A Pint of Beer, a Bag of Chips, and Thou (3 page)

As we rode up the escalator side by side, Neil shook his

head. “I must be off my rocker, you know. Either that or you are.

It’s the only explanation.”

I gave a pointed look down at my get-up. “Well, I know

who most people’s money would be on.”

He laughed. “You know, I’ve been wondering about all

that. Let me guess: elderly relatives who love you very much?”

“Relatives, yes. But call them elderly where they can hear

you and you’ll find they’ve put salt in your coffee. That’s if they

like you, mind. If they take against you it’ll be laxatives.”

“Why does it not surprise me your family is terrifying? No,

don’t answer that.”

We stepped out of the station and a blast of icy wind blew

straight through us. Neil shivered. “Hey, put this on,” I told him,

unwinding my scarf from my neck and wrapping it three times

around his. Widdershins, in case you were wondering. I’m left

handed. It’s easier that way.

“Hey, you don’t have to—”

“Haven’t you heard?” I interrupted him. “Misery loves

company.”

He looked down at the ridiculous scarf, and chuckled. “I’ve

always preferred
A problem shared is a problem halved
. You

know, if we halved this scarf maybe it’d be something

approaching normal length.”

“Ah, but then we’d have two of the things. They might start

breeding, and then where would we be?”

“Come across a lot of sexually active scarves in your time,

have you?”

“Me? No. I steer well clear of my Mum’s bottom drawer.

This is the place.” I guided him through the door with a hand on

his elbow for no good reason other than I wanted to touch him.

“Helping the old man up the steps, are you?” Neil asked

with a twinkle in his eye.

“Just making sure you don’t make a run for it. I mean, I’d

understand if you decided you couldn’t face being seen in public

with a cardigan like this.”

“What, you mean any more than I have been on the way

here? You do realise you’re talking to a bloke in a Doctor Who

scarf, don’t you?” Neil stroked the road kill red and pond scum

green stripes on his chest and looked a bit wistful as we elbowed

our way to the bar through secretaries in reindeer antlers and

accountants in their cups. “I’d have killed for a scarf like this

when I was a kid. Course, I’d have wanted the hat, too.”

“What, this crime against humanity?” I asked, pulling off

the purple tea-cosy with a grin. “Here, have it—it’s yours.”

Neil backed away, eyes wide and his mouth twisted in

mock horror. “Not that one. God forbid. No, I meant one of those

dark, wide-brimmed hats Tom Baker used to wear.”

“Damn,” I said with a sigh. “That’s something I’d like to

see, but I wouldn’t recommend it. You’re way too sexy as it is. If

you add the fedora you won’t be able to walk down the street

without being mobbed.”

“Gerroff out of it!” he said, a faint pink kissing his cheeks.

“I haven’t been called sexy since Maggie Thatcher was in power.

And no, I’m not telling you when that was. You can Google it

later when you fancy a good laugh.”

“I like a good laugh as much as the next man,” I told him. “But

somehow when I look at you it’s not humour that’s on my mind.”

“Oh, yeah? Dare I ask what is, then?”

“Not unless you want me to get arrested for public

indecency and have to spend Christmas in jail. What’ll you have,

then?” I asked, pulling out my wallet.

“It’s all right—I’ll get them.”

“Don’t be daft. I’ve got money to burn, here. There’s this

bloke keeps throwing pound coins in my case.”

“Well, in that case, I’ll have a pint of…” Neil peered at the

taps. “Santa’s Butt?” His voice rose incredulously.

“And a bottle of Rudolf’s Revenge,” I added to the

barman, who was already pulling Neil’s pint.

When the drinks were ready, I paid and handed Neil his

glass. He sipped it with a wary air and sighed in contentment.

“Ah, that’s better.”

“Been a long week, has it?”

“Been a long year. Take my advice: never work for the

NHS. Or any organisation that relies on government funding.

You spend half your time worrying how you’re going to make the

budget stretch, and the other half justifying your existence to

people who think all a health service needs is doctors and the

paperwork will handle itself.”

“Ah, but at least you probably don’t get chewing gum

thrown at you by kids who don’t like the music you’re playing.”

Against all the odds, there was a free table just tucked around

the corner from the bar, with two chairs like it’d been waiting for

us to get there, so we sat down at it, our own little island of

privacy in the sea of seasonal bonhomie.

“Philistines. You play great stuff. I hear you playing, it’s

like I’m back in my youth. Course, I don’t know why you like all

that old crap. Shouldn’t you be into…” Neil waved his pint

vaguely. “I don’t know—Lady Gaga, or something?”

“Well, you’re not wrong there—there’s a great riff in
Edge

of Glory
.” I sighed, and took a swig of my beer. “I should’ve been born twenty years earlier, though. I’d have loved it in the

eighties—playing the saxophone was cool, then.”

Neil laughed, shaking his head slowly. “Speaking as

someone who
was
born twenty years earlier, and hadn’t actual y

realised saxophones weren’t cool anymore…You know why I

spoke to you tonight? How come I final y plucked up the courage?”

“Christmas Eve—it’s a magical time of year?”

“No, no magic involved. Not that I know of, anyway. No, it

was seeing you in that, um, interesting cardigan. That, on top of

the hat, and the scarf…Well. It just made me think maybe you

didn’t care what anyone else thought. Maybe being cool wasn’t

as important to you as I’d thought it must be—what with the punk

hair-do, the leathers, all that. And maybe, just maybe, you’d

agree to go for a drink with a grey-haired old codger who’s old

enough to be your dad.”

“Hey—no calling my date an old codger.”

He gave a crooked smile. “Still leaves me with grey hair

and old enough to be your dad.”

I put out a hand and stroked his hair. It was softer than it

looked—just like Neil himself, I bet. Except where it counted, of

course. “It’s not grey. It’s silver. And for your information, youth’s

overrated in a boyfriend.” I grinned. “Wel , with certain exceptions.”

“Oh, yeah? One of them being sax-playing punks, I

presume?”

“Well, you wouldn’t want an old bloke going around in

leathers and a mohawk, now would you? That’d just be sad.”

“What, so in twenty years’ time you’ll be sporting a tweed

jacket and a comb-over, will you?”

“You think I’ll be old in twenty years? We age well in my

family. My mum’s in her fifties, and she still has the men running

after her. And my dad looks younger than you do.” I cocked my

head on one side, thinking about it. “Of course, he might actually

be younger than you.”

Neil shuddered. “If you’re not joking, I don’t want to know.

So, no comb-over, then?”

“I might go for the tweed jacket, though—what do you

think?” “Working the Johnny Rotten look?” Neil rubbed his chin,

where a teasing shadow of peppery stubble lurked. “Not

convinced. I’d stick with the leathers, if I were you. Can’t go

wrong with black leather.”

“Yeah, but these trousers can be a bugger to get off.” I

gave him a significant look. “I might need some help, later.”

Neil choked on his pint.

My stomach growled. “Hey, the food here’s not bad—you

want to grab something?”

Neil’s eyes drifted closed for a second. “Do I ever.”

We ordered and ate, sharing a platter of nachos and spicy

sausage that gave plenty of opportunities for fingers to brush.

The food was tasty, but not a patch on the company. There was

a log fire burning not too far from where we were sitting, and with

hot food warming my belly as well I soon had to take off Mum’s

cardigan.

“Spooky,” Neil said. “See, now you’re intimidating again.”

I glanced down at my skull-and-blood-spatters T-shirt, and

the studded belt and wristbands the cardigan had hidden. Maybe

he had a point. I pulled out Aunty Mags’s hat and popped it on

my head. “Better?”

“Much, God help me,” Neil said with a grin. He was still

wearing Aunty Des’s scarf.

When they rang the bell for last orders my eyes darted to

my watch. It was eleven o’clock. “Shit—I’ve got to go!”

Neil’s face fell. “About to turn into a pumpkin, are you?

You’re a bit early—it’s still an hour to midnight.”

“Promised my Aunty Gerry I’d be at Midnight Mass,” I

said, spreading my hands in apology.

“Worries about your soul, does she?”

“Well, it’s kind of her job…” I was thinking. I can do that

and talk at the same time, although the results are sometimes

unreliable. “Hey, do you want to come with? There’s nothing like

a good Midnight Mass for getting you into the mood for

Christmas.”

Neil was shaking his head again, but not that fast little jerk

that means
No
. It was the slow, rhythmic sway that means
Yes,
God help me
. “You know, you’re just one surprise after another.

Course I’ll come. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Right—this way then.” I tossed back my drink and stood,

and Neil followed suit. “Grab your Oyster card—it’s just up the

line at Camden.”

“Is that where you live? I’m the other end—down at

Stockwell, or Saint Ockwell as it used to be known back in my

youth.” I smiled. “Two stations, both alike in dignity. Looks like

we’ll have to keep meeting in the middle, then.”

“Dignity? On the Northern line? How many of those beers

have you had tonight?”

“Ah, everyone knows drinks don’t count at Christmas.” I

waved him ahead of me through the station entrance.

We ker-chunked our way through the turnstiles, and hot air

blasted up the escalator at us. It carried the scent of sweaty

commuters with alcoholic breath, al staggering home after the pubs

closed. And over it al , that distinctive Northern Line smel . I breathed in deeply. “Can’t you just feel it coating your lungs with soot?”

“Worst Tube line ever for dry-cleaning bills,” Neil agreed

fondly. “Worst Tube line ever, full stop,” I said with a smile.

We stepped off the escalator and clattered down the tiled

stairs to the platform, where the lights indicated there’d be a train

along in two minutes. Of course, those would be Northern Line

minutes, length determined by a complex algorithm including,

among many other factors, the weather today; the price of fish;

and whether the driver got lucky last night.

“Hey,” I said, looking up and down the half-full platform.

Fresh out of the pubs like us, people were smiling and laughing,

and there was more than one couple snogging who I’d bet would

be mortified about it in the morning. The heady atmosphere was

kind of infectious. And maybe the beers we’d downed had

something to do with it, too. “If I go for the intimidating look

again, do you think I could kiss you down here without getting

both our heads kicked in?”

“No.” Neil smiled, and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“But it’s a nice thought. We’ll save it for later.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“I’ll hold you to holding me. So this church we’re going

to—is it a Catholic one?”

I shook my head. “Church of England. Are you Catholic?

Protestant? Or what?”

“More of an ‘or what,’ to be honest. So your aunt’s a

regular attender, is she?”

“It’s kind of unavoidable in her profession. She’s the vicar

of St Saviour’s.” I grinned. “My Aunty Gerry’s not ashamed to call

herself an Anglican priest.”

“Out and proud as C of E? Good for her.”

“How about you, Neil? Are you out and proud? As a gay

man, I mean, not as an ‘or what’.”

“Well, not that there’s been a lot to be out about lately, or

proud, for that matter—”

“Ah, we’ll soon change that,” I interrupted.

Neil acknowledged it with a faint blush. “—but yeah. You?

Can’t imagine you ever hiding who you are.”

“My family don’t hold with hiding, so you’d be right, there.”

Neil drew in a sharp breath that was swallowed up by the

sound of the train clattering into the station. “Bloody hell,” he

said, as the doors opened. He paused a minute as we were

warned to
Mind the gap
. “They’re all going to be there, aren’t

they? At the church. Your whole family. What the hell do you

think they’re going to make of me rolling up, old enough to be

your dad?”

“Trust me,” I said with a grin, as the train lurched into

motion. “They’ll love you. Can’t guarantee the feeling will be

mutual, mind.”

* * * *

heathen like me can appreciate stained glass windows lit up from

inside, their jewel colours like lights on a child’s Christmas tree.

When we pushed open the heavy oak doors of St Saviour’s, the