Billy Christmas Page 3

  At the door he tripped and found himself tumbling into the snow.

  “Watch where you’re going, will you?” Katherine had been sitting on her canvas rucksack, shivering as she waited. “The thanks I get for hanging around for you!”

  Billy’s own rucksack had landed over his head. “Sorry, sorry!”

  He caught his step and ran to the shed to get his bike. As he came back the familiar wonder began to overwhelm him. Of all the people she could spend her time with, why on earth did she bother with him? Though he was taller than she was, he somehow always felt smaller. Her light brown hair was tied in a loose ponytail, and left strands that drew you in, to guess whether those eyes were blue or green. Her smile always started just a little to the right, and somehow made colours brighter and sounds sweeter. Her smile made him dare to believe that the world was not, in fact, broken.

  The deerhound barked, the sound rattling from behind the kitchen door.

  Katherine looked up in surprise. “Have you got a dog now?”

  “He arrived last night,” said Billy, hoping that today he would sound at least halfway intelligible in her presence.

  * * *

  As always on their way to school, they cycled the back route alongside the river. The season was more apparent here, with ice edging into the river and black leafless branches cast against unspoiled snow lines. Billy always made the most of this part of the day, the only time he could easily speak to Katherine. Out of loyalty he kept away from her at school. He didn’t want to make it difficult, knowing that even her rising star might be tarnished by association with the oddest boy in school. They reached the river path, and Billy automatically took the side nearest the water.

  “You know it’s the concert soon?” said Katherine.

  Billy knew where this conversation was going. He’d been a keen singer, and good as well as keen. He would be wheeled out to visiting music teachers to show how many octaves he could cover. However, with his father’s disappearance and the subsequent publicity, Billy had dropped out of anything that required him to be in the spotlight. He’d already used the excuse of his voice breaking to Katherine, claiming he ought to rest it until it settled.

  “Just hear me out, OK?”

  “Shoot,” said Billy. He was still in a good mood from events at home, and the cycle with Katherine would, he knew, be the highlight of his day.

  “John Wintergate has been taken out of school,” said Katherine.

  “Why’s that?” asked Billy. John had been going to sing a solo in the concert.

  “I think his parents have been posted. Army family: zero notice.”

  She should know; her dad was a general. This also meant she knew about being direct, and about saying things in a way that pushed you towards her objective before you’d had a chance to form an opinion of your own.

  “You need to get back into doing the things you like doing. And you love singing.”

  “My voice is broken,” said Billy, reminding her pointlessly.

  “Has broken,” said Katherine, correcting him with a glint in her eye, “and so had John’s. That’s why he was going to sing the male part in ‘Good King Wenceslas.’ Really easy notes, all you need is volume and tone. You could do it with your eyes shut.”

  He stayed quiet, all too aware this approach wouldn’t wash with Katherine. She stopped her bike. Oh boy, thought Billy, and drew up beside her, not quite catching her eye.

  “I think I have a better idea than most people just how awful this Christmas is going to be for you,” said Katherine, dipping her head till she’d caught his eyes. “So that’s fine. But next year, if you wimp out on things like this because of the attention or what people say, well, I’m going to kick you where it hurts.”

  Katherine paused, waiting for her grin to land on Billy.

  “Last one to school buys the milkshakes on Friday,” and with that she sped off.

  Although Billy knew he could beat her on his road bike even if it was too small for him, he let her get a decent head start. He was happy enough hanging behind and tucking her kind words into his thoughts. At first he had been suspicious of Katherine’s friendship. It was only later he’d learned that moving bases with the Army had given her a way of making friends, and later still, that Katherine had lost her mother at a very young age, in the first Gulf War. Though they’d never spoken about it, he was relieved that she never tiptoed around him, and would accept nothing less than his best foot forward in whatever they did. He started off down the river path, putting on significant speed, determined not to lose too much of his journey to school with her.

  * * *

  Later that day as he cycled home, Billy allowed himself to think for the first time about the possibility of having his father back. As a child, he’d found it hard to understand his father, who whilst very tall, wasn’t sporty, or stylish, or anything that helped Billy with any sort of bragging rights in the playground. Then one year, he was made to read To Kill a Mockingbird. With that book it became clear: his father was like the principled lawyer in the story, Atticus Finch. Tom Christmas was a lawyer, a barrister with a strong sense of justice, one who appreciated and often offered his talents in cases where colleagues might pass, dealing with clients who were in custody. Billy saw why he should be proud.

  He learned more from the many stories offered in the wake of his father’s disappearance. It was during this time that Billy came to appreciate his father’s rare qualities. He was famous for undoing people, particularly pompous people, with a streak of humour that was tinder dry. The hole the man had left in the Christmas family was large and eccentric. The hole he had left was as difficult to ignore as his father had been.

  At first it had seemed inevitable that he would be back, that he would turn up having lost his memory or having been called away for some awful reason. Soon it became clear that nothing was inevitable. The police were unable to offer any lasting help. Friends were unable to do anything other than attempt to reassure Billy and his mother. As time wore on, they returned to their own lives. It was then the constant nights of vigil took their toll and his mother had started to slip away.

  As his mother did less and less, Billy found what he had assumed to be their sole bank account. With what appeared to be a vast amount of money, he thought he could comfortably maintain them for as long as they needed. As the bills mounted, he learned that the account contained all they would have going forward. There were no provisions to fall back on. The insurance policies they had would only work if his father were actually declared dead; this was far too difficult for his mother to face. He had discovered how much money it took to run their home, and realised that until now they had enjoyed a pretty comfortable existence. As with everything else that year, that situation had changed beyond recognition. Now, by some bizarre and magical twist, he had the chance to resolve their nightmare. He simply must not fail.

  He cycled into the shed door, knocking it with his front wheel to make it open, then double locked his bike. Satisfied it was safe, he made his way back to the house. Approaching the kitchen, he realised the door had been left open. He sped into the house.

  “Mum, hello?”

  No one answered. He flew through his home, finding each room by turn as empty as the last. Suddenly he realised that the dog was gone too. Had she taken him out? It was still early. He then thought, for the first time, that he really had no clue what his mother got up to whilst he was at school. He looked about and found he’d come to rest by the still, silent Tree. No help to be found there now. He slumped in the chair where he could watch the front path and, despite his worry, soon dropped off to sleep.

  * * *

  “Hello Billy.”

  Billy stirred from the couch. It was now dark outside. His mum was back, and looked frozen stiff. In her left hand she had the dog on a blue lead and collar. Her hands shook and her bones were white and visible through bitterly frozen knuckles.

  “He needed a walk, and I didn’t have a lead,” said his m
other, “so I thought I’d better go into town and get one, only the pet shop has moved…”

  “…to the superstore at the M40, I know!” Billy surveyed his mother’s grey joggers and T-shirt with mild horror. “Don’t tell me you went all the way into town and then out to the superstore in just that.”

  “Well, I couldn’t walk him without a lead.”

  “You managed for about nine miles somehow!”

  “Well, I…”

  “And left the kitchen door open,” said Billy, torn between being cross that it was in fact possible for his mother to get up to go to the shops, and delighted to see her up and about at all. His mother wavered, her new bubble threatening to burst. At that, he stepped forward and gave her a quick hug, ending the discussion. After making some admiring noises about the dog’s collar, he took himself out and directly up to his room.

  As he shut his bedroom door, he felt a little loneliness hit him. The dog would stay with his mother now. If she had the deerhound for companionship, and perhaps got out and about, what did that mean for him? Billy forced himself into bed, hoping sleep wouldn’t evade him. He eventually drifted away, completely forgetting that he had no idea what time he was supposed to meet the Tree.

  December 15th

  “BILLY CHRISTMAS!”

  Billy jumped from his bed and ran straight into the branches of the Tree, knocking them both flying.

  “What are you doing up here!” said Billy as he disentangled himself from the scratchy, sappy Tree.

  “Oh I see, it is fine for the dog to sleep up here, but I can’t even visit?” said the Tree, righting itself.

  “I think you might prove a bit more difficult to explain.”

  “Fine, well I won’t risk being around you more than I have to,” said the Tree.

  Billy noticed that the Tree had filled out, and was now at least a couple of inches taller than him.

  “Look, I have a few questions…”

  The Tree held up a branch to silence him. Billy looked closely at its ancient face. The half-light of his room cast shadows across the branched face of the Tree. The deep lines brought back more memories of his grandfather: laughter and tears were what he’d told Billy had caused them. But what had the Tree known of life? How many years had the Tree survived? Even if it only came once every hundred years, how long had humans had trees at Christmas? He wondered what had been there before Christmas.

  The Tree shook itself out, and began to pulse. Like a green heart, it pumped luminescent sap out from the trunk along the branches till its needles shone. Shards of green light leapt over the walls of his room, making Billy gasp.

  “The next task has been chosen.”

  It held out the branch with the pie on it. As the decoration met his hands, it gained in size and weight. For the first time Billy realised there was a plate beneath the pie, and he was soon very glad of this fact. The pie started sizzling and steaming, with terrific heat emanating from it. It smelled delicious, and Billy realised he had stomped off to bed without supper and was starving.

  “You must not eat any of it,” said the Tree in stern tones. “This pie is for the old lady in Marlow Park who feeds the ducks every day. See that she has it in her possession by half past eleven tomorrow morning. That is your task.”

  With that, the Tree turned and hopped out of the room, heading for the stairs.

  “Wait,” said Billy, as loudly as he dared. The Tree paused and spun on its trunk.

  “Just one question tonight, I think. Make it a good one.”

  Billy thought fast, but found little. “What time shall I come down tomorrow night?”

  “Twelve minutes past midnight, Billy, always twelve past twelve.”

  With one large hop over the banisters and several smaller ones as it descended the staircase, the Tree left him. Billy watched the bobbing candle until it was gone, then turned back into his room. The sweet-smelling pie was making his stomach ache. He put it where the dog had slept the night before, then shut the door and pushed a chair against it, thinking that the deerhound might be even hungrier than he was. He flopped back into bed. Pie, Duck Lady, eleven thirty. Sleep overtook him.

  * * *

  Billy woke in time to get out of the house before his mother was up; the first time he had needed to contemplate that for many months. He left via the kitchen, forcing a loaded jam sandwich into his mouth on his way and spilling a good dollop on his jumper. Overnight the pie had continued to sizzle and pop at the end of his bed, growing to the point where it was now as deep as two of Billy’s closed fists and as wide as the largest pizza from Giuseppe’s near school. He wrote a note for Katherine apologising for not being there and saying he would see her at school, before heading off to the park, balancing the precious pie on his handlebars. He had a plan: the Tree had said nothing about not delivering before eleven thirty. If he worked fast, he might still be in time for registration.

  Unfortunately for Billy, the Duck Lady hadn’t heard of his plan and wasn’t there. Eight o’clock passed. He walked onto the landing stage where he’d scouted the tree stalls only two nights ago. The stalls were now silent and mostly empty. Perhaps Mr. Shaw had wound it up for the year? He strolled over to the statue of Sir Steve, and got caught slapping his backside for luck by a couple walking their dogs. They gave him a disapproving glare, but he had other things to worry about, and figured he needed all the luck he could get.

  Nine o’clock passed, and Billy was getting worried. Half an hour late for school. He hated being late because it drew attention to him, and might raise questions about how he was being brought up in his freshly broken home. Now he would have to invent a cover story. He disliked making up stories—or, more accurately, telling lies. His father had always seen straight through them, and then seemed just a mite hurt that Billy hadn’t felt he could be straight with him. Besides, once a lie was out, you had to tend and feed it, refer back to it as some other truth to be stashed alongside an already complex real life. He unwound the top of the tea towel that he had wrapped the pie in. It smelt even more attractive than before, but no, the Tree had forbidden it.

  Ten o’clock. This was not good. He was now going to have to fake an appointment, which would need confirmation from his mother. He had forged her signature on numerous occasions but hated doing so, always believing that he would be found out. Marlow was a small town, and because of the publicity Billy felt that everyone who caught his eye had also recognised him. And people in Marlow talked. They were happy enough to talk about nothing, but give them something and they were unstoppable. He could imagine the thoughts of those who might have seen him this morning. There’s the boy who lost his father, Mr. Christmas; a Father Christmas on Christmas Day. Tonight, they would check with their own children. Dentist, my foot, he was down the park this morning. But he couldn’t give in, it was too important. He marched back to the bronze statue, avoiding a crocodile of infants and their teachers.

  Eleven o’clock came and went and now hunger joined the doubt in his stomach. A further dreadful possibility dawned on him. What if she didn’t come at all today? How long should he wait? What if it took till midnight? Would that leave him enough time to get back to the Tree for twelve past midnight? If he hadn’t completed the task, was there any point in returning at all?

  At that moment, two female police officers entered the park. Billy turned around and headed off towards the cricket pavilion until the coast was clear.

  Twenty minutes later, Billy was leaning on the statue keeping a good eye on either end of the park, both for the Duck Lady and the police. Just then, she crept into the corner of the park from the entrance near the white iron bridge. He recognised her immediately. Shorter than he, she walked bolt upright as if she wore a wooden corset. It would be difficult to tell if she did, as she had perhaps a dozen layers on. Petticoats, pre-petticoats, skirts and a green tweed jacket which had a matching green hat with a duck’s feather in it.

  Billy watched her move to the bench by the landing stage where
he knew she would sit. Keeping a sharp lookout, he headed towards the Duck Lady, who had opened her bags of bread and was infuriating the swans by only throwing chunks to where one duck or another would manage to catch them.

  “You big bullies,” said the Duck Lady. “It’s not for you, you hear!”

  Billy approached her bench and sat at the far end. He watched as she continued to favour the ducks over not just swans but also the geese, moor hens and small garden birds trying to get in on the free feed. After a while, she turned to Billy, giving him a good stare through one eye, whilst half closing the other.

  “Going to be up to me then, is it?” she said. “So be it. How do you do, Billy? My name is Agnes. Agnes Moorland.”

  “How did you know my name?” said Billy.

  “Come on now, Billy Christmas, be serious,” said Agnes.

  Billy had forgotten the obvious. The Duck Lady, or Agnes, lived in and around the streets of Marlow, and probably spent most of her days listening to local gossip, which would include talk of his father’s absence.

  “Well, nice to meet you anyhow,” said Billy.

  “Seen you a lot about the place of course. Never talked to me before, have you?”

  Billy didn’t have an answer.

  “But you never crossed the street to avoid me neither,” said Agnes, “and as I never said hello to you, I guess that makes us even.”

  She cackled loudly, spooking all the birds including the ducks. “Ooh, sorry dears,” she said, throwing out more bread to calm them. “’Scuse me Billy, but I guess you’re having a bit of a week, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” said Billy.