John Dunn made a deal with himself that he would drop it, bit by bit, on the way home, and he had an image in his head of the motorway behind him strewn with the furniture of the place, a chair or desk upturned, the water boiler, dented and dripping, the metal lockers on their sides, and all the chits and forms in carbon duplicate, blown by the wind on to the windscreens of oncoming cars and then finally, the great bunch of keys, jettisoned. Keys to nothing. By the time he arrived in East Belfast he was a free man.
He turned off the engine. Christmas Day, 1979. Lingard, possibly dead or dying, his wife at home with the turkey over-cooked, calling her friends for a lift to the hospital, doing everything in the wrong order.
He looked out at his two-up, two-down house, hanging on to the neighbours on one side. A semi in East Belfast. They were waiting for him in there. ‘Promise me son not to do the things I done.’ What had Lingard said? ‘You’ve gone over.’
John Dunn had his forefingers at the bridge of his nose, pressing the corners of his eyes, his wrists wet. He was looking at his house, at the light coming from the front room. He wiped his hands on his trousers, dried his face with the backs of his sleeves. ‘I hope everything’s all right,’ he said to himself, a squirrel of fear turning in his stomach as he put his key in the lock.
‘Hello Santa, have you brought me something special?’ said Angie, giving him a long kiss at the door. She smelt of booze and fags and a heavy perfume. He held her away from him to look at her. Her hair was up in pins. She was red-faced and her eyes were drooping a little at the sides. ‘You’re on time for once.’
‘You’ve been at the sherry.’ He put his hand on her bum and pulled her to him for another kiss.
‘Oh aye. I’m feeling a wee bit loose, so I am.’
From the kitchen he could hear the radio and Nat King Cole, chestnuts roasting . . .
His son came out of the kitchen with a glass of beer, watching them dance together, his father with his arse jutting out, his knees bent, gracelessly moving with Angie between the two walls of the hallway.
‘Merry Christmas. I get my sense of rhythm from you, clearly.’
His father wheeled Angie round, kept her in the crook of his left arm, stretching out his other arm to touch Mark’s shoulder and he guided them both into the kitchen, joining in with Nat King Cole, in a false baritone.
On the table he saw that there were three settings, a small vase with a red rose in it and mismatching, cracked-handled knives and forks. There was a paper table-cloth with hundreds of fat-bottomed Santas capering up the sides.
‘Merry Christmas – to you.’
Two filled glasses of beer were on the table. There was a gravy boat with gravy oozing out of its beak. On the kitchen counter sat Pyrex dishes covered with upside-down dinner plates.
‘Oh my bloody Brussels sprouts,’ said Angie, running to the cooker. She turned off the gas and took the steaming saucepan to the sink and drained it. Steam gushed up all around her and a farty vegetable smell filled the room.
‘All right Mark,’ said John, taking up a beer. ‘Good health, son.’
‘Cheers. And thanks. To both of you. I can’t believe you’ve bought me a Walkman.’
‘Angie, you gave him the coat and tapes . . .?’
‘Aye, John, I did. As per instructions.’
‘It was too much.’
‘We’re glad you like them,’ said Angie, popping a small piece of stuffing into her mouth.
She had taken the tin foil off the turkey. John rolled up his sleeves and stepped forward.
‘Now I’m home.’
Mark went out of the room and came back with two wrapped presents, which he put beside each of their place settings. He sat at his place while Angie ladled and forked and turned this way and that to get the plates filled. She switched off the radio, leaving a shred of turkey meat on the dial.
John was swaying from the waist as he carved, repeating in a comic operatic voice, ‘Merr-rry Christmas to – you!’
Mark had to move the gifts a little as she set the plates down. ‘Oh you shouldn’t have love,’ said Angie, picking hers up. She opened it.
‘What did you give her, Dad?’
‘She’s a lucky woman, got me, doesn’t need presents.’
‘Tight bastard,’ said Angie, fondly. ‘Well he’s got me the car though.’ Taking off the wrapping she saw that there was a pale box with French perfume inside. ‘It must have cost a fortune, Mark.’
‘Is it all right?’
She got up and leant over to kiss him, trailing the end of her long beads in her gravy.
‘Dad,’ Mark said, grinning, nodding at the present in front of John.
‘I’m not good at presents. You open it.’ He handed it to Angie.
‘No John. It’s for you.’
‘Let’s eat first.’
‘Open it,’ insisted Angie, giving him a kick under the table.
He took it in his hands, starting to unwrap it. Inside was a long thin box. It was a jewellery box. He fumbled for a while, trying to click it open, his face lengthening. Angie helped him. He took out of the box a navy blue, leather-strapped watch.
‘It was my grandfather’s. It’s an Omega from just after the war. I had a new strap put on it.’
‘I don’t wear watches.’
‘You do now,’ protested Angie. ‘It’s a lovely present. So special.’
‘Right, you’d best keep it though.’ He passed it back to the boy.
‘It’s for you.’
‘It’s too much.’
They looked at each other, then Mark got up and walked out of the room. They heard the stairs rattle and shiver.
‘John, please tell me why you can’t say thank you to the lad?’
‘Let’s just eat.’
‘Not without him.’
‘Fine.’ John pushed his plate aside. ‘I’m going to take a walk. It’s too stuffy in here.’
Angie stood up, lit a cigarette and stared out of the back window.
‘What do I see in him?’ she said to herself, cheek at the cold glass.