Chapter Eight

Three days before Christmas, Martin was disturbed by an irritable pounding on his bedroom door. A moment later, Caitlin stuck her head inside. Like their dad, she was already wrapped in a garish seasonal jumper – so was he, but at least he had the decency to stay in his room and save his family's eyes from the sight of crudely knitted reindeers.

"Martin, there's someone at the door for you," Caitlin grumbled.

She was half-way gone before Martin had time to do more than lower his book.

"Wh-what? Who is it?"

Martin glanced towards the window. Fitton wasn't exactly a winter wonderland, but there was a thin layer of frost on the ground and the sky was a murky grey. The wind was the loudest thing for miles around. He couldn't imagine who would be mad enough to come out when it was so cold.

Caitlin reappeared with a flick of her hair.

"How should I know?" she replied. "Just some boy."

Letting curiosity get the better of him, Martin rolled from his bed – taking care to leave his book page down so that he didn't lose his place – and made his way through the house. Doing so was like forging a path through an assault course. Between the tree and the presents, the decorations hanging from the ceiling and every available cabinet, and his parents puttering about being festive and talking to distant relatives on the phone, it was impossible to reach the front door without being intercepted.

Somehow, Martin managed it. The front door was ajar, letting in a biting chill.

He pushed it open and was met with the sight of Douglas Richardson. The other boy was wrapped in a thick coat, dark hair blown out of place. His cheeks were unusually pink where the wind had bitten them. He stood tall with a confident smile, but Martin noted the way his gloved hands wrung together. Something leapt in Martin's chest at the sight of him.

Unfortunately, in the same moment, Douglas' eyes darted to Martin's shoulder, and Martin realised that a length of tinsel had become tangled in his jumper.

"Douglas!" Martin exclaimed in lieu of greeting as he hastily snatched at the tinsel. Douglas' smile grew as he tossed the sparkling golden rope over his shoulder. "Wh-what are you doing here? I thought you might..."

"Might what?"

"Have plans? N-not that I'm not pleased to see you."

Douglas slipped his hands into his pockets and shrugged. With slow, sauntering movements he lessened the space between them and leaned against the doorframe, out of the cold. Martin only stepped back far enough to give him room to breathe, and no more.

"It's good to see you too, Martin. I wasn't actually sure that you'd be in. We didn't really talk about Christmas before, you know?" Douglas said. His tone was even, but there was a certain quickness in his speech that gave him away. "Anyway, it's plans that I'm here about. I um..." Douglas' eyes darted down to the ground as he pushed a hand through his hair, and Martin was so distracted following the motion that he forgot to take advantage of the stumble. "I was wondering what your plans were, for Christmas?"

"Christmas?" Martin repeated. He blinked dumbly for a moment, and then jolted out of his reverie. "Oh, well, I-I-I um – just the usual really. Family stuff. Presents, dinner... that sort of thing. Why?"

"No reason," Douglas replied. A second later he frowned, as if at his own nonchalance, and leaned more heavily against the doorframe. "I'm doing the same – a family Christmas that is. Boxing Day though-"

"I don't think I'm doing anything on Boxing Day," Martin interjected, only detachedly realising that he had no idea what he was agreeing to.

"Good – good... that's good," Douglas said. Again, he looked towards the ground before catching Martins' eye. "Arthur's doing Boxing Day at his house. He does it every year and Carolyn's said you can come too if you like – you can bring Theresa if you want."

"Theresa's on holiday with her family."

"Oh, well then... just you?"

Martin stared at Douglas without speaking, mouth open. He clamped it shut and nodded. A part of him remembered that he should probably ask his parents first, but he dismissed it. An even more surprising part of him was thrilled at the thought of spending time with Douglas out of school – like friends that weren't only friends out of obligation.

"I'd love to," Martin said before he could talk himself out of it. Douglas nodded and Martin stepped back. He didn't think through the motion. It was instinctual. "Do you, um... w-would you like to come in?"

Douglas glanced over Martin's shoulder and hugged his coat more securely around himself. Then he shook his head.

"I should get back," he said. "My parents have the week off, and my brother's home for a few days. Then they're all back to work on Boxing Day – hence why I'm free to bestow upon you the gift of my company."

"Right – right... well... alright then. That's nice," Martin stammered. He belatedly realised that he knew nothing about Douglas' family. He'd never even stepped foot in his house.

For a moment neither of them spoke, or made any move at all. Martin caught Douglas' eye and Douglas smiled awkwardly, running a hand through his hair again and leaving it thoroughly out of place. As hard as he tried to smile and think of something to say, Martin couldn't find anything. Mercifully, Douglas cleared his throat and swaggered back a few steps, out of Martin's space. All of a sudden, Martin felt as if he could breathe again – he couldn't recall ever stopping.

"Well then, I s'pose I'll see you on Boxing Day then?" Douglas drawled, just short of casual. Martin nodded hastily and Douglas fidgeted, bringing his hands together before hiding them again. "You've never been to Arthur's house before, have you? I'll come and get you before lunch starts."

"Alright."

"Good." Douglas nodded again. He turned to walk away, and then paused. A familiar smirk pulled at his lips. "Oh, and Martin?"

"Hm?"

Douglas' eyes darted down.

"Wear that jumper."

As Douglas sauntered away, leaving Martin standing in the doorway, Martin glanced down. With the crushing weight of embarrassment, he realised that he was still wearing the ridiculous be-reindeered jumper. His cheeks burned as his hands flew to cover his face, but it was too late. The damage was done.

Cursing his luck, Martin hurried inside.

Christmas in the Richardson household was a conservative affair, but a merry one as well.

Alice Richardson, dedicated as she was to her work, liked nothing more than to put her feet up and enjoy the smaller things – specially made cranberry jelly, the candy canes that hung from the tree, and the Queen's speech at 3pm. It gave her time to relax and mellowed her for a day or two.

Clarke Richardson, on the other hand, was regimented and traditional. Under his instruction, they woke early (having decided when both of his sons were young that taking them to midnight Mass was a mistake best not repeated), remained in their pyjamas until after a family breakfast, then opened presents from extended family. Presents from each other were kept until after a carefully planned lunch, and then they were allowed some leeway before the mulled wine and singing. In recent years, he had insisted that Douglas play the piano – to keep him in practice.

It was a comfort, really. Douglas allowed himself to relax as best he could. In a few short weeks he would be back in school and revision would take over the curriculum – and he hadn't even mastered the facts yet. With Martin's aid, he had just about got through every practice piece and homework assignment, but in doing so had limited the time he could spend on class-work and actually studying the subjects as a whole.

On Christmas day, however, Douglas didn't have to worry. He sat curled up on the corner of the sofa with a book in his lap and the remote balanced on his knee so that his brother couldn't put something loud on the television. There was nothing to worry about in reality. His brother was busy haranguing their father in the kitchen – apparently there were better ways of cooking a turkey, and their father wasn't having his 'new fangled – Generation X nonsense' when it came to Christmas dinner.

Alice strode into the living room with a groan, rolling the knots from her shoulders. She planted herself down beside the twinkling tree and began sorting the presents into piles. They had splashed out this year.

"You're awfully quiet, Dougie."

Douglas looked up at the sound of his mother's voice. He had been watching her from the corner of his eye. Against his will, he had been doing that a lot lately. It was almost as if some part of him expected her to turn around and accuse him of slacking – of not trying hard enough.

"I'm fine, Mum."

"Are you sure? You've been quiet all week," Alice pushed. "Are you coming down with something."

"No, I'm fine," Douglas insisted. Eager to change the subject, he pushed his book aside and slid right to the edge of the sofa. "Have you decided what you'd like me to play later?"

"Oh, I think Silent Night and the Holly and the Ivy will do – and something bouncy, I think. You decide," Alice replied with a soft smile. She sighed and gazed into the middle-distance. "You know, Dougie – medicine's a difficult subject and takes up a lot of time, but when you get to university, you should consider joining the orchestra – or maybe the choir."

Something warm caught light in Douglas' chest.

"I quite like musical theatre, actually," he said, winding his fingers through the cuffs of his jumper.

"Hmm, yes, I can see you doing that," Alice agreed. "Just as long as you don't let it get in the way of your studies."

Douglas nodded obediently.

For a while he watched his mother sort through the presents. Douglas only shook himself from his trance when she lifted a small rectangular package wrapped in green under his nose.

"Is this one of yours, dear?"

Reaching out, perhaps too quickly, Douglas took the present from her.

"Oh, yes, it's... it's for a friend of mine. And that one there – that's for Arthur." Douglas pointed to another long, but far smaller present that still nestled under the tree. Buying for Arthur was easy. He liked chocolate and colourful things. "I'm seeing them tomorrow – you remember?"

"Of course I remember," Alice replied. "You make sure to thank Mrs Knapp-Shappey for inviting you," she instructed. While Douglas nodded, she passed him Arthur's present. "This friend of yours. Why haven't we seen them yet?"

"No reason," Douglas muttered with a shrug.

"Is she a pretty girl?"

At that, Douglas couldn't quite stifle a smirk, even as something twisted in his stomach. Since he had reached his teens, he had brought two pretty girls home with him – the last when he was sixteen and had thought she was the love of his life. It had ended and Douglas had realised that she wasn't, in fact, the anything of his life. Once he had brought a pretty boy home with him, but his mother didn't need to know that. She had brought them takeaway on her way home from work and asked the lad about the school's football team – and why Douglas, who was quite good at football, was only a reserve.

Martin, Douglas had to admit, was quite nice to look at. He was also a friend – a good friend, even if things were sometimes strained between them.

Martin was exactly the friend that Douglas' parents would have been thrilled to meet. Nevertheless, Douglas couldn't stomach the thought of that happening. There was the small matter of his shame at needing a tutor – of their shame if they found out.

Then... there was something more. They had met Arthur many times, but Martin... there was something about their friendship that Douglas didn't want to share with them. There was an honesty there – a trust that it was difficult to come by. It was usually found in the shockingly good – like Arthur, for instance. No... Martin was his. He didn't want his impression of him marred by what Martin might see or hear.

It was selfish and childish, but Douglas didn't care. They had fun.

"He's just some boy in my Physics class," Douglas said, turning the gifts over in his hands. "Sometimes he spends breaks with Arthur and I."

"Isn't that nice," Alice hummed. Her attention was already back on the presented under the tree, not interested now that the prospect of a girlfriend was no longer on the table. "You should bring him over some time. You know your friends are always welcome."

"Hmmm..."

Growing restless, Douglas hurried to stash his gifts in his room, and then joined his father and brother in the kitchen. Upon finding them mid-way through an argument over whether parsnips were supposed to go inside the turkey, most of Douglas' worries were blown away and replaced by exasperation. He accepted a small glass of brandy from his father – stifling his surprise as Clarke explained that he was old enough now to enjoy the same drinks as the rest of them – and settled back to watch.

The BBCs Christmas repeats were blaring in the living room. The remnants of lunch remained on the table, where they would be dealt with in the hours to come. Simon and Caitlin were loudly competing to beat their mother at a game of monopoly that had turned into a small war. All of this was joined by the sound of hammering as Raymond Crieff constructed the miniature cabinet that he had bought his wife for the corner beside the sofa.

Martin let the racket wash over him. Desperation had taken hold. He had already rifled through his room, searching for money and scraping together as much as he could. His boot were tied and all he needed now was his coat – his coat which had been taken by his mother so that she could stitch shut a hole in the sleeve, and which had never been returned.

It was too cold to go out without it.

In his frustration, Martin wandered around the kitchen, opening and closing the cutlery drawers until they rattled. He knew he wouldn't find his coat there, but it made his feel better. He didn't stop until his dad entered the room and dropped a plastic wine glass (bought one year to stop three children from knocking over the expensive ones when mulled wine was offered up in a rush) into the sink.

"You looking for something, son?"

"My coat," Martin muttered. Then he whirled around. "Are the shops open today, do you reckon?"

"On Christmas day?" Raymond replied.

Martin's shoulders slumped. Huffing, he threw himself down into one of the kitchen's wooden chairs and sagged over the table.

"Well that's just great – what's the point?"

Raymond raised his eyebrows and whistled through his teeth. Then he took a seat on the other side of the table and leaned across so that they could see eye to eye. Bundled in one of the family's garish jumpers, he wasn't nearly as grown-up looking as normal.

Martin sighed and raised his head.

"Dad..."

"Martin, son, do you want to just come out and tell me what's wrong, or shall I guess?"

"It's nothing, really," Martin said quickly. He picked violently at his sleeve. "It's just, I'm seeing a friend tomorrow – you know – and I haven't got him a gift. I-I mean, there are going to be two friends there, b-but Arthur won't want anything too big. B-but I haven't got anything yet – I had two whole days before today, a-and I got nothing."

"Did you agree to a Secret Santa or something?"

"No, but-"

"But what?" Raymond interrupted. "I'm sure if you asked nicely, your Mum will knock up a homemade Christmas pudding. Actually, I'm sure she's got some in the cupboard. She's been baking all week."

"I know, and that's fine for Arthur, but..." Martin trailed off and stared down at his hands as something swooped in his stomach.

It wasn't good enough. He and Douglas hadn't discussed Christmas at all. Douglas probably wasn't even getting anything for him. Still... the thought of turning up without something was... Martin couldn't quite put his finger on it. He wanted to see the look on Douglas' face when he opened... something – to catch him off guard and cheer him up. Martin squirmed just thinking about it as he felt his dad's eyes on him.

"Martin..." Raymond waited until Martin's eyes were on him before continuing. When he spoke, it was with careful attention to the words. He didn't quite meet Martin's gaze, and Martin felt the weight of that fact. "This isn't a... a special friend, is it?"

"Wh-what?" Martin startled, sitting up straight as his cheeks burned. "No – n-no – i-it's Douglas. You've met Douglas – it's just Douglas."

Raymond nodded in a slow, thoughtful way that brought Martin's nerves right to the surface.

"Right, well, Douglas is a nice lad," he said. "But, Martin, it seems to me-"

"What? Wh-what does it seem? It's just Douglas, Dad," Martin insisted. His tongue felt heavy, laced with acid even though he wasn't lying – not really – but it felt like it. "He's just... he's harder to please than Arthur, o-or Theresa. He's... he's particular, a-and he's not always... he's not always happy, per se, and I... he's invited me over to Arthur's and I just – I-I'd feel bad if I didn't get him something – o-or if I did and he hated it."

By the end of it, Martin wished he could bury his head in his hands.

After a moment's silence, Raymond cleared his throat and reached out to pat Martin's arm.

"Well... what does he like?"

"Wh-what?"

"This Douglas lad. What does he like?"

"U-um..." Martin stammered and swallowed the lump in his throat. His cheeks were still warm but as he ran a hand over the back of his neck, that was the least of his worries. He shrugged and squirmed. "I-I guess he likes a lot of things... Th-that's why it's so difficult. Douglas is... he's good at so many things, b-but he barely pays the things he's good at any attention."

"You've been spending a lot of time together," Raymond said.

"So what?"

"So... think a little harder, Martin."

Martin did as he was told for once, staring down at the table and the greasy plates piled high with bare bones and used cutlery.

"I-I suppose he likes... Douglas really likes the theatre. A-and music – b-but old music," he said, unsure of himself. He should have said sports, Martin thought, or being clever. "I-I mean, that's when he seems most... he's really excited about Macbeth in the Spring. A-and he likes old music. He's been making me play Classic FM when we study."

"You know what, Martin, I think I've got just the solution," Raymond replied. Barely a second had passed – not long enough for him to really think. Nevertheless, Martin's heart leapt at the confidence in his father's tone as he pushed back from the table. "If someone's hard to buy for, you get them something personal. If the shops are closed, then you definitely give them something personal." He patted Martin's hand. "How about you and me have a look through the garage."

"The garage?"

"There're a lot of boxes back there – some things your friend will like, I think."

In that moment, Martin could have thrown his arms around his father. Nodding so hard that his head could have flown away, he hurried to his feet and urged his dad to do the same. Some of his panic began to abate.

Just as he had promised, Douglas met Martin at his house. Martin was toting a rucksack that he was oddly protective of. In return, Douglas didn't let Martin look in the back that held his present.

The walk to Carolyn's house was long, but Douglas filled it by asking Martin to relate his entire Christmas. Next to the chaos that Martin's siblings created, Douglas' own day seemed dull... so he found a way not to talk about it.

The Knapp-Shappey residence was grand and old-fashioned, with multiple rooms – the result of Gordon Shappey's large bank account. It was also noticeably empty with only the two of them there. Nevertheless, Martin had gazed around the cosy rooms with awe and Douglas had had to shake his shoulder to get him to move.

Boxing Day dinner lasted longer than the actual meal. Carolyn had done most of the cooking... and Arthur had done enough to keep it interesting. By the time they all left the table, the sky was dark and the late afternoon was drawing nearer.

"Alright, you useless trio," Carolyn announced as she rose to her feet. The table was a mess – partly the fault of Arthur's colourful jellies and breads – partly due to Douglas' decision to flick a Christmas cracker at Martin, who had returned the favour only to have it land in the mashed potatoes. Carolyn surveyed it all as she brought her hands together and declared with a smile that was warmer than usual. "I am going to go into the living room, where I shall ingest a heroic amount of Christmas sherry. You are welcome to join me – in the living room, not in the drinking of the sherry – once the kitchen is habitable."

"Can we put the Christmas album on?" Arthur asked.

"Oh, why not?" Carolyn replied with a terrifying amount of wry cheer. "If the gods shine upon us, I'll be asleep by the time you start singing."

"Brilliant!"

Douglas waited until Arthur was busy dropping dishes into the sink before prodding Martin's elbow. Martin startled and whirled around, and Douglas placed a finger to his lips. He hooked a hand around Martin's arm and guided him from the kitchen. Something twisted in his stomach as Martin stumbled, glancing back at the kitchen, but he ignored it.

They only went as far as the hall.

"Douglas, what's going on?"

"Nothing's going on, Martin. Have a little faith in me," Douglas replied as he located his bag. Taking care to shield it with his body, he pulled out Martin's gift and tucked it against his chest. It shouldn't be so embarrassing. "I just wanted to give you something – preferably without those two looking on."

The moment Martin's eyes landed on the green-wrapped present, he stilled. His mouth fell open in a small 'oh' and he shuffled his feet. Douglas immediately regretted all of the secrecy. It would have been so much easier in front of Arthur and Carolyn. He could have shrugged it off as nothing. It was nothing, and yet it wasn't. He couldn't shake the feeling that this was their thing. Arthur had been thrilled with his Toblerone, and had hugged Martin upon receiving a homemade Christmas pudding. It had been simple.

By pulling Martin away from the group and keeping it between them, Douglas had gone and made this far from simple. He wasn't sure what it was.

"O-oh... I... i-is that for me?" Martin asked. His cheeks were bright red but he seemed relieved.

"Well it's your name on the label," Douglas replied. With that, he closed the space between them and pushed the gift into Martin's hands.

Martin fumbled with the wrapping paper to the point that Douglas considered reaching out and tearing it off for him. Eventually though, he got it off and revealed the book inside. His eyes darted back and forth as he turned it over in his hands. Against his will, Douglas' hands wrung together and he held his breath.

When the anticipation grew too much, he anxiously cleared his throat.

"You're very difficult to buy for. I wasn't sure which books you already had – most of them, I assume." Douglas paused as Martin's eyes met his, and then hastily continued. "I figured you already have all the manuals and history books, so that's an autobiography – the autobiography of a fighter pilot. I know you want to fly commercial aircraft, but a plane's a plane, isn't it?"

"It's great, Douglas – really it is," Martin cut in. His voice was strained but Douglas was relieved to see him smile. "I-I don't have it. I um... thank you." Before Douglas could do more than nod, Martin burst into action. "I-I have something for you! I-I wasn't sure whether you were getting me anything, b-but I didn't want to come without a gift after you invited me, so... so, s-so I um... I'll just get it out."

Douglas watched as Martin pulled his rucksack down from its hook and rifled through it. He wasn't sure what to say. He was touched, but didn't want to admit it. He didn't think much of anything until Martin was feet in front of him and a thin parcel was pushed into his grasp.

"I-it's... a-actually, don't say anything until you've opened it," Martin said. Douglas started to open it, and Martin spoke again. "I-it's just, I didn't know what to get you, s-so this is sort of... you can think of it as an antique – o-or as vintage. M-my dad helped my find it."

Martin said more, but Douglas ignored him. Silence only fell when Douglas was looking down at a dusty record declaring itself the original recording of Les Miserables.

"It's not much-"

"It's perfect," Douglas said. He caught Martin's eye and grinned, taking care to catch his breath. "I think my mum's got a record player in her room. Really, Martin, this is... this is amazing."

Without hesitation, Douglas threw his arms around the other boy. The hug was quick and brief, but when he pulled away Douglas could still feel Martin's warmth. He could still see Martin's cheeks, glowing red.

"So..."

"So, should we rejoin the others?" Douglas suggested before Martin could stammer.

Martin nodded gratefully. He tucked his book away in his rucksack, and Douglas slid the record into his own bag, then they crept back into the kitchen. Arthur was still there, but now the air was filled with the cheerful jingle of Mariah Carey as it floated from the living room.