Julie Morrigan
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Festive tale 3

23/12/2012

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'Doing it for the bairns' is a new, previously unpublished story inspired by a photograph I took a few years back. The sharp-eyed among you will notice that although the story is set in Newcastle, the pic was taken in Glasgow.

Doing it for the bairns
‘Look at the state of him,’ muttered Bill. ‘That Santa suit’s all wrong and his boots look like wellies. And what’s with the flag? It looks bloody stupid.’

‘Take no notice,’ said John. He tucked the elastic of his long white beard under his wig, pulled it back into place and put his red and white hat on. ‘He’s a daft shite.’ He took a slurp of coffee.

‘Merry Christmas, Santas,’ said Callum as he sauntered over to the coffee hut. ‘How are we all today?’

Bill glowered. John ignored him. ‘All right, mate,’ said Mick. ‘How’s you?’

‘I’m good, big man, I’m good.’

Picture
‘What’s the flag on your back for, like? I haven’t seen a flag like that before.’

Callum grinned. ‘It’s the flag of Shetland. I’m from there originally. Left when I was just a wean, but I still love the place.’ He drained his coffee cup and dropped the empty in a bin. ‘I’m away to the Monument in a minute, I’m collecting up there today.’

‘Aye? I was there yesterday, I did canny, like,’ said Mick.

‘Good to hear. See yous later, down the Duke?’

‘Aye, we’ll be there,’ said Mick. He turned to Bill and John as Callum walked away. ‘What’s the matter with you two?’

‘That spawny get, that’s what,’ said Bill, staring sullenly at Callum’s retreating back.

‘Callum?’

‘Fucking Gollum, more like.’

‘He’s all right, man. Just ’cos he’s a Jock doesn’t make him a bad lad. Not like he’s a fucking southerner, is it?’

‘I suppose.’

‘Well then, chill, marra. Cool ya jets.’ Mick looked at his watch. ‘Although on second thoughts, move it. Time we weren’t here, there’s shoppers to guilt trip.’ He shook the collection bucket he held, a picture of a crying child on the front. ‘Howay. There’s the bairns to think of.’


***

Early evening, several Santas were crowded around a table in the Duke of Wellington.

‘Doesn’t seem right, not standing at the bar,’ said John.

‘I couldn’t stand another minute. Me dogs are barking. Hard work, this collecting lark.’

‘Aye, man, but worth it, eh? Think of the good it’ll do,’ said Callum, coming into the pub last as usual. ‘Good day, big man?’

‘Aye, canny,’ said Mick. ‘Yersel’?’

Callum nodded. ‘Can’t complain.’

‘Where’ve you been till this time?’ asked John.

‘Dropping the cash off back at the ranch. Got to do what the boss says.’

John looked at the picture on Callum’s collecting bucket, different to the one on the buckets carried by him, Bill, and Mick. ‘I hope you kept enough to get a round in,’ he said.

‘Oh aye, nae bother, big man. What’s everybody having? Billy boy?’

‘Nowt off you, you Jock bastard. And don’t you Billy boy me!’

‘Come on, man, it’s Christmas! We’re all on the same side here, all daein’ the right thing for charity, for the weans.’ Callum held his hand out. ‘Come on, shake on it, big man. Nae hard feelins.’

Bill looked at the outstretched hand then back at Callum’s face, then he pulled his right fist back and threw a punch. John grabbed him to stop him throwing another and he’d telegraphed the first one so far ahead that Callum had dodged it easily, although he dropped his collecting bucket and staggered back against the bar, scattering drinkers as he did.

‘Hey, pack it in or you’re out, the lot of yous,’ shouted the barman. ‘I’ll not have any trouble.’

‘Sorry, man,’ said Mick, ‘it’s all right now. Just a bit of a misunderstanding.’ He turned to Callum. ‘You’d best go, like. We’ll calm him down.’

Without a word, Callum picked up his collecting bucket and walked out.

‘Fuck’s sake, Bill, the lad was trying to buy us a pint! What is it with you and him?’ John let go of Bill and stepped away from him.

‘It’s not him so much as where he’s from.’ He scrubbed his face with his palm. ‘The first wife fucked off with a sweaty sock eighteen months back. Thought he was me mate, then the two of them bugger off to Jockland leaving me wi’ two bairns and a load of debt. Last Christmas was bloody miserable, man. Hardly any presents and I couldn’t afford to put the heating on half the time.’

‘That’s harsh, but it’s hardly that fella’s fault.’

‘Even so—’

‘Keep a cool head. Just two days to go. Think of the bairns.’

Bill sucked in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. ‘Aye, you’re right. I’m sorry, man. Got to focus on the little ’uns.’

‘You want another beer?’

Bill nodded, and he sat down again as John headed off to the bar. He saw something lying on the floor and picked it up; it was Callum’s charity ID card. Bill threw it under the seat he was on, flipped it so it went right back to the wall. See how the fucker liked that.


***

Next day, Bill was collecting up at the Monument when a policeman pulled him to one side.

‘Summat the matter, mate?’ Bill asked.

‘Can I see your ID, sir?’

Bill fished in his pocket and pulled out a laminated card, then held it up for the copper to see. As the policeman took it and scrutinised it, Bill looked past him, his expression impassive.

‘Just routine,’ plod said, handing back Bill’s ID. ‘Nothing to worry about, sir.’

‘There’s some clown with a flag on his back you might want to check out.’

‘Is he a Santa Claus an’ all?’

‘Aye. In a suit with a blue and white flag on the back, collecting bucket with a picture of a bairn in a wheelchair on it.’

‘And you think he might be dodgy?’

Bill shrugged. ‘Couldn’t say about that, like, but he’s not from round here.’

The copper walked away, talking into his radio as he went, and Bill turned back to the main thoroughfare, started shaking his bucket as he mingled amongst the Christmas shoppers. Coins rattled down the chute, through the slot and into the space below. The odd person tucked a note in and the bucket started to feel heavy.


***

‘Hey, did you hear about Callum?’ John asked as they crowded around the table in the Duke that evening.

‘No, what’s that?’ Bill asked.

‘He got taken away by a copper this afternoon. Mick saw him go.’

‘What was the problem?’

‘Couldn’t produce his ID. Zero tolerance for con merchants round here, man.’

‘Just as well ours are the business, eh!’

‘Aye,’ John nodded. ‘Just one more day to go, an’ all. Been a good run, I’ve done really well out of it.’

‘Me an’ all, spot on, man. Best idea ever.’ Bill’s foot knocked against the bucket, tucked under the table, and it made a satisfying clunk. Kate would be over the moon.

***

Bill got home late on Christmas Eve, staggered in half cut and laden down with shopping. Callum hadn’t been spotted all day and so he’d had a couple of extra beers to celebrate sticking it to a sweaty sock.

‘Where the hell do you think you’ve been?’ Kate hissed at him as he walked into the sitting room. ‘I’ve been worried sick in case something had happened!’

‘Sorry, pet.’

‘Why didn’t you answer your phone?’

‘The battery died.’

‘And you couldn’t use a payphone to tell us you’d be late? I thought you were locked up, like that Scottish bloke—’

‘I’m home now and everything’s topper. Now howay, pet, you cannat get vexed with Santa Claus on Christmas Eve.’ He grinned at her. ‘Come here and gis a kiss.’ He dropped the parcels and pulled her to her feet then grabbed her in a bear hug. She shrieked as he covered her in kisses.

‘Hush,’ he said, putting a finger to his lips, ‘you’ll wake the bairns.’

‘It’s that beard, it’s horrible. It’s got things stuck in it, man, it stinks.’

Bill laughed and started singing, ‘I saw mammy kissing Santa Claus.’

Kate shook her head. ‘Shut up, you daft beggar. Come on, let’s get them presents wrapped.’

‘Did you get the shopping in?’

She nodded. ‘The fridge is bursting at the seams. We’ll get this done then have a couple of cans to celebrate.’

‘Champion.’ They set to and wrapped the gifts, piling them under the tree. When they were all done, there was a heap of presents for each child, with gifts for Bill and Kate, too.

She snuggled in to him and they stood and looked at it all; the new tree with its baubles and twinkly lights, the gifts in their colourful wrappings, the warm glow from the candles and the fake logs on the gas fire. ‘You’ve done us proud, pet. It all looks lovely. It’ll be a Christmas to remember, this one, like.’

Bill was about to agree when there was a knock at the door. ‘Get them cans,’ he said, ‘I’ll just see who this is.’

He opened the door to be faced by the same copper he’d spoken to at the Monument a couple of days earlier. There was another one standing next to him and neither looked very Christmassy.

‘What’s up lads? Want to come in for a can?’ Bill said, trying to front it out.

‘Don’t play silly buggers, man.’

‘I’m not. It’s Christmas Eve. Howay in and have a bevvy.’

‘William Smith, I am arresting you on suspicion of impersonating a charity collector. You do not—’


***

‘How did you find out?’ Bill asked the copper as he was being driven to the cop shop.

‘I never would have if you hadn’t sent us after that fella with the flag on his back. He’d lost his ID, but he checked out. Then I got interested in you. Didn’t take long to find out that there was no such charity as the one you were collecting for.’

Bill thought of the three kids asleep upstairs back at the house, his two boys and Kate’s little girl, warm and safe and looking forward to Christmas. ‘Charity begins at home, mate.’

‘Zero tolerance for con merchants round here.’

‘Oh, howay, man! I was only doing it for the bairns!’

‘Aye? Tell it to the magistrate in the morning.’ The clock on the dash showed ’00:00’. The copper looked at him in the rear view mirror. ‘Merry Christmas, Santa,’ he said.

Bill rolled his eyes. ‘Ho, ho, fucking ho.’

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Festive tale 2

20/12/2012

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Next up in the festive tales series is the also previously published White Christmas. And with one new story in the bag and another planned, we've more to go yet. I hope you enjoy them.
White Christmas
‘Oooooarrrrghhh!!!! Jesus, Mary and fucking Joseph!’

It wasn’t how I would have chosen to spend Christmas Eve.


‘It fucking hurts! Get that fucking thing out of me! Oooooaaaaarrrrghhh!!!!’


On the plus side, Jenna wasn’t having any more fun than I was. I reckoned the whole thing was over-rated.


‘Peeeeeeeeterrrrr!!! Fucking do some fucking thing!!! Pleeeeeeease!!!!’


That was new: I’d never heard her beg before.


‘Come on, Daddy. Mummy needs you!’ The midwife had an expectant look on her face. She nodded at Jenna, looked back at me. So I did something: I went out for a smoke. As I headed down the corridor I could hear Jenna cursing and screaming. I hoped the midwife wasn’t easily offended.


Outside, among the other addicts, my breath smoked as much as my cigarette. It was bitterly cold, frosty, a few stray, fat flakes of snow drifting down from above. The pavements and driveways around the hospital sparkled in the lamplight. It was beautiful, provided you ignored the piles of dog ends and the motley assortment of people in pyjamas, coats and boots, closed your ears to the wheezing and the hacking coughs.


Picture
Events had conspired to bring me to this place at this time. Bad stuff, mostly. I mean, I’d always reckoned me and Jenna would have kids one day, but not now, not like this. I lit a second smoke from the first, dropped the butt and ground it out with my heel.

I’d been working away. She was lonely. She went out with the girls one night, got pissed and Benny Maxwell played the good mate, walked her home for safety, then went in for a drink. She can’t even remember it, so she says. Not that she said anything at all until she had to, until she knew she was up the duff and the timing gave her away. There’d never been any question of getting rid of it. Jenna suffered from selective Catholicism, so whilst it was okay to live in sin, drink the town dry and swear like that wrinkly fucking cook off the telly, abortion wasn’t an option.


As the fat snowflakes tumbled faster out of the sky, I dropped the second smoke, went back in to see what the score was. ‘You have a daughter,’ the midwife beamed as I pushed through the door. I looked at Jenna, exhausted, sweaty, hair plastered to her forehead. She was clutching a wailing bundle, smiling through the tears.


‘Come and see,’ she said. I went over for a look. It was an ugly little spud.


‘She’s our first Christmas arrival,’ the midwife said. ‘Just one minute past midnight, out she popped.’ She looked at Jenna. ‘Any thoughts on names, dear?’


Jenna looked at me. ‘I dunno… Holly?’


I looked at the bairn again. ‘How about “Wingnut”?’ I suggested. The kid was Benny Maxwell’s right enough. No wonder Jenna had squealed. Must have hurt like a bastard getting those ears out.


The midwife tutted, then bustled on out of the room. ‘I’ll get you a cup of tea, dear,’ she called over her shoulder to Jenna. ‘Won’t be long.’


‘Do you want to hold her?’ Jenna asked me.


I shook my head. ‘Maybe later.’ I was still getting used to the idea of bringing up another man’s child. I saw her face drop and I felt mean, but I couldn’t help it. I kissed the top of her head. ‘I’ve got something to do. Get some rest. I’ll be back in an hour or so.’


She looked worried. I heard her start to say something as I went out of the door. ‘Don’t…’
I took it to mean ‘Don’t get caught,’ and since I didn’t intend to, I kept on walking.


I hadn’t believed Jenna when she spun me the line about not remembering. Then I heard that Benny had been picked up and questioned by the police. Some little bird had gone to them with a story about him putting something in her drink. There hadn’t been enough to charge him with, but it was enough for me. Things fell into place, Jenna and I stopped fighting and started working things out, slowly, painfully, but getting there, and I bided my time.


Sure enough, an hour or so later I was back. Jenna was asleep. I tiptoed over to the crib and peeked in at the baby. She was looking better than earlier, I thought. Less red and wrinkly. When she was old enough, we’d get her ears sorted out. I wasn’t having my bairn going through life looking like a taxi with the doors open. She’d get ripped to shreds at school for ears like that. Besides, they reminded me of Benny. 


Next afternoon, I was perched on the bed, one arm round Jenna’s shoulders, the other cradling little Holly, when Jenna’s sister came in to visit. There was the usual amount of cooing and crying that I was starting to get used to, then she sat down and started eating the grapes she’d brought for Jenna. ‘You’ll never guess,’ she said, then continued without giving us the chance to. ‘Benny Maxwell’s dead!’


I felt Jenna tense up beside me. ‘How?’ she asked.


‘You know how cold it was last night? They found him lying in his back garden, covered in snow. He was only wearing a T-shirt and shorts. He died of hypothermia. I reckon he must have been drunk or something, and fell down or passed out. Sad, really.’


She was right: he had been drunk. He’d also been full of GHB. It’s frighteningly easy to get hold of. She was wrong on the second count, though, I thought, as I hugged the missus and the bairn: it wasn’t sad at all. In fact, it was probably the best Christmas present I’d ever give them.


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A wee festive tale to warm the heart

17/12/2012

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I have a couple of Christmas stories that I thought I'd share with you over the next week or so, along with a third, new, one, provided I get it written in time. That's the plan, anyway, so here's the first one: 'Cold, Cold Christmas'. I hope you enjoy it!


Cold, Cold Christmas
Jesus Christ, I fucking hate this time of year. Fake cheer and insincere good wishes, celebrations with people you work with and can just about tolerate provided you’re being paid to be in their company, relatives you see once a year and have to pretend you give a damn about.

It’s all for the children, they say, it’s not the same once they’ve grown up. Or it reminds us of the miracle of the baby Jesus. It’s about family, friends, goodwill to all men, peace, thanksgiving and the poxy Queen’s poncey fucking speech.


It isn’t, though. Do you know what Christmas is all about? Money. That’s all. Money. And God help you if you haven’t got any.


You just need to look at the adverts: big houses, warm and bright, twinkly lights wrapped around huge trees with presents piled high beneath them, well-dressed rosy-cheeked children hardly able to wait until Christmas morning to open them, tables groaning under the weight of the food, granddad napping in the armchair, a full belly making him sleepy, and, glimpsed through the window, snow gently falling to make the day perfect.


Christmas isn’t for the kids. Christmas is for the rich. And I won’t ever be one of those.


Picture
Last year I had a wife and a baby son. Mary was the old fashioned type: it was my job to bring home the bacon and hers to cook it. She went part-time when we got married. She packed in work when she had Daniel. We lived in a little house. It might not have been paradise, exactly, but on a good day it could have shared a border with it.

I was cycling to work one morning last June when a fuckwit who was speeding and texting ran me off the road. I was lucky in that my injuries were neither fatal nor even life-threatening, and unlucky in that I didn’t get his car registration and the guy didn’t stop. Probably didn’t even know he’d done it, never tore his eyes away from the screen on his phone. Then my contract came up for renewal and my employer let me go. I couldn’t blame them: who could afford to pay someone not to work in this recession?

In July, I got a dozen horizontal pins put in my right leg. In September, they took them out and replaced them with a couple of vertical ones. Money was tight. Mary did her best, but while she wasn’t what you’d call extravagant, she didn’t really know how to cut back. By the time October came around, she would turn the heating on and I’d follow along behind and turn it off again. She complained she was cold, I told her to put on a jumper. She said the baby needed to be kept warm, I told her to wrap him up. At the end of November she left me for a man called Michael who had his own business and wasn’t afraid of his heating bills. Took the baby. Took the last of the savings. Took my pride, my hope, my future.

Christmas was a bloody miserable affair. I didn’t see a soul.

By February, I was back on my feet and I landed a job at a call centre. God-awful work, but I needed the money. I got the bus there and back and spent most of the day sitting down, and my dodgy leg continued to heal.

I got to see Daniel every other weekend, which wasn’t enough; but I wasn’t in charge when it came to my son, so I had to settle for what I could get.

I picked him up at Michael’s house, mock-Tudor, detached, double garage. I had to admit, Mary looked a million dollars. Designer clothes, regular trips to the gym and the beauty parlour. And the boy had everything he could have asked for. More than I could have given him if I hadn’t had my accident and we’d kept on going as we were. I felt inadequate. I felt relieved. On a bad day, I even felt grateful.

Then one afternoon I was limping back up the road after dropping Daniel off and I saw him, the bastard who’d knocked me off my bike. I watched him drive down the road, speeding and texting, adrenaline coursing through my system as he pulled into the driveway of the house I had just left.

I went back there as fast I could manage and banged on the door. When he answered, phone in hand, red mist distorted my vision.

‘You fucking bastard,’ I yelled. I pointed to my leg. ‘Look what you did to me, you—’

My voice was silenced when he grabbed me by the throat. Apparently Mary wasn’t the only one spending time at the gym.

‘I don’t know who you are, but if you don’t leave right now, I’ll rip your fucking head off,’ he said.

Around the same time, Mary appeared behind him. ‘Let go of him,’ she said to Michael, clutching at his arm. ‘Put him down, that’s Daniel’s dad.’

‘What?’ he said. He looked at her then he looked at me, then he loosened his grip. I sucked in lungfuls of air.

‘How could you?’ I asked Mary. ‘How could you?’

‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

‘That’s the fucker that ran me off the road,’ I told her. I looked at him. ‘I’m telling the police. You’ll go to prison for what you did.’

‘You’re pathetic,’ he said. Inside the house, Daniel started to cry. ‘Go on in, love, see to the boy,’ he said to Mary. ‘There’ll be no more trouble.’ When she’d gone, he pointed to me with his phone. ‘You can prove fuck all,’ he said, ‘so fuck off back to your hovel and leave decent people in peace.’ Then he slammed the door in my face.

And he was right. It was my word against his, I had no proof.

I brooded for weeks, no idea what to do. He’d ruined my life and he was going to get away with it. I had absolutely no comeback. Unless …

I ordered a bike out of a catalogue, paid for it weekly, started cycling again. It was hard at first, getting my strength and stamina back, getting my leg to work like it should, but slowly, little by little, it got easier.

Everywhere I went I watched for him, but didn’t see him.

In the end, he found me. I was cycling home from work and he pulled up alongside me at a traffic light. I looked over in disbelief, but he didn’t look back; he was too busy texting.

Just before the lights changed, I pulled away and turned the handlebars ever so slightly. Sure enough, as soon as they hit green he floored the accelerator and raced forward, one eye still on his phone, and clipped my bike. I flew through the air, terrified, the voice inside my head screaming what the fuck were you thinking?


***
Six weeks later I got out of hospital and went home. It was getting chilly, but I could afford to put the heating on. I got back to work, travelling on the bus, another bike ruined. Then it was Christmas.

Home alone on Christmas Eve, I was disturbed by a knock at the door. I opened it to see Mary, clutching Daniel. ‘Can we come in?’ she asked. I nodded and stood back, gave her room. As I shut the door I noticed a neat little hatchback parked at the kerb.

‘What’s up?’ I asked her, as she perched on the edge of the settee. She put Daniel down and he toddled over to me and held his arms out. I picked him up and hugged him, turned away from Mary so she couldn’t see the tears in my eyes.

‘It’s Michael,’ she said.

‘What about him?’ I asked, lifting Daniel high above me while he showered me in chuckles and smiles.

‘He’s still locked up.’

I nodded. I knew. I’d been in court when he got done for dangerous driving, had given evidence against him. He had a long time to go yet before he made any decisions as a free man.

I flew Daniel through the air like a plane while he waggled his arms and giggled.

‘And his business has gone bust. The recession—’

‘What do you want from me, Mary?’

‘I’ve no money. Can I … can we come back?’

‘Is your stuff in the car?’

She nodded. ‘Some of it.’

Ten minutes later, it was all in the hall and she was starting to look pleased with herself. ‘You can pick your things up when you drop the rest of Daniel’s off,’ I told her, and the smile slid off her face.

‘What?’

I repeated myself.

‘But I thought …? It’s Christmas, you can’t send us back to that cold house.’

‘There’s no room at the inn,’ I told her. ‘Not for you.’

‘But Daniel—’

‘Stays here with me. If your house is that cold, he’s not safe there.’ I opened the door, nodded to her to get out. Still looking like she didn’t believe me, she stepped outside. I think she thought I was just trying to teach her a lesson, right up until the door slammed in her face and the hall light was turned off. I heard her wailing on for a while, but eventually the car pulled away. I hoped she made the most of it: when my claim against her boyfriend got through the courts, she’d have to sell it and the house to pay me.

A little later I was sipping whisky and watching TV, the sound down low as Daniel was asleep on the settee. I looked at him and whispered, ‘Welcome home, son.’ Then I raised my glass in a toast to the world at large: ‘Merry Christmas,’ I said. ‘God bless us, every fucking one.’



Thanks to Steven Miscandlon for the image. Much appreciated!
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    Julie Morrigan

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