‘This was your dad’s going-away coat,’ she said. ‘Don’t think it’s been worn since 1952.’
She slid it onto his shoulders then bent to retrieve the rejected Afghan from the floor. He studied his father’s coat a moment: the body fitted well enough, but the sleeves were too short, the cuffs of his shirt protruding by a couple of inches.
‘Do you need this?’ Margaret asked him.
He looked up to find her holding out the letter.
‘Ah yes.’ Chest tightening, he snatched it from her hands and shoved it into his father’s coat pocket. ‘I need to post that, thanks.’
‘Who’s it to?’ She was smiling at him. ‘Your sweetheart?’
He managed to return her smile, went so far as to wink. ‘Perhaps,’ he said.
Margaret had not moved. She was still looking at him. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Ah. She’s… she’s called Phil.’ He felt his cheeks flush.
‘Phil? Isn’t that a man’s name?’
‘It’s short for… for Philippa.’
He transferred the letter into his trouser pocket – it would not do to leave it in his father’s coat – and followed her down the stairs, wondering if she had seen the address. If she had, would she recognise it? No, it was a different address, and besides, there was no reason to think she would know or remember the original one. And he had written Mrs P. Griffiths. That could be anyone.
* * *
In the hall, his father, Jack Junior and Louise were waiting like strangers in a pungent cloud of Old Spice. Louise had on a pale blue wool coat Christopher had not seen before, a darker blue velvet Alice band in her hair. Jack Junior’s hair, a short-back-and-sides, was slicked to the side with Brylcreem, his parting a thick white stripe. He looked like a prat.
‘All set, finally?’ There was an indigestive strain to his father’s face and voice. His hair, Christopher noticed, was styled in the exact same way as his son’s.
‘Oh yes, all set,’ said his mother. ‘All ready for offski, and don’t we all look smart?’
His father opened the door and held it, his mouth set in a flat line, while they filed out into the road. ‘Off we go then.’
‘You look weird,’ Jack Junior said as they walked towards the church.
Christopher bent to whisper into his ear. ‘Well you look ugly. But at least I can change my trousers.’
‘Dork.’
‘Mummy’s boy.’
‘Poof.’
‘Wet the bed recently?’
‘I’m telling Mum.’
‘Go on then.’
Christopher walked on ahead, buttoning up his borrowed coat against the bite of the wind, tying his scarf tighter and thrusting his cold hands into his pockets. St Mary’s Church would at least be a break, he thought, from this, this constant and pervading feeling of orbiting like Sputnik that grew with every passing hour. At this very moment he was floating in space, looking down upon the surreal scene of himself in his father’s coat, too short in the sleeve, his school trousers, too short in the leg, a change of clothes deemed better, no, deemed necessary to go and worship a God who supposedly saw all men as equal, presumably regardless of their sartorial choices. What had happened to him? He had not felt changed until he had come back here. But he had changed. He had become Bowie’s space oddity.
In the comforting dimness of the church, he lit a candle for Phyllis, wherever she was, and another for his father, Mikael. Crossing himself, he offered a silent prayer for them both, for their safety and happiness, for their lives. The priest, Father Donald, followed by the two altar servers, one with the cross, the other with the thurible, marched in sombre procession to the front, diffuse grey coils rising. The air filled with a thick sweetness and with the sweet, striving harmonies of the choir.
Alleluia, Alleluia.
Father Donald arrived at his chair, and the choir and congregation fell silent. Closing his eyes, he crossed himself. ‘In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit …’
‘Amen.’
The service began. At the mention of Christ’s birth, Christopher thought of his own, of Phyllis, swathed in blue, the sweat on her brow, her cries of pain, the moment she first held him in her arms, knowing she could not keep him. His eyes prickled but he fought and recovered himself. When he sang, he sang the words to the statue of Our Lady at the front of the church and thought only of her – Phyllis, a vague notion, a shadow in the smoke.
* * *
By 11 a.m. on Christmas morning, he was itching to go into the garden for a smoke. But he had not the courage to light a cigarette in front of his parents. A drink too would be welcome, come to think of it – the small sweet sherry his father would pour at midday would hardly take the edge off. A physical urge to leave made it difficult for him to sit still. He wondered how long he could stay.
‘I’ll probably head back to Leeds on the second,’ he said once they had sat at the table for Christmas lunch, once they had said grace and pulled their crackers, once they had argued against Margaret’s annual voicing of her disappointment: The turkey’s dry again. No, no it’s delicious, Mum, not dry at all.
‘That’s a flying visit,’ Margaret said. Her glasses had a lean to them and the sherry had turned her nose red. ‘Can you not stay longer?’
‘I have to study,’ he said, loading his fork with a greedy mouthful but avoiding Margaret’s gaze. ‘Essays and so on. There’s a lot of work at university, you know – they don’t just give you a degree.’ He was, he knew, using their ignorance against them and it pained him.
‘What do cannibals play at parties?’ Jack Junior read from the cracker joke slip.
‘Is your room warm enough?’ his mum persisted.
‘Swallow my leader,’ said Jack Junior, and laughed.
‘It’s fine,’ Christopher assured her. ‘Everything’s fine. There’s nothing wrong; I just have to study. I want to get at least a two-one.’
‘Is that the same as a degree?’
Helpless, Christopher glanced towards his father, who hadn’t said a word. Perhaps he had not heard, too busy helping Louise put on her paper hat. Perhaps he had drunk some of the sherry in secret, lucky bugger.
Christopher shook his head. ‘I can concentrate better at the halls, that’s all.’
‘Why do French people eat only one egg at a time?’ Louise read. ‘Because one egg is un oeuf. What?’ She frowned. ‘I don’t get that.’
Christopher laughed, though no one else did. ‘It’s because un oeuf is French for an egg,’ he said, smiling at his little sister. ‘And un oeuf sounds like enough.’
Louise threw the joke aside. ‘That’s rubbish. It’s not even funny.’
‘They eat frogs’ legs over there,’ came his father’s contribution to the cultural discussion. ‘What d’you expect?’
* * *
After dinner, they opened their presents. Jack Junior and Louise emptied their pillowslips onto the lounge carpet and tore through their gifts: books, a chemistry set, a Galt science kit, a game called Buckaroo. His mother handed him an envelope.