiting he’d caught off Brighton Pier, equal to the adder swimming purposefully towards him, across the River Wey; perhaps even better than all three put together, because it was his first taste of joy as an adult.
Of course, despite his euphoric state, he couldn’t go as far as to believe in Father Christmas, let alone a maverick one who would have time to answer a grown-up’s letter, when millions of children were clamouring for toys. But he could believe in romance, and, as he swallowed another spoonful of the luscious, love-filled pudding, he dared to believe in joy, as well – more joy, in the future. Secure in the knowledge that Norah had thought about him, cooked for him, even remembered his name, his confidence was growing like the proverbial beanstalk.
He closed his eyes, better to savour a delectable titbit of dried fig, adhering to his teeth in the same sweetly persistent manner as he hoped Norah would cling to him, one day. Clearly, though, some positive action was required to ensure such an outcome, so, eyes still ecstatically shut, he made a New Year’s resolution in advance: he was going back, the very instant the shop re-opened, to invite her out for a romantic, joyous dinner.
Magical Numbers
‘Oh, shit! I’m terribly sorry.’ Lynne gazed in horror at the splotches of red wine already soaking into the man’s white shirt – a total stranger, and one who obviously took trouble with his clothes. More wine was trickling down his stylish dove-grey trousers, staining those, as well. ‘I can’t apologize enough. It was my fault entirely.’ Crass idiocy on her part to turn to look over her shoulder while carrying two full glasses back from the bar. She’d been distracted by the barman’s hair-do – glaringly peroxided, stiffly gelled and standing up in an exuberant quiff – but that was no excuse. It had made a collision more or less inevitable, and now she and this poor hapless bloke were standing in a small claret-coloured pool.
One of the bar staff was already headed in their direction, with a floor-cloth and a mop, and several customers nearby were watching the scene with interest, further increasing her embarrassment. The man himself, however, seemed remarkably sanguine; no angry outbursts, no recriminations.
‘Don’t worry – it’s OK,’ he said, wiping himself down in a calm, methodical fashion, with a large white handkerchief as pristine as his once-immaculate shirt.
‘Let me help,’ she offered, rummaging in her bag for some tissues, only to find she’d come out without them.
‘No, honestly, I’m fine. It’s such a warm evening, my clothes will dry in no time. And tomorrow morning, I’ll take them to the cleaners, so no harm done.’
‘Well, at least let me pay the cleaning bill.’
‘I wouldn’t hear of it!’
‘But I must do something,’ she insisted, raising her voice above a burst of raucous laughter. Mercifully, the adjoining customers had stopped gawping at her discomfiture and resumed their conversation. ‘I feel such a clumsy idiot.’
‘It was an accident, that’s all. But if you’d like to buy me a drink some time, I certainly shan’t object.’
‘Of course. What would you like, wine or—?’
‘I didn’t actually mean now. And aren’t you with someone already? You were carrying two glasses.’
‘Just a couple of girls from the office. I’m sure they won’t mind, if I go and explain.’
The man glanced at his watch. ‘I ought to be off any minute, so could we make it later this week? How about Friday?’
‘Perfect. Where and when?’
Having arranged to meet at seven in this same pub, he belatedly introduced himself, handing her his business card.
She gave it a quick glance: Andrew Edwards, Data Analyst. ‘And I’
m Lynne Forster,’ she said, scribbling her phone number on a beer-mat, in the absence of a card.
‘Great! See you Friday, Lynne.’
The minute he’d gone, she returned to Emma and Nathalie, in the far corner of the lounge bar, and regaled them with the story.
‘But you don’t know the guy from Adam,’ Emma objected. ‘Suppose he’s a raging pervert or serial murderer.’
‘He’s hardly likely to murder me in a crowded pub on a busy London street, in full daylight.’
‘Oh, come on, Lynne. You know what I mean.’
‘I bet he’s tall, dark, handsome and filthy rich,’ Nathalie put in, ‘so Lynne’s simply making sure she’s in with a chance!’
‘If you really want to know, he was about five-feet-eight, with mouse-coloured hair and rather unflattering glasses. To be perfectly frank, he looked a bit of a nerd.’
‘So why meet him?’ Emma demanded.
‘It’s the least I can do. I mean, he said he had to leave and, if he’s off to some other engagement, it could be jolly awkward for him turning up all wine-bespattered,’
‘Talking of wine, we’re still waiting for our second drinks,’ Nathalie reminded her. ‘And, if you disappear completely this time, we’ll assume you’ve collided with someone really hot and he’s whisked you back to his Chelsea penthouse for champagne and caviar!’
‘I should be so lucky!’ Although she wouldn’t admit it, least of all to waspish Emma, she did feel a faint ripple of excitement about meeting Andrew again. OK, he might not make the grade in terms of his appearance, but his unruffled demeanour had struck her forcibly, especially in contrast to the aggressive, vituperative men she seemed to have met of late. Besides, if nothing else, it would make a change from drinks with her two work-mates, whom she saw enough of in the office, as it was.
‘Fancy a drink this evening?’ Emma asked, pausing by her desk.
‘Sorry, I’m meeting Andrew.’
Bad Mothers Brilliant Lovers Page 3