“Stay there. I’ll go get it, all right?”
Michael slumped helplessly. He heard the barn door open and close. A little gust of cold air wafted over him, and he carefully tipped onto his side, trying to curl up on top of the bale of hay. Just have a wee nap, sleep it off…
“Mike.”
“Hm?”
“Water.”
“Hm.”
Tom’s arm slid under his shoulder, easing him up into a sitting position again. “Come on, now. Drink some of this.”
Michael did as he was told. He was starting to feel a bit less drunk, maybe, although his head was banging. He sipped at the water, eyes still closed. “I’m never drinking again,” he vowed.
“Aye. I know that one well enough. What were you drinking?”
“All sorts. Mulled wine, beer—I was all right ’til the whiskey.”
“That’d do it, for sure. Still, I think you’ll be OK by morning. Looks like you’ve all got a grand day ahead of you.”
Michael wasn’t so sure about that. Last Christmas Day, it was just him, Seamus and Tess. Michael had gone to Mass first thing, and he and his mum had brought their presents for each other to church, rather than risk him running into his stepdad, who had been going over to Cookstown to see his kids—or that was his excuse for not coming to church, but he’d still been in bed when his mum had left the house.
After the service, they had sat together on a frosty bench in the churchyard and opened their presents—she’d got him smashing new jeans and trainers—both trendy brands, because his mum was great like that—and a gold chain that made him shiver when she fastened it around his neck. He’d got her a little silver necklace with a heart-shaped locket—she shivered, too, because it was really cold in the churchyard—and some of her favourite chocolates. He’d even got Peter a miniature bottle of brandy, with one of those posh brandy balloon glasses. Seamus hadn’t been at all impressed with Michael buying something for Peter, but he was his stepdad, and he was a good man underneath. Michael was sure of it. His mum wouldn’t have married him if he wasn’t.
After church, he’d gone back to the farmhouse, where Seamus had made them a full Ulster fry for breakfast, and they’d both been stuffed, but it had lasted them until early evening and Christmas dinner at The Village Inn with Marie. And then it was back home again. Seamus got on his laptop to talk to Chancey, and the pair of them got hammered. Michael watched TV and messaged Harrison while stuffing his face with crisps, peanuts and two whole chocolate oranges.
It had been a very different Christmas Day to the ones he’d spent with his mum, and he’d missed her, but he’d enjoyed it. This year, he was dreading it. Seamus had Chancey and Dee. Patrick had Aidan. Harrison had Pru and now Paulo, and he had…no one. Even Tess the turncoat would abandon him for anyone who offered her a comfy lap and a bit of turkey. He shook off the mopey misery and homed in on Tom.
“What do you do for Christmas?” he asked.
Whatever Tom was thinking, it put a big smile on his face. “Usually, me and my sister sit around in pyjamas, watching crap on telly. My dad gets blind drunk and my mum ends up crying over a Disney film. It’s really borin’. But I’ve got the car now, so I’m going to drive up to Derry and see my grandad.” Tom’s smile faded a little. “He had a stroke, and he’s in a nursing home.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Tom.”
“You apologise an awful lot, you know.”
“I’m so… so not gonna say sorry again.” Michael laughed, and Tom laughed with him. “Tell me about your grandad.”
“Really? You want to hear about an old man?” Michael nodded. Tom sighed deeply. “He’s my inspiration. He’s a poet, or he was, before the stroke.”
“A poet. Wow.”
“That was his hobby, but he got a few poems published, so he did. He studied politics and worked as a journalist. He only retired a couple of years ago.”
“Oh my God, Tom. He sounds amazing.”
“He is.” Tom became quiet and thoughtful. “When I was little, I was going to follow in his footsteps, but I couldn’t be bothered with school, and I failed my exams. I wish I’d tried harder. I’d love to go to uni, and write poems.”
“You should do it.”
“Who’s gonna want to read my poems?”
“I’d read them,” Michael said earnestly.
“No. They’re rubbish.”
“You’ve written some?”
“Sort of. I’ve got a few, but honestly, Mike, they’re awful. I should probably just throw them in the bin.”
“No! Don’t do that!”
Tom’s wheat-ear eyebrows rose, and he studied Michael intently. Michael’s face was too flushed with the effects of the alcohol—which were fading, thankfully—to blush, even though he felt self-conscious under Tom’s watchful gaze. But he didn’t look away. He’d never been close enough to Tom to properly take in how handsome he was, and the crush was getting stronger by the second. But what did it matter? He’d told Tom how he felt, and he was still here. That meant something, although he wasn’t sure quite what.
“Do you still want to be friends with me?” he asked. Tom nodded. “But I’ve got a crush on you.”
“I know, and it doesn’t matter. Or it does, because I kind of feel…I don’t know. I’d like us to be friends.”
Michael sighed, feeling ridiculously happy. Still drunk, though. “You are amazing,” he said.
Tom rolled his eyes and shook his head. “You’re…different. In a good way.”
“That’ll do me. So, do you want to hang out on Boxing Day? If I survive tomorrow, that is.”
“You not looking forward to tomorrow?”
“No. It’s…hard to explain. The thing is, since Chancey and Dee moved in, I always feel like I’m in the way.”
“That’s tough.”
“Yeah, and it’s probably just in my head. But anyway, no point moaning, is there? And it’s better than spending the day with Peter.”
“True enough.” Tom rose to his feet and helped Michael do the same. “OK. So Boxing Day then? We’ll go for a burger, or something?”
“I’d like that.”
“Grand. I could come over early afternoon?” Tom suggested. Michael nodded. “And you have a good day tomorrow, all right?”
“I’ll try. I hope you have a good one, too. And wish your grandad a Merry Christmas from me. He doesn’t know me, like, but still.”
Tom laughed. “I’ll pass on your wishes. Merry Christmas, Mike.”
“Merry Christmas, Tom.”
Michael stayed where he was and watched Tom walk to the barn door, where he turned back, gave Michael another of those heart-fluttering, jelly-leg-making smiles, and then disappeared into the night.
Chapter Ten:
In Motion
Fingering the small package in his pocket, Tom felt a bit sly holding on to Michael’s gift just so he’d have an excuse to return to the farm on Christmas morning. He got back to the car, stuck the present in the glove compartment and loaded up the Christmas songs. He was in a great mood, although he wasn’t sure why. It had been a funny old evening, sitting in a freezing cold barn, listening to Michael ramble on in his drunkenness, and yet Tom had enjoyed the company. His company.
There was something about Michael that touched his heart in a way no one else did. He had an innocent honesty, as if he’d only just arrived on planet Earth and didn’t really understand what was going on around him. That was what he’d been like on the fields, constantly pestering Seamus about America, and then in the café, offering to buy the drinks, and in the pub, always letting everyone else have a game of pool. Tom couldn’t remember Michael ever getting a game, but he didn’t seem to care, so long as he was part of the craic.
He was an angel, that’s what he was. A sweet, generous angel.
Back at home, Tom tried to sneak past the living room and up the stairs, but he was still cold, and his booted feet thumped, heavy as lead.
“Is that you, Tom?” his mum
called.
“Aye. Did you want me? I was going up for a bath.”
“A bath at this time of night?”
“I’m freezing, Mum.”
“All right. Don’t be long. We’ve still gotta hang our stockings.”
Tom held his breath so he didn’t sigh out loud. Stockings. He was twenty-four, and Katie was twenty, but they still had to hang their stockings. No doubt tomorrow morning, they’d all be handed matching Christmas jumpers. He tried not to think about it. He continued on to the bathroom, stuck in the bath plug, set the water running and checked his route to Derry on his phone.
No time at all passed before his mum shouted up, “Are you done?”
Tom glanced at the three inches of water in the bottom of the bath. “Soon,” he called back to her.
He turned off the taps and accepted he wasn’t going to be having the nice hot soak he’d been wanting since he’d left the farm. It was all right for Michael; he was wearing his best beer coat, while Tom’s balls had ended up somewhere around his navel—his toes were still blue now. He settled back in the shallow yet hot water and let his mind drift…what would Mike be doing? Would he be hanging a stocking? Or maybe he’d managed to decouple his geeky mate from his not-ex-boyfriend and they were chatting away face-to-face instead of online.
“I wonder…” Tom reached out of the bath for his phone and loaded Facebook.
Michael McFerran
Happy Christmas everyone. I’m off to bed. Had the most *amazing* Christmas Eve ever! –feeling happy
“Amazing,” Tom repeated with a chuckle. How many times had Michael uttered that word this evening? Still, he was safe at home, and there was no way the lads were getting past Seamus and his fella.
Tom washed and got out of the bath, drying off as quickly as he could. He was still feeling cold, even though his bedroom was the hottest room in the house. He shivered and pulled on a pair of thick sweatpants. Definitely a socks night. Rooting through his drawer, he came across the socks he’d got last Christmas. They were red and had reindeer with flashing noses on the tops, and he’d shoved them to the back of his drawer with no intention of ever putting the things on his feet. But he was feeling more festive than the workshop elves’ at their Christmas party, so it was on with the socks. He grabbed a sweater on his way out of the room, cracking up at his socks flashing all the way down the stairs.
“You off on an expedition, Thomas?” his mum asked, eyeing him up and down in amusement.
“No. I’m still freezing, Mum. Is the heating on?”
“Aye. It’s been on all day.” She cupped his face and frowned in concern. Her palms were wonderfully warm against his icy cheeks. “Where’ve you been to get so cold?”
“Up to old Barry’s place to see Mike.”
“Oh, right. How’s he doing?”
“OK. I think all the bother’s stopped now.”
“About time, too. Honest to God, the people round here. You’d think it was the 1950s.”
“I know.” Struck by a sudden urge, he hugged her and held on tightly.
“Oh, I am privileged,” she grumbled in fun, reciprocating the hug. “What’s this for? Have you pranged your car?”
“No! It’s…just thank you for being an—” Tom grinned to himself “—amazing mum.”
“See, now. I told you, didn’t I? You wouldn’t hate me forever.”
“You did, aye. Though in my defence, I was only fifteen.”
“True enough. Right, your dad’s helping out behind the bar, he says—we know what that means—so we’re just waiting for your sister to get home, and then we can get these stockings up. I wonder what Father Christmas has in store for us this year?”
Tom blinked innocently. “I’ve been very nice, Mum.”
“Is that right?” She laughed. “Well, you never know, then. He might bring you another pair of them socks.”
Tom looked down at his feet and wiggled his toes, setting the reindeer noses flashing again. He decided he liked them. “I’m going to make us hot chocolate with brandy, Mum,” he said, scuffling away to the kitchen in his mad red socks.
“You must’ve read my mind, son. Oh, here’s your sister.”
Tom heard the front door close, followed by Katie shouting his name up the stairs.
“Kitchen,” his mum said.
“Tom’s in the kitchen? Since when?”
“Hey!” Tom shouted. “I cooked the tea yesterday, I’ll have you know.”
“Yesterday? What about the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year?” Katie drew up next to him and peered into the mugs. “Is that cheeky hot chocolate? I’ll have one, if it is.” She got another mug and set it down next to the other two.
“How’s Andy?” Tom asked.
“All right. He’s after a new car. I told him yours was probably going up for sale.”
“What did you do that for?”
“You’re the one who said you’d have to sell it if you lost your job.”
“Shhhh.” Tom shot his sister a warning glance. It didn’t stop her voicing her thoughts, but she lowered her volume.
“Mum doesn’t know?” she asked. Tom shook his head. “Why? It’s not your fault.”
“I don’t want to worry her, with dad being on the brew.”
“They can’t sack you anyway.”
“You try telling that to O’Grady.”
“You need to say something, Tom.”
“Nothing’s happened…yet. So just leave it, Katie, all right?”
Unhappily, she conceded, for which Tom was very grateful. He didn’t want to think about his job—or the possibility that he might not have one anymore—until after Christmas. He finished making the hot chocolate, and the two of them returned to the living room, where their mum had lined up their Christmas stockings on the back of the sofa, ready for them to hang on the mantelpiece. They’d had them since Tom and Katie were little: Tom’s was red and printed with snowmen; Katie’s was green with reindeer. Their mum and dad had red with snowflakes and green with holly respectively.
“Are we waiting for Dad?” Katie asked.
“I’ll hang his. I have a feeling he’ll be bringing Father Christmas home with him.”
“God, and he’s such an old drunk,” Tom complained. They’d been having the same kind of conversation every Christmas Eve forever.
“And greedy,” Katie added. “He ate all them cookies last year, you know.”
“That’s shockin’,” their mum said with a grin. “Come on, then, let’s get them up there.”
The three of them took turns—youngest first—to hang the stockings on the small hooks that had been screwed into the wooden mantelpiece more than twenty years ago, and their mum switched off the room lights, leaving only the warm soft glow of the tree. It was magic.
“This is the best bit,” their mum said, putting her arms around them both.
“Yeah, it is,” Tom agreed. “If it’s OK with you, I’m going up to see Grandad tomorrow.”
“Oh, that’s smashing, Tom. He’ll be really pleased to see you. Tell him me and your dad will be up on Boxing Day.”
“Will do. Right. I think I’m taking this drink to bed. I’m still cold.”
“All right, love.” His mum released him and ruffled his hair. “Sleep well.”
“And you. Night, Mum.” He kissed his mum’s cheek and then his sister’s.
“Ew.” Katie wiped her cheek, and he grinned at her.
“It’s Christmas, so.”
“So what? You’re still me stinky brother.”
Tom laughed. “Night, our baby.”
“Night, Tom.”
As was the custom, they’d all already ‘sent their presents to Father Christmas’, and so Tom went straight to bed, warmed right through by the comforting murmur of conversation from below and the unmitigated bliss of fresh bed linen. He sank into the pillows and checked his phone one last time. Nothing new on Facebook; Michael had obviously passed out into post-alcoholic slumber. I
t wasn’t long before Tom was out of it himself.
<<<>>>
“Tom.”
“Ugh.”
“Tom, wake up. It’s Christmas.”
“Seriously, Katie, I’m too old for this. What the hell time is it?”
“Seven o’clock.”
“Hmph.” Tom attempted to roll onto his side and put his back to his Christmas bunny of a twenty-year-old sister. She grabbed his shoulder, rolled him and yanked his duvet off the bed. He covered himself with his hands and hissed, “Katie!”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to embarrass you. Come on. Are you getting up.”
“When you get out of my room.”
“Fair dos.” She left.
Tom lay where he was a while longer, waiting for certain body parts to start behaving before he got up from the bed and put on his dressing gown. He glanced down and chuckled; he’d forgotten he’d gone to bed in his socks. He must look a sight, but it didn’t matter. It was Christmas morning, and for all of his complaining, he was excited. Present time, early morning Mass, breakfast, and then over to old Barry’s farm to give Michael his present and ask if he wanted to come up to Derry with him.
Weirdly, the second part of that hadn’t been in his plan when he went to bed the night before, but he was dead certain about it this morning. All of a sudden, he wanted to rush through the rest of it and get over to Michael’s place as soon as possible. Unless Michael was at Mass, then they could skip breakfast…no. Bad idea. He was starving already.
Down in the living room, his dad was flopped on the sofa, and by the looks of him, he’d been rotten drunk last night.
“Good morning, Thomas,” his mum said.
“Morning, Mum. Happy Christmas.” They hugged. His dad grunted. Tom moved as close as he dared and said, “Happy Christmas, Dad.” His dad grunted again.
“Do you know…” his mum said. She gave her husband a sharp nudge with her knee.
“It’s still too feckin’ early,” he slurred.
“Serves you right. Come on, get up, you big lump. The kids want to see what Father Christmas got them.”
“Kids, pfft.”
Tom and Katie were undaunted. If Christmas Day started any other way, it would mean the universe was off kilter.
Seeds of Tyrone Box Set Page 68