by Dave McGee
purchases and trail unenthusiastically back along the street. Approaching the stall, I find I’m listening out for that wacky gypsy music, so completely out of place in an English street at Christmas. But when I get to the corner it’s deserted and all I detect is the familiar sound of the girls’ scratchy violins. I’m not sure what I think. Just a short time ago something amazing happened to me, but I seem to have moved on with alarming speed. Right now, the easiest thing to be positive about is selling jam. That’s why I’m here anyway, isn’t it? I conveniently shelve all thoughts that suggest I’m weak and indecisive and opt for the easier course.
Mother stops and takes time out for another cup of that disgusting yeast drink. She’s pleased at the number of folks she conned with her ‘conserves’, assuring me the parishioners of St Lambert will be delighted, and so grateful. Being ‘grateful’ is something mother rates highly. I’m just pleased she’s speaking to me again, ‘You know, I was having such a nice chat with Sarah. She’s going to St Andrews, did you know? I expect she could have made Oxbridge, but I suppose Scotland’s nearer, and of course William went there...’ I zone out mentally. Mother’s moved the agenda firmly back where it belongs, in her hands not mine. I’m still stinging at my stupidity for letting Marek slip away. Maybe he’s pitched elsewhere. Why didn’t I just ask him where he was going next? But as usual, mother guesses what I’m thinking, ‘You know, Michael, you should be more careful who you spend your time with. He was on the phone. A few minutes later a van stopped at the bottom of the street; it was a scruffy, broken down thing, and he jumped in. There were some very unsavoury people in the back, too, I may say. He could be involved with people traffickers, drug dealers, anyone!’
I fall silent. Mother, society, peer pressure; all seem like playground bullies circling and taunting me. And it’s worked; I have nothing more to say. The street’s quiet now and the next hour drags. The last stragglers shuffle by with their purchases for the day, weary faces spangled orange-yellow under the festive lights. Have I time to grab one last coffee? I cross to the cafe and join the queue, scarcely aware who’s standing right alongside, but the perfume’s familiar. The ice queen smiles, ‘Get everything sorted?’ I stammer ‘Yes, erm, yeah, thanks for your help.’ She places her order in that self assured way, and turns again to me, ‘He’s cute. You could do worse.’ What’s she talking about? Every cell in my body readies itself for a violent denial. But she’s several steps ahead, as usual, ‘Just another few months in this shitty town; and we’re free.’ I’m on the back foot, but I’m determined not to look as stupid as I feel, ‘Yeah, mum tells me you’ve got into St Andrews.’ Sarah smiles, ‘Yeah, to read law, that’ll be right. That’s what they think!’ I’m now a gibbering idiot, official. The ice queen collects her drink and turns one last time, ‘Be lucky Michael. You can be different. Do it. Be different.’ Then she leans over and kisses me on the cheek, ‘Happy Christmas!’
I bring the SUV from the car park and drive it carefully into the market. Mother has everything cleared away in that efficient way of hers, just crates and the stall sign left. I begin loading. Then out of the corner of my eye I’m aware of a van drawing to a stop at the end of the street. The back doors spring wide and a man jumps out. Him! Like some Olympian gymnast he vaults over the traffic barrier and runs towards the stall. I can’t believe it’s me he wants. But he pants to a stop and puts down on the counter a piece of paper and pencil, ‘Please’ He holds his hand to his ear, mimicking cell phone. I can feel my heart thumping as I write down my name and number. Then he pockets the info and leans over to kiss me. I look at him, then past him, and down the street where I see three or four desperate looking characters leaning out of the van he’s just been in. I can feel mother’s eyes laser into my back as I lean over to kiss Marek but nothing can stop me. The moment is ours. I reach for his neck with my hand and hold him close. And we kiss.
Parting, he smiles broadly and says something to me. I think I don’t understand, but I do; for once I have got it right, ‘Happy holiday to you too, Marek.’ And he turns and runs back to the van. The doors close and he’s gone. I know I must turn too, and face mother, but not right this second. I know she loves me, but she’s now going to have to learn to love a new me; to accept what she doesn’t understand, and doesn’t want. In a moment I’ll find the courage to tell her that I’ve just had the best Christmas present ever. I’ve discovered who I am, and what it is I want.
