He'd been!
He was sure he could see the grey and blue stripy sock hooked on the end of his bed and he was dying to get up, peaking out one eye open and carefully glancing across the room to where his older brother was still soundly sleeping. There was a sock there too although neither Noakes boy ever really understood why Santa had to borrow their old school socks to put their presents in though. Surely if he knew he had to deliver to all these children, he would have enough to make sure?
Philip pressed his lips together and reached carefully across to the small beside table his brother had and picked up his watch. Why Peter had to wear a watch all the time he would never know. You only ever needed to know when school was finished and when to get home for tea. Still, it was useful on Christmas morning and it read just past quarter past seven. The watch carefully back where he belonged Philip slithered out of bed onto the cold floor and leant across to his brother.
"Pete!" he whispered, pulling the green sleeve of his brother's pyjamas but getting no response. "Come on!" Philip began, shaking Peter more vehemently by the shoulder, although through fear of his parents in the bedroom next door, he kept his voice low but forceful. "He's been! Santa's been! Come on! Wake up!"
"Get off!" Peter spat, pushing the annoyance away and pulling his tartan blanket back over his shoulder, not really quite realising it was the particular day in question already and that was the reason for his brother's enthusiasm. He already had an inkling that this Father Christmas person didn't exist and it was Mum and Dad that were filling their old school socks and it was Dad particularly that was drinking the brandy left on the fireplace, but for some inexplicable reason, his brother had not realised quite yet that all was not what it seemed. Surely one single person wouldn't have enough time to get around all the kids in the world, even with elves to help?
Peter was really not sure if his parents had been lying to him all these years or indeed why God invented brothers, particularly as the next thing he felt was a pillow coming crashing down on his head.
"Phil…get off" he replied sleepily throwing an arm out in the general direction of the assault. He didn't want to fight for fear of the thump they would both get. "Mum'll kill us!"
"No she won't" Philip responded, hugging the pillow to his chest. "She said yesterday we can sit on ve top step an' open our stockin's, remember stupid?"
The word 'stupid' was followed by the pillow crashing down on Peter's head again and, even if it was Christmas morning, there was no way on earth the eleven year old was taking that from his ten year old brother. Peter suddenly sat up in bed and grabbed the pillow away sending his brother crashing to the floor with a thump as he lost his balance; head only just missing the bed post as he landed in a heap on the rug. The older brother was about to get out of bed properly to take up matters further when the door opened suddenly.
"OI!"
Both boys froze, Philip, still lying on the floor, turning around onto his stomach to see their father standing there, still in his pyjamas with a furious look on his face.
"Sorry Dad" the pair whispered, Peter still half in half out of bed and his brother spreadeagled at this feet.
"I'm startin' to fink I should nevver 'ave told Farver Christmas you two 'ad been behavin' yourselves vis year. Open vem" he said, pointing at the two stockings, "afore 'e comes back an' takes vem away again for all vis bloody noise!"
The two boys, admonished and feeling guilty although Peter had bitten his tongue about 'Farver Christmas', crept out of their bedroom and sat on the stairs and within moments, the contents of the stockings had been piled onto the top step between them. Boiled sweets, the piece of coal that neither boy ever understood why it was in their stockings, marbles and jacks, a not so shiny new penny each, a pack of cards for Philip and a balsa wood aeroplane for Peter to construct, the veritable white sugar mouse that both boys knew would end up with Mum and at the bottom stuffed deep in the toe, Peter's prize present that he had been particularly looking forward to.
It went silently into the right pocket of his dressing gown. His brother was too engaged trying to twist to the top off his sweets to notice.
"Swop?" Peter suggested picking up his identical golden tin and the orange spirited from his brother's stocking and lingering on the landing, unwanted.
Peter crept upstairs again. Mum was washing up the breakfast dishes and, the rest of the presents now opened, he had no idea where his brother and Dad had gone. Still though, there were other things to think about as he closed the bedroom door quietly behind him, the content of the early morning sock full of presents now being spread out neatly on his bed for putting away, or as the moment now took him, consuming.
Out of his pocket, a small piece of heaven; his request for an exchange having been refused by his brother and he might add, nearly inducing another fight. There was never much money for treats; not since Lees closed down and Mum lost her second job so peeling away the skin of the orange Peter sat up on his bed and looked out of the window at the dots of rain falling from the grey sky. Although it passed cleanly over his head the reasons why, every Thursday, the house would sit in darkness and it was last night's cold left overs for tea, the boys would play hide and seek in the shadows and Dad would just worry.
For a moment Peter wondered what it might be like to have what you want when you want it. To say you would like something and it would just be there for you, like clicking your fingers and it would simply arrive no matter if it cost pennies or pounds. It made him think about what he might like if he could have anything in the world and as he looked out over the back yard, he wondered how far his imagination could take him.
A bicycle to himself. That would be nice. It wouldn't have to be a new one, no; just one where he could ride for miles on his own without a mithering brother wanting a ride on the handlebars or shoving him over when he wanted a go. Maybe a new pair of school shoes would be on the list too as the soles were going through on last years - no the years before - and perhaps, just perhaps, one of those diecast cars he saw in Coopers window last week; staring at them and knowing there was no use even asking as he would just get a look off Mum and a shake of the head off Dad. He'd be more than lucky if he ever stood with ten foot let alone owned a Silver Ghost with its sleek wing and sporting a shine you could comb your hair in, but just to have that little model would be perfect.
As he sat, savouring each piece of fruit to make it last as long as possible, Peter wondered if there were children in the world that had everything they wanted already. Where there any? He certainly didn't know any of them here, but he'd seen them up in Belgravia those times he went up to the Professor's house with Mum; wondering why they were staring at him like he was odd. Maybe it was the scuffed school shoes or that rip in the pocket of his coat that he tried to cover over with his hand as he stood silent. There was a girl there, not much older than him he thought with the longest blondest hair he had ever seen, and last time she had offered him a glass of ice cold milk. He'd taken it gladly and, as she ran off upstairs as though she shouldn't have been in the kitchen, wondered what it was like to live in a house like this, with all its walls free of damp and all that shiny brass that Mum used to complain about cleaning. He wondered whether, if you had all of this, it meant you were truly happy.
He didn't really know, couldn't compare when it came to it, but it did make him think. Still though, the little treat the bottom of the stocking was something he looked forward to every single time and right now? No complaints.
He heard feet come up the stairs and the door open tentatively.
"Mum said I 'ave to say sorry" Philip began, Peter seeing he was hiding something behind his back. "For hitting you an' for not wantin' to swop when you asked". Neither brother knew that Mum had been awake too and, still in bed, heard the exchange as they sat at the top of the stairs; half expecting to have to jump out of bed to break them up. Philip hesitantly held out the orange that had been stuffed in the bottom of his stocking Peter seeing their mother appear behind them too. "I know you like vem an' I don' so we can still swop your sweets if you want…."
Their mother knew full well they usually swopped presents, but she never let on as particularly this time it has served a purpose. "You boys need to know vat vere's a lot of kiddies vat don't get even what you get so I don' wan' to see any fightin' over anyfink hear me?" she said, placing her hands on her youngest son's shoulders. She'd seen those children up in Belgravia too with parents who had enough money to burn, hearing things she shouldn't as she scrubbed floors and dusted antiques that were worth more than her life. That was more important than presents. At least her boys could be sure of a hug or a hand to hold theirs if they were cold or frightened. Irene Noakes would make sure both of her boys could come to her if they wanted, day or night, 13 or 30 and not be like those poor little ones up the posh end of town who had all the possessions in the world but nothing they needed.
Peter had already reached across his bed, picking the other tin of sweets up and, under the watchful eye of their mother, the exchange was complete without further aggression or incident; the other orange stored carefully on Peter's bedside table and the tin beside it.
"Now 'ow about you two go an' deliver vose Christmas cards to ve neighbours eh? an' you" she said to Peter, "wash you're 'ands! I don' want soggy fingerprints all over vem cards. Neighbours'll fink I bring you boys up bad!"
"Yes Mum" Peter replied, careful not to get orange all over his bedclothes too.
"An' what do ve pair of you say?" she asked as the three trudged down the stairs.
"Sorry Mum" the boys responded genuinely.
"Good. Jus' remember vat vere's always kids worse off van you all over ve place" she replied. "Even vose up in Belgravia".
