A Pint of Beer, a Bag of Chips, and Thou (2 page)

I don’t know if it was the Springsteen, the Christmas spirit

or—God forbid—the hat, but I was soon raking in the cash. If it

carried on this way, I’d be able to buy Mum the fake fur coat she

had her eye on for Christmas. She’d been dropping more hints

than I’d had hot dinners, quite a feat considering I lived with a trio

of women who liked nothing better than to be huddled around a

hot, steaming cooking pot. I let the smile in my head carry

through to the music—it’s the only way I can thank people while

I’m playing, after all.

And then there he was, the man I’d been waiting for. Did I

say his hair was iron grey? If I hadn’t been too busy playing my

saxophone I’d have bitten my tongue. Pure silver, that hair was,

and underneath it, his face looked shockingly young: clean lines,

chiselled jaw with just a shade of stubble. I reckoned he’d be

about my dad’s age: perfect. I’ve always gone for older blokes—

there’s a lot to be said for an experienced man. Most of it gasped

out in words of one syllable when you’re a mite distracted at the

time. He was shorter than me, but muscular, heavy-set. Probably

fucked like a pile driver…Did I say that? My mum would make

me wash my mouth out.

My aunties would hold me down and wash it out themselves.

I segued into my party piece, the riff from “Baker Street.”

Always brings in the money, but you can’t overdo it or it loses its

potency. So I always saved it for my silver fox. Child of the

eighties, wasn’t he? Sexual fantasy and target market, all in one

tight little trench-coated package.

As I played, my eyes tracked him down the escalator. He

always stood, instead of walking down—I liked to think it was so

he could hear as much of my music as possible. He never

looked at me, though. Up, down, right, left—his gaze went

everywhere but at me. That’s what made me think I might have a

chance, if I could only manage more than thirty seconds, once a

day, of his company. Because if I meant nothing to him, he’d be

able to look at me. At least, that was my theory, and I was

sticking to it like fake snow on a windowpane.

This time, though, he was frankly staring. Well, I couldn’t

blame him, now could I? He’d probably never seen a busker with

a tea cosy on his head before. He stared so long he didn’t notice

the end of the escalator and practically fell on top of the woman

in front. Busy apologising to her, he was swept away by the

stream of commuters before he could throw the usual pound coin

in my saxophone case.

Ah, well. I wasn’t going to starve for lack of a pound, and

at least I’d got his attention.

I launched into the English Beat’s “Mirror in the Bathroom”

to celebrate.

* * * *

manage to haul my lazy arse out of bed, mind. That pitch is a

popular one, and there was another guy who had the morning

shift. I lay under the duvet on the morning of the twenty-third and

wondered if he missed me.

I’d explain who I was talking about, but you’ve been paying

attention, haven’t you? You know I mean my silver fox. Him with

the strokeable hair, the bright eyes, the broad shoulders, the

stubble just waiting to burn my skin when he kissed me, the

powerful frame to weigh me down as he fucked me—

Ahhhhh.

Would you pass me that box of tissues? Thanks.

* * * *

but when it’s pitch black outside already and the Christmas lights

everywhere are twinkling, it makes more sense to call it

evening—when Mum called me back.

“Liam! Liam, come here, love. Your Aunty Des has got

something for you.” She frowned, hands on her hips in that pose that

even in her fifties stil made delivery men get hot under the col ar.

She’s got an old-fashioned figure, my mum: think Marilyn

Monroe or Nigella Lawson and you won’t be far wrong. Not a

single straight line about her. Hair like Nigella’s, too: tumbling

locks I swear she keeps that rich, dark shade of brown by black

magic alone. There’s a plumbing firm that’ll only send married

men to our house these days, and the pizza boys won’t deliver at

all anymore.

“You’re not wearing your Aunty Mags’s hat. Do you want

to hurt her feelings, now? Go put it on this instant.”

I sighed, pulling the purple monstrosity out of my pocket.

“I was waiting to see if it was cold out.”

“You were waiting to see if anyone had their eye on you,

and don’t you deny it, my lad. Now put it on, and come into the

living room.”

I trooped in behind her, dragging my boots on the shag-

pile, to find my Aunty Des sitting on the sofa with a determined

look on her face and a bag on her lap. “There you are! Happy

Christmas, my love,” she said, handing me the bag.

It was a big bag. It had to be, to hold the several pounds

of wool that tumbled out in a multicoloured strip about twenty feet

long. “Aunty Des, what the hell is this?”

“Mind your language, my boy. What if your Aunty Gerry

were here? It’s a Doctor Who scarf, of course. Every boy should

have one.”

“You do realise Doctor Who doesn’t wear a scarf any

more, don’t you? He hasn’t done since Tom Baker packed it in.

Back at the beginning of the nineteen eighties. You know, before

I was born?”

Aunty Des shook her head dismissively, her long earrings

jangling. “Oh, your David Tennants, your Mat Smiths, and your Peter

Capaldis are al very wel , but Tom Baker was
the
Doctor Who.”

“You fancied him, didn’t you, Aunty Des?” I said with a grin.

“And who says I don’t stil ?” she countered. “He’s a very

at ractive man even now. And oh! That voice…” We both stared into

space, probably with identical dreamy expressions on our faces.

“Come on, Liam!” Mum’s voice broke the spell. “You’ll be

late for rush hour.” She picked up the scarf and looped it four or

five times around my neck. Since I’m six foot one, plus another

three inches for the mohawk, and she’s only five foot three she

had to lasso me, cowboy style, several times over. “If you sat

down this’d be a whole lot easier, my lad.”

“And spoil all your fun? I wouldn’t do that to you, Mum,

you know I wouldn’t.” I bent down to give her a kiss and headed

off to work with a spring in my step.

The wind was blowing in from Siberia so hard I could smel

the vodka and the borscht. I wrapped Aunty Des’s scarf around

my neck a little tighter as I strol ed along to the Tube station. The

streets were ful of people, most of them juggling briefcases and

bulging carrier bags with rol s of wrapping paper poking out of the

top. Between the hat and the scarf I got more than a few stares on

the way—not to mention the odd shout of “Where’s K9?”

“He’s in the doghouse,” I called back. “Caught him

humping next door’s mechanical reindeer.”

When I got going at the Tube station, takings were

definitely up. I dubbed it the scarf effect. Aunty Des would be

dead chuffed if I told her. And she’d probably start dropping hints

about copper-bottomed saucepans, which I wouldn’t be buying

for her as I happened to know Aunty Mags and Mum had

clubbed together to get them already.

This time, my silver fox stared at me the whole time he was

coming down the escalator. He wasn’t carrying any bags. Maybe

he didn’t have anyone special to shop for? Wel , a boy can dream.

I launched into Hazel O’Connor’s “Wil You?” and you know what?

For just a moment there, I thought maybe he would—but the

crowd surged and he let it carry him away from me.

Not even a pound coin to remember him by. I heaved a

mental sigh, and segued into “I’m Not in Love” by 10cc.

A worn old man dropped 2p into my case. “You just keep

telling yourself that, mate,” he muttered, and shuffled off into the

tunnels.

* * * *

headed straight into the living room. The coven was lined up on

the sofa, all three of them with expectant looks on their faces, as

if they’d known I was on my way.

Then again, they’re witches. They’d probably known

before I had.

“Come on, Mum,” I challenged her. “I’m ready for you. Do

your worst.”

“It’s all for your own good, young man, so don’t you forget

it. Happy Christmas, love, and here’s hoping it’ll be keeping you

warm long after I’m gone.” She heaved a sigh.

“Are you off to the bingo, then, Mum?” I asked innocently.

“I’ll be off to your Aunty Gerry’s church in a minute, to pray

for some respect from the fruit of my womb. Now open it, love.”

Mum’s present was all done up in recycled paper, tied

with string. I opened it up carefully—handing the wrappings back

to Mum so she could use them again next year—and shook out

the brightly-coloured woollen…
thing
inside.

“It’s a cardigan, love,” Mum said, before I could ask.

“I knew that, Mum,” I said, hiding my crossed fingers

under the eye-watering bundle. “It’s…great.”

Perhaps I shouldn’t go to midnight mass tonight; the Lord

might strike me dead for al these lies. The sweater was so garish

it threatened to make the Doctor Who scarf look staid. It had more

colours in it than I thought there
were
colours, al clashing madly in an abstract pattern. If Joseph from that book of Bible stories

Aunty Gerry bought me when I was little had seen it, he’d have

been sick with jealousy. Or maybe just sick. It was that bad.

“Well, go on, love. Put it on.”

“I, uh, I don’t think it’ll go with my leather trousers,” I

protested weakly.

“Your trousers are black, Liam. Black goes with

everything.”

I pulled on the cardigan. It came down to about my knees,

had pockets I could have fit my head in—mohawk and all—and

was so thick and bulky there was probably a whole flock of

sheep somewhere walking around shivering. “You won’t need to

wear a coat with that—just your scarf,” Aunty Des decreed

smugly. She didn’t wait for an answer, just looped it around my

neck half-a-dozen times.

“And your hat,” Aunty Mags added, making to get up, so I

pulled it out of my pocket and shoved it on my head quick, before

she could jam it down tight and maim the mohawk for life.

The skies were clear as I walked to the Tube station,

showing more stars than there were last-minute shoppers

hurrying through the streets with bags in their hands and

desperate looks on their faces. A pity; a bit of torrential rain—or

maybe a small tornado—would’ve given passers-by something

else to think about than my ridiculous get-up. As it was, I had to

endure the stares and the shouts of “Oh my God, call the fashion

police! There’s been an explosion in an Oxfam shop!” I didn’t

answer; just held my head up high and prayed my silver fox

would turn out to be colour-blind.

I was halfway through “Your Latest Trick” by Dire Straits

when I saw him. There were snowflakes on the shoulders of his

trench coat—it seemed the weather had turned wintry again—

and there was tiredness in his eyes, but maybe just a little bit of

anticipation, too? Our gazes met and held each other. I steeled

myself for action. It was Christmas Eve: my last chance. After

tonight he’d likely be off work until the New Year. I couldn’t wait

that long.

I launched into Billy Ocean’s “Get Outta My Dreams, Get

Into My Car” and gave it all I’d got, never breaking eye contact.

And maybe there was a little bit of magic in the air, as

time seemed to slow, making that escalator ride last almost as

long as the song. I let the last notes fade as he stepped off and

walked up to me, his hands in the pockets of his trench coat, the

crowd parting before him like he was Moses. A tense line to his

jaw, he waited until I’d finished playing before he spoke.

His voice was low and husky, with the barest hint of a

rural accent tempering the shifty vowels of South London, and he

spoke like a man about to face a firing squad. “Look, if I’m wrong

about this, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bash my head in. But I

was wondering if I could buy you a drink. At a bar, I mean,” he

added quickly. “Or, you know, a café—whatever’s your poison.”

I let a smile roll out across my face in a slow crescendo.

“There’s a pub around the corner that does great ale. Let me

pack my stuff up, and I’m all yours.”

His jaw line softened, and his eyes crinkled up at the

corners. “Promises, promises.”

“My aunties would have my hide if I went around making

promises I didn’t keep.” I scooped the coins out of my case so I

could put away my sax. “I’m Liam, by the way.”

“Neil,” he said. Then he grinned. “That’s my name, not an

order.” “Oh?” I said, pouting just a little. I shouldn’t do that, I know.

Doesn’t really go with the whole punk image. “Stil , the night’s

young.” I put my saxophone in the case and snapped it shut.