It was too late to make a Christmas pudding. Mum always made one – she called it a “rum dumpling”, sodden with all the booze she could get her hands on. “If you’re not drinking with every bite, it’s not Christmas,” she’d say. I wondered if she made one for her final Christmas, the year I didn’t go back. I must’ve told Luke once about the rum dumplings, because I remember him attempting a Christmas pudding in secret, feeding it whisky, sherry and port until it bled. That ever-hungry beast must have cost him an absolute fortune. It quivered like a jelly. It also tasted awful, and I told him so, but not before he spat out a charred mouthful into the sink. I kept going back to it though over the next few days, letting a spoonful of that heavy pulp rest on my tongue.
I asked Art if he wanted me to go out and buy one but he pulled a face. I brought home a trifle, piled high with fruit and cream. I let Nut lick some from the tip of my finger, sending warm little sparks up my arm. She stood up on her hind legs for more, stretching her arms across the kitchen counter for treats to grab. Like that, her head was as high as my rib cage, her middle so thick that it obstructed her reach across the table top. We stood together like that while I made a batch of brownies for Christmas Eve. I narrated the baking process as I went along, “This is a whisk, to mix the egg and sugar, like this.” My whisking flicked little droplets of egg in Nut’s eyes and though she blinked furiously to protect her blues, she never wavered in wanting to take part, occasionally shuffling on her back legs to get a better view. I used to watch Mum bake in the same way, waiting for a finger-dip in the boozy batter. I dipped my finger in the chocolate cake mix and rolled it across Nut’s lips.
After the half an hour in the oven was up, we bounded over to see the results – a soft and squidgy chocolate feast. I cut the hot sponge into even squares and four little cubes for Nut. After some gentle prodding to make sure they were cool enough, I placed one on the edge of the kitchen counter for her to reach up and grab. “You get the first taste, Nut. You made this cake yourself.”
Nut stood up on her hind legs and swiped the cube into her waiting jaws. Her finger bones were so developed now that she could’ve picked up the cube if she’d wanted to. Instead, she batted it towards her like a cat, and after experiencing an odd spark of annoyance I remembered to be relieved. I let the feeling waft over me coolly, fanned by the wings of amnesty’s butterfly.
Once the brownies had cooled, I brought Art a piece with a coffee. Though the curtains were open the study was dark, only lit by a little Tiffany table lamp. The walls looked black. Art was sitting on the floor in the corner by Nut’s book-den, an open hardback across his lap.
I knelt beside him and closed the cover of the book, Huckleberry Finn. “It’s Christmas Eve. Come downstairs.”
Art looked up, and for a second, he was Mum looking back at me, how she would have looked at her last Christmas. Art and Mum looked absolutely nothing alike, but there was something in both their expressions that silently mourned something they’d lost and didn’t know how to get back. Art’s hands lay open across his thighs, palms up, as if still holding the book.
“Come downstairs, husband-to-be.”
Arm in arm, I helped him to stand and he swayed a little. He lifted lightly, no heavier than a child.
We lay on the sofa together like a couple with nothing left to say. Art sat in front of me between my legs as if we were squished in a canoe or riding a horse. We half-watched The Muppet Christmas Carol, and then let the ads drift straight into The Nightmare Before Christmas. Art must have fallen asleep, as his chest began to rise and fall like waves on the sea. I wrapped my arms around him to keep him warm and kissed the top of that still-not-familiar head. His hair smelled musty, like the loft when we first opened it up a year ago. His trousers hug loosely around his legs, his knitted maroon jumper engulfing him entirely. Art looked like he was in the process of being swallowed.
We went to bed together, hand-in-hand, and slept through the night, still clutching each other. Next year, I’d find more ways to touch him that he liked.
On waking, it was a shock to find us skin-on-skin, our bodies sticking together. Art was still asleep, the hollows beneath his eyes smudged like burst blackberries. His lips were moving just a fraction but he looked peaceful so I rose, wrapped myself in a dressing gown, and peeked through the blinds at the white-washed street. No signs of life. The sky was heavy and white, lighting the street like a wide fluorescent lamp.
I made sure the blinds were closed and then padded down to the kitchen. Nut was already there, her tail swishing behind her in excitement. She bounded over across the rug and I held her skull between my hands, rotating my fingertips behind her ears. Her cheekbones rose and she crooned a low, clucking mewl.
“Merry Christmas, little girl.”
I kissed her forehead and held my lips there, savouring the soft,
