'Twas the Night Before Christmas

‘Twas the Night before Christmas

The last rays of apricot-hued sunshine fade to dusk over Abington Street, an urban thoroughfare where disparate lives intersect. A dishevelled victim of current times, Marks and Spencer is long gone along with retail leviathans like Littlewoods and British Home Stores. During the day shoppers bustle and all manner of people try to stop time and gain attention; those preaching the word of God, the youthful ones chugging for charities and the buskers seeking coins in open violin cases. As night falls in winter and workers go home, entrances and alleyways fill with those not fortunate enough to have a place to call home.

We were out for the evening at The Pickering Phipps in town. Roxy thought it might be an idea to tell Christmas ghost stories like the Victorians did or to at least recount some festive poetry. I’m sure the rest of the pub were watching despite best efforts to block them out. It was very conspiratorial. Our wooden table was already busy with half-empty pint glasses. Clement Clark Moore’s classic “A Visit from St Nicholas” was as good a place as any to start even if it did have to be looked up with the help of Google.

Roger was rapt as the words to the poem were spoken. He sat perched to my left, Ros to my right and Roxy sat opposite looking up at me from time to time as she read. We relished the words, bonhomie sweeping across our faces, souls intoxicated by Yuletide. It felt like it was just us in the room at times but, as the magic of the story finished, the hubbub of the pub got louder again as though someone had dialled the volume up.

We sat back as one watching those around us. The queue at the bar was three deep, people waiting to be served by overworked staff, hurrying and scurrying like worker bees to keep up with demand. Two men were chatting, heads above the scrum, both with tinsel wrapped around their heads. Next to them a group of young girls wearing flimsy tops and short skirts giggled whilst showing each other images on their mobile phones. Music blared out from the DJ at the back sitting in his booth holding one headphone to his ear while pressing buttons with the other.

I found myself staring at Roxy again. She looked good in her Nirvana tee shirt and tight blue jeans. She wore large earrings that dangled provocatively. Her blue eyes shone, alive with thoughts in that head of hers. It was no secret that I fancied her but things were yet to happen in a romantic sense as she had only just finished with her boyfriend. Ros caught me looking and grinned prompting me to sheepishly turn my head away.

“Last Christmas” pumped out, revellers singing along, mouths opened wide with the words. Evocative images of George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley larking about on ski slopes came to mind. With the song reaching its conclusion, a tall man appeared in front of us and inches away from Roxy. He bent down to talk to her, trying to take her hand. She pulled it away. Perhaps it was his cheesecloth, red and black chequered shirt that put her off. The exchange was clearly making her uncomfortable. This, in turn, made me ill at ease and I could see others were concerned. I stood and tapped him on the shoulder from behind.

As he straightened again, I slipped in-between him and Roxy. I suggested that he wasn’t welcome. For a few seconds (but what seemed a lifetime) he stared me in the eye, our chests almost touching. My breath was held, every sinew tensed with hands balled. He was taller than me; over six foot with a rugged face and a small scar above his right eye. Just as I thought he was about to hit me, Roxy pushed past and planted her hand in his chest easing him backwards. She told him to “Piss off and take his trouble elsewhere”.

It was strange and emasculating watching a slight girl stand up to a burly male. He looked contrite, turned and left. When Roxy had taken her seat again I asked her what that was all about. It turned out he was her ex – Elliott – trying it on. Apparently he was already three sheets to the wind. It seemed a curious thing to say at the time but she referred to him as the ghost of her Christmas past. With that, she threw her arms around my neck. I wanted her to look up again so that I could kiss her on the lips but she looked away as she let go and the moment was gone. None of this felt Dickensian; at least not until the snow came.

It was Roger’s turn to tell a story. He had opted for Dickens’s “The Signalman” and was holding a Penguin paperback open at the first page. Kirsty McColl was singing something about it being no place for the old whilst Shane McGowan played piano. Roger was a student at the University of Northampton and had digs close to town. He looked older than his years sporting a goatee beard and wearing round-lensed glasses; every bit the academic that people took him for. He stopped short of smoking a pipe and organising peaceful protests. Ros was the odd one out being a forty-something lecturer we had befriended. I always felt that there was a melancholy about her; something barely perceptible but there. One day I would fish for her story but tonight wasn’t the night.

As the mottled light from the spinning globe the DJ was using for effect cast coloured silhouettes, I caught myself peering at Ros. Her hair was flame-red boosted by colouring from a bottle. Whilst she was older than the rest of us, she had a kind face, thin but pretty. The rest of her was as svelte as though she rarely ate and she had a maturity that aged her. A white blouse and short black skirt made her look like an office girl out on the pull. She fitted right in from the very first time we had all gone out.

The entire premise of reading to each other was based on contrarianism. As the evening wore on and the pub got louder, the novelty dissipated like a literary thief in the night. With everyone else’s contributions done, it was my turn to read something. I had played safe and had a copy of “A Christmas Carol” teed up to read on my mobile phone. Before starting, Roxy pulled me close and whispered in my ear. She asked if I wanted to be her ghost of Christmas present. I smiled and started reading.

****

Mercury in thermometers had settled at just above freezing, the ideal temperature for snow and to trigger the cold-weather protocol on streets. Outreach workers had spent the day persuading homeless people to accept warm, safe accommodation for the night. A wind had picked up prompting blustery sleet and driving flurries that stung exposed faces. Luca Finlay pulled his navy puffer jacket up around the collar, head down as he ploughed on up a pedestrianised concourse. Shops flanked him on both sides, the ground turning white as alabaster as more snow fell.

He was a teenage runaway that had fled home after being beaten by his drug-addict father one time to many over in the Eastern district of Northampton. Homeless for a few months, Luca had learned to live hand to mouth, following the advice of other destitute souls that came and went like unwanted spirits. He had not long turned eighteen and finished with sixth form at school. Life had been unbearable. It was draining coming home to find his dad shooting up. Promises that the habit was under control had become wallpaper as he endured his parent losing his job at the council then, one by one, family and friends disowning him. He yearned to find his mother who he knew liked a drink. She had left years ago over a row that had turned violent. A lingering promise that she would come back for Luca had never materialised.

He found himself standing outside a pub staring at two doormen wearing long jackets and gloves. They were deep in conversation, hopping up and down on one foot trying to keep warm. He watched as they both went inside to shelter from the blizzard and saw his chance. It was a long shot but a chance meeting with his aunt a few days ago had led to a suggestion that this is where his mother might be tonight. He hoped so even though the fear of rejection was very real. It had been a long time.

****

High spirits inside the Pickering Phipps reached a crescendo as midnight approached. A bell for last orders had been rung a few times with little effect. Christmas anthems continued to blare out, the room a writhing sea of bodies. I looked over at the door and noticed a boy had sneaked in. He looked like a fish out of water, not least because he was sober. His hair was coated in snow, his face gaunt with shallow cheeks. His clothes were scruffy and tired. It was obvious that he wasn’t one of the party people and had started to attract curious glances. His head was like a meerkat’s above the throng, searching for someone. I watched him progress past bodies as though parting a reluctant Red Sea. He was only a few yards from us when the sight of him was blocked out like an eclipse. A man towered over the boy and had grabbed his arm. He appeared to be interrogating the lad, demanding to know what the likes of him was doing inside a respectable pub. The boy was of slight build and shorter than his aggressor. Once again, it was Elliott being an idiot; he had drawn a small crowd.

As things looked like turning nasty, for the second time in the evening Roxy appeared spiriting her way to the commotion. She stood between the two then, before anything could be said about it, took the boy by the crook of the arm and whisked him towards the exit. As the gathering watched, a muffled mumble of approval rippled out as she weaved through bodies and out onto the street.

Snow was sweeping down in sheets now. Despite the conditions, Roxy expected to see shop doorways milling with vagrants along both sides of the street. She was stunned that they were empty. Standing with the boy, she looked up and down to see who was out on a night like this. Roxy turned and asked what he was doing here. After initial silence then hesitant mumbling, he reluctantly told her how he had run away from home and wanted to find his mum again. We arrived by her side as the tale unfolded.

Roxy asked the boy if he had anywhere to stay. He replied that he hadn’t but would find his friend Erjon who had escaped from a cannabis farm; an Albanian boy who lived in fear of being taken back into slavery again by gangs. Together they were find somewhere to hole up. He mentioned that the people who lived on the streets were probably either at nearby All Saints Church where there was a soup kitchen running or in a council-run hostel. I whispered to Roxy that, out here, maybe we would meet her ghost of Christmas yet to come. Perhaps a menacing figure in a black-hooded robe would usher in a world where nobody was homeless.

In the half-light, I noticed a shuffling amalgam of bodies appearing in the distance. A man wearing a black balaclava was hobbling along with a broad-shouldered bulldog on a lead; a twenty-something woman wearing a dishevelled nylon coat and tracksuit bottoms was trailing after him. Behind them an old, thin man pulled a tatty fleece-lined parka tighter whilst a woman with a headscarf, blonde hair and a toothy grin meandered along clutching a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

We watched as down-and-outs gradually occupied nooks and crannies from Thomas Cook to Nationwide Building Society. I glanced at my phone and noted it was midnight; Christmas Day was upon us. The sound of church bells began pealing, revellers stumbling out of pubs and bars. The group of girls wearing flimsy tops and short skirts from earlier wriggled into coats and crunched passed. They looked up at us from head-bowed strides. Drifting down the street, they detoured over to the doors of Sports Soccer where several homeless people were unzipping sleeping bags and pulling cardboard boxes together to make a den. The girls took notes and cash from handbags and handed them to a surprised woman. The scene was repeated by others but, of course, it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.  

As we were about to discuss Luca’s situation, a voice spoke.

“Luca? Luca, is that you?” It was Ros. We stared at her and then the boy. He looked shocked and, for a few seconds, just stood there, flakes of snow landing on his pallid face.

Ros’s expression had changed from surprise to guilt to concern. She took a step towards the boy and embraced him saying “I’m sorry” over and over again with a tear rolling down her cheek forging a translucent runnel in the cold.

I looked on, the din from passers by getting louder as people headed for taxi ranks. I pondered what this street would have looked like in Dickensian times; lamps lit by gaslight, hansom cabs rolling along cobbles and people doffing hats and politely wishing each other a merry Christmas. I thought about the homeless and how little had changed over the last couple of hundred years. Maybe Luca would be one less soul on the street after tonight but many more would remain; a modern-day plight that Charles Dickens might have expected society to have found a solution for by now. Times change but some things do not.

Perhaps Luca was our Tiny Tim.

Maybe, just maybe God might eventually bless us. Every one.  

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