Mistletoe Not Required

Mistletoe Not Required

I was dreading the moment that the topic of the big game would come
up.

We had been sitting around the table for about an hour after the meal
had finished when the conversation finally turned towards tomorrow. I
mumbled something about "needing a breath of fresh air" and made my way
out into the hallway. As I was buttoning my jacket and pulling on my
hat my mother came through the living room door.
"Is everything alright Colin?" she asked, unable to hide the concern in
her voice. It had been a difficult year for her; almost as difficult a
year as it had been for me.
"I'm fine mum," I told her. "I just need to get out for a while and
clear my head. I think I'll just go for a walk."
"It's still snowing," she said looking past me and through the glass of
the front door. "Are you sure you'll manage the walk in the
snow?"
I smiled at her. "Yes mum."
I opened the front door and braced myself for the step outside into
what by now would almost certainly be sub-zero temperatures.
"I won't be too long," I said pulling the door closed behind me.

I decided to take the road north out of the village. That was the main
road into the city and it was therefore likely that less snow would
have accumulated there during the day. It had been the first white
Christmas in years and the village kids had been out in force. Earlier
in the day I had stood at the window of our living room and watched as
they had passed on their way to the hill that overlooked the village.
It reminded me of previous winters when the school had closed and we
had all taken the opportunity to test out the sledges that sat largely
unused in garages for the rest of the year.

As I made my way up the hill towards the school the snow started to
fall again. This far out of the village the darkness seemed more
intense and it was almost as though I could hear the snow falling. I
lifted my eyes to the sky and looked up. Everything looked black, yet
as I gazed upwards thousands of snowflakes would appear out of the
darkness just a few feet from my face, almost as though the clouds that
carried them could be touched simply by reaching up with your
hand.

Although I had taken some painkillers earlier they were starting to
lose their effect and my leg was beginning to hurt. I leaned against
the drystane dyke and tried to rub some life into my leg. Life. That
was a joke. How could there be life down there?

I eased out a long stream of breath and watched as it climbed into the
night sky through the falling snow and in the direction of The Plough.
Turning around I gazed down at the village of Kinraddie that had been
my home since birth. Now, eighteen years later, I was preparing to
leave it.

It had never looked so appealing than it did at that moment. The lights
that shone in every house twinkled through the falling snow and for a
moment I was overcome with a deep sense of sadness. I would be back to
visit, of course, but each time I would return as a stranger, not a
villager. University, my father kept saying, "would be the making of
me". I wasn't so sure. Not after what had happened to me during
the last year.

I turned back towards the dyke and peered into the wall of darkness
ahead of me. I didn't need to see the white frames of the goalposts to
know where I had stopped. I was a creature of habit and at times of
reflection I always returned to the scene of my greatest
triumphs.

Tomorrow was Boxing Day. The traditional father and son match would go
ahead, despite the snow, just as it had for the last fifty-odd years.
The only difference was that I would not be playing for the first time
in five years.

"What the fuck are you doing out here?"

I had been so used to the silence and lost in my own thoughts that I
had failed to hear the approaching footfalls behind me. The snow had
also made a good job of silencing the approach of the other
person.

I didn't need to turn around to know whom the voice belonged to. It was
a voice I knew well. It belonged to one of my classmates from school.
It belonged to Kate Young.

Although Kate was one of my classmates she was almost a year younger.
She sat next to me in English and our Macbeth and Lady Macbeth crackled
(or so I thought) with sexual tension. "So what brings you out here,
Jake?" She called me Jake in reference to my leg. It apparently came
from a song by Rolf Harris called "Jake the Peg".
"Stop calling me Jake," I told her, although the truth was it didn't
bother me in the slightest. Kate Young could call me anything she
wanted to. I was glad she felt able to treat me without the kid gloves
that everyone else seemed to use. She dragged on a cigarette. The tip
burned fiercely, like the sun at midday, before returning to a dull
orange glow.
"I'm sorry," she said taking a last drag on her cigarette before
flicking it away. We both watched as it spiralled through the darkness
like a catherine wheel before falling into the snow with a short
hiss.
"You look like you could do with a drink," she told me reaching into
the pocket of her beige body warmer with a gloved hand. When the hand
reappeared it was holding a silver hip flask. Somehow I didn't think it
was hers. She unscrewed the top and handed it to me. I put it to my
lips and tipped it upwards. The whisky slid down my throat and burned
warmly in my stomach. Whisky and cigarettes, I thought to myself. She
was a bad girl. A very bad girl.

I handed her back the flask and watched as she took a long mouthful of
the whisky before putting the lid back on.
"Where did you get the whisky from?" I asked.
"Christmas present from my stepdad."
"Really?"
"No, not really. Let's just say I helped myself to an early Hogmanay
drink."
We both laughed.
"So?" she asked me. "You still haven't told me what you're doing out
here?"
"Just out for a walk."
"It's Christmas Day. Shouldn't you be at home watching The Wizard of Oz
or something?"
"No. Anyway, what are you doing out here?"
"My stepdad wanted to play Pictionary," she said. "Not my idea of fun.
I've left mum and my brothers to fight it out."

The snow was still falling and accumulating on her fleecy hat. I took a
moment to look at her closely. I could see why she was one of the most
popular girls in the school. Her face had a lovely shape and symmetry
to it, and although there were a couple of girls at school who were as
pretty, their faces all lacked the character that Kate's possessed. Her
skin was flawless and stretched across cheekbones that were so high
that any tears she shed would have suffered from vertigo. But it was
her eyes and hair that set her apart from everyone else. Both were
hazel and shone with life.

Kate was one of the cleverest, artistic and sexiest girls I had ever
known. In English we often talked about our plans for the future. She
knew I was going to Edinburgh University to study Economics whilst she
would be also be in the capital attending Napier where she was to start
a course on Industrial Design. She would, she once told me, "be
designing the products of the future". I had little doubt that she
would succeed. She was already a legend at school as a result of her
artistic ability. Even the teachers predicted a bright future for her.
I think everyone at Kinraddie Academy, including me, was more than a
little in love with her.
"How's the leg?" she asked me.
"Better," I told her.
"Do you miss him?" she asked, changing the subject suddenly. I knew she
was referring to Michael.
"Yes."

Michael Macdonald had been my best friend. He was the first person in
our year at school to pass his driving test and the first to own a car.
It was an old Ford Escort and he loved to drive it fast, sometimes too
fast. One day he took the corner on the approach to the village a
little too fast, clipped a wall and flew into a nearby field. Although
I was in the car I remembered nothing except lying trapped in the back
seat for hours in excruciating pain whilst the fire brigade struggled
to cut me free. For the first twenty minutes no one had come to help us
and I had to lie there helpless and watch Michael die. The other
passenger, Michael's brother Tom had been thrown clear and lay
unconscious less than thirty feet away. His injuries would be no more
serious than concussion and a broken arm. I would be left with a
mangled leg that after three operations would be two inches shorter
than the other.
"What was it like?" she asked me.
"I don't remember that much really," I told her. "About the crash
itself. It seemed to happen too fast."
"You watched him die didn't you?"
"It was terrible. He spent the whole time crying out for his mother. I
tried to comfort him but it was no use. Here was this great big
rugby-playing bloke reduced to begging for his mum and she wasn't
there. I still have nightmares about it."
"Do you blame him?"
"Sometimes. I used to warn him that he drove too fast but he never
listened. I guess it was always going to happen. I sometimes wish he
was still alive so I could show him my leg and let him know how it
feels to be me; to know that I won't play football again." I paused.
"Then I just feel guilty because I survived and he didn't."

Kate took the hip flask back out of her pocket and handed it to
me.
"Here," she said. "Have another swig."
I took the flask from her and this time took a longer swallow. I was
feeling quite light headed. I wasn't used to drinking whisky. Without
warning she giggled.
"What's so funny?" I asked her.
"Nothing," she said. I didn't believe her so I pressed her again for an
answer.
"It's just&;#8230;" She looked away. Could she actually be
embarrassed about something I wondered? She certainly looked to be
blushing although it could have been a combination of the cold and the
whisky.
"It's just what?" I asked.
"You."
"What about me?" I asked taking another mouthful of whisky.
"You're so different out of school."
"In what way?"
"You seem more vulnerable."
"Vulnerable?" I couldn't believe that a teenager would be using such
language. She obviously watched too much Dawson's Creek.
"Yeah. At school you seem to be coping really well. Now after this I
can see that you're not."
"I'm not suicidal, if that's what you mean."
"No, I don't mean that, but you obviously feel guilty about
surviving."
"And you wouldn't?" I asked her.
"No," she said thrusting her chin out in a defiant way. "I wouldn't.
And you shouldn't either. You have your whole life ahead of you."
"With a mangled leg and a limp," I said bitterly as I handed her back
the flask.
"A limp doesn't stop me fancying you," she said.
I wasn't sure I had heard her correctly. I suddenly wished I hadn't
drunk quite so much whisky.
"You fancy me? Jake the Peg?" I asked pointing to my chest with a
gloved finger.
She nodded.
"You didn't know?"
I shook my head.
"What about all the times I've flirted with you in English?" she asked
open-mouthed.
"I thought that was all it was - flirting." I couldn't believe I had
been so dense. This girl, this beautiful girl, had been attracted to me
for God knows how long and I hadn't even noticed. How much time had I
wasted?
"You have a lot to learn about women," she said taking a step towards
me.
"Maybe you can teach me," I told her looking into her eyes.
"Maybe I can."
She leaned her face towards me and touched my lips gently with hers. We
both opened our eyes.
"Would you like me to teach you some more?" she asked smiling.
"I think I would," I replied.
I wrapped my arms around her waist and pulled her close to me. Our lips
met and this time they opened on contact and out tongues flicked at
each other. It was my first French kiss and all I could think about was
that she would be able to tell.

She pulled herself apart from me and looked into my eyes.
"You're a pretty good kisser," she said.
"You're not bad yourself," I told her. She lolled her head to the
side.
"I have a confession to make," she said.
"Oh yeah? What is it?" I asked her. "Do you have a boyfriend at the
moment?"
"I hope so," she said referring to me. "I don't make a habit of kissing
boys in the snow on Christmas Day. No, it's something else."
"What?"
"I wasn't just out for a walk to avoid playing Pictionary. I was
looking for you. I went round to your house and your mum said you had
gone for a walk. I guessed that this would be where you'd come," she
said gesturing with a nod of her head towards the school football
pitches. She was very perceptive as well as very pretty.
"My Dad started talking about the game tomorrow and I just had to get
out." I told her.
"Does it bother you that you won't be playing?" she asked.
"Yes. I love the games against the dads. We haven't lost in all the
years I've been playing."
"I know. I've had to watch most of them. My dad plays too, you
know?"

Her dad - her real dad - was the village policeman. He had been at the
scene of the crash. He had held my hand whilst the firemen cut me free.
Malcolm Young was a good bloke. Not a very good footballer, but a good
bloke.
"Will you go and watch?" she asked me. I shook my head.
"Why not?"
"I don't want to," I told her.
"What about if we watched together?" she asked. "Sort of our first
public outing together as a couple."
The thought cheered me up.
"Okay," I told her. "It's a date."
We kissed again, as if to seal the deal.
"What if I knew something about the accident that could make you feel
less guilty about surviving? Would you want to know?"
"I don't know," I told her. "It depends what you know."
She pulled herself away from my embrace.
"You know my dad's a policeman?"
"Yes. He was there when they cut me free."
"Well, he told me something about the crash. Something that was hushed
up at the inquest."
"What?"
"I don't know if I should tell you."
"Why not?"
"It might make you feel worse."
"That's not possible," I told her. "Nothing could make me feel worse
than I already do."
She bit her lower lip as if she was summoning up the courage to tell me
something that she thought might affect our new-found
relationship.
"When they did the post mortem on Michael Macdonald," she said. "They
found that he had been drinking."
"That's not possible," I said, refusing to believe it. "I would have
known!"
"How can you be so sure?" she asked.
"I would have smelt it on his breath."
"Would you?" she asked. "You've been drinking ten-year-old malt whisky
for the past ten minutes. I can't smell it off your breath, and we've
been kissing."
I tried to remember back to the day of the accident. Where had we been?
I had been playing a match at Carmudden; Michael had been recovering
from a rib injury sustained playing rugby so hadn't been selected. He
had arranged to pick me up outside the petrol station in Carmudden
after the match. When he had picked me up his older brother Tom had
been in the front passenger seat. They said they had been in the city
that afternoon. Perhaps they had been drinking there.
"How bad was it?" I asked her. Tears were pricking my eyes with heat
and my vision was beginning to blur.
"My dad told me that he was at least twice over the legal limit. Add
that to the fact he was an inexperienced young driver&;#8230;." Her
voice trailed off and I began to sob, slowly at first and then with
uncontrollable heaves that racked my body. Kate cradled my head against
her chest. I could smell her perfume.
"I'm sorry," she told me. "I shouldn't have told you but I didn't want
to see you beat yourself up forever. It wasn't your fault you survived.
You shouldn't feel guilty about being alive."

It suddenly explained why Michael's parents couldn't look me straight
in the eye. I had always thought it was because I had survived. Now I
realised it was because their son had caused the accident that had left
a promising footballer a cripple. His brother Tom had left the village
shortly after the inquest. The reason given was that he went away to
find work. The likely explanation now was that he had been the one who
had encouraged Michael to drink that afternoon.

I stopped crying and wiped away my tears with gloved hands.
"I'm sorry," I said to Kate.
"Don't be," she told me. "It's me who should be apologising. I
shouldn't have told you."
"No," I reassured her. "You did the right thing."
"Not much of a Christmas present for your new boyfriend is it?"
She couldn't have been more wrong. It was the perfect Christmas
present. She had given me back my life.

And now I could get on with living it.