The Art of Breathing Underwater

Chapter 15

I had over a hundred pounds in a jar I kept in my nightstand, accumulated from my time working at the supermarket, and decided to splurge on Christmas presents. Armed with the last of my savings, I hit the city centre, determined to find that perfect something to show the folks that mattered to me how much they meant to me.

The capital's streets teemed with people. Crowds of faces, telling different tales. Some were harried and fraught with tension. On a final-minute, Christmas Eve dash to secure a gift that would make a loved one's day. Among the throng were smiling faces, infused with festive cheer. Impervious to the biting cold and lashing windswept rain.

After four hours of dodging umbrella spikes on the streets, and hostile interactions with jostling shoppers in packed department stores, I was relieved to leave the mayhem behind. My feet ached and the damp had leeched through my clothes, freezing my bones. But I had succeeded in my mission.

My mum called me a numbskull when I arrived at the door drenched, looking like a drowned rat. Her face bore the telltale signs of stressing over a turkey, allied with the fact my grandparents were coming for Christmas dinner. And my brother.

I would have waited until tomorrow to give her her present, but she looked in dire need of some cheer.

My mum's gift had required the most thought. My original plan had been to buy a shawl, but I worried it might make her feel old. I would have liked to get her a coat. The fact I didn't know her size proved a major hindrance. Not to mention, upon inspecting the price tags, I had nowhere near enough money to purchase the kind of coat she deserved. So I opted for something of practical benefit to her.

My mother suffers from sciatica. She rarely complains. She doesn't have to. The effects are wrought in her face.

My mum glanced up from the book she held in her hands; Beating Back Pain. The jacket stated the author was a renowned specialist in his field, had more letters after his name than a Greek surname.

"That's so thoughtful," she said, her smiling eyes making me forget all about my sodden clothes and aching limbs.

A few hours later, there was a knock on my bedroom door. My dad stood there in his uniform, clutching the Elvis compilation CD I'd bought him in his hand. "That was a lovely present you got for your mother. I'd never have thought of that. I'm proud of you."

I shrugged. I've never been comfortable accepting praise.

He raised the CD. "And thanks for this, too."

"You probably have all those songs already."

"Not on compact disc, I don't." That made me smile. For a moment. Only old crusties ever called them compact discs. I had never considered my dad as old. The wrinkles on his brow looked more pronounced than I'd noticed before. Flecks of grey interspersed with strands of black that had lost their lustre on a hairline that sat deeper than Arsenal's defenders. A high forehead, he claimed. Nothing to do with the natural process.

I handed him a cassette. "I copied it onto this. Y'know, so you could listen to it tonight when you're driving around in the van."

He hugged me. I don't know if I imagined it, but his hugs seemed tighter these days. My mum's too.

Dad passed me an envelope. Inside was a card, with a message in my mother's handwriting. And five crisp fifty-pound bills. "We thought this year we'd give you a few bob. You're too old to have your mother buying your clothes anymore." He ruffled my hair. "Happy Christmas, son."

After my dad had gone to work, I watched Trading Places on television with my mum in the sitting room, sat on opposite sides of the fireplace. Drew my chair closer, to catch the fierce heat radiating from the open hearth, where dancing flames leapt up the chimney. On the mantlepiece, a slew of cards surrounded the antique walnut clock my father had painstakingly restored to full working order. Artificial tree occupying its traditional spot by the window. A little lighter on dazzle with each passing year, as bulbs blew and glittering baubles got broken, never replaced.