With a couple of thumps and a rough shake, I plump up my pillow and place it against the brass bedstead. I lift the corner of the duvet, and with my customary accompanying oof, heave my body into bed, one jazzy reindeered leg at a time. I try not to look too closely at my new Christmas pyjamas; our daughter wrapped them securely in a brown paper package, tied up with glittery red twine and entrusted them to the Royal Mail Special Delivery, no less, to ensure they arrived from the other end of the country in time. I had told her the title and author of a book that would have made a welcome Christmas gift, but it appears she preferred to surprise me. Did she think the reason I’ve always slept without nightwear was because I couldn’t afford any? Perhaps she went Christmas shopping with her new chap.
I shuffle my reindeery bottom into the mattress, lean back into the pillow and make a few minor adjustments before pulling the duvet up over my sleigh-covered chest. Beside me, piled on the bedside table next to the old radio and my new reading lamp - for serious readers with more money than sense - are my Christmas books. Sitting on top of the stack is the hefty volume, which, after a Christmas Day of delighted deliberation, I have chosen to read first. I quiver in festive anticipation at the forthcoming feast and trace a slow fingertip over the embossed lettering - The Queen’s Secret.
‘Got your Rudolph’s on then, love?’ John says as he enters the bedroom, dabbing toothpaste from the corner of his mouth. He blends it into his grey goatee, then licks his fingers.
‘Thought I’d better.’
‘She’ll never know if you don’t wear them. You no tell. Me no tell.’
‘I’ll be fine. Once I fall asleep.’
‘Bet they’re nice-and-cosy.’
‘Oh no, have I been nice-and-cosified? Next stop Shady Pines.’
I watch John undress. His trousers, already unfastened and low-slung from his bathroom routine slip over his slender hips and he steps out of them, one lovely long leg at a time: sinewy thighs and smooth shins which shine in the serious lamplight. He hangs his trousers over the chair arm, then pulls his jumper over his head, folds it, and places it on top of the trousers. In the interests of wobble control, he grasps the brass bed-knob with one hand while he tugs off his socks with the other. Then, like the well-trained fellow he is, he drops them into the laundry basket, followed by his old Christmas boxers, which have had their annual outing. They’re rather tasteful. A repeat pattern of dark green holly leaves and a few discreet deep-red berries.
We’ve worn out all the jokes about feeling a little prick, so I say, ‘How long have you had those pants?’
‘Dunno. Twenty odd years?’
‘Were they from Hannah or Tom?’
‘Don’t remember. Hannah? Tommy?’
‘They were on back to front.’
‘They were not.’ He fires his freshly folded jumper at me.
‘Ouch, that hurt, I say,’ throwing it back.
‘Did not,’ he replies, folding the jumper again. He places it on the chair, bounces into bed and picks up his Christmas Nordic Noir – Girl Under the Ice, chosen and purchased by himself, as my gift to him. That’s how it works, Hannah. I just wrapped it and wrote the gift tag.
I like to think this is where they’ll find us, when the time comes – sitting up in bed, naked, next to each other, historical romance, and crime fiction resting on our laps, with bookmarks and empty teacups on our respective bedside tables. The shipping forecast or Woman’s Hour, depending on time of day, would be playing quietly on the radio to nobody. What a way to go. I put aside these thoughts, my sense of an ending - our ending - perhaps brought on by our spending this Christmas alone. It feels like a rite of passage. Children both grown and flown, with lives of their own. We’re ageing parents with no-one to please but ourselves. Time to take our time. No-one to cramp our style. Winding down, but not dead yet.
There’s a growing warmth in my shoulder, where it rests against John’s arm. I feel his muscles flex through my brushed cotton reindeer covered sleeve as he turns the page. A few sentences later, the chemistry begins to work between our adjoining outer thighs. I check to see how close I am to the end of the first chapter.
‘Three more pages,’ I say.
‘Ok. Mind if I make a start?’
‘Go ahead.’
A hand finds my thigh. It’s cool, from holding Girl under the Ice, but the reindeer are doing their nice-and-cosifying job. Only a couple more paragraphs to go, but I slip the gift tag I’ve recycled as a bookmark between the pages and press the covers of the book together. As I reach out to balance the queen and her secret on top of my beside book pile, there’s a sudden trill. The landline.
‘Hi Mum, Merry Christmas.’
‘Hi, Hannah.’ I turn to John. ‘It’s Hannah.’ I put the phone on speaker. ‘Did you have a good day, love?’
‘Yeah. No. Sort of.’ Her voice drops to a whisper. ‘Oh, Mum, his parents are weird. They made him sleep downstairs on the sofa bed like we’re still teenagers, and they have embarrassing family traditions. His Gran made some disgusting petit four things, and we had to play charades.’
‘Is it a book?’ says John.
‘What?’ Asks Hannah.
‘Nothing. Just your dad,’ I tell her, glowering at him and digging his shoulder with my elbow.’
‘Did you like your presents?’
‘Yes. Lovely. Thankyou. Your dad splashed his aftershave all over, and I’m wearing my nice-and-cosy reindeer PJs.’
‘Not for much longer,’ says John, tugging at the reindeer bottoms.
‘What?’ Asks Hannah.
‘Nothing. Just your dad.’
‘Better go, Mum. Night night.’
‘Night, love.’
‘Mum...’ Her voice drops to a whisper again. ‘Can I come home for Christmas next year?’
‘Of course.’
‘Mum…’ I strain to hear what she’s saying. ‘Can I come home tomorrow?’
Author: Ruth lives quietly in West Cumbria. She has an MA in creative writing from the Open University which she endeavours to put to good use.
Love this. Wish it could be my Christmas!