As people said good night and Happy Christmas, David realised the moment he dreaded had come. He had to leave the office and drive on his own to an empty house on Christmas Eve.
In his forty-five years on planet Zog he’d never had a Christmas on his own. His parents departed. The kids with their mother. And everyone else had their own plans. Even his friend Margot was busy away with her niece and husband. “Sorry, D. Back after N.Y. In Norfolk for the duration,” said the text, but David did not feel like going through the duration on his own.
There was a plentiful supply of gin and red wine, but he regretted his lack of imagination in purchasing the turkey dinner for one. Even the Brussel sprouts were measured in the portion.
There was a jar of cranberry jelly left over from last year when the kids were still around. All his cousins and siblings had turned up on the doorstep, and he had not even had to organise anything.
He sat down to watch TV with a case of indigestion and only a glass of red wine. There was nothing on the TV, so he ended up watching back episodes of Father Ted and Dave Allen, but he found it hard to laugh.
Christmas morning was dull and grey. He could not bear the thought of another Christmas dinner for one. He would have gone to the church service, but he was embarrassed about his predicament. Couldn’t bear the idea of people feeling sorry for him. – Couldn’t bear the idea of them sucking up to him as if he was a greasy pole upon which to perform acts of do-goodery.
But it was too bloody late. The phone had rung.
It was his sister, Celia.
“Happy Christmas, Rave,” she said.
“I suppose so,” he said, recoiling from the old nickname.
“Margot’s not there, is she?”
“Norfolk. The glib side.”
“You silly sausage. Why didn’t you say?”
“Didn’t want to intrude…”
“I’m your fucking sister for fuck sake. Get in the car and come on over.”
It turned out to be a wonderful Christmas lunch with Celia and his brother-in-law, Martin, their excitable young children, the dog, the fire, mince “flies” and a long snooze on the sofa.
As he drove home, it occurred to David that, without his sister, it would have been a very long – long day. And he did not feel very proud of himself.
These thoughts of self-chastisement were churning away inside when he turned up the lane and saw the lights on in Mrs. Rattigan’s cottage. But there was no car outside. He could not help but wonder what sort of Christmas she might have had.
That poor old lady, he thought, she can hardly get to the front door.
He put the car back in the drive, retrieved a bottle of his best claret and set off up the lane.
He knocked on the door.
“Just a minute,” she cried and started muttering to herself.
“This lock is stiff,” she said. “And my old bones are stiff.”
Finally, she managed it.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Rattigan!” cried David.
The old lady looked at him from her stooped gait; she had a paper hat on.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “Have you got family here?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “They went hours ago, but do come in.”
There was the sound of electronic music coming from the sitting room.
David peered around the door.
“The children bought me an X-box for Christmas,” said Mrs. Rattigan. “Do you know how to play Fortnite?”