Every Christmas I get a pillow case at the end of me bed, stuffed full. Nothing much, you know, bars of chocolate, colourin books, socks, 'Roy of the Rovers' annual. Things like that. This year I wake up – nothing. I check under the bed. I get out and feel in the corner of the room. I check under the bed again. Still fuckin nothing.
I try and get back to sleep but there's no way that's gonna happen. Can't believe it. Not even a fuckin orange. Dad hears me cryin. Must do, cos he comes in, big smile on his face, wearin a Santa hat. Silly bastard. Big kid, really, he is. A big fuckin kid.
'Happy Christmas, son,' he says, sort of slurrin.
He's a bit too loud, and Becky starts movin about. She's been waitin up all night, bless her. Wanted to hear Santa's bells. I stopped believin long time back, but I make an effort for Mum and Dad. Still pretend, you know. Like I always keep me eyes shut when Dad comes in ringin his little hand bell, the one he got off Brick Lane. Sounds just like Santa's bells, so it does the job. Just for a laugh, he sometimes rings it when he wants Mum to make him a cuppa and she gives him a look and tells him to make it his bloody self.
Dad bends down to pick Becky up out her cot, and his Santa hat falls on her head. They're both gigglin, Dad and Becky. Clear Dad's been drinkin already, just by the sound of him. Not just Santa's glass of milk neither, I should reckon. Never rough with the booze, though, my dad. Not like Kenny's bastard of an old man. A bit silly, that's all, like bein a bit braver with Mum, you know, takin the piss out her cookin and stuff, all jokin, like. Then he falls asleep in his chair and we have to wake him for tea. That's his usual performance.
I'm still gutted about the present thing, but seein Dad cheers me up. And I can smell bacon comin from downstairs. Fuck the smell of pine forests and all that shit on the adverts off the telly. Rip open your presents, then it's bacon sarnies and a cuppa. That's a proper fuckin Christmas, that is.
'Got something for you downstairs, son.'
With the bedroom door open, it's gettin bloody cold in here. I wrap me blankets round me, still tryin to work out what's goin on with me presents.
'Come on, son.'
***
Dad's carryin Becky over his shoulder now, on his way out the bedroom. Becky's smilin at me like she knows what's goin on. Littl'uns are funny like that. See the world, they do. The lights are off on the landin, so the stairs are all dark. And when we get in the front room, there's only the light comin under the kitchen door that shows anything. I can hear Mum shufflin about in there, and the bacon sizzlin on the stove.
'Bill, stoke the fire up, love. And get some jumpers for the kids.'
It's the same voice Mum shouts at me and Becky when she's tellin us something we gotta do. And she don't change it for Dad. Talks to him like that most of the time. Nothing in it, it's just the way they talk, I suppose. And when Dad's like this, you know, a bit tipsy, it's like she's got three fuckin kids anyway. Jokes about it with me two aunties, she does, when they're about, but sometimes she sounds so tired when she says it.
I squeeze past Dad at the bottom of the stairs and go straight in the front room. Can't see nothing cos the fire ain't givin out no light. Dad puts Becky down and she waddles over and wraps her arms round me legs, then Dad comes over and starts pokin round the grate a bit. When the fire starts catchin, he goes upstairs to get our jumpers. Stumbles up the first step, he does. Half pissed. Don't reckon Mum knows how much he's had. Comes out the kitchen, though, see what all the noise is about. The light from where she's opened the door makes it a bit easier to see, but fuck, I still don't see nothing like presents. Heart's beatin fast. Eyes fillin up.
Becky goes over to Mum, and Mum sits her on her knee. Dad's back. Stumbles down the last step and tries to cover it up by doin a little jump at the end.
'Bill! You'll wake up Mr Cartwright!'
'Sorry, dear.'
Dad winks at me when Mum's got her radar off him, and chucks our jumpers over. I put mine on then help Becky with hers. Then he turns on the light and there's two pillow cases, stuffed full, sittin on the settee. Thank fuck. It's Becky's first real Christmas. She knows one of em's hers, and tries draggin the nearest one off the settee.
'Bill, take that off her. That one's John's.'
Dad wrestles the pillow case off Becky. She ain't happy and goes runnin over to Mum. Mum cuddles her up and Dad chucks her pillow case over and she dives on it. I lump me pillow case on the floor, and get me presents out one at a time. Becky's already tearin the paper off hers.
There's more than normal this year. Mum's been takin in more ironin of late, and Dad's never come home till after seven from the factory last couple months. I stack me presents in a pile. I'll open em later, when no one's lookin. Always done it like that. First few years, Mum'd pester me to open em up in front of everyone, but longer it went on, I just sort of got left to it in the end.
Becky's got some bricks and a teddy bear, and her very first doll. As big as her, it is. Lovely seein her so happy. Fuckin lovely.
I'm watchin Becky open her last few things when I see Dad go behind the settee. And he pulls out this bike. This red fuckin Raleigh Chopper. Wheels it round to the middle of the front room, and I'm fuckin speechless. Dunno what to say, and I can feel the tears comin up again. Dad took me old bike down the dump ages ago when he cleared the garden out. Rusted to fuck, it was. Too small and rusted to fuck. Never thought I'd get another one. Fuckin never.
***
Me two aunts clubbed together and got me one of them roarin machines. You know the sort, stick em on your bike and they make it sound like a dragster. Everyone's got em. And Grandad's built a doll's house for Becky out of wood. Roof comes off, front comes open, bits of furniture, everything.
Clever old bastard, my grandad. Was our last Christmas with him. Keeled over Boxing Day right before Guns of Navarone. Fuckin hated that film, he did. Just couldn't bear to sit through it one more fuckin time, I reckon. Nan passed a few months later, and Dad weren't never the same after that. It's like he had his whole fuckin heart ripped out. But Christmas Day, with all of us there, Mum, Dad, Becky, me two aunties and Uncle Derek, Nan and Grandad, that was the best Christmas ever.
***
After we have our bacon sarnies, I pull up the curtains, see if it's snowin. Probably ain't even half-five yet. Pitch black outside, it is, but the street lamps are lightin up the whole world. And it ain't snowin, but it is rainin a bit, that soft sort of rain what seems to float down out the sky. Kenny ain't got no curtains up but his light's the only one on, so I see him straight off. I know he ain't seein me cos he's lookin right into the light of the street lamp outside his window. And he's got such a smile on his face. Such a fuckin smile.
Dunno why, but it's breakin me heart seein him like that. Breakin my fuckin heart. Mum tells me to shut the curtains cos it's lettin the cold in. Dad asks me if it's snowin. I tell him it's rainin and let the curtains drop back.
Can't believe I got a new bike, an that. Can't believe it. But I tell you what, after seein the way Kenny's smilin into that street lamp, that big, stupid grin all over his face, and that look in his eyes, I swear I'd swap everything I got for just one look at what he's seein in there.
***
They buried Grandad on the Wednesday before we went back to school. Mum sorted out Mrs Jessup next door to look after me and Becky while her and Dad was at the crematorium. She smells of cabbage, Mrs Jessup, and she's about three hundred years old. Always a bag of cough candy on the go. Mad as a box of fuckin frogs. Mum asks me if I want to see Grandad off, but I says no. Didn't see the point.
So, I'm upstairs helpin Becky with a bit of colourin, when the doorbell goes. I peek round the top of the bannisters to see who it is, but I can't see nothing cos Mrs Jessup's standin in the way. But I hear her all right.
'Come in, dear,' she says, sort of shaky, but all kind and sort of like my nan used to talk when one of us fell over and cut our knee or something. 'You'll catch your death out there,' she says.
She opens the door wider and moves to one side.
And there's Kenny. Standin in the rain, sort of starin blank, soaked to the fuckin skin, blood comin out the side of his mouth