Free White Goods by Guy Johnson

You
sure I can’t help, Theresa? The men and
Auntie Stella coming back tipsy, Mum’s last minute panic in the
kitchen, and then the perfect dinner was served. After that, it
was Top of the Pops, The Queen’s Speech and Jim’ll Fix It Christmas
Special , followed by an afternoon snooze,
tree presents before tea and then more food – hot mash, cold meats
and pickles.
    The only difference to
our routine that year happened on the doorstep: part of a history
of small dramas that settled themselves on our
threshold.
    We were in the middle of
dinner when the bell went.
    Ian had answered, then
called back for Dad’s assistance.
    ‘Oh, Anthony, who is it?’
Nan Buckley had asked, sitting up taller, preparing herself for
company.
    Dad hadn’t replied. He
looked briefly at my Mum, and excused himself from the
table.
    ‘ Coming,
son.’
    You couldn’t hear what
went on - Dad had closed the door to the porch, and kept his voice
low. But, from where I was sat, I could see the glass of the porch
door and a movement of colour through it. A blue shirt or coat, if
I recall. And, when the conversation was over, and the door opened
for a second, a glimpse of a face: the pale skin, the blue sunken
eyes.
    ‘They not coming in
then?’ Nan Buckley inquired, disappointed when Dad and Ian returned
without any additional company.
    ‘It wasn’t who I thought
it was,’ Dad answered, looking around the table at our faces,
taking longer as his eyes stopped at Mum.
    But I knew who it was. I
knew who wasn’t welcome. I knew who left that look on their faces,
especially on Ian’s.
    Jackie.
     
    At
midnight, Uncle Gary insisted we finally went to
bed. We were so tired that we didn’t disagree. Despite that, none
of us fell asleep for long and I woke up just a couple of hours
later, when I heard Della leaving her room.
    ‘ They’re
back,’ she whispered, on hearing me get out of my bed.
    She was two steps down the
stairs when I caught up with her. We crept the rest of the way
together, quietly, taking slow steps so we wouldn’t be heard,
unlikely allies in a silent, secret mission – to find out what had
gone on.
    The final drama of the day
was about to unfold.
     
    They were in the
bathroom.
    Auntie Stella and
Dad.
    Uncle Gary had gone.
    Downstairs most of the
lights were out –the kitchen ones were on and a light and noise was
coming from the bathroom. The door was pushed to, but not closed.
As we got closer, crisps - from the knees-up earlier - crunched
under our feet and we slowed down, treading more carefully, but we
still weren’t detected. We stayed just inside the back room, with
the length of kitchen separating us from Dad and Auntie
Stella.
    Dad was making a moaning
sound.
    ‘ For goodness
sake, Tony. Keep the noise down.’ Auntie Stella.
    I pulled a face at Della,
but she was concentrating; I could see that clearly, even in the
half-light.
    ‘ Jesus!
Careful with your hands!’
    ‘ Tony, keep it
down. We don’t want to wake the kids. You could do without
explaining this one away.’
    ‘ Della-.’ I
went to ask, but she shut me up with an abrupt: ‘Shush. Just
listen.’
    So I did,
confused, wondering. Thinking of all those carry-on comments over
the years. Auntie Stella’s Mini jokes and Dad’s brushing against
her. Thinking, thinking. Hoping. Hoping I was wrong and that this
wasn’t the funny business Mum had accused him of over the years. Hoping
there was an explanation. Hoping there were no more dramas to
overshadow this big day.
    ‘ Della, do you
think-.’
    She raised a hand,
signalling me to remain quiet.
    ‘ Just listen,
Scotty. OK?’
    So, I did – we both did -
and the drama unfolded differently.
    ‘ Those are
nasty cuts, Tony. Jesus. What you gonna tell the kids?’
    ‘ Dunno.’
    ‘ You’ve got to
tell them something.’
    ‘ I’ll tell
them it was the police, ok? Jesus!’ Another moan came from Dad,
followed by a series of winces. I knew that sound and I could smell
something too – a smell I