by Guy Johnson
This year, we didn’t hear a word from Dad about the Christmas shopping tradition, until Ian spoke up. Then Dad did what we’d come to expect – he handed over some cash and said we’d have to go on our own: he had to see-a-man-about-one. Part of me was disappointed, and you could tell Della and Ian were put-out, angry more than anything. But, it wasn’t so bad in the end. And some things were always better when the adults weren’t there.
On the walk in, Justin and Tina met us, which wouldn’t have happened before.
‘You are joking, aren’t you?’ Della had gawped, looking at Tina, who had Deely Boppers attached to her head. ‘Not even without the head gear, thank you.’ That’s something Della had started doing – saying thanks when she didn’t mean it. She’d also started telling us when she wasn’t thinking. ‘She coming with us? I think not.’
Della walked on ahead, distancing herself from us, in case somebody saw her, although we could all still see her, clear as day, so that didn’t make complete sense. After a bit of debating, Justin agreed to take Tina home. We waited for five minutes, saw him in the distance, running back, and then we headed off again.
‘If we’ve missed the lights going on because of that bloody-.’ Della started, but Ian shushed her.
‘Leave it, Della. Lights aren’t for ages yet.’
And she did, sensing something, like I did, in his voice: a sad, empty sound.
And suddenly, Mum wasn’t there this year.
Like this was the moment when we all remembered again.
We were all quiet for a bit, listening, as Justin’s pounding feet and rasping breath caught up with us. He wasn’t alone – he’d brought Stevie with him, his younger brother.
Della was not pleased.
‘Bring back Tina, all is forgiven. Thank you very much,’ she’d mumbled and Ian had laughed silently, nudging her.
I could see her point. Whilst Tina was a bit of an embarrassment, what with the Deely Boppers and her general lack of understanding about what was acceptable behaviour in a shop, Stevie was a right-little-shit – Mum, Dad, Della, Ian, me, even Chrissie Tankard. Right. Little. Shit.
Stevie was younger than us – just eleven. Justin was twelve, like me.
She must have conceived that one on the maternity ward – Mum. I didn’t like to ask what she’d meant.
Whereas Justin was a bit spiteful, a bit bitchy, Stevie was pure evil. There was no getting away from it. Punching and biting his way through primary school. He was suspended for spitting at a teacher, too. Even Roy Fallick steered clear. He nicked stuff, too – caught shoplifting once, although he’d probably done it a thousand times without anyone catching him. He had this habit of shouting at people too – making old ladies jump out of their skin or just swearing at grown-ups and running off. That’s what Della was dreading.
‘Nasty little bugger,’ she muttered, walking slightly ahead of us again, pulling a tight-lipped face that gave her the look of Nan Buckley.
‘Just ignore him and he won’t be able to wind you up, okay?’ Ian told Della, walking beside her, whilst the remaining three of us trailed behind.
I enjoyed the walk into town, as all of the shops had their Christmas lights on – a few multicoloured bulbs somehow transforming the most boring of window displays – and all of a sudden, I found myself stopping to admire bathroom suites and garden machinery under the warm glow of blue, green, red and orange lights.
‘Keep up, Scotty!’
When we reached the main part of town, lines of lights stretched across the streets from left to right, attached to opposite buildings. One big shop – Army & Navy – had an illuminated, blow-up Santa on its flat roof, with a Christmas tree either side of it, fairy lights flashing on and off.
‘Right, who needs to do what?’ Ian asked, taking the part of parent again, which he was doing a lot more and I still liked it; he was definitely better than Dad and more reliable.
‘I need stuff from Share,’ Della said first, quickly adding: ‘So I’ll meet you by the main Christmas tree at eight-fifteen, in time for the lights on.’ And she went off to buy her make-up and stuff.
‘What about you, Scotty?’
I shrugged. I hadn’t really thought about actually shopping. I was just coming because that’s what we always did. With Mum.
‘I wanna try out Woollies?’ Stevie chirped up, pulling a stupid grin, which was his attempt at butter-wouldn’t-melt – Mum. He had a tooth missing in the front, which Justin said their dad had done to him.
‘Right,’ said Ian, not really answering, but Justin and Stevie went ahead into Woolworths and so Ian and me followed.
I liked Woollies. It had everything you could want in the one shop. Apart from food, which annoyed Mum.
‘I’ll have to go to that Tesco place, just for a few things!’
It didn’t bother me. It had games, sweets, cards, stationary, books, even clothes. But the bit I liked most was the music section. I always spent the most time in there, and Mum always left me in that section, whilst she did the rest of her shop.
There were rows and rows of LP covers that you could flick through – A to Z and a different section if there was a sale on. They kept the actual LPs behind the counter, in the inner sleeves, so you couldn’t just take them. But the twelve inches – which was a new thing, not everything came in twelve inch – they had the records in the sleeves. There were tapes too – a whole load of blank ones, so you could make up your own compilations, and proper ones that you couldn’t record over, unless you blocked up the holes with tissue and sellotape – then you could. But the bit I liked the very most was the singles. In Woolworths, they had the whole top 75 on display along the wall – number one at the top left hand corner, with number 75 at the bottom right hand. You got all the new releases at the bottom too. There was a display carousel for all the flops or ones that were out of the charts – marked down to 49 pence. This is where I’d started to spend more and more of my time, looking for bargains I could buy with my pocket money.
Before we’d left home, Ian had shared the money Dad had given him between the three of us – four quid for him, and three quid for Della and me.
‘I’m getting Dad something, too – you only need to get for me and Scot,’ he’d said, when Della had moaned he was being unfair.
Della’s face had told me not to expect much from her and, since she’d gone off to shop in Share, I was certain there wouldn’t be much left after she’d raided the make-up section. Still, I intended to get something for her.
Looking in the bargains, there was a copy of The Winner Takes It All, still in a picture sleeve. So, I picked that out. Then I scanned the singles chart on the wall. There were two things that caught my eye there: Super Trouper, which was still number one and would complete Della’s present, and There’s No One Quite Like Grandma, which was a bit further down the chart and also very true, so that was Nan Buckley sorted too, even though I didn’t have to buy for her.
Just as I was paying, there was a bit of scuffle behind me and an Oi! shouted by someone; a deep, male voice. Turning round, with my singles in a little bag, I saw Justin and Stevie charging off, with a couple of shop assistants chasing after them.
‘Come on, we’d better go,’ Ian said to me and we left the shop. We had a quick look in Share for Della, couldn’t find her and headed off to Army & Navy, where Ian promised to take me to see Father Christmas.
I hadn’t believed in Father Christmas since Roy Fallick had ruined it for us all two years before, revealing how it was all a load of bollocks for nancy boys and lezzers and that really it was just your Dad dressed up. So, when Mum had taken me to see Santa that year, I’d had a good look in his eye and a quick tug on his beard to see if would come off. It didn’t and he had brown eyes, not blue, so Father Christmas definitely wasn’t my Dad; he wasn’t Roy Fallick’s either, who was in prison at the time. Still, after Mum had apologised for my behaviour in the grotto and asked me to explain myself, it all came out: the full parental confession. T
he elves, the sleigh – it was all lies, she revealed. Mum said, as she was on-a-roll, she might as well dispel-some-other-myths; so she revealed all about the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny whilst she was at it. Myths. I remembered that – the grown-up word for lies, I reckoned.
Two years on, I still wanted to visit Santa’s Grotto, though – you got a present, after all. We’d been waiting five minutes when Justin and Stevie caught up with us, pushing in to join us, which got them a bit of abuse. We expected Stevie to kick off, start swearing or something, but he didn’t. The brothers just ignored the jeers and stood their ground.
‘So,’ Ian asked, looking down on them both a bit, disapproving, ‘what made you two leave Woollies so quickly?’
‘Nothing,’ Stevie had replied, grinning and Justin had looked away, shamed a bit by the tone of Ian’s voice, I thought. But we knew what they’d been up to, and sooner or later, we’d all get caught up in it.
When we finally got to the front of the queue, it turned out the Tankard boys didn’t have any money left to see Santa, so they had to wait outside, whilst we went ahead.
‘Let’s hope they behave themselves,’ Ian muttered, more to himself than to anyone in particular.
Inside the grotto, we got one massive shock.
‘Bloody hell!’ said Ian, instantly folding up with laughter
‘Jesus!’ I added, knowing I could get away with it, even if it was blasphemous and not allowed at school.
‘That’s it, you both laugh,’ Santa said, all sarky like.
‘They must have used a helluva lot of padding on you!’
‘Keep on laughing, why don’t ya?’
‘Auntie Stella know you’re doing this?’ I asked, as Santa pulled down his beard and took off his red hood. ‘You look hot.’
Uncle Gary sighed. ‘Just earning a bit extra for this bloody wedding.’
‘Ah, she’s got you working hard, eh?’ Ian was still joking along, but I could tell there was something in Uncle Gary’s voice, something aimed at me.
Getting back to the job in hand, Santa put his hat and beard back on and tapped on his knee.
‘You gonna sit on Santa’s knee then?’
‘Can your skinny legs take the weight, Santa?’ Ian laughed, pushing me forward.
But I didn’t want to. There was a look in Santa’s eyes that went with the tone now; subtle, just enough for me to notice. It wasn’t just the wedding. He knew. He knew what I’d done, what I’d taken from his red room.
‘I’m a bit too old now,’ I said, abruptly, in the way Justin might, suddenly shot with confidence. ‘Anyway, we need to find Della, right?’ I added, turning to Ian.
He still had merry eyes, but shrugged. He’d only come for me, after all.
‘See you about then, Santa!’ was Ian’s parting comment, and he saluted Gary too.
I just walked out, not looking back, but I heard Gary behind me.
‘Talk to you soon, Scotty,’ he said. Talk to you soon.
It was only once we’re on our way home that I realised I’d left without a present.
It was 7:45pm when we came out of Army & Navy, still 30 minutes until Della had arranged to meet us by the big Christmas tree. Justin and Stevie were nowhere to be seen; Ian thought this was a good thing.
‘You know trouble is brewing,’ he said, checking his watch again – 29 minutes to go. ‘Where do you want to go next?’
As we’d done the records in Woolworths, I wanted to check out Our Price and WH Smiths. There was also a place called Shattered Records, but that was further out of town, near the bus station. Ian said that was too far out tonight. I liked it there, because it sold second-hand LPs and singles and had great picture discs and coloured vinyl hanging in the window and decorating the walls. But that would have to wait for another time.
Ian usually got impatient with me in record shops, because I took-so-long, looking at the covers, making up my dream collection in my head. Sometimes, when I couldn’t sleep at night, I’d make my way through my ideal A-Z, exhausting all the bands that began with A and what I could have by them, and making my way down to Z, or until I fell asleep. But Ian was calm tonight, not minding as I zipped through all the singles and twelve-inches; he even showed a bit of interest.
‘What you looking at there? What’s your current favourite?’
We did Our Price first and then we still had five minutes left, so there was time for WH Smiths. As we approached the record department, I saw a familiar face filling up the blank C90 cassettes.
‘Alright, Scot,’ said Russell Dunbar, Ian’s old friend who had looked out for me at the swimming pool. ‘Ian.’ His acknowledgement of my brother was somewhat different to mine. Mine was friendly; Ian’s was just said, formal.
‘Yeah,’ Ian had replied, like he wasn’t saying anything, and he pushed me ahead towards the singles section. ‘Come on, Scotty, you need to get on and choose your present.’
I think it was Ian’s original intention to quiz me first and then come back and pick out a single for my Christmas present. But something told me he wanted to get me away from Russell. I knew they weren’t really mates anymore. Russell had been a regular at our house until the last summer and then he’d stopped coming round. Ian didn’t even talk about him any more. ‘Fallen out with your boyfriend?’ Della had teased, but Ian hadn’t bitten-back, hadn’t said anything. I wanted to ask him what had happened, even more so after their frosty exchange.
‘Come on, we’ve only got a minute before Della’s expecting us,’ he said, rushing me to make a decision. So I picked Paul McCartney’s Wonderful Christmastime. To Ian’s visible relief, Russell didn’t serve us at the till, but we did pass him on the way out. He tipped Ian a quick nod and Ian returned it.
This told me they didn’t hate each other, so maybe there was still hope for their friendship. But I didn’t say anything; didn’t see the point in provoking Ian. And I didn’t want to. He’d been great so far that evening, much better than our absent dad would have been.
Leaving WH Smiths, we could see Della waiting for us just ahead. She had a face on and instantly we saw why: she’d been joined by another of the Tankard clan. Sharon had turned up, with her latest boyfriend, who was a fat skinhead with love bites on his neck.
‘Lee,’ she said by way of an introduction, but there was really no point in her telling us his name – it would be someone else by the next time we saw her. Lee didn’t say anything either, so we didn’t need his name for the purpose of conversation; he was too busy leaving matching marks on Sharon’s neck. He also spent his time with his hands inside her coat, fumbling about and we did our best to look away, pretending neither of them was there.
At just after eight-thirty, we were back by the poultry cross in the centre of town, joining the crowd around the big Christmas tree. There was the traditional chorus of ‘Oohs’ and ‘Aahs’ when the tree lights finally came on. To the right of the tree was the official choir that sang at the cathedral.
When the singing started - the choir boys sounding like a bunch of girls, all high pitched and that - I could sense a bit of a kafuffle going on behind me, and I looked back.
Della and Ian looked as well and I heard an oh-great from my sister and I knew from the tone that she was in her say-the-opposite mode.
It was Justin and Stevie, doing-a-runner by the look of things. You wouldn’t have known they were in trouble, because they were both grinning and Justin was laughing his head off. But they were. Behind them, keeping up a good pace, were two blokes in uniform. Not policemen, but security guards.
‘From Woollies,’ I informed Della.
‘Cos I really care,’ she told me, confirming that her opposite-mode was now permanent.
I looked at Ian and he knew what I was thinking: that we should follow, should see if we could help. But he was the grown up that night, what with Dad not being with us, and he held me by my shoulders, forcing my body, if not my head, to face the choir.
‘They made their own trouble,’
he said, all wise. ‘And they always land on their feet.’
Normally, at points like this, I’d give example of when one of them hadn’t, like the time we went for a walk in the dump and Justin’s foot got caught in some wire and he landed on his face, but I held it back. I knew what he meant, and it was a chance to show that for once. Match Ian in the growing up stakes.
I took one more look back for Justin and Stevie, but they’d legged it.
Something else caught my eye, though. Her. Shirley. There. Just behind us. I smiled. Ian caught this and looked too, curious. His brow knitted itself up, crossing over with concern and I wondered if he’d seen her too, but he was looking slightly left. At someone else. At Russell Dunbar.
‘What is it?’ I asked and this time he got hold of my head and twisted it round to the front.
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Did you see her?’ I asked, on the off-chance he had. Taking the chance to share what I’d seen.
‘Scot.’ He said it simply. And whilst he just used my name, it was like he was saying quite a lot to me. Or that’s how it felt and it made me go quiet. Maybe he just didn’t want to know about me and Shirley White? Maybe she was only there for me?
‘Are we going?’ Della. This broke up my reflecting and Ian coughed sharply, as if clearing his throat and head at the same time.
‘How about a hot chocolate at the Wimpy?’ he suggested, with a sudden grin dissolving anything that might make us object.
‘Yes, Dad,’ said Della, and then we were all grinning. The three-of-us. And I liked it. I liked the comfort and safety of the three-of-us and wondered if it would last.
Later, when we were in bed, drifting off, a voice spoke out from the dark, from the direction of Ian’s bed. I wondered at first who it was and why they had said the words they had. But eventually I told myself it really was Ian speaking.