Chapter Fifteen Home for Christmas

Chapter fifteen

Home for Christmas

Rick awoke to the muted light of a Dore winter morning filtering through his childhood bedroom curtains.

He lay still for a moment, letting the weight of his actions settle on him like the heavy quilt his mother had draped over him the night before. It might be Christmas Eve, but the familiar anticipation bubbling in his chest when he’d woken in this bed years before was now replaced by a thick stew of regret and self-reproach.

His room wasn’t exactly as it had been when he’d lived here as a child and teenager. The thatched cottage his parents owned in the quaint Yorkshire village had undergone a refurbishment or two in the twenty-odd years since he fled the family home for the bright lights and big stages of London. But his mother had kept trinkets and knickknacks belonging to him, both as a shrine to the success he’d found in the city and for Rick to feel the familiar warmth of home when he returned.

Not today, though.

Today, all he felt was cold .

With a grunt, he forced himself up, swung his legs off the bed, and his feet met with stone floor, causing a jolt to shoot up his spine. His parents might be homeowners, and they’d had a comfortable income when he’d been growing up, but as pensioners, they now made those difficult decisions about which rooms in the four-bed cottage they would heat. His hadn’t been one of them. Having arrived late last night to his parents’ surprise, all he’d had time for was a shared glass of sherry with his dad before hitting the sack and his mother offering him the quilted blanket to stave off the winter chill bleeding in through the ancient brickwork.

But it wasn’t any of that making him shiver.

He pulled on a thick dressing gown, breath blowing out freezing air, and listened to the sounds of home. Which was the usual distant clinking of dishes. His mum always got up early. Even earlier on Christmas Eve, so she could potter around the kitchen making biscuits and mince pies for the local church service. Rick could make out the scent of cinnamon and mixed spice crawling through the air and, whilst it should have evoked warm, comforting notes, it only caused more anguish.

Some people never woke to a mother preparing homemade festive goodies.

Some people like Jayden .

Tucking those thoughts into his borrowed slippers, he left the room, stepping on creaking floorboards, down the rickety stairs adorned with a winding garland of plastic holly along the banister and into the kitchen where, as suspected, his mother was icing a gingerbread house.

“Morning.” Rick trudged closer, voice rough around the edges like gravel on a country road.

“Good morning to you too!” Sandra beamed, jutting out her cheek for Rick to kiss. He did, whilst swiping a finger in the icing and receiving a playful slap to his hand for the privilege. “You’ll come to the service with us later, won’t you, love?”

“If I have to.”

“It’s tradition.”

Of course it was. But he didn’t feel too much like being traditional or joyful right then. Certainly not at his local church, where everyone knew him and would ask what his latest production was.

His mum, as instinctive as always even into her seventies, checked his face. “You all right, love? Did you sleep okay? I can get you another blanket?”

“You could put the heating on?”

“They’ve taken the winter fuel allowance off us now.”

“That’s because you can afford to heat your home.”

“Your dad doesn’t want us to eat into your inheritance.”

“I would rather you enjoy your retirement.” Rick picked up the kettle. “Brew?”

“That’ll be lovely.”

“Speaking of dad, where is he?” Rick put the kettle onto boil, then retrieved the China mugs hanging from the hooks on the wooden kitchen dresser. Everything here screamed country cottage living. A far cry from the soulless modern interior of his central London flat.

“He went out to get a tree.”

“You already have a tree.”

“We only put that small fake one up this year. Wasn’t much point getting a real one when it’s only us.” She tapped his cheek with her hand covered in pastry. “But now you’re here, your dad wants a real tree again. He went to the farm across the village.”

“They’ll all be gone by now.” Rick folded his arms, resting back on the counter as his mum rolled out the pastry on the kitchen table dusted with flour.

“There were hundreds left when we drove past yesterday. Looks like everyone prefers the plastic ones these days.”

“People love a fake.” Not just trees.

“They certainly do.” His mother was just as disappointed.

Rick made the tea as his father’s 1968 Riley Kestrel spit up gravel on the driveway, an enormous fir tree secured to the roof.

“You won’t heat the cottage, but you’ll let him keep restoring that car?” Rick peered out of the kitchen window.

“You know he loves his classics.”

“Surprised it still runs.”

“That thing will get you to London and back. Mark my words! Your dad’s a mechanical genius.”

“Hmm.” Rick then watched in horror as his seventy-five-year-old father tried to haul the tree from the roof of his beloved car.

“Blimey!” Rick rushed out and helped him. “Let me!”

His dad flicked off his flat cap and wiped his brow. “Thanks, son. Go put it by the window. I’ll fetch the decorations from the loft.”

Rick dragged the tree to the bay window in the front room and a short while later, as his mother’s batch of mince pies baked in the oven, Rick had planted the tree in the stand, shaking off the loose needles and dead branches and clinging on insects, to decorate it with the box of ‘Xmas Decs’ his dad had brought down from the loft. Rick plucked out each one, each decoration a reminder of the years slipping through his fingers as easily as the tinsel he held.

“You know how long we’ve had this star?” Rick waggled the silver star, devoid of the sparkling glitter it’d had during the Christmases he’d still believed in Santa. Ha. The irony. “It must be as old as I am,” he muttered, feeling every one of those years.

“Probably as old as I am.” Gordon chuckled and nudged him. “Do the honours, then.”

Rick dragged over a chair from the dining table, stood upon it, and secured the star on the top of the tree. He then jumped down and continued to adorn the branches with trinkets collected over the years. His fingers worked automatically, tying ribbons and hanging baubles. Then he paused, taking it all in. Each hanging ornament held a memory—a story. His baby footprints pressed into clay, photographs of his face on baubles, a miniature theatre mask. They all spoke volumes about how deeply his parents had cherished him. Encouraged him. Made him who he was.

He choked back unexpected tears.

“You right, son?” Gordon tapped his back as Sandra ventured into the living room with a bag full of wrapped presents to put under the tree.

“Yes, yes, fine.”

She and his dad shared concerned glances. How long could he keep up the lie to them? They hadn’t pressed for details last night, simply having shown their surprise, cracked open the sherry with his room prepared in hope. It made his chest squeeze. He should tell them something .

“There are probably some things I need to tell you.”

“Oh, yes?” Sandra raised her eyebrows, lilting her voice, unable to hide the intrigue within. She wasn’t where Rick had got his talent for acting from.

“I…” Why was this so difficult? His parents loved him. Unconditionally. But as the only child, the one who’d followed the dreams he’d had since he was the little boy dressing this Christmas tree with the anticipation of what would lie under it in the morning, he couldn’t disappoint the parents who’d been the ones to ensure there were gifts for him to discover. But he took a deep breath and did it, anyway. “Haven’t had a role in over a year.”

His parents exchanged another look with each other. This time, a confused one.

It was his father who took the stand. “What do you mean ‘a role’?”

“A part. In a play. A job?”

“Oh.” Gordon folded his arms.

“But what about the panto, love? You said you were the lead?”

“I lied.”

“Oh.” His mum folded her arms, too.

“I’m sorry.” Rick rubbed a hand across his brow. “I didn’t want to disappoint you. Or worry you.”

“So, what have you been doing all year?”

Rick sighed. “Mostly, nothing. Drinking. Pouring a lot of whisky down my neck to drown the sorry state of my life. Burying it all in alcohol and bitterness.” His self-deprecating chuckle didn’t go down well, nor his over dramatic attempts at making light of it all. “More recently, I was playing Santa Claus.”

His mother’s face lit up, and she unfurled her arms. “So you were in panto?”

“No. I was in a grotto. Giving out presents to children. Like Harold at the church does every year.” Except Harold didn’t need the fake beard. His came gratis. And nor did he have a cheeky, beautifully stunning little elf making his life shine .

“Oh.” Sandra crossed her arms again.

“It was a job. A chance to get back in the saddle, as they say. Or the sleigh, as it were.” He chuckled again. Then stopped. His puns were of no use here. Not without Jayden.

“What happened?” Gordon asked. “Were you not getting through auditions? Is it an age thing?”

“No. No. There are plenty of roles for us hitting middle age. I…”

Oh, God, how did he explain the intricacies of this part of the disaster? When he’d come out gay to them, there had been a sliver of worry from his parents. Rick had been fifteen, flouncing around in drama school. He’d thought it had been pretty obvious from the outset. But his parents had either been oblivious or turned a blind eye to what they didn’t know and perhaps didn’t understand. They were churchgoers. Their first thoughts when he’d told them he was into boys was what the villagers would say. Whether he needed to repent. Talk to the minister about it. But they were of a different generation. Things weren’t as open back then. And all that stuff in the news in the eighties, the blasted adverts , probably impacted his parents negatively. But soon enough, they accepted it. Him . Who he was. Were proud of him. They even put a rainbow flag up in their front garden. His mum planted a colourful ensemble of flowers each summer, emulating the pride flag. And they had welcomed the occasional longer term partner into their home as they would any potential in-law.

Not Derek, of course.

“Remember all that bother last year?”

His parents nodded, lips tight at having learned not to ask about such things. Except to reinforce their loyalty to him when his mum said, “We never believed any of it.”

“Thank you. I know. I appreciate that. But there was an altercation with a fellow actor and, well, let’s just say it’s had a ripple effect on my career.”

“How can that happen ?” Sandra asked both him and his dad as she glanced from one to the other.

Rick supposed things like that didn’t affect the bakery business his mother had worked at or the mechanical industry his father had roamed.

“It’s a small world, theatre.” Rick decided it was best not to tell them everything . Not on Christmas eve. “Especially in London. It’s the reason I’ve come home for a while. To put that behind me. To…move on.” Those last two words lodged in his throat, making it difficult to swallow, as if a bauble was stuck there, refusing to budge and let him shit out Christmas.

“Moving on from acting?” Gordon furrowed his brow.

“Let’s call it having a break.” Rick smiled, although he didn’t feel it. “An intermission.”

After a torturous moment of silence, his mum smiled and squeezed his arm. “Well, we, for one, are glad to have you home. You can stay here as long as you need.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

And he did. Ever grateful that he had a home, a family, somewhere to go when things got tough.

Some people didn’t.

Some people like Jayden.

“Get dressed then.” His mum skipped off. “We have to take these goodies to the shelter before the service.”

* * * *

A short time later, Rick felt like Santa again.

This time he clutched Tupperware boxes filled with mince pies, gingerbread men and shortbread stars, all baked lovingly by his mother to drop off at the Dore Community Centre. It was something his parents had been doing for years, even when he’d been a child. Each year, he’d donated one of his own toys, which he wrapped up and brought along with him. His parents had instilled a charitable giving in him from an early age.

When had he forgotten that?

When had success, adoration and fame become more important than this ?

He handed over the Tupperware to a woman behind a table, stacking them up with the other donated items of food and gifts whist his parents chatted to a couple of volunteers on the other side of the hall.

“Ta for these, Rick.” The other thing that was nice to hear was the rhythmic cadence, soothing, and rustic tones belonging to the native Yorkshire accent. RP had become such the norm in London, he’d forgotten how down-to-earth and homely it felt to be surrounded by those who spoke his language.

“I’m just the delivery lad.” And it made him bring out his own accent.

The woman opened the box and sniffed the gingerbread inside. “Bet they’re made up to have you back?” She angled her head to his parents. “So proud of you, they are.”

Rick smiled but had to shimmy over when another woman approached the table, a lanyard dangling around her neck. Rick tucked his hands in his pockets, ready to wander off, when the woman said, “Oh, Grace, the kids at the home will love these!” She picked up one of his mum’s gingerbread men, decorated with little Santa and elf hats. They were like little replicas of him and Jayden.

Something else tinkled his jingle bells then. “The home?”

“That’s right.” The woman held up her lanyard. “I’m Vanessa, social worker for Sheffield City Council. I’ll be taking these beauties to the children who don’t have a family for Christmas. Did you bake them?”

“My mother.” Rick angled his head to where his mum was still in conversation with the volunteers. “Merely the delivery lad.”

“Well, thank you all the same. You’ve put a smile on a child’s face this Christmas.”

Rick exhaled a smile himself as the woman made off with his mother’s goodies. Little did she know, Rick had been putting smiles on children’s faces these past couple of weeks. And he’d never have thought it was possible to love that more than he revelled in the sounds of applause, adoration and accolade.

Jayden had taught him that.

Jayden .

A young man who’d once been a child receiving handouts for Christmas.

And an adult who still had no family to go home to for the holidays.

“You okay, Rick?” Grace furrowed her brow. “Gone a bit peaky, there.”

“Yes, yep, fine. Just…miles away.” Miles away in London…

“’Ere, have you heard about the Broadway?”

Rick blinked his way back to his present location. “The theatre?” The boards he’d trod as a child, giving him his love of Shakespeare and performing. Where he’d started as an amateur. Seen his parents in the front row, beaming up at him with pride and unequivocal encouragement.

“Closing down.”

“No! Why?”

“Needs investors. Can’t maintain the upkeep. Thought you’d be upset to hear that. Used to love watching your plays over there.” Grace then scurried off to take an incoming box of donated gifts and toys, leaving Rick hovering his way back to his parents, head pounding as if the eight foot Christmas tree had fallen on him.

“You all right, love?” Sandra asked as his dad joined them, securing his flat cap on, ready for the drive home.

Home .

Some people don’t have a home.

“Just thinking of someone I left back in London,” Rick said, voice sombre.

“Oh, yes?” Sandra gave him the look of a mother waiting to hear if she’ll have grandchildren before she was too old to enjoy them. She already knew the answer to that, but Rick guessed the hope was somehow always there. Just out of reach. “Who’s that, love?”

“Someone…important?” his dad probed.

Rick breathed out his dejection. “He could have been. If I hadn’t ruined it.”

Sandra squeezed his arm. “Maybe after Christmas he could be again? He might be saying the same to his family right now.”

“That’s just it.” Rick glanced around at the community hall, at the Christmas tree, the presents and gifts handed over to children in need. “He doesn’t have one.”

Sandra let go of his arm, splaying her hand on her chest. “Oh, dear lord.” She crossed herself. “Have they all passed away? How tragic!”

“He’s from a care background.” Rick bit his lip, unsure if he should spill Jayden’s personal information with his parents, but it was as though he’d opened the box of decorations and they spilled like glitter on the floor. “Parents not around. No family to speak of. He’d have been someone your gingerbread men would have made their way to.”

“Oh, the poor dear. How sad for him.”

“He’s not sad, though. He’s the most upbeat and positively infectious man I’ve ever met. Still gives his all to making children smile, even when it doesn’t matter.”

Except, Rick realised then, it did matter. Had mattered. Putting smiles on children’s faces mattered . Putting a smile on Jayden’s face mattered.

“So where does he go at Christmas?” his mum broke through his revelation.

“He…” Oh, God . “Nowhere. He’s alone. He’s a student and…everyone else goes home for Christmas except him. So he’s there. By himself.”

“Alone at Christmas ?” His mum slapped Rick’s arm. “ You left him alone at Christmas ?”

Rick hadn’t ever seen disappointment in his mum’s eyes before. Usually, she was awash with adoration. Unconditional love. It was hard to take. But she looked at him then, the way people had been glaring at him in London for the past year.

As if he were a scoundrel.

“We brought you up better than that!” She dumped her hands on her hips. “We don’t leave people out at Christmas. We open our doors.”

“And our hearts.” His dad winked.

“I’m not sure he wants my heart.” Rick sighed. “Not anymore.”

“Then you find out what he does want and give him that. Like I did for your mother. She’d been eyeing this silver broach in the antique store when we were dating, weren’t you, love?” He elbowed Rick. “Bought her it. Knew she was mine then.”

“True.” His mum beamed. “I got the broach. He got my heart.”

Rick watched his mum and dad smiling at each other and although their eyes had dulled with age, the familiar warmth and kindness still shone through when they remembered all the things that had got them here. Forty-odd years of marriage. And carrying with that, the lessons they had imparted on him—work ethic, gratitude, pride in his accomplishments without the need to gloat. But it was his father’s next words that cut into Rick’s resolve as though it was his mother’s blade carving through gingerbread.

“Christmas is a time for giving, son. Not expecting. Not taking. Not wanting. But giving and sharing what you have.” He tapped his shoulder. “As we are right now.” He then hobbled out of the community hall to get into his car, Sandra rushing after.

“You coming, love?” she called back. “Need to start the dinner prep!”

Rick waited a moment, pondering all that.

Give Jayden what he wanted.

What did he want?

The musical honk of his dad’s Riley Kestrel might as well have been sleigh bells.