by Shawna Lewis
Michael rearranged his face into an attitude of concern. Dorothy dabbed her upper lip with the tissue.
“It’s not going to be much of a Christmas. David here can’t work and he’s having to stop with me… and I’ve only the folding bed for him to sleep on with his bad leg and all!”
Michael chanced a quizzical look at her son.
“Been thrown out,” Dave grudgingly admitted. “Daft bat of a wife went off her rocker. A misunderstanding.”
Michael’s earlier cheer waved goodbye and disappeared down the hallway, but it was another fifteen minutes before he was able to follow suit. After a short prayer, he was glad to be out of there. Dorothy and Dave were glad to see the back of him, and returned to their self-pity.
*
The minister forced himself to whistle ‘Joy to the World’ as he pedalled the final half-mile back to the manse, and by the time he dismounted he was singing at full Methodist throttle, “Let Heav’n and nature Sing!” Not only was the joyful celebration of Christ’s birth imminent: he had glimpsed his Marina and would be near her again on the 27th. Pushing his wet bicycle through the front gate he stopped, took a penknife from his pocket, and cut a sprig of holly from the tree at the side of the path. This year he would deck the hall… fa-la la la la! …for now he had reason to be jolly … fala, fa-la!
Not forgetting, of course, the birth of Our Lord.
That evening, he settled down to plan his Christmas services with fresh gusto, renewed faith and glowing satisfaction. He remembered why he had chosen this path in life. His congregation would, this Christmas, see him through unclouded eyes.
11
Aidan rang as his train pulled into the city, news having reached him of a lightning strike by bus drivers – something to do with a case of unfair dismissal. The branch line to Denswick had been axed long ago, so the student was stranded.
Belinda didn’t drive much, beyond the library, supermarket and her parents’ home, all in Denswick, only three miles distant. It was years since she’d taken the car into the city. It was easier to let her husband do all the driving than listen to each sharp intake of breath whenever she took the wheel, but Doug was still in Sunderland so today she must do it herself.
She must brave the heaving high roads and surging city streets. She planned her route, psyched herself up, calmed herself down, equipped the car with shovels, chains, blankets, hot drinks, torch and a brand new sat nav, and set off. Her boy needed her.
Reaching the city was not too complicated, but the correct exit from the ring road eluded her until the fourth circuit. Her head pounded. She suppressed the urge to stop the car mid-carriageway and shout, “I give up!”
At last she spotted the opposing arrows denoting a railway station and, following the signs, found herself under a Victorian stone canopy at the tail-end of a fifteen-long queue of black cabs. Other cabs followed hard upon the hatchback, trapping it in.
*
He was there, behind the queue and the haphazard standers-around-with-luggage. She stepped one foot onto the tarmac, waved and coo-eed at her son, swelling with pride and relief that he had survived and come home to her all-consuming love.
Aidan continued to look the other way. She couldn’t catch his attention, and the taxi drivers were getting agitated, gesticulating and swearing in a multiplicity of languages. The hand holding the mobile phone to the young man’s ear was not visible to his mother, who, seeing the movement of his lips, fondly imagined her son to be singing Christmas carols along with the Salvation Army band ding-donging merrily on the station concourse.
The chorus of taxi horns drowned out the voice in Aidan’s ear. He spotted his mother making an exhibition of herself by parking on a taxi rank and coo-eeing so everyone could hear. God! She was such an embarrassment! Pretending they weren’t related, he threw his rucksack and bags into the boot before climbing into the back seat. Not even a kiss for his desperate mother – just a grunt of acknowledgement. She searched for his face in the rear view mirror, but he avoided her eyes by closing his. She fired questions at him in surging disappointment, while Aidan feigned sleep. Belinda told herself that the poor lamb was exhausted; all would be well when they reached home.
Once there, her son barely looked at his sister, who had washed her hair and put on new mauve eyeshadow for the occasion, but went straight to his room. There he lay on his bed, headphones on, hoping to recover from his end-of-term hangover and longing for the girl he’d fallen in love with the previous evening. If only he could remember her name! Maybe he’d put it into his phone but he was too tired to check through his 214 stored contacts just then. Zoe, was it? Or Chloe? Or even Joey? His longing was not enough to keep him awake.
Downstairs, Melanie and her mother drank coffee in disappointed silence.
*
Doug returned for Christmas and things seemed almost normal. Their son was preoccupied, but not hostile; the gap which had opened up between him and the rest of the family grieved everyone but the young man himself. When gifts were exchanged on Christmas morning, his thanks were tepid and no recompense for the hours spent searching for the perfect present. His own offerings had been purchased from a single website, delivered in a green van on Christmas Eve and handed out in their original packaging. Effort expended: minimal. Belinda pretended not to notice, but she did, and she minded terribly.
The family celebrations followed their annual pattern: the grandparents frailer each year, less jolly, more complaining or confused. For Belinda, there would be three big meals to cook, for nowadays they took the Boxing Day meal ready-prepared to Doug’s family in Derbyshire. With Marnie expected on the 27th an extra feast was needed, and Belinda was excited by this divergence from the norm.
12
The first bus to Denswick left the city at 9.15, arriving outside the library fifty-five minutes later. It was a chilly morning. On a bench across the road, Michael Batty waited, well wrapped up against the cold. When the bus arrived, no-one alighted. Michael helped a young woman on with a baby buggy, and the bus surged away. It would be an hour before the next one. He was not disheartened but cocked his leg over the crossbar and pedalled home to get warm.
Fifty minutes later he was back, and this time he was in luck. Sitting on the bench was Samantha from the swimming baths, fully-clothed in cherry-red anorak and jeans. Meeting someone out of context is always a puzzle, but after a few false starts they established each other’s identity and cracked the traditional joke about not recognising people with their clothes on. An awkward pause followed, for Michael was positive that when he first sat down, Samantha had been weeping quietly.
He had joined the ministry partly because of his faith, but also because he was a compassionate man who wanted to help mankind. He was not one to pass by on the other side of the road, although it is true that mankind sometimes crossed to the other side to avoid him. Samantha, however, had become acquainted with him in a manner not reliant on eye contact, and felt his honest concern. When her tears returned, the minister gently asked if he could help.
A tale of lost love and lost child emerged. Samantha had fallen in love with a man from Serbia, who had entered this country in the back of a lorry full of timber. They planned to marry – indeed the man, Drago, had moved into her one-bedroomed flat above a hairdresser’s and a child was conceived.
*
Sadly, the trauma of Drago’s arrest, detention and subsequent deportation had brought on a miscarriage, which happened just three months before Michael began his swimming lessons. It was not only for Drago and his child that Samantha wept, but for her brother, gone to work on a North Sea gas platform with no intention of ever returning to his young wife, of whom Samantha was very fond.
Reverend Michael felt moved to suggest a prayer, there on the bench in the cold and damp. He held her hand for Samantha’s comfort, not his own. She was at first embarrassed, not being practised in al fresco religios
ity. Then came relief and reassurance that the lost child was safe in heaven; that she was still loved in the earthly world and the spiritual. These things were what she needed to hear and Reverend Michael’s appearance on that bench, at that moment, on that morning, seemed to Samantha like divine intervention, or would have done had she known the term. “God’s timing,” would have been Michael’s explanation of choice.
They raised their bowed heads as the bus pulled up. After a rapid, embarrassed leave-taking, the grieving girl disappeared between folding doors that swished shut behind her. Michael had failed to notice Marnie alighting from the vehicle, but spotted her climbing into the passenger seat of a small red hatchback parked fifty metres away.
He determined to follow the car by bike, which was fine as far as the traffic lights, but he fell behind when it met the open road to Sallby. His pace slowed as the bus disappeared in the distance. Freewheeling to rest his aching legs, he made up his mind to buy a racing bike and get fit in the spring. Then, maybe, he would be worthy of a woman like Marina.
*
Pondering, he pedalled on through hamlets and villages in search of the red hatchback. He found it parked in Denshill, outside the only surviving corner shop for miles. Marnie was still sitting in the passenger seat; the driver was behind a queue of six inside the shop.
A rap of knuckles on the window made the visitor jump. A dishevelled man in a dog collar and cycle helmet stared down at her. The face, so red and shiny, looked vaguely familiar. She looked again as he removed his headgear and mouthed, “Marina! It’s me!” through the glass.
She saw that it was Mick! The nicest guy she’d ever been out with.
Carrying fresh milk and cut-price Christmas crackers, Belinda emerged from the shop to find her friend locked in an embrace with some random chap who stood straddling a battered sit-up-and-beg bicycle. Thoughts of Marnie’s old trade raced through her mind.
She coughed discreetly. As the four lips parted, the man’s face revealed itself to be that of the Dan Brown fan from the library.
Marnie swung to greet her, smiling happily.
“Bel, this is Mick – an old friend. I think I told you about him back in the summer.”
Shaking the minister’s hand, Belinda gave a watery smile, exchanged seasonal pleasantries and tossed the shopping onto the back seat, waiting for the lovebirds to decide what they were doing. Happiness radiated from them like sparks from a log fire and singed her pride. Belinda felt sore.
After a few minutes the couple exchanged phone numbers, shared another lingering kiss and parted. Marnie re-joined Belinda in the car and the man pedalled slowly away, humming the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’ under his breath while inwardly thanking the Lord for His goodness.
For Belinda and Marnie, the rest of the journey passed in near-silence. Belinda was disappointed that her festive good deed had been outdone by a chance meeting. Marnie was in a spin. She had intentions for today, and must make sure that her excitement over the reunion with Mick did not deflect her from them.
*
At 18 Dapple Grove, the second Christmas turkey was roasting gently in the oven. Introductions were stilted, with Aidan and Melanie keen to get back to the digital devices in their own rooms. Doug put on a good show of being the genial host, but would much rather have been dozing in front of the TV. Marnie was keen to get to know Aidan: she had a proposition for him, so feigned an interest in his collection of technological wizardry. He thought that, maybe, she was marginally more interesting than most of Mum’s friends.
The chance to introduce her topic of the moment came during the pre-planned after-dinner walk. The day was crisp and blue, with frost crunching underfoot. As their path crossed fields and twisted through a wooded vale, Marnie managed to fall behind and stopped to lean against a slanting tree trunk. Realising she was no longer with the group, Aidan was asked to jog back in search of their guest. He found her, as she had intended, rubbing a supposedly sprained ankle and wearing a pained expression.
“I’ll be alright in a minute,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s a weak ankle, and I’m not used to walking on rough ground.”
Her stoical manner won more sympathy from the youth than tears would have done.
Actually, Aidan was curious about this new friend of his mother’s. He knew that they’d met on the wood-sculpture course, but Marnie was very different from other mature women he’d come across, who had mostly been teachers or the mothers of friends – plus those weird village hall women Mum was always on the phone to, talking about toilet rolls and light bulbs.
This one was quite fit in a scrawny way, and lacked the motherly fussiness he was used to. He bet she knew a thing or two as well. He found her… not exactly seductive… but fascinating certainly, even in this winter woodland setting.
Marnie played it cool, knowing exactly how to get her man.
Gallantry to the fore, Aidan offered his scarf as a bandage for the ankle and his arm to steady her progress. It felt manly to have such a woman on his arm. He just knew he would learn something from her.
As she hobbled along, Marnie asked disingenuous questions about his life at university, assuming the ignorance of a woman not bright or fortunate enough to have enjoyed such an education while Aidan exaggerated his successes, both academic and social. Gently, feigning coyness, she nudged him towards the subjects of sex and money.
In truth, Aidan had partaken in none of the former and had very little of the latter, although some of his flatmates enjoyed both with abandon. He was on the outside looking in at the student high-life. Sensible and strapped for cash, he both abhorred what he had seen and wanted to taste its pleasures. Marina knew instinctively that this was so.
Changing the subject, she asked him about earning opportunities for students. In Wales as elsewhere, they were thin on the ground.
“I’ve seen some adverts about sperm donation, have you? I should think handsome, intelligent young men like you are in demand for this, aren’t they? I bet you’re all doing it.”
Aidan blushed. This was not an opportunity he’d heard of – and he wasn’t sure he wanted to share his personal habits with Marnie just yet.
“My uni’s a bit of a backwater. I’ve heard of it, but at other places,” he lied. He wasn’t quite comfortable with the idea.
Marnie changed the subject. The metaphorical seed had been sown. The literal would follow in time.
Changing the subject again, she embarked on a tale of three thirty-something women she knew, all respectable, none in a permanent relationship. Her aim was to make them appear respectable but deprived: how they were moral enough to eschew casual sex or marry an illegal immigrant wanting right to remain, but how this morality condemned them to live without the joy of children and a family life. As a footloose young man, these joys meant nothing to him. He took for granted what he had always known: that he would seek these things in years to come. Right now, for Aidan, family was on the hindmost of back burners.
Marnie herself had never known a father; this gap loomed larger with every passing year. Even a photograph or a name would have helped her feel complete. The life she lived as an adult had always been hand-to-mouth, rootless. None of the men she’d lived with were father material and much as she would have loved a child, she would not bring a baby into the world without some stability to offer. Her feelings were genuine and her delivery unaffected: as a persuasive speech, it worked big time. Aidan was convinced.
The women she described to him were mature, stable and not entirely penniless. Internet purchase of sperm was increasingly popular, but risky. Enrolling with a private human fertility organisation was beyond their means. Such treatment cost thousands… what with all the tests and screening… and it might not work. She bet the profits were massive, and painted a picture of fancy scientists and doctors living in luxury while ordinary women were denied their right to a child, simply because they hadn’t
got thousands of pounds to blow on a long shot. Using library computers and her new information technology skills, Marnie had researched the facts on donated sperm for her own purposes, and dropped carefully-selected truths into this ‘discussion’ diffidently, as if the topic had cropped up in passing.
When Aidan replayed it in his mind that night, he could not recall how the conversation had taken such a turn.
*
Slowly the pair hobbled across the frost-whitened field towards the stile, where Belinda, Melanie and Doug were stamping their feet against the cold. It was decided that Doug and Aidan should jog back home for the car while the women made their way slowly to the garden centre-cum-café, which had been their original destination.
Once there, on only the third day of Christmas, the baubles and tinsel were gone. In their place stood racks of cagoules and fleece jackets, patio heaters and bowls of dried up hyacinths, all marked down by thirty or forty percent since Christmas Eve. The elves had been at work.
In the aquatics section, koi carp and shubunkins swam listlessly in the bubbling water, some on their sides as if snoozing. Concerned grandparents stood pointing out the dead fish to tiny children, who wept at the sight.
There were customers aplenty, stir crazy after two days of domestic jollifications, getting their fix of commercialism or handing over presents, gift-wrapped with receipts included, for a speedy exchange.
In the café, Belinda queued with the tray for coffee and cakes as Melanie settled Marnie at a table. It was difficult for the woman to maintain the pretence of suffering; as soon as the coffee arrived, she used it to swig down a couple of painkillers to look convincing. If she forgot to limp later, she could give credit to the pills.
Melanie was glum. Unlike her brother, she did not find Marnie interesting. Why had her mother invited this stranger to their home at Christmas? Melanie’s own friends were cool or pretty, witty, clever or just amazing, according to her mood (when they were in favour), but it was a mystery why a woman of Mum’s age should need a friend. What on earth would they have to talk about? They knew nothing of celebs or fashion! She supposed they might chat about recipes or getting stains out of carpets, but what else could two middle-aged women have to say? Did they discuss Countdown? Or Jeremy Kyle? Weird. She sipped her latte and nibbled a chocolate-chip cookie in silence. What sort of a name was Marnie anyway? And she looked a right slapper. She hoped Mum wasn’t following in Gran’s footsteps and going loopy already. Melanie would just die of embarrassment if that happened!