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“Hello,” I say in my best clipped, professional tone, “Becker and Son plumbing.” I’d not normally be taking a call during Christmas, but I’m trying to get the business off the ground in a new town and that means building a reputation for being obliging.
Jonathan brings the gravy back to the table while I’m explaining to the caller that this had better be a real fucking emergency (I use more polite words) because I’m having my bleeding Christmas dinner (I use more polite words than that too) and if it turns out he’s just got a leaky tap, I’ll be telling every other tradesman in Croydon that they’re more trouble than they’re worth (once again, politer in the moment).
“I’m really sorry,” I tell the crowd, “there’s a feller had his water go out, the whole family’s round and, well, they need to be able to use their loos. It’s just on Sandrock Place and I’m hoping it’ll be a quick one.”
Jonathan kisses me goodbye and tells me to hurry back, I tell him I will and ask the family to take care of him while I’m gone. It’s sort of a ritual, but it’s one we all like.
“Took care of him his whole life,” Wendy says, “I can manage another hour. Be safe and wrap up warm.”
As I’m grabbing my coat I hear a crash, and turn to see Gollum sitting on the floor, next to the remains of the just-refilled gravy boat.
“It’s fine,” Ralph is saying, “if the carpet needs replacing, I’ve still got contacts.”
And it is. Fine, I mean. I head out to the van and though I’d rather not be taking a call out I’m not bothered. Because I know when I get back I’ll have everybody waiting for me.
The cat. The family.
And Jonathan fucking Forest.
