The Habit of Widowhood by Robert Barnard

Author:Robert Barnard
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scribner

HAPPY CHRISTMAS

“The people I’m sorry for at Christmas are the ones with children,” said Crespin Fawkes, in a voice that penetrated to the farthest corners of The Wagon of Hay. “It must be dreadful for them.”

He looked around his group of listeners from the corners of his bright little eyes, registering their appreciative chuckles. Then he took another sip of his vodka and tonic.

“Think of it: the noise, the toy trumpets, the crackers and the computer games! Much more appropriate, one would have thought, as a celebration of the crucifixion!”

This time the appreciation was more muted. The joke would have been better if he had left it alone. Crespin never had been able to leave a good thing alone.

But they had all enjoyed the joke, and like all good jokes it went home to them. They all, in their way, faced a future when their Christmases would be alone. The Wagon of Hay was one of those pubs where what are today called the sexual minorities tended to congregate. Several of Crespin’s group were old boyfriends of his, or occasional partners, and most of the ones who weren’t were so because Crespin had very definite ideas about what he fancied and what he didn’t. Then there were Joan and Evelyn, who definitely had a relationship, but who enjoyed male company; and there was Patty, whom nobody could quite pin down.

Still, the fact was that they were all, except Crespin, young or youngish. Almost all of them would in fact be going home to families for Christmas, however much they might profess boredom, reluctance or irritation. Joan, or Evelyn, would ring home and say: “Can I bring my flatmate?” and Mummy would say: “Of course, dear!” The others would go on their own, probably, bearing sophisticated presents from the metropolis. For three or four days they would be back in the bosoms of their families, cherished and chaste. When you got to Crespin’s age you didn’t have a family with a bosom to go back to, but that was something in the future for the rest of them. Crespin had always preferred to keep company with young people.

“You’re not going down to your sister, then?” asked Gregory.

“My dears, no!” said Crespin, with a theatrical shudder. “Not after last time. And to be perfectly frank, she didn’t ask me. She has teenage boys, and the fact is she doesn’t trust me with them, though last time I saw them they promised to be both pudgy and spotty, which is something I can’t abide. But a mother can’t see that her children are positively off-putting. And Priscilla’s house and grounds are positively country gentry, which is not me at all: you expect to see Mummers on Christmas Eve, all madly tugging at their forelocks and talking Thomas Hardy. ‘Thank ’ee koindly, squoire’—all that stuff. Oh dear, no. Not even for a twenty-pound turkey with all the trimmings would I betake myself to Priscilla’s. I much prefer my own company, and la cuisine de chez Marks et Sparks!”

Once more there was a gratifying laugh.

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