“You do realise Doctor Who doesn’t wear a scarf any more, don’t you? He hasn’t done since Tom Baker packed it in. Back at the beginning of the nineteen eighties. You know, before I was born?”
Aunty Des shook her head dismissively, her long earrings jangling. “Oh, your David Tennants, your Matt Smiths, and your Peter Capaldis are all very well, but Tom Baker was the Doctor Who.”
“You fancied him, didn’t you, Aunty Des?” I said with a grin.
“And who says I don’t still?” she countered. “He’s a very attractive man even now. And oh! That voice…” We both stared into space, probably with identical dreamy expressions on our faces.
“Come on, Liam!” Mum’s voice broke the spell. “You’ll be late for rush hour.” She picked up the scarf and looped it four or five times around my neck. Since I’m six foot one, plus another three inches for the mohawk, and she’s only five foot three she had to lasso me, cowboy style, several times over. “If you sat down this’d be a whole lot easier, my lad.”
“And spoil all your fun? I wouldn’t do that to you, Mum, you know I wouldn’t.” I bent down to give her a kiss and headed off to work with a spring in my step.
The wind was blowing in from Siberia so hard I could smell the vodka and the borscht. I wrapped Aunty Des’s scarf around my neck a little tighter as I strolled along to the Tube station. The streets were full of people, most of them juggling briefcases and bulging carrier bags with rolls of wrapping paper poking out of the top. Between the hat and the scarf I got more than a few stares on the way—not to mention the odd shout of “Where’s K9?”
“He’s in the doghouse,” I called back. “Caught him humping next door’s mechanical reindeer.”
When I got going at the Tube station, takings were definitely up. I dubbed it the scarf effect. Aunty Des would be dead chuffed if I told her. And she’d probably start dropping hints about copper-bottomed saucepans, which I wouldn’t be buying for her as I happened to know Aunty Mags and Mum had clubbed together to get them already.
This time, my silver fox stared at me the whole time he was coming down the escalator. He wasn’t carrying any bags. Maybe he didn’t have anyone special to shop for? Well, a boy can dream. I launched into Hazel O’Connor’s “Will You?” and you know what? For just a moment there, I thought maybe he would—but the crowd surged and he let it carry him away from me.
Not even a pound coin to remember him by. I heaved a mental sigh, and segued into “I’m Not in Love” by 10cc.
A worn old man dropped 2p into my case. “You just keep telling yourself that, mate,” he muttered, and shuffled off into the tunnels.
* * * *
I didn’t even try to sneak out on Christmas Eve, just headed straight into the living room. The coven was lined up on the sofa, all three of them with expectant looks on their faces, as if they’d known I was on my way.
Then again, they’re witches. They’d probably known before I had.
“Come on, Mum,” I challenged her. “I’m ready for you. Do your worst.”
“It’s all for your own good, young man, so don’t you forget it. Happy Christmas, love, and here’s hoping it’ll be keeping you warm long after I’m gone.” She heaved a sigh.
“Are you off to the bingo, then, Mum?” I asked innocently.
“I’ll be off to your Aunty Gerry’s church in a minute, to pray for some respect from the fruit of my womb. Now open it, love.”
Mum’s present was all done up in recycled paper, tied with string. I opened it up carefully—handing the wrappings back to Mum so she could use them again next year—and shook out the brightly-coloured woollen…thing inside.
“It’s a cardigan, love,” Mum said, before I could ask.
“I knew that, Mum,” I said, hiding my crossed fingers under the eye-watering bundle. “It’s…great.”
Perhaps I shouldn’t go to midnight mass tonight; the Lord might strike me dead for all these lies. The sweater was so garish it threatened to make the Doctor Who scarf look staid. It had more colours in it than I thought there were colours, all clashing madly in an abstract pattern. If Joseph from that book of Bible stories Aunty Gerry bought me when I was little had seen it, he’d have been sick with jealousy. Or maybe just sick. It was that bad.
“Well, go on, love. Put it on.”
“I, uh, I don’t think it’ll go with my leather trousers,” I protested weakly.
“Your trousers are black, Liam. Black goes with everything.”
I pulled on the cardigan. It came down to about my knees, had pockets I could have fit my head in—mohawk and all—and was so thick and bulky there was probably a whole flock of sheep somewhere walking around shivering. “You won’t need to wear a coat with that—just your scarf,” Aunty Des decreed smugly. She didn’t wait for an answer, just looped it around my neck half-a-dozen times.
“And your hat,” Aunty Mags added, making to get up, so I pulled it out of my pocket and shoved it on my head quick, before she could jam it down tight and maim the mohawk for life.
The skies were clear as I walked to the Tube station, showing more stars than there were last-minute shoppers hurrying through the streets with bags in their hands and desperate looks on their faces. A pity; a bit of torrential rain—or maybe a small tornado—would’ve given passers-by something else to think about than my ridiculous get-up. As it was, I had to endure the stares and the shouts of “Oh my God, call the fashion police! There’s been an explosion in an Oxfam shop!” I didn’t answer; just held my head up high and prayed my silver fox would turn out to be colour-blind.
I was halfway through “Your Latest Trick” by Dire Straits when I saw him. There were snowflakes on the shoulders of his trench coat—it seemed the weather had turned wintry again—and there was tiredness in his eyes, but maybe just a little bit of anticipation, too? Our gazes met and held each other. I steeled myself for action. It was Christmas Eve: my last chance. After tonight he’d likely be off work until the New Year. I couldn’t wait that long.
I launched into Billy Ocean’s “Get Outta My Dreams, Get Into My Car” and gave it all I’d got, never breaking eye contact.
And maybe there was a little bit of magic in the air, as time seemed to slow, making that escalator ride last almost as long as the song. I let the last notes fade as he stepped off and walked up to me, his hands in the pockets of his trench coat, the crowd parting before him like he was Moses. A tense line to his jaw, he waited until I’d finished playing before he spoke.
His voice was low and husky, with the barest hint of a rural accent tempering the shifty vowels of South London, and he spoke like a man about to face a firing squad. “Look, if I’m wrong about this, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bash my head in. But I was wondering if I could buy you a drink. At a bar, I mean,” he added quickly. “Or, you know, a café—whatever’s your poison.”
I let a smile roll out across my face in a slow crescendo. “There’s a pub around the corner that does great ale. Let me pack my stuff up, and I’m all yours.”
His jaw line softened, and his eyes crinkled up at the corners. “Promises, promises.”
“My aunties would have my hide if I went around making promises I didn’t keep.” I scooped the coins out of my case so I could put away my sax. “I’m Liam, by the way.”
“Neil,” he said. Then he grinned. “That’s my name, not an order.”
“Oh?” I said, pouting just a little. I shouldn’t do that, I know. Doesn’t really go with the whole punk image. “Still, the night’s young.” I put my saxophone in the case and snapped it shut.
As we rode up the escalator side by side, Neil shook his head. “I must be off my rocker, you know. Either that or you are. It’s the only explanation.”
I gave a pointed look down at my get-up. “Well, I know who most people’s money would be on.”
He laughed. “You know, I’ve been wondering about all that. Let me guess: elderly relatives who love you very much?”
“Relative
s, yes. But call them elderly where they can hear you and you’ll find they’ve put salt in your coffee. That’s if they like you, mind. If they take against you it’ll be laxatives.”
“Why does it not surprise me your family is terrifying? No, don’t answer that.”
We stepped out of the station and a blast of icy wind blew straight through us. Neil shivered. “Hey, put this on,” I told him, unwinding my scarf from my neck and wrapping it three times around his. Widdershins, in case you were wondering. I’m left handed. It’s easier that way.
“Hey, you don’t have to—”
“Haven’t you heard?” I interrupted him. “Misery loves company.”
He looked down at the ridiculous scarf, and chuckled. “I’ve always preferred A problem shared is a problem halved. You know, if we halved this scarf maybe it’d be something approaching normal length.”
“Ah, but then we’d have two of the things. They might start breeding, and then where would we be?”
“Come across a lot of sexually active scarves in your time, have you?”
“Me? No. I steer well clear of my Mum’s bottom drawer. This is the place.” I guided him through the door with a hand on his elbow for no good reason other than I wanted to touch him.
“Helping the old man up the steps, are you?” Neil asked with a twinkle in his eye.
“Just making sure you don’t make a run for it. I mean, I’d understand if you decided you couldn’t face being seen in public with a cardigan like this.”
“What, you mean any more than I have been on the way here? You do realise you’re talking to a bloke in a Doctor Who scarf, don’t you?” Neil stroked the road kill red and pond scum green stripes on his chest and looked a bit wistful as we elbowed our way to the bar through secretaries in reindeer antlers and accountants in their cups. “I’d have killed for a scarf like this when I was a kid. Course, I’d have wanted the hat, too.”
“What, this crime against humanity?” I asked, pulling off the purple tea-cosy with a grin. “Here, have it—it’s yours.”
Neil backed away, eyes wide and his mouth twisted in mock horror. “Not that one. God forbid. No, I meant one of those dark, wide-brimmed hats Tom Baker used to wear.”
“Damn,” I said with a sigh. “That’s something I’d like to see, but I wouldn’t recommend it. You’re way too sexy as it is. If you add the fedora you won’t be able to walk down the street without being mobbed.”
“Gerroff out of it!” he said, a faint pink kissing his cheeks. “I haven’t been called sexy since Maggie Thatcher was in power. And no, I’m not telling you when that was. You can Google it later when you fancy a good laugh.”
“I like a good laugh as much as the next man,” I told him. “But somehow when I look at you it’s not humour that’s on my mind.”
“Oh, yeah? Dare I ask what is, then?”
“Not unless you want me to get arrested for public indecency and have to spend Christmas in jail. What’ll you have, then?” I asked, pulling out my wallet.
“It’s all right—I’ll get them.”
“Don’t be daft. I’ve got money to burn, here. There’s this bloke keeps throwing pound coins in my case.”
“Well, in that case, I’ll have a pint of…” Neil peered at the taps. “Santa’s Butt?” His voice rose incredulously.
“And a bottle of Rudolf’s Revenge,” I added to the barman, who was already pulling Neil’s pint.
When the drinks were ready, I paid and handed Neil his glass. He sipped it with a wary air and sighed in contentment. “Ah, that’s better.”
“Been a long week, has it?”
“Been a long year. Take my advice: never work for the NHS. Or any organisation that relies on government funding. You spend half your time worrying how you’re going to make the budget stretch, and the other half justifying your existence to people who think all a health service needs is doctors and the paperwork will handle itself.”
“Ah, but at least you probably don’t get chewing gum thrown at you by kids who don’t like the music you’re playing.” Against all the odds, there was a free table just tucked around the corner from the bar, with two chairs like it’d been waiting for us to get there, so we sat down at it, our own little island of privacy in the sea of seasonal bonhomie.
“Philistines. You play great stuff. I hear you playing, it’s like I’m back in my youth. Course, I don’t know why you like all that old crap. Shouldn’t you be into…” Neil waved his pint vaguely. “I don’t know—Lady Gaga, or something?”
“Well, you’re not wrong there—there’s a great riff in Edge of Glory.” I sighed, and took a swig of my beer. “I should’ve been born twenty years earlier, though. I’d have loved it in the eighties—playing the saxophone was cool, then.”
Neil laughed, shaking his head slowly. “Speaking as someone who was born twenty years earlier, and hadn’t actually realised saxophones weren’t cool anymore…You know why I spoke to you tonight? How come I finally plucked up the courage?”
“Christmas Eve—it’s a magical time of year?”
“No, no magic involved. Not that I know of, anyway. No, it was seeing you in that, um, interesting cardigan. That, on top of the hat, and the scarf…Well. It just made me think maybe you didn’t care what anyone else thought. Maybe being cool wasn’t as important to you as I’d thought it must be—what with the punk hair-do, the leathers, all that. And maybe, just maybe, you’d agree to go for a drink with a grey-haired old codger who’s old enough to be your dad.”
“Hey—no calling my date an old codger.”
He gave a crooked smile. “Still leaves me with grey hair and old enough to be your dad.”
I put out a hand and stroked his hair. It was softer than it looked—just like Neil himself, I bet. Except where it counted, of course. “It’s not grey. It’s silver. And for your information, youth’s overrated in a boyfriend.” I grinned. “Well, with certain exceptions.”
“Oh, yeah? One of them being sax-playing punks, I presume?”
“Well, you wouldn’t want an old bloke going around in leathers and a mohawk, now would you? That’d just be sad.”
“What, so in twenty years’ time you’ll be sporting a tweed jacket and a comb-over, will you?”
“You think I’ll be old in twenty years? We age well in my family. My mum’s in her fifties, and she still has the men running after her. And my dad looks younger than you do.” I cocked my head on one side, thinking about it. “Of course, he might actually be younger than you.”
Neil shuddered. “If you’re not joking, I don’t want to know. So, no comb-over, then?”
“I might go for the tweed jacket, though—what do you think?”
“Working the Johnny Rotten look?” Neil rubbed his chin, where a teasing shadow of peppery stubble lurked. “Not convinced. I’d stick with the leathers, if I were you. Can’t go wrong with black leather.”
“Yeah, but these trousers can be a bugger to get off.” I gave him a significant look. “I might need some help, later.”
Neil choked on his pint.
My stomach growled. “Hey, the food here’s not bad—you want to grab something?”
Neil’s eyes drifted closed for a second. “Do I ever.”
We ordered and ate, sharing a platter of nachos and spicy sausage that gave plenty of opportunities for fingers to brush. The food was tasty, but not a patch on the company. There was a log fire burning not too far from where we were sitting, and with hot food warming my belly as well I soon had to take off Mum’s cardigan.
“Spooky,” Neil said. “See, now you’re intimidating again.”
I glanced down at my skull-and-blood-spatters T-shirt, and the studded belt and wristbands the cardigan had hidden. Maybe he had a point. I pulled out Aunty Mags’s hat and popped it on my head. “Better?”
“Much, God help me,” Neil said with a grin. He was still wearing Aunty Des’s scarf.
When they rang the bell for last orders my eyes darted to my wat
ch. It was eleven o’clock. “Shit—I’ve got to go!”
Neil’s face fell. “About to turn into a pumpkin, are you? You’re a bit early—it’s still an hour to midnight.”
“Promised my Aunty Gerry I’d be at Midnight Mass,” I said, spreading my hands in apology.
“Worries about your soul, does she?”
“Well, it’s kind of her job…” I was thinking. I can do that and talk at the same time, although the results are sometimes unreliable. “Hey, do you want to come with? There’s nothing like a good Midnight Mass for getting you into the mood for Christmas.”
Neil was shaking his head again, but not that fast little jerk that means No. It was the slow, rhythmic sway that means Yes, God help me. “You know, you’re just one surprise after another. Course I’ll come. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Right—this way then.” I tossed back my drink and stood, and Neil followed suit. “Grab your Oyster card—it’s just up the line at Camden.”
“Is that where you live? I’m the other end—down at Stockwell, or Saint Ockwell as it used to be known back in my youth.”
I smiled. “Two stations, both alike in dignity. Looks like we’ll have to keep meeting in the middle, then.”
“Dignity? On the Northern line? How many of those beers have you had tonight?”
“Ah, everyone knows drinks don’t count at Christmas.” I waved him ahead of me through the station entrance.
We ker-chunked our way through the turnstiles, and hot air blasted up the escalator at us. It carried the scent of sweaty commuters with alcoholic breath, all staggering home after the pubs closed. And over it all, that distinctive Northern Line smell. I breathed in deeply. “Can’t you just feel it coating your lungs with soot?”
“Worst Tube line ever for dry-cleaning bills,” Neil agreed fondly.
“Worst Tube line ever, full stop,” I said with a smile.
We stepped off the escalator and clattered down the tiled stairs to the platform, where the lights indicated there’d be a train along in two minutes. Of course, those would be Northern Line minutes, length determined by a complex algorithm including, among many other factors, the weather today; the price of fish; and whether the driver got lucky last night.
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