Read by Martin Lamb
Two words explained why Ryan hated Christmas: Noel Edmonds. Every year when Ryan was growing up, Noel would present a show on Christmas morning from the top of the Post Office tower.
Ryan remembered one particular morning, sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, wrapping paper strewn across the carpet.
They cut from Noel Edmonds in London to a presenter at a British army base overseas; Ryan straightened when he saw soldiers milling around in the back of the shot. He looked for his Dad in a haze of tears, his eyes scanning every inch of the screen – was that him?... No, too small... what about him? Mum! It’s ... no, that’s not him ...
His Mum hovered in the doorway to the kitchen, pretending not to look.
No sign of Dad anywhere.
They cut back to Noel Edmonds and he began reading out messages from soldiers to loved ones back home. Maybe he had written something that would be read out or might flash along the screen?
Of course, Ryan hadn’t known back then that his father wasn’t like that; he wasn’t one of those Dads. And he also hadn’t known that Mum and Dad were already separated.
‘He’s too busy to leave a message,’ his mother said to Ryan’s desperate eyes. ‘He’s a soldier.’
‘Busy with what? Fighting? On Christmas Day?’
‘No, not fighting, of course not fighting. He’s – I dunno – giving out presents to the local children.’
Ryan could sense she wanted to take the words back as soon as they came out of her mouth.
She had given him a surprise present earlier. ‘Your Dad got you this,’ she said. After tearing open the wrapping in a frenzy, Ryan had found a coloured pencil set in a large box.
‘Wow, look at all those colours,’ said his Mum. ‘You could draw anything! I wish I’d had all these colours when I was growing up.’
He knew his father hadn’t bought it, hadn’t even chosen it. Soldiers didn’t buy coloured pencil sets.
The night before, Ryan had wrapped up a packet of Glacier Mints – his father’s favourite – even though he wouldn’t be there to open it.
Noel Edmonds was still on the TV with his stupid beard. He was smiling.
‘Dinner’ll be ready soon,’ said his Mum.
A band called Slade came on the screen. They were smiling, too, and singing a happy song. It seemed wrong somehow.
Mum was extra jolly as they ate their Christmas dinner at the fold-out table in the kitchen. She gave him extra stuffing, too, he really liked stuffing; he ate so much that he was sick later while watching The Two Ronnies.
It’s funny what you remember.
Ryan sank the last of his pint. His Dad was at the bar, waiting for the Guinness. Ryan hardly knew him, a 40-year-old man barely knowing his own father.
They had met briefly a few times over the years – Gran’s funeral, a hazy presence at the end of a hospital bed when Ryan had fallen hard off his BMX, a rushed and awkward few moments at Ryan’s 21st – but this was different.
So what was Ryan doing here, in a small country pub, the wind sending shivers down the windows and only two days till Christmas?
He had split up from his wife. ‘Splitting up’ made it sound like a random domestic accident, like a cup breaking in your hand while doing the washing up, but it was no accident: it was all Ryan’s fault.
He had left their cosy semi a fortnight ago and moved into a small flat on the edge of town. Then his father had phoned out of the blue.
‘Hello?’ said the strange voice on the line.
‘Who’s this?’ said Ryan.
‘It’s me.’
‘Uncle John?’
‘No, no – it’s your Dad.’
Ryan nearly put the phone down.
‘Look,’ said the voice, ‘your Mum’s told me what happened. I was wondering if...’ He coughed.
‘Wondering what?’ said Ryan.
‘Wondering if... you wanted to come and stay for a few days.’
‘Stay?’ said Ryan. ‘With you?’
‘Get away for a bit,’ said his father. ‘Take in some country air. I’ve a spare bed...’
Ryan’s mind was racing. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe some other time.’
‘I know this is strange,’ said his father. ‘It’s just...’ He was struggling, and Ryan found himself saying yes before he’d even made up his mind.
He had found the cottage as the sky began to darken, a remote spot at the end of a rough country lane with barely a track to lead the way.
His father was standing in the doorway as he approached.
‘All right?’ said Ryan as he closed the car door.
‘Good to see you,’ said his father. He looked nervous.
‘Nice car.’
‘Thanks,’ said Ryan.
‘Is that the four litre?’
‘Five. Rear suspension came in handy round here.’
‘I’ll bet. Yep, a fine car,’ said his father, walking across the gravel to inspect it. He looked almost proud.
‘Look at the tread on that,’ he said, patting one of the huge wheels.
‘German company does them,’ said Ryan, taking his bag out of the boot. ‘Didn’t like the tyres that came as standard; got these custom made.’
‘Top job,’ said his father.
‘Engine floods sometimes, but that’s a hazard with this model.’ Ryan couldn’t stop the rubbish that was coming out of his mouth.
‘Are you hungry?’ said his father. ‘There’s a pub across the field that does a mean hot pot.’
So here they were now, Ryan slowly shredding a beermat with intense concentration as his father returned with the pints. They’d already had three, racing through them over a few games of darts. They had dashed to the dartboard as soon as they entered, clinging to it like a life-raft.
His father placed the glasses on the wet table. They both took long draws on their Guinness.
Slade came on the jukebox. Bloody song.
A young barmaid walked over, carrying a plastic bag with something heavy inside.
‘You won this,’ she said to his father, placing the bag on the table. ‘That’ll do for your tea, won’t it?’
Ryan flashed one of his Ryan smiles, the kind that causes things to split up.
‘I’m Ryan.’
‘Stacey.’
‘Thanks, love,’ said his father. ‘There’s a couple of thirsty fellas at the bar, look.’
Stacey saw them, looked back to Ryan, then made her way behind the counter.
When Ryan finally turned his attention back to his pint, he found his father looking straight at him.
‘What?’
‘Didn’t say anything,’ said his father.
‘I was only asking her name.’
‘Asking for trouble.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ said Ryan. He’d had far too much to drink on an empty stomach.
‘I was just saying, that’s all,’ said his father.
Ryan twisted his glass. ‘What’s in the bag anyway?’
‘There was a meat raffle. I won a boiled ham, a real beauty. Yep, that’s a great Christmas present that is.’
His father had told him on the phone not to bother with presents. Ryan figured he was embarrassed about the years of no gifts and didn’t want to draw attention to it.
His father had, however, sent him a card every year on his birthday. When Ryan was younger, there was always a 10 pound note included. For years, he kept the money in an old jam jar, waiting for his father to return and buy him something big with it. He had no idea what exactly; it wouldn’t have mattered.
He kept the money far longer than he should have, but when he was 25, a last-minute holiday to Greece with his mates required some quick cash: he took the whole wodge with him and blew it all in a lap-dancing club.
A strange kind of present from a father.
‘I’m starving. Let’s tuck into the ham,’ said Ryan. ‘We never did order any food.’
‘No, I’m going to save it,’ said his father. ‘There’s a chippie in the village, we can get something there. Drink up.’
After the chip shop, they walked back to the cottage in the near darkness. Ryan was effectively blind, being so used to the low buzz of streetlamps to guide him home. The drink wasn’t helping. He could hear his father’s footsteps ahead, the static of the plastic bag blowing in the wind.
Ryan’s legs gave way and he fell, hitting his knee on a dry stone wall on the way down. Two strong hands appeared under his arms, gently but firmly raising him up.
He thought of the faded photo in his wallet, the one with his father raising him into the air with one mighty hand, the sun shining behind them across a Seventies summer lawn.
‘It’s like that picture,’ said Ryan.
‘What picture?’ said his father. ‘C’mon, let’s get you home.’
A few hours later, Ryan woke in a strange room; it took him a few seconds to work out where he was. His knee hurt. When he lifted up the duvet he saw it had been neatly bandaged.
It was early. He would pack up his things and leave before his father got up. He couldn’t handle all this care. The soft bed. The bandage. He wasn’t ready for all this.
When he entered the kitchen, bag in hand, his father was sitting at the table.
‘Thought you might make an escape,’ he said.
‘I just thought -’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said his father.
‘I’m sure you’ve got stuff to do anyway,’ said Ryan.
‘Oh, of course,’ said his father. ‘Loads of things.’
Ryan patted the pocket of his jeans. ‘Forgotten my phone. It’s by the bed.’
‘Give me your bag and coat,’ said his father. ‘I’ll pop them in the car, have a last look at the motor.’
When Ryan came out of the cottage, his father put a hand on his arm. ‘Look, about what’s happened with your wife,’ he said. ‘Don’t make the same mistakes I made. Please. That’s what I wanted to see you about. I thought we could go for a long walk and talk it through.’
Ryan pulled his arm away. ‘A long walk? Are you serious? You’re the one that took a long bloody walk. And you want to give me advice? The only thing you’ve ever given me is a fucking lap dancer.’
‘A what?’
‘Never mind.’ Ryan got in the car.
‘Wait,’ said his father. ‘We’ve just started talking. This is good.’
‘Let’s just stick to cars and darts, eh?’ Ryan started the engine. ‘See you in another ten years.’
On the motorway he stayed in the fast lane.
When he pulled up at the service station, he lifted his coat from the passenger seat. A large Tupperware box had been hidden beneath. It wasn’t his.
It was full of sandwiches, along with a small flask of tea. He pulled the top from one of the roughly cut triangles: it was the ham from the pub, the one his father had not wanted to waste.
Sitting in the car, breadcrumbs falling onto his lap, Ryan believed it was the best meal he had eaten in years. The soft ham and thick layers of butter melted in his mouth, the steam from the plastic cup of sugary tea misting up the windscreen.
He switched on the radio. Slade again.
He pictured his Dad sitting alone at the kitchen table, listening to the kettle boil.
Noddy Holder was croaking out of the car’s speakers like a drunken Santa. It sounded like a different song now, as if Ryan were hearing it for the first time as he took another mouthful of tea, the cup warming his hand.
It wouldn’t take him an hour to get back there, to the cottage, if he put his foot down.
Before setting off, he searched the service station and found a large tin of Glacier Mints, which rattled in the back seat as he picked up speed.
It wasn’t much of a present, but it was a start.
___
Presence by Bernie Deehan was read by Martin Lamb at the Liars' League Give & Take event on Tuesday, December 13th, 2011, at The Albany, Great Portland Street, London.
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