42 - The Lost Years.

As soon as Dave Gill has left the Vicarage, Douglas hurries back to the record player, drops an LP onto the turntable, lowers the needle, and sighs with relief as the first few bars of Tchaikovsky's Violin concerto emerge from the speakers. He knows he's been 'worked on' in some way and is pleased with the deep, rarified satisfaction that the music gives him, the way it blends with the time-softened furniture, the books from floor to ceiling either side of the chimney breast, the piano in the corner with some Bach spread out on the music rack. This is me, Douglas thinks, but as he drifts off on the waves of sound it is Dave's words that are still washing around in his mind. "Those were my 'dark years', Rev", the phrase comes back to him. This was a period of about 15 years in which Dave was drinking heavily and using heroine. It's a kind of lost period, Dave has explained. Memories a bit of a blur. Marriage breaking up. Selfishness. Not being there for Xag. Now he's 'clean'. Although Douglas has learned that this doesn't include, or rather, exclude, Pot, which after years of heroine abuse, is like a menthol cigarette, apparently.



Douglas picks up his note-book from the occasional table. He'd been writing down some ideas for his sacred play when Dave arrived full of energy, on his own trajectory, irresistable. Douglas scans over his own familiar handwriting, trying to pick up the threads, but the moment of absorption has passed. Dave clearly sees The Dark Years as an essential part of his Spritual Journey, Douglas reflects. Jesus was in the wilderness for 40 days and 40 nights, Dave was in a drug-addled stupor for nigh on fifteen years, which is why he's so obsessed with 'the voice of him that cryeth in the wilderness', "Because that's a bit like how I was, Vic, y'know?" Douglas smiles to himself. In a bizarre way he's almost jealous of Dave's dark vortex of self-annihilation. He had to reach rock bottom, absolutely rock bottom, he said, to come back out again, to choose to live. What Douglas has when he looks back is not so much dark years, as grey years. Suddenly whole decades start to fuse. From his early childhood up to and including his time at University the memories are like Chrystal, full of light and colour and magic, but after that it's just a succession of events. He tries to find some memories that have the same potency of those of his youth - there are a few high points: formal achievements, some nice holidays, the birth of his children, but where is he in all of it? He's as absent as Dave.


He feels an envious satisfaction that Dave's decades of pure unbounded hedonism did eventually lead to despair and confusion, to a splintering of his self, lost somewhere in countless random sexual encounters, in hard drugs and booze, in a strange parallel world of celebrity and excess. Douglas feels this validates his more circumspect approach to life, confirms that it has its own integrity, a core of self-preservation, at least. And it's not as though Douglas hasn't had a rich interior life, motivated by intellectual curiosity. Common sense is out of fashion, he knows that. He smiles and thinks to himself "It's society's crime, not ours." And yet in another way, there are curious parallels. It strikes Douglas that they are both performers. That they have both chosen professions in which one becomes a kind of public property, a 'persona'. Douglas' parishioners can no more fathom the real, complex, human being beneath the cassock, than Dave's fans can see the real man beneath the black leather. He has been fascinated to hear Dave talk about his fans, the care he takes not to disappoint them 'in real life'.

Douglas has also been surprised to learn that Dave is almost a decade older than him, a fact he finds some comfort in. He is not particularly relishing the thought of his fiftieth birthday. Life gets smaller as you get older. With the spaciousness of possibility gone, the boundaries of a single life become all too apparent. So this is the person he is. This is what he came to be when he grew up. He wishes he could go away for a week. Spend his birthday alone in the Scottish Highlands. Do some work on the play. Alison wants to have a family dinner, which will be fine, particularly since Christopher will be back. And then maybe he and Christopher can go for a long walk along the estuary. Father and Son. Listening to the night birds, sharing their reflections on music, and literature, and life. Comfortable with each other the way he and his own father never were.

41 - Can You Feel It, Reverend?

Douglas thinks it sounds like a frenzied lunatic bashing randomly on a pile of pots and pans, but he smiles politely and furrows his brow in concentration. He glances at Dave who seems to be lost in some sort of rapture, his head wavering from side to side as though he's trying to work it free from his neck. Dave opens his eyes slightly and gazes at him from the other side of the fireplace. "Can you feel it yet, Vic?"
"It's very...free-form." Douglas says.
"Free, yeah, but right from the gut, y'know. Feel that energy, man!"

The frenzied lunatic with a hammer is joined by a fellow with a saxophone, and Douglas is momentarily hopeful that some sort of melody will emerge from the chaos, but the second musician seems as deranged as the first, rasping fitfully like a fly trapped in double glazing.
"Oh dear, David, I'm sorry, but I'm really not sure I can take much more of this."
"But it's The Trane, man!" Dave says incredulously.
"The Train Man?"
"The Trane, John Coltrane."
"Ah."
"You really don't feel it?" Dave clenches his fist in front of his diaphram to indicate where Douglas should be feeling it, then shakes his head sadly from side to side. "One of the finest live performances ever. 1965. Antibes Jazz Festival. You just have to let yourself get carried away by it, man."
"I've never really been the carried-away type." Douglas says. "Too much of a rationalist, I suppose. I should have been born in the 18th century, not the 20th." This is an idea he's expressed before.
"Maybe if you listen to the whole thing" Dave suggests.
"How long is the whole thing?"
"Twenty one and a half minutes."

Douglas' face crumples with the pain. "What I wouldn't do for a bit of Satie right now," he sighs.
"Got the munchies have you, Vic?"
Douglas smiles vaguely. "Hmm?"
"I'm still stuffaroonied from the old roast dinner. Does a top roast, does my Pattie." Dave says, patting his belly.
"I like a good roast myself." Says Douglas, wondering how they got onto the subject.
"Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with fresh horse-radish sauce." Says Dave. "But oh man, listen to this bit," He shakes his head in disbelief, "Ah, my life, that's brutal blowing, like he's just gently ripping the throat out of that horn."
Douglas listens politely for a few more moments, but it's too much. "No, I'm sorry, David. I really need you to turn it off now."

Dave sighs and lifts the needle, then lovingly returns the album to it's white inner sleeve and cover. "Good sound, though." He says appreciatively, nodding at Reverend Carduggan's ancient record player.
"Yes, it's a good one." Douglas says. "Plays classical recordings, beautifully." He gets to his feet, hoping to put on some Brahms and sooth his addled brain fibres, but Dave has other ideas. He returns to his small leather sports bag and selects another disc.
"Just one more, Vic. For me."
"Oh, yes, go on then. But I'm going to have another sherry." Douglas reaches over for the decanter." Can I top you up?"
"We need whisky with this man, a bit of rye!"
"Oh, well, I do have some..."
"Only kidding, Revster!" Dave says, heartily, and claps a hand on Douglas' shoulder. "Now, sit back and listen to this. I guarantee, you'll love it.
"And who is this?"
"Mr John Lee Hooker." Dave says, suddenly acquiring a mid-Atlantic drawl. He lowers the vinyl onto the deck and pulls across the needle. "Untitled...Slow...Blues."

A pleasing hiss emerges from the speakers, followed by a spare, twanging guitar. The sound is raw and grainy but not jarring, and after his recent 'incident on the line' with 'The Trane' something of a blessed relief. A beat starts up, a foot tapping at a leisurely andante. Although Douglas, as he has explained to Dave, only listens to classical music, this is at least a sound he's familiar with. To him it's the sound of America; of cotton fields, and depressions and moon-shine. He doesn't find it objectionable. In fact, he finds the slow, insistent, tapping of Mr Lee-Hooker's foot quite mesmerising.
"Aaaahhh" says Dave, and this time he lets his head drop forward and loll from side to side.
Douglas watches Dave's sharply pointed, black leather shoe keeping time with the beat, and wonders how his parishioner gets his drainpipe trousers on over his feet. They are so incredibly narrow at the hem he must have to practically dislocate his ankles. Dave subconsciously mimes the guitar fingering, and watching him, Douglas can appreciate the intricacy of the music. The little accaciatura ripples, ex tempore, and yet perfectly within the overall tempo, as though the player is just letting his fingers flutter over the stings rather than plucking them. He takes a sip of fino and closes his eyes.
"That's right Vic." Dave says in a low husk. "Let yourself go, baby."

Douglas' eyes pop open. He really should draw the line at 'baby'. But looking at Dave wavering in the music he decides to put it down to his visitor's hyper-relaxed condition. Instead, he settles himself back in his armchair and gazes out through the french-doors at the garden gradually disappearing into the late afternoon shadows. There was a chap at Oxford used to play this sort of music. He'd hear it floating down the stairway at night. It was at University that Douglas had decided he only listened to classical music. His parents used to enjoy hearing how this made him deeply transgressive in the eyes of his rebellious, teenage contemporaries: that and believing in God, of course. And yet it is an odd thing, but listening now to this slow, spare music, it brings back those days more precisely, and completely, and painfully, than any of his classical records, even the ones he listened to most obsessively as a student. He can practically smell the polish on the banisters. Colin, that was his name. Had the most terrific ginger afro.

He and Jonathan used to call him Vesta. After Swan Vesta matches. Not very original, really. One night Vesta had caught them at an inopportune moment. Lots of scrabbling for trousers and trying to look casual. He wanted matches. It wasn't that funny, he supposes now, but at the time they'd practically had a stroke trying to hold in the laughter, then collapsing on the floor in hysterics as soon as they'd closed the door. Douglas smiles to himself. Douglas and Jonathan contra mundum. Ah, the follies of youth. He opens his eyes.
"What's this?" He realises that Dave has put on another record and he's been rather drifting away on it.
"Trane, again."
"Trane? The same Trane...?"
"Yep." Dave grins.
"But it's so much more..."
"Mellow?"
"Now this I really rather like."
"This track is called Invitation."
"Ah."

The room is almost dark now, with just the light from the fire. Douglas puts on the standard lamp behind his chair and sees it reflected in the French doors.
"It's so fluid, yeah." Dave says, and watches the Reverend carefully. "Smooth like honey", he persists, and taps his foot off the beat. "Oh yeah!"
"Yes, yes. I think I do quite like this. It's actually quite complex harmonically."
Douglas leans his head back against the chair and closes his eyes. Dave carries on tapping and watching. And then it happens. Douglas stops nodding his head up and down and starts to let it move slightly from side to side. Come on, baby, come on, Dave thinks to himself watching the Vicar's head movements intently, and yes, there it goes, just slightly off the beat! Dave is so excited he almost has to stuff his fist in his mouth to stop himself laughin out loud. He's done it, he's got the Vicar swinging. He reckons he's only five shags from Elvis, musically speaking, and after that, it's all down hill. He'll get the Reverend rocking in no time.

40 - Carols on the Quay

Gabriel leans forward as though he's about to vomit and hawks up a series of dry, pain-filled, sobs. He straightens up and scratches his stomach thoughtfully. No, that's no good. He jabs at the pause button on the tape-recorder, does some relaxation exercises and gets himself into a more lyrical state of misery. He sets the tape running again and emits a descending octave of plaintive sobs. That's better.

Gabriel has decided to follow his father's advice and make The Crying Man into a short drama for radio. The story is narrated through the eyes of The Crying Man's son, Edwin, now an adult in a psychiatric institution just after The Great War and reliving a series of flash-backs to his childhood. He has decided to use the sound of the Crying Man's sobs as a kind of scene divider, fading in and out between the dialogue. He listens back to the recording, then rubs his hair and sighs. He can't decide whether the whole things is a groundbreaking tour de force, or a total heap of shit. Since this is caught up with general doubts about whether he, Gabriel Lamb, is a groundbreaking tour de force, or a total heap of shit the whole process is becoming quite draining. He puffs his cheeks then lets out another long sigh. Oh to hell with it - let Radio 4 decide!

He looks at his watch. "Shit!" He grabs his coat from the back of the armchair, pats his pocket for keys and wallet, and ducks out through the tiny front door of Oyster Cottage. Gabriel has promised his Dad that he'll call for him at six and walk down to the quay with him for the carols. A fine rain has been falling all day and Geoffrey is nervous about coming down the hill on his own in case he slips. Gabriel cuts through the churchyard, enoying the slippery twinkle of lights through the dripping branches. He shelters behind a buttress for a moment and lights a cigarette. The smell of the rain makes him feel a bit 'heightened'. He wishes he was on his way to see a lover. For some reason, he thinks of the woman who sold him those stupid books at the Christmas Bazarre, or Beth as he now knows her to be called. He still trips over the bloody box in the hall each morning. Robin Askwith's cheeky chirpy grin mocking him from the bright yellow cover of Confessions of a Plumber, as if to drive home the point.


Beth, it turns out, is not a full-time purveyor of Timothy Lea novels, but a Registrar at Saxeburgh General. They've chatted at the bar of The Anchor a couple of times. Gabriel has made full use of these encounters to sketch out for Beth a more accurate picture of his acting career - aside from the Tiny-Tom advert. He has subtly name-dropped, shared a couple of his favorite on-set anecdotes, and generally been charming. And Beth, who is earthy and self-deprecating, has held his gaze, pitched her head to one side to indicate interest, and laughed generously at his punchlines. And yet there's something about her that's a bit... withdrawn, somehow. Gabriel unlatches the wrought iron gate into Blythe Lane and closes it carefully behind him. The way she remains so self-possessed. The way her eyes slack off into the middle distance when he's not looking directly at her, even when he's still talking. The way she wanders off to laugh and hug with other friends on her way to and from the loo, sometimes not returning at all, her glass sitting half empty on the bar until Alan rings the bell. She's definitely a bit of a strange one, Gabriel decides.

Geoffrey is ready and waiting in front of his gate, swaddled in a tweed coat and cap, and leaning on his stick. "I might not stay very long." He says as Gabriel approaches.
"That's all right." Gabriel takes his elbow. "Is your knee bad?"
"Oh, not too bad." Geoffrey says, but he's limping slightly. "But how are you?"
"Fine."
"How's the script coming along?"
"Oh nearly finished." Gabriel starts to run through some ideas he has for a title. The working title is The Crying Man, only now he thinks perhaps he should call it The Crying Man's Son, or Son of a Crying Man. Only it's not absolutely clear that Edwin is the Crying Man's son after all. He might be the son of the Great Ronaldo, or even Roger the laudenum-addicted dwarf.
Geoffrey listens attentively as they make their way carefully down the hill. He thinks The Crying Man is still the best title, he says, as they reach the bottom.


The quay is already crowded with bulky figures in hats and scarves, shuffling in the ochre glow of the street lamps, and clutching their carol sheets . A few people have brought torches and lanterns and one man is wearing a pot-holer's head-torch which Gabriel thinks is excessive. He puts up his golfing umberella and scans for familiar faces but doesn't recognise anyone. The tide is in and the boats lurk contentedly on the dark water. They have a strange animal presence at night, like floating cows. He takes a hip-flask from his pocket and offers it to his Dad. Geoffrey takes a nip and hands it back to Gabe who takes a prolonged swig, enoying the feeling of the warm fruity brandy pouring down his throat and spreading through his chest. He looks again for Eleanor and Basil but still can't see them. Too many twats with golfing umberellas blocking the view, he thinks to himself, before realising he's one of them.

Finally, after a few words from Douglas which Gabriel can't quite hear, Alison Carduggan plays the opening bars of Once in Royal David's City on her trumpet and they're off. Normally it is Glandice Morgan's voice that rises above the amateur drone, but she doesn't seem to be there. It is Reverend Carduggan's blowy squeeze-box of a baritone that distinguishes itself in her absence. Gabriel always forgets how many bloody verses hymns have. He remembers the words to the first verse and the chorus, which frankly he thinks is ample, but then it goes on and on and on. Fortunately, Gabriel's low boredom threshold is matched by Geoffrey's aching joints, so when he senses his Dad shifting his weight uncomfortably from side to side he suggests they warm up in the Anchor.

It's quiet in the pub and they get the round table next to the open fire. Gabriel grabs the leatherette clad menu.
"Have you eaten, Dad?"
"I have actually. A lovely Lancashire hot-pot?"
"Mmm, very nice. Where did you have that?"
"Rosamund brought it over."
"Whose Rosamund?" Gabriel says distractedly, still scanning the menu.
"You know Rosamund. Works in the bookshop."
"Oh, book-shop Roz. She brought you over a hot-pot did she?" That was kind, he thinks, but doesn't say so for fear of sounding patronising. "I didn't know you were friendly."
"No. I suppose we have rather...It's quite recent."
"I might have the Thai Curry." Gabriel leans back and soaks up some heat from the fire.


"You like Rosamund don't you?"
"Oh yes, a good sort is old Roz."
"Yes." Geoffrey takes a sip of his port and lemon. "A good sort. I'm glad you think so."
"Then again, the steak and kidney pudding is quite tempting." Gabriel flips the page back to Traditional Fayre.
"So you don't mind if she joins us for Christmas dinner?"
"What?" He lowers the menu.
"I'm afraid I've already asked her. I do hope that's alright with you?"
"Well, yeah, sure." Gabriel is a bit taken aback. "We're still going to Framlington House, though?"
"Oh yes, it's all booked."
"You, me, and Roz."
Geoffrey holds his gaze with his gentle blue eyes. "She's alone too, you know."

Alone too? Gabriel thinks. It's true that he has lived on his own since Marianne pissed off with their accountant, but he's never thought of himself as 'a-lone'.
"Great. That's great. The more the merrier Dad. Not a problem." Gabriel smiles to prove it.
"You're sure?"
"Absolutely."
"I'm so pleased."
Gabriel takes his numbered wooden spoon up the bar and waits to be served. What the hell is his Dad up to now? Book-shop Roz? Sure, she's great, Old Roz, with her wild hair and her adult-sized tricycle and her psychadelic cardigans, but really. He's not that lonely. He taps the end of the spoon distractedly on the bar. Then again, perhaps his Dad has another agenda. Perhaps it's Goeffrey who's alone, that's why he wants to pair him up with Roz, to keep him here in Tendringhoe a bit longer. Gabriel sighs and pulls at his earlobe. If there's one emotion he doesn't handle at all well, it's guilt.

39 - A Surprise Party Approaches

“Mi-chael. Mi-chael” Alison calls out in a high bright voice, and she breaks into a little trot to catch up with him.
Michael turns and sees the vicar’s wife bobbing breathlessly towards him, her lilac anorak flaring outwards, and her small, mittened hands almost rotating at her sides as she runs.
Michael treats her to one of his best smiles. He likes Alison. Which is to say, he likes how much Alison likes him. “Alison!” He says, as though her sudden appearance is just the tonic he’s been looking for, and his grey-green eyes sparkle under their long lashes in the low afternoon sunlight. Alison is flushed and a little out of breath.
“I thought it was you.” She says, and tries to pulls a hankie from her pocket but it’s bound up with a tangle of keys and dog chews and boiled sweets. Her car keys drop onto the pavement. They both bob forward to pick the keys up, then straighten up, then move forward again. Alison laughs. “Oh gosh! Look at us. Like two Japanese people!” Michael stoops down and picks up the keys and hands them to her.
“There you go.”
“Oh, thankyou.” She wipes her nose.

“I’m glad I’ve bumped into you, actually.” Alison says.
“Oh yes?” They start walking down the High Street together.
“I’m organizing a bit of a surprise party for Douglas. It’s his fiftieth on the 28th. I would have asked you before but I thought you’d be in Gloucester. But then Douglas mentioned you were staying in Tendringhoe for the holidays.”
“I am yes."
"So if you'd like to...?"
"I'd love to, thanks. Anything I can do to help?”
“Oh no. It’s all under control. But thanks for asking.”
“Well let me know.” He nods earnestly. “So what time…?”
“Oh, yes, good point. Seven. And if you can try to get there exactly on time, so we can all get into the dining room before Douglas gets back."
"Ah, so it's a proper surprise party then."
"Oh yes", Alison's eyes glow with the excitement of it all. "He doesn't know a thing about it. The plan is to get all the guests assembled whilst he's picking Christopher up from the station. You’ve met our son Christopher haven’t you?”
“I don’t think so actually”, Michael drops his head reverently to one side, “but I’ve heard a lot about him, of course.”
“Oh well yes.” Alison smiles, her face suddenly filled with pride. “He’ll be down for the holidays. He’s studying medicine at King’s College. Well, you probably know that.”
“That’s right.” Michael says. “You must be very proud.”
“Oh well yes, I am. I’m proud of all my children.”
“And with good reason!” Michael beams.
“As I’m sure your parents are with you!”
“Well.” Michael looks away briefly. “Sure.” He smile tightens very slightly.

Michael’s eye catches a poster in the deli window. “So, have you got your tickets for the panto?”
Alison turns to look at the poster. TADS are putting on Aladdin this year. There’s a photograph of Gordon Green as Widow Twankey.
“Oh absolutely. Gordon will be a riot!”
“Any excuse to dress up in women’s clothing.” Michael says without thinking.
“Oh, well, it’s just a bit of fun.” Alison says hastily.
“That’s what I meant. I mean, he likes to play the fool, I mean, you know…” Michael digs his hands into his pockets and takes a breath. “I mean he’s a natural comedian, isn’t he?.”
“Oh yes, yes. He certainly is.” Alison agrees, as relieved as Michael to be back on safe ground. “Quite the clown, in fact.”

“Well, anyway.” Michael says, sensing they’re nearly done.
“Well I’d best be getting back.” Alison says. “Hungry mouths to feed.”
“Me too.” Says Michael, thinking of Bernt, the Danish scout-leader he met on the train back from London.
“Well, cheerio then.” Alison moves away with a little wave. “See you for Carols on the Quay tomorrow?”
“Oh definitely!”
“Well, good bye then.”
“Good bye Alison.”

Alison bustles away with her neat little steps towards the Vicarage. Michael stops and looks again at the poster: Gordon Green with his big puffed frock, and his false eye-lashes, and his rouge circles pouting primly for the camera. He sniggers to himself. “Daft cock!”

38 - The Gift of Giving

Even though the pub is dingy, practically empty and a good twelve miles from Tendringhoe, Sian feels anxious. What if some friends of her parents come in? What if some friends of hers come in?! She has picked a small table in the corner between the pool room and the gents, but still leans back into the coat rack every time the door opens.
“How you doing then, babe?” Dezzy says, returning from the bar with half a pint of lager and a rum and coke.
“It’s a bit of dump isn’t it?”
“It’s not so bad.” He scans the brightly patterned interior then nods at a huge games machine. “That’s a good one. Very good effects.” Dezzy drums on the table with the flats of his hands, then stretches back in his chair and puts his arms behind his head, forcing the energy down into his right leg which starts to jig up and down.

“What’s in the bag?” Sian asks, looking at the large orange carrier bag beside Dezzy’s chair.
“What’s in the bag? Now let me see. Hmmm, I don’t remember? What is in the bag?” He leans over and hangs his arm over her shoulder. “As if you didn’t know.” He kisses her ear and puts his hand on her thigh. Sian pushes it down to a respectable position, and pecks him on his bristly cheek. “Come on, then, Dezzy-Dez. Show me what Santa’s bought me for being a good girl.”
Dezzy pretends he’s about to unzip his flies and expose himself.
“Dezzy!” She grabs his hands.
Dezzy laughs loudly. “Oh sorry – you mean the present.”
Sian leans over to grab the bag from the floor but Dezzy pushes it away with his foot. “Where’s my present, first?”
“Haven’t got you one.” She picks up her drink and starts swizzling the ice cubes around with her finger.
“Yeah you have, I saw it in your bag when you was in the bog.”
“Dezzy! You shouldn’t go through my bag!”
He leans into her. “Was it expensive?”
Sian sighs. “It’s the thought that counts.”
“Cheap then.”

Sian puts both arms round Dezzy’s neck and looks into his eyes. “Come on baby, give me my present.”
Dezzy hands her the bag. She pulls out a large, untidy shaped package wrapped in supermarket-thin paper dotted with snowmen. There’s no tag. She can feel the contents through the wrapping. Soft and squishy but too firm to be clothes. Oh no, she thinks, please don't let it be a stuffed toy. She pauses. “Actually, I’m going to wait until Christmas Day.” She says, and tries to put it under her chair.
“I want you to open it now.” Dezzy says, pulling it back onto the table. “I want to see your reaction.”
“It’s unlucky.”
“Open it!” Dezzy insists, draping his arm across the back of her chair.

She tears back the paper and reveals a large fluffy white toy cat. It has a collar round its neck with a red love-heart hanging from it. She’s seen them on the market. A whole stall of them, all the same. “It’s sweet.” She covers it back up with the paper and tries to reseal it with the furzy tab of sellotape. “Thanks”.
Even Dezzy senses her disappointment. “Look, it’s cute.” He pulls it back out of the paper, and holds it in front of his face. “Hello, lovely lady” he mimes in a high-pitched meow. He leans towards her and angles the cat’s head on one side. “Why you look so bloody miserable?”
She pushes him away. “I’m not miserable. I’m just a bit tired. I’ve got a bit of a headache coming on, actually.”
“Whassa matter baby. Don’t you like my pussy?”
Sian glances across at the elderly couple at the next table. “Dezzy! Keep your voice down!”

He drops the cat face down on the table. It has a rough nylon base with a label on the seam. The fact that it’s fire retardant doesn’t strike Sian as a good thing.
“You don’t like it.” Dezzy says, dejectedly.
“I do. It’s cute. It’s just…”
“What?”
“Nothing. It’ll be my mascot. For my car, when I pass my test”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Dezzy lies. “So where’s my present then?”
Sian hands him a small, flat, square package. He takes off the raffia binding.

“What you tied it up with straw for?”
“It’s raffia.”
“Oh, well pardon me, m’lady, I didn’t know it was raahfiah – ooh la la!” He takes off the hand-made paper and flings it to one side without a glance. “Oh yeah, cheers babe, that’s fierce.” It’s the new United Stereo Collective CD he’s been dropping hints for. Sian leans over and opens the case. “There’s something else.” Inside the case are two tickets to see United Stereo Collective, who is in fact one man, performing live.
“How d’you get tickets! I thought it was sold out?”
“I got them ages ago. Day they came on sale”
“You did?” He looks up at her. “For me?” He turns the tickets over in his hands. “No-one’s ever….” He stops himself. “Wow. Thanks babe. .” Dezzy places the tickets carefully back in the case. He doesn’t know what to say. “Happy Christmas, baby!” He raises his glass. Hers is empty but she clinks it against his anyway. He takes the glass from her hand. “What you having then?” He’s already on his feet. “Another rum and coke?” He goes up to the bar without waiting for an answer. “A rum and coke for the lady, please, Mein Hose.”

Whilst Dezzy’s up at the bar Sian stuffs the cat back in its wrapper and puts it down on the floor. She really does have a headache now. She doesn’t want another drink. She just wants to go home.

37 - O Come All Ye Faithful!

Len lays down his tools on the work bench and turns on the light. He fires up the Calorgas heater and spreads out the pizza box. The biro hasn’t worked too well on the greasy spots, but he can still make out his design. He pulls a large crate of materials from under the bench. On top is a folded white sheet, a clothes-peg still attached at one corner, which he lays carefully on the bench. Next is a child’s back-pack in the shape of a lamb which he rescued from a bin in Blythe Lane. It’s a bit raggy but it will look fine in the dark, lit only by a small Camp-a-lamp. “Ah!” Len smiles. “Now then!” He takes the two prosthetic legs, props them against the wall and admires them for a few moments. They’ll look quite realistic once he’s dressed the whole thing with the sheet.

Next he lays the polystyrene head on the bench. He takes a few strands of copper wire and presses them into the scalp. Yes, that will work nicely, Len nods to himself, for the hair and the beard. He turns on the radio. Christmas carols. Perfect. He rummages around a bit more and pulls out his fawn cardigan. It’s the one he accidentally set fire to in a late night smoking incident, he had to douse it with Heinekin, then the zip rusted shut, so he doesn’t wear it much these days anyway. He gazes at it for a moment, and considers how he’ll attach the water filled rubber gloves to the cuffs. Staple them perhaps? Len scratches his bottom. What else?

He bites his lower lip and looks back to his drawing. Yes, some foliage from the Marbury’s garden can be wound into a thorny corona, but what about the blood?! Len sucks his teeth and looks around him. Browsing through the old pots of paint on the shelf above his bench, he finds half a can of rust red primer. He shakes it to check if it’s still in liquid form. It is, and a quick test with a ten pence piece reveals that the lid is still willing to come off. Well, that’s about it. He’ll draw the face in with a fat felt-tip. Coat-hangers will hold it all together, and the handle from a broken hoe he found in the vegetable patch will keep it upright. He considers using a blob of vaseline to suggest a single tear rolling down one cheek, but doesn’t want to gild the Lily. The main thing now will be the timing.