‘So, what would you be doing tonight, if you weren’t stuck here with me?’ I ask Chris.
This will go a lot faster if we chat while we’re doing it.
‘I’d be spending it with my dad,’ he says. ‘My mum died a few days before Christmas, a few years ago, so this is always a tough time of year for us. We sit up late, we drink, we watchJools' Annual Hootenanny. It’s really low-key but I think we both know how much it means to the other person. We just don’t say it, because we’re men.’
He says this in a gruff voice, to let me know he’s kind of joking about that last part.
Wow, I wasn’t expecting such an honest answer.
‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him sincerely. ‘That must be really hard.’
‘Cheers,’ he replies. ‘It is hard to navigate. Going through the motions of the festive period always serves as a reminder. It anchors the grief. So, it’s all “this timethatyear we were…” kind of thing.’
‘How long ago was it?’ I ask. I wouldn’t usually pry but I get the feeling he wants to talk about it.
‘Three years,’ he says. ‘I can’t believe it’s been three years. It seems like yesterday. I remember, dad was out buying her a present – I would have to nag him to go out and get something himself, I told him it didn’t mean as much if I did it for him – and while he was out I helped mum put the tree up. She had an old artificial one in the loft – older than me, I think. It had definitely seen better days. I helped her put it up, I must have wrapped hundreds of lights around it. I remember she sassed me, after watching me painstakingly untangle them and wrap them around the 6ft tree, trying so desperately not to tangle them again – she joked that they weren’t right and could I start again.’
Chris laughs. As painful as the memories are for him, you can see the comfort he takes from the good bits.
‘She sounds funny,’ I tell him.
‘She was,’ he replies. ‘She died in her sleep that night. It was such a shock. So sudden. She wasn’t even ill.’
‘That’s horrible,’ I reply. ‘Chris, I’m so sorry. I can’t even imagine, losing someone at this time of year.’
‘It’s the worst time to lose someone,’ he says. ‘Not just because it’s Christmas, and everyone is happy, but because you feel their ghost more than you would at another other time. Mum died on the 23rdDecember and we couldn’t even have her funeral until the second week of January. It was like we couldn’t lay her to rest. Plus, she’d bought and wrapped us all presents, so that was heart-breaking. Even the small ones, like the socks, I can’t bring myself to wear them.’
I feel this tugging feeling in my chest. I hardly know Chris and I feel broken-hearted for him. He might be a bit of a dick, who does very silly things, but I wouldn’t wish what he’s been through on my worst enemy.
‘Sorry, look at your face,’ he says. ‘I’m not trying to get sympathy.’
I didn’t realise I was making a face but, obviously, how could I feel anything but sorry for him right now?
‘It’s not that,’ I lie. ‘I think this might be the most words you’ve said to me at once today. I didn’t think you did chatting. And for the first time, I just feel like I know you’re being honest with me.’
‘I’m almost always honest,’ he says with a cheeky grin. ‘And tactful. I’m not saying a word about your shovelling.’
‘I’ll shovel it where the sun doesn’t shine if you say a word,’ I threaten.
‘Go on then, what were your big plans for tonight?’ he asks.
‘I was going out with my friends,’ I tell him. ‘We had a table booked at a club. I suppose it’s a good job I’m not going. There’s no way I would have felt like boozing again.’
‘You don’t spend New Year’s Eve with your family then?’ he asks curiously.
‘No,’ I reply.
Chris looks at me. How on Earth could he have detected a tone when I tried my hardest to make sure I gave nothing away?
‘I feel like there’s a reason for that,’ he says. ‘Want to talk about it?’
‘This new version of you who talks is very disconcerting,’ I reply.
‘You don’t have to talk about stuff, just because I did,’ he says.
Just hearing him saying that, like he’s just so much better at opening up than I am, is enough to make me want to share.
‘I’m not on the best terms with my sister,’ I tell him. ‘She’s 28, but my parents still treat her like a baby, so when she broke up with yet another boyfriend and wound up homeless, they took her back in.’
