Merry fucking Christmas indeed.
Chapter Nineteen
‘She actually sang “Santa Baby” to you. . . in the middle of the pub?’
‘Yup,’ I respond as Matt and I walk up the garden path to his parents’ house. Their garden is perfectly tended, even in winter, with frost-covered conifers and little bare holly bushes, the berries evidently ravaged by hungry birds.
‘It was just so awkward,’ I continue. ‘I didn’t know where to look. The whole night was a disaster, mate, even before I broke my arse.’
Matt puts down his bags at the front door and rings the bell. A cheeryding-dongsound chimes out, nothing like the harsh buzzer we’re forced to endure at home. I peer through the living room window and see the twinkle from the Christmas tree lights along with the warm glow from the fire, making me feel like an orphan from a Dickens novel. I can almost hear the Victorian carol singers. The Buckleys own a large five-bedroom house in the Surrey countryside. It’s obscenely picturesque and was undoubtedly a wonderful place to grow up. Mum and I lived in a two-bedroom ground-floor flat with a damp problem and neighbours who never quite grasped the concept of keeping it the fuck down. Even though Matt hasn’t lived here for years, he still has that ruddy, country-boy glow about his cheeks.
‘Sarah sends her love,’ Matt informs me, pressing his face up to the frosted glass on the door. ‘Alfie’s having a ball apparently. He’s running wild.’
‘You’ve spoken to her?’
‘Just a text. I’ll call her later.’
I don’t mention that she texted me last night too. He knows she has my number for babysitting duties, but I don’t want him to read anything into it. Perhaps I shouldn’t either.
Finally, the door opens, and we’re greeted by Matt’s mum, Maureen, who’s wearing the fluffiest white jumper I’ve ever seen, and their golden retriever Harvey, whogruffsat us indifferently.
‘There’s my boys!’ she exclaims, beaming. ‘Oh, I’m so glad you’re here! Quick, come in, it’s chilly!’
I beam back as she ushers us in. Since my mum passed, Maureen has ensured I never feel like anything other than part of the family. I get birthday cards, Christmas gifts and they even included me in their family celebratory dinner after Matt and I graduated.
‘Merry Christmas, Mum,’ Matt says, kissing her cheek. ‘You look lovely. New jumper?’
‘Gift from Dad,’ she replies, giving a twirl. ‘I’m rather pleased. How are you, Nick?’
She hugs me tightly as I tell her I’m great, omitting pretty much everything that’s happened in the last six months. We drop our bags at the bottom of the stairs and head into the living room.
‘James, stop fiddling with that gadget, the boys are here.’
Matt’s dad places his Amazon Echo on the arm of the couch and slips off his reading glasses. The whole house smells like cinnamon and berries with faint notes of soggy Harvey.
‘Sorry, love, just trying to sync that thing up. Merry Christmas!’ he says, hugging us both. ‘Was the drive OK?’
‘Terrific,’ Matt replies, as he sits on the couch. ‘Roads were dead. . . Mum, did you get Dad an Alexa for Christmas? That’s practically another woman.’
‘I did!’ she replies, shaking up the pillows beside me on the couch. ‘I thought it might be fun! Gives him someone to talk to other than me and Harvey.’
I laugh as James considers this and then nods in agreement. You can tell they adore each other, and I’ve never heard either of them raise their voice in anger since I’ve known them. Matt told me once that they had wanted a huge family but only had one successful pregnancy, resulting in him. You can tell that they had enough love and kindness for twenty more and I’ve been lucky to receive even a breath of it. When Matt eventually gives them grandkids, I think they might burst with happiness.
Matt’s mum pushes some bowls of nibbles towards me while Harvey decides to sit directly on my foot until I scratch his head. It’s the same every year.
‘House is looking very festive, Mrs B,’ I say, grabbing a smoked salmon blini, ‘thanks for having me.’
‘Our pleasure, Nick,’ she replies. ‘Wouldn’t be the same without you. Matt, give your dad a hand with that thing, will you?’
She toddles off to the kitchen while I watch Matt take over the set-up of his dad’s new toy. I imagine that this responsibility befalls every child whose ageing parents have received technology made after 1993.
After much mumbling, I hear Matt say, ‘Alexa, what’s the weather?’
Matt’s dad’s face lights up as his new device tells him that it’s minus two with a fresh breeze, despite it being information that could also be obtained by stepping outside.
‘Put some music on!’ Matt’s mum yells from the kitchen. ‘Something Christmassy!’
‘Not “Jingle Bell Rock”,’ I request, and my arse aches in agreement. ‘Anything but that.’
