Luckily there is one other; an Other she has prepared earlier.
The conversation between the cashier and the card-tapping motorist has begun to seep towards her now. The man’s vehemence has been reaching out, trying to draw her attention.
“Fucking bastard. Fancy lying in wait. Lying in bloody wait. It isn’t on. Skulking in dark corners like a fucking pervert.”
“They’re having a clampdown,” says the cashier a little nervously, yet managing to insinuate a you-should-have-known-better tone. “A clampdown on drunk driving. Haven’t you seen the adverts?”
“Drunk! I’m not drunk! I’m steady as fuck! Look at that!”
He held his hand still under her nose and enlisted Sam. “Am I pissed or what?”
Sam, who was absolutely pissed, said, “Yes, but it shows up in your bloodstream. Or in what you breathe out…in the fumes. It shows up all right. The policemen always know best. They know what you’ve had.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” said the man, “I agree with what they’re doing. Shouldn’t let lunatics at the wheel arseholed, knocking over bairns and what have you, but a decent, respectable man like me being pounced on, fucking pounced on in the night as I’m coming home—well, it makes me want to throw.”
The cashier looked alarmed.
Sam asked, “Where was this?”
“What?”
“Where are they lying in wait, did you say?”
“That’s right; you’d better know where to slow down, too, lass. You’ve had a skinful as well, ’an’t you? They’re down by the Burn. In the layby before the bridge. There’s no bloody streetlamps, so you can’t see them sitting up there all night, as if they’ve nothing better to do on a Christmas Eve, the bastards.” He looked down at his hand suddenly. “I’ve snapped me fucking credit card now.”
Blanching once more, the cashier looked towards Sam, who had taken the opportunity of slipping unnoticed, for the second time that night, out of the door.
“LET HER COOL OFF, MARK,” IRIS SAID, SOBERING QUICKLY WHEN THEY realised Sam had stomped out.
“She’s probably just gone out for a quiet cigarette,” Peggy added, as between them they ushered Mark over to the green settee. He was still clutching the letter from Tony in two hands before him, and both grandmothers were tactful enough not to ask what it was and why it should have whipped up such a storm.
Mark couldn’t quite take in what the letter actually said. The fact it was a letter from Tony and that Sam had got to it first, and then served it up in such lavish circumstances, was enough to render him well-nigh catatonic.
Solicitously Peggy hurried Sally back to bed to wait for morning. She whispered a few things as they went about magic letters from Father Christmas, and how Sally had witnessed part of the mysterious night-time magic that went on behind-the-scenes, unnoticed by children, each and every Christmas Eve. Sitting up in bed, Sally’s eyes widened in interest. Peggy improvised, “Yes, it was a magical letter from Santa saying that his sleigh has run out of petrol just out of town, and your mam has had to go out and help him get it started again. She’s good like that.”
Sleepiness overcoming her, Sally repressed an expression of extreme scepticism and lay down.
Mark’s eyes flickered backwards and forwards across the crackling sheet of paper, until he came to the phrase, “I’m coming back for you now.” It repeated itself over and over to him, making no sense whatsoever, until Peggy rejoined them and quietly put on another tape.
“There’s another bottle of gin,” Mark mumbled. “Open it, would you?”
“Two bottles of gin!” Iris exclaimed, and went to find it.
“Mark, we’ll give you your present now,” said Peggy, reaching into one of her carrier bags. “It seems the thing to do.”
“The thing to do,’ Iris repeated, “at this particular juncture.”
“Right,” said Mark, with a forced smile, making himself fold the letter away into his jeans pocket. Iris passed him a full glass. I’ve been drinking for nearly twelve hours straight, he thought. What a long day! Then there was a heavy parcel on his lap and he mustered his smiles, flexing his fingers to unwrap it.
“It may need some explaining,” said Peggy as she watched him work.
Inside the parcel there was a leather case with a zip. Dismayed, Mark assumed it was shaving things. The way Sam seemed to discuss his shaving habits with everyone always dismayed him. “Thank you,” he said.
“Open it,” prompted his mother-in-law. Over the rasp of the stiff new zip she and Iris exchanged a tense smile.
Mark found his own eyes staring back at him from a compact mirror set into the opened case’s lid. They were surrounded by little squares of pastel colours, and beneath these were strapped a series of dainty brushes and tubes thick with what felt like some kind of unguent. Mark stared dumbfounded at his present.
“We thought you might appreciate this,” Iris smiled. “We made sure we got most of the colours in suitable flesh tones.”
“What’s it all for?” he asked at last, completely at a loss.
“You see, Mark,” Iris sighed. “We understand that conspicuousness, while sometimes being a wonderful thing, can also at times conspire to be a drag.” This was a prepared speech, delivered with great aplomb. Mark blinked and reached for his glass. “So, now, basically, when you want to move about the populace undetected and unremarkable—”
“You just slap on a little foundation, blusher and so on, and off you go!” cried Peggy, stealing Iris’s thunder.
Realising what they were on about, Mark looked down again at the make-up case. “That’s so sweet,” he said and promptly burst into tears.
“More drinks!” Iris called out, as if she were the sort to be embarrassed by overt shows.
“THERE’S FREEZING MIST ON THE RIVER,” BOB SAID, WIPING CONDEN-sation off the windscreen.
“It’s so parky,” said his friend, who was in the driving seat.
“It’s too cold to snow,” Bob added.
“It’s always too
