1980

I nod.

‘You going to be OK?’ she asks.

‘I’m fine.’

I get dressed upstairs and come back down, the presents in two big bags by the door.

She comes out of the kitchen, her coat on.

I say: ‘Shall we go?’

She smiles and hands me a small and beautifully wrapped box in green Christmas paper with a red ribbon: ‘Merry Christmas, love.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t have time.’

She nods: ‘I know. Don’t worry.’

I say: ‘Can I open it?’

Of course.’

I pull the red ribbon loose and carefully open the paper -

‘Can you guess what it is?’ she says.

I shake my head and open the box -

‘Happy?’ she asks, squeezing my arm -

I nod, taking out the digital watch.

‘It’s a calculator as well,’ she says.

I take off my father’s old watch and put it on.

‘Happy?’

I smile: ‘Thank you.’

‘Merry Christmas,’ she says, kissing me on the cheek.

I say again: ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t got you anything yet.’

‘Don’t worry. You can take me to the sales.’

I put my father’s watch on the windowsill and look at my new one.

‘What time is it?’ she laughs.

‘Just gone eleven-oh-one and seventeen seconds.’

‘Shall we go?’

I nod and open the door.

She points at the tree: ‘Going to leave the lights on?’

‘Better had,’ I say and lock the door behind us.

We drive slowly into Warrington, listening to the local radio as we go, pop songs and carols, not saying very much, and we’re early when we get to her parents but they’re already back from church, waiting -

We park on the road just as her brother and his family arrive.

Their three kids are out of the car, carrying brand new toys up the drive and stretching to reach the doorbell, but her dad’s already there at the door, wearing a paper hat and waving a cracker, wishing us a merry Christmas.

I reach over and take the two bags of presents off the back seat.

‘What’s in there?’ asks Joan, looking at another bag on the back seat.

‘Just work,’ I say, but taking the bag full of back issues of Spunk and locking it in the boot – sure I’d left them in the shed last night.

I say hello and merry Christmas to Joan’s brother John and Maureen, his wife, and we all walk up the drive talking about the miserable weather we’re having and how there are never any white Christmases any more.

Her father is carving the bird, mother in the kitchen, Joan and Maureen bringing in the vegetables, John and I holding sherries, moaning about City and the terrible season they’re having, his son and two daughters, the twins, itching to get eating so they can open the presents from their Nanna and Grandad Roberts and their Uncle Peter and Aunty Joan and then watch Top of the Pops in peace.

The food smells great and my mouth is wet.

We all sit down and I uncork a bottle of Asti Spumante and pour as Joan’s father serves the turkey and sausage and we all help ourselves to vegetables, bread sauce and gravy, the children wanting some of this and none of that, their parents laughing and frowning, telling stories about Carl, Carol and Clare, how they’re growing so fast and there’s really no denying they do seem to grow up quicker these days.

The pudding gone, we’re slumped in various chairs watching Top of the Pops, various new pens and socks, diaries and chocolates to our name, Joan’s parents telling us how they really liked the Beatles all along, Joan and John disputing the fact, the kids wanting us all to pipe down as after Kelly Marie it’s The Police, Carol insisting we play Monopoly later, although Carl’s got a new game about Napoleon he wants to play and his dad had promised him that Uncle Peter would want to play, which his dad denies and says Uncle Peter’s here for a rest and not to play with him, but Clare prefers Cluedo anyway, although her mum thinks Uncle Peter’s probably also had enough Cluedo to last him a lifetime, but I shake my head and tell her would that it were so, would that it were so.

There’s a round of ham sandwiches and jelly at half-five, just after it turns out to have been the Reverend Green in the study with the candlestick, just after Live and Let Die and just before Eric & Ernie’s Christmas Special, just before we say we really must get going as we’ve still to pop in at Hale on the way home.

With the kisses and the thank yous and all the merry Christmases and happy new years done, we pull away, Joan waving at the seven figures stood in the doorway, the kids racing off back into the house before we’re even at the end of the road, and I put the radio on and Joan asks:

‘What time is it?’

And I press the button that illuminates my new digital watch and say: ‘Six-thirty one and eight seconds.’

‘Thought Carl was going to have it off your wrist,’ she laughs.

‘Took a shine to it, didn’t he?’

She’s nodding: ‘They’re lovely, aren’t they?’

And I’m thinking the same too, nodding.

We pull in to her Aunty Edith’s drive and get out, Joan with another present.

I ring the doorbell and listen to the sound of laughter from the TV as Edith comes to the door of her bungalow -

‘Peter!’ she says. ‘Joan!’

And we hug and we kiss on her doorstep, wishing each other a merry Christmas and then she ushers us in.

And we get another cup of tea and some After Eight’s and Turkish Delight as Edith opens her present and gives us ours.

Then we sit and admire the tea-towels, the handkerchiefs, and the red and black striped tie, as a war film starts on the TV.

Joan’s asleep as we head down the Altrincham Road and on into Alderley Edge and we’re about to turn on to the Macclesfield Road when the first fire engine overtakes us and it’s then I know, know instantly what’s happened -

‘Joan,’ I’m saying. ‘Wake up, love!’

‘Are we back?’

‘It’s the house, love! Look!’

And I pull in to the side of the road and we stare up at the house, another fire engine and another and another -

The house in flames -

Lit match -

Gone.