by David Park
Perhaps Christmas wouldn’t be so bad, after all it was really for the children and Paula was already bubbling with excited anticipation. That was his pleasure now – sharing in his child’s excitement and reliving, through her, the sense of wonder that the moment brought. He would go to Johnstone’s first thing and get everything sorted out. But his resolution weakened as his mind returned to his wife’s admonitions, and his feeling of annoyance burgeoned and blotted out all other thoughts. He grasped hold of nothing except the cold reality of it all. Christmas. What did it really mean? Families locked together with no avenues of escape, bound tightly by the hoops of some false festivity until they grew irritable and discordant; exuberant and extravagant expense that hung round the neck of the New Year; betting on the blind in the weekly poker school; kissing the young tease of a typist you’d lusted after during the previous twelve months. Drinking too much. That was something he needed no excuse for, but at least it was a chance to really push the boat out. There was no harm in it. It kept him sane, stopped him cracking under the pressure of competitive business, and, for a while at least, made him feel good inside. A few drinks, that was all, just enough to light the slow fire that made him feel warm and relaxed; a few drinks to free him from the daily burden of responsibility that grew loathsome and unending. Better, too, than anything else, it came closest to recapturing that feeling a young man has when it’s the weekend, and he’s a few quid in his pocket to burn, and the lads are rarin’ to hit the town. It opened up the stultifying prison of the present, freed it from the restrictions of duty and routine, and invested the moment with a glow of mellow optimism. Claire didn’t understand – she never had, always seeing it as some kind of personal rival that she had to battle and defeat, instead of something that held him together, keeping him there for her.
He let his gaze wander round the expensive kitchen and into the hall and felt angered by her apparent lack of gratitude for the material benefits his career had brought them. She was a typical woman – nagged for things until she got them, proceeded to take them for granted, and then in a remarkably short period of time, wanted something else. She was quick enough to criticise him and harp on about things as if he was the worst in the world, but she wasn’t so quick to appreciate the hard graft that had gone into getting them where they were today. As if he would forget! Who did she think he was? Didn’t he dote on his daughter? Didn’t he worship the very ground she walked on? She’d no right to snipe at him like that when she knew he would cut his hand off before he’d hurt the child.
His anger galvanised him into energy, and, gathering up his coat and briefcase, he hurried out to the car. He turned on the radio to catch the news. A man shot dead in front of his wife and child … a litany of internecine political squabbles … industrial initiatives … snow falling on the Glenshane Pass. It washed over him without registering and he switched it off again. The roads were slow and congested, and he noted the number of traffic police about. He would have to be careful – the days were long gone when a nod in the right quarter would smooth over a charge.
The office was busy and he sought to cloak his lateness with a purposeful display of unloading a sheaf of paperwork from his briefcase. His secretary informed him that there had been no calls, and no one had been looking for him. He opened his post while watching a junior typist balance precariously on a desk as she tried to put up Christmas decorations, joking with her about falling and possible insurance claims, and offering to hold her ankles, until the girl coloured and climbed down with the job unfinished. Slowly and with some difficulty, he clambered on to the desk and fastened the line of tinsel. The sudden movement had reminded him that he wasn’t feeling good, and as he sat down, the incessant thunder of typewriters rattled his brain.
The morning dragged by and he continued the pretence of being busy without actually ever completing anything of importance. He shuffled papers round his desk and made some phone calls, but nothing could distract him from the knowledge that he needed a drink. He tried to postpone it as long as possible and had another coffee, but it didn’t help. The clock seemed to have stopped. Eventually, as lunch approached, his impatience and restlessness overcame him, and collecting some keys from the office safe, he told his secretary that he was going to value some commercial properties. When she asked him where he could be reached, he replied that he would be on the move and would phone back at intervals, then he put on his coat and set off into the city streets. He pulled the collar of the coat up round his neck and dug his hands deep into his pockets. It was cold enough for snow. A bloody white Christmas – that was the last thing he needed; all right for the front of Christmas cards, but misery for everyone else. His dismal thoughts were interrupted by a slap on his back.
‘Sell us a house, mister. Any oul hovel’ll do.’
It was George Monroe, a fellow traveller of old, an accomplice in crime. They were glad they had found each other – company made each feel less swamped by the overwhelming mass of anonymous faces that flowed about them.
‘In search of a little respite, Tom? Do you want a companion? I owe it to your wife to keep an eye on you!’
Their journey to Mooney’s was lengthened by the density of the crowd, and at times it was easier to flow temporarily with it into divergent channels than attempt to fight against its powerful tide. Every other person seemed about to collapse under a burden of parcels, and the polythene bags they carried, emblazoned with trade names, flapped like flags in the sharp-toothed wind. A Salvation Army band played in the pedestrian precinct, and his eye caught a glimpse of young girls in dark uniforms and bonnets, quivering the air with a parabola of ribboned tambourines. Queues were forming to enter the big stores and in each doorway collecting tins were rattled for silver. Buskers competed with piped carols, and an old man without a coat sold rolls of cheap wrapping paper. A troupe of orange-robed Hari Krishnas wove their tinkling, chanting way through the crowds, while an old man, armoured in a breastplate of scripture, distributed tracts. A few yards further on, they fluttered to the pavement and mingled underfoot with bills advertising seasonal offers in the wine store. A mother cut across their path, trailing behind her a screaming child, and at every step the crowd seemed deeper and more desperate.
‘Hell, Tom, the whole world’s gone crazy!’
‘If we get to Mooney’s we’ll deserve a medal as well as a drink.’
They pushed on, steering each other in the best direction by little tugs and pulls of their coats, pausing at intervals to ponder the best route, until eventually they reached the entrance to the bar. A squeal of young girls breezed out through the doors, clutching at collars and coats in anticipation of the biting cold, and giving a second’s preview of the crowded inside, long enough to show that they had found no refuge of tranquillity or seclusion. As they shouldered their way through the mêlée inside, his companion turned and grimaced.
‘There’s no room in the inn – it’s standing room only.’
‘Let’s go to Henry’s, George – this’d put your head away. There’s not room to raise your elbow.’
Reluctantly, both men turned and edged their way back out on to the street, then trudged somewhat miserably round the corner to the less fashionable Henry’s. At a corner table, they found spare seats and, squeezing into them, opened their coats with simultaneous sighs of relief. A round of drinks was set up and savoured. For him, the first was always the sweetest and the only one he ever really tasted. It felt good, and he settled back into the chair.
‘Thank God, George, Christmas only comes once a year. You’d need to go into training to survive it. It’s getting worse every year.’
‘It’d be all right, Tom, if it didn’t end up costing you an arm and a leg. Marion writes cheques like there’s no tomorrow, buys expensive presents for half the world – excluding me, of course – but what really kills me is what she spends on that witch of a mother, and what I get in return. The old bat’s loaded up to the eyeballs, and when she gives you a present it’s
something like a set of coathangers, or some plastic knick-knack that she bought in the 50p shop.’
‘I can’t complain about Claire – she’s not bad really, keeps things within reason. It still costs, mind you – I suppose there’s no way round it. Listen, McClenaghan told me this joke about mothers-in-law. “My mother-in-law visits us every Christmas. Next year we’re going to let her in.”’
The two men leaned forward over the table and chuckled expansively. Monroe took out two cigars from an inside pocket and they lit up.
‘Sometimes, George, I think it’d be really good to go away over Christmas. Go to the sun, or even skiing. Don’t suppose, though, Claire’d ever agree – she’s a bit of a traditionalist.’
‘Now you’re talking. I’ve always fancied the idea myself. I bumped into Perry Foster last week, and he’s off to some Austrian ski resort.’
‘Perry Foster? I can’t imagine him on skis, shooting down some mountain.’
‘Neither can he, Tom. Never puts his feet anywhere other than under the bar. Après-ski all day long. And, I’ll tell you better still – he doesn’t go alone. Takes a bit of fluff with him.’
‘The old dog,’ laughed Tom. ‘How does he get away with it?’
‘The wife goes her own way. No questions asked, no lies told. Perfect relationship.’
The two men supped their drinks, and blew smoke while they reflected on the escapee and their minds conjured up images of snow-covered chalets, blazing log fires, and easy company.
‘Good luck to him, George, and all, but there has to be something said for a family Christmas and carving the old turkey.’
‘True enough, true enough.’
There was a pause in the conversation as both men tried to convince themselves that they didn’t envy Foster’s bid for freedom.
‘A bad business that, last night, Tom. You’d think they’d give it a break for a couple of weeks – call a truce or something, out of respect for the time of year.’
‘Those boys have respect for nothing.’
‘That’s the truth. Did it right in front of his wife and child. Some Christmas that kid’s going to have – now and for the rest of her life.’
‘Paula’s class is doing the carols tonight at the City Hall. She’s singing a verse on her own. I’m going to hear her. You should come, George – hear a real performer.’
‘Like to, Tom, but it’s my night on duty at the golf club. Anyway, between late night shopping and fireworks, the town’ll be hell. There’ll not be breathing space.’
Their conversation was temporarily halted by the approach of a mutual friend.
‘You two boys are starting early today. Am I the only one working?’
The newcomer smiled down at the two drinkers and placed a hand on each of their shoulders.
‘Sit down, Ross, and take the weight off your feet. And you’re not doing much work yourself, standing in here. Has the Law Society started allowing you boys to go out touting for clients? Tom and I are just having a wee jar while we sort out the world’s problems. What can I get you?’
‘A hot whiskey’d go down well – it’s freezing out there. But just one, now – I can’t stay.’
As George manoeuvred his way to the bar, the two men smiled at each other, knowingly.
‘He’s a desperate case. You’re keeping bad company, Tom. Have you run out of houses to sell?’
‘Plenty of houses, Ross, too many bloody houses. The whole world’s putting their house up for sale and buying someone else’s. It’s like one big property roundabout that never stops.’
‘If you’re so busy, Tom, how can you find time to sit in here?’
‘Delegation, Ross, delegation – the first skill of management. And sure isn’t it boys like me keeping the likes of you in work. The only difference is that you charge them almost double for half the work.’
‘True enough, but you get to work with a better class of customer. You wouldn’t want to meet some of the trash I’m rubbing shoulders with every day. Some days you feel you should disinfect yourself before you go home. Money wouldn’t pay you.’
‘Money never comes easily, Ross – we all have to grub in the dirt sometimes, and the richer the man, the more dirt he’s grubbed in. You can bet on it. But, tell me this – what do you think of this new tax? Is it not going to hit your pocket as much as ours?’
‘There’s ways and means. A bit of artistic accountancy goes a long, long way. Our accountant’s the most creative man I know. But here we go.’
The drinks arrived, and they settled back into the mellow depths of the afternoon, rounds of drinks and conversation easing them through the hours. They went out for food and returned, then, for a change of scenery, made the short journey to Mooney’s. Familiar faces came and went and the hours passed, gliding along on well-oiled rails, journeying through business talk, gossip, reminiscences, solemn bouts of setting the world right, and always the clink of glasses and the palliative company of old friends. He felt safe and sheltered from the madness outside, and gradually the day lost its boundaries of time.
The coldness of the air made him flinch, and for a moment he felt tempted to return to the warm security behind him, rather than embark on the hazardous and uncertain journey that duty told him stretched ahead, but the warm glow inside him mingled with the memory of his promise to his daughter and compelled him into the undiminished flux. He felt strangely at one with the anonymous faces that flowed around him, and he nodded and smiled, as if to old friends. He bumped into someone and apologised with a bestowal of the season’s greetings and an elaborate bow. His step took on the jaunty spring of a man cresting the waves and, for the first time, he began to feel finely festive in mood. He found himself singing along with a carol that blared from an outside speaker, and his right hand conducted imaginary choirs. Confronted by a collecting tin, he searched in the depths of his pockets before chinking a stream of coins into it, then sported the badge on the breast of his coat like a medal of honour.
The Christmas lights were on now, and the city centre crystallised in a white brightness as lights and neon tinsel stretched across the main streets like fluorescent icing on a cake. For a second, the noise and lights confused and disorientated him – he had drunk too much too quickly – but he laughed at himself and, with a little skip in his step, headed onward. As he passed a jewellery shop, he remembered that he had not yet found a Christmas present for his wife. He edged himself into a space at the window and viewed the contents, not quite managing to focus his attention exclusively on any one object. The display was a meaningless and undifferentiated grotto of trinkets and baubles that gave him no guide or inspiration. Still, finding something would remove the need for a return shopping trip and at that moment his spirit of well-being encompassed even his wife. A neck chain or bracelet would probably fit the bill, might even buy some short-lived credit. It was a good idea.
The shop was not as crowded as he had expected, and in a few moments a girl came to serve him. She wore a black suit, and a white blouse that seemed to have lost none of its crispness, and only the tiny beads of damp on her top lip spoke of a long, hard day. She smiled at him and he smiled back, his eyes drinking in her youthful freshness, and everything about her gratified his senses. She greeted him as if he was the most important customer of the day. Her glossy black hair was cut in a bob and flowed with the movement of her head, accentuating the whiteness of her skin and the soft red mouth. He wondered what she would be like. He looked at her, slowly savouring each part of her as he had savoured that first drink. She was young, but she wasn’t a child. Looking over her shoulder he caught his reflection in a mirror – he wasn’t over the hill yet, there were still plenty of good years left. He wondered if he could still cut it. Leave aside a couple of meaningless indiscretions along the way, and, by and large, he had been a faithful husband, and what was his reward? A dried-up husk of a relationship that functioned in a mechanical way, stuttering along with predictable, timetabled pretences of passion. Hi
s eyes rested on her neck as she leaned across the counter to show him a series of gold chains. He wanted to touch her. If he no longer had youth, he did possess the maturity money brought, and he had read that some girls found that an attractive feature. He teased her gently, and when she mentioned prices, he dismissed the subject with a ‘sure it’s only money’. She smiled at his jokes, but he couldn’t detect any personal edge to her professional charm. He bought a gold neck chain and was vaguely aware of spending more money than he had intended. She wrapped it carefully, making a decorative package topped with a pink bow, and for a second he thought of saying that the present was for her, but it wasn’t like buying a barmaid a drink, and as he watched the manicured fingernails tie the bow, a little seed of doubt was sown in his optimism. She probably had a trail of followers after her … she wouldn’t be interested in the likes of him … he was old enough to be her father. But, a decade earlier, then it would have been a different story. He consoled himself with this belief as he left the shop. A gold necklace and a bottle of her favourite perfume – that would do the job. There couldn’t be any complaints about that, no unspoken suggestions of negligence. In the outside window, his eyes fixed on a digital clock and with some shock it struck him that he had lost track of the time. He would have to hurry if he was to get a good position for the carols. He wondered if Paula was nervous before her big moment, but he knew with pride that she would be able to carry it off. She had always been like that – a real trouper – and he was proud of her.