Remember Why You Fear Me

by Robert Shearman

  “Go on,” said Santa, “if that’s what you want Ben to see. If that’s what you want him to remember.” Daddy gave a noise that might have been a sob, and Santa took the knife, and it vanished into a big red pocket. “You silly boy,” Santa said, “you silly boy.” Ben thought that Santa must be very cross, and thought that Daddy thought so too, because he flinched when Santa raised his hand to him—but then Santa smiled, and ruffled Daddy’s hair affectionately.

  “Don’t sign the contract,” said Daddy weakly.

  “Don’t worry about Ben’s contract, just you worry about yours,” said Santa. And at that Daddy went pale.

  “No,” he said. “Please.” And Santa just smiled, not without sympathy. “Can’t you . . . ?” and Daddy licked his lips once more. “Can’t you just go next door? Can’t you go somewhere else instead?”

  “I could,” said Santa. “But I came here, didn’t I?” And Daddy made a little gulp like a hiccup, and Santa said, “Now, now, none of that. You’ll scare Ben. Don’t scare Ben.”

  “I’ve got a bike,” said Ben.

  “So I see,” said Daddy.

  “It’s good, isn’t it?”

  “It’s good,” said Daddy.

  “It is good, actually,” said Santa. “Eight gears, stabilizers. Not just any old rubbish.”

  “Please,” said Daddy softly.

  “No,” said Santa, and that was that. “You’d better get your clothes on,” he added. “Both of you.”

  “Ben doesn’t have to come,” said Daddy.

  “You’re not going to leave him alone in the house, surely? Not on Christmas Eve. Not when anyone could get in.”

  “No,” said Daddy, dully. “You’re right.”

  “It’ll be an adventure for him.”

  Ben liked the sound of that. “Please, Daddy, can I have an adventure?”

  “Of course,” Santa said. “And you can bring your bike.”

  “Can I, Daddy? Can I bring my bike?”

  “Leave the bicycle here, Ben,” said Daddy. “You don’t want to take the bike.”

  “I do,” said Ben.

  “He does,” said Santa.

  “It’s slippery out there.”

  “It’s got stabilizers,” said Santa.

  “Stabilizers,” said Ben.

  “Please, Ben,” said Daddy.

  “Let him take it,” said Santa. “Let him get to ride it with you. Share his bike with his Daddy. Give him that pleasure at least.”

  Daddy said, “All right.”

  Ben said, “Hurray!”

  Daddy said, “You’d better go and dress up warm, though. Go and put on your warmest clothes.”

  “The very warmest,” Santa said to both of them. “It’s so cold out there, it’ll freeze your blood.” And he clapped his hands together. “No time to waste, come on. Chop chop!”

  ii

  The weather reports said there was going to be a cold snap. No one was prepared. Industry would be affected, said the news, public transport would be at a standstill. Daddy told Ben that for school the next morning he’d have to wear his very warmest clothes. He’d have to put on his thickest sweater and his thickest gloves, and wear the stripy scarf. Ben didn’t like the scarf, it made his neck itch, but Daddy didn’t care. “You’re not going down with any bug, not on my watch,” he said. “Your Mum’ll kill me.” Ben laughed at the thought, and said Mum wouldn’t kill him. “Yes, she would,” said Daddy.

  Ben made it to school and back again through the cold snap quite intact, the scratchy stripy scarf had beaten off all the germs. Daddy was pleased. “There you go, old chap. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

  And that evening Ben stood with his Daddy by the window, watching from the street lamps how the rain seemed to be slowing down, how it had begun to drift lazily in the wind, as if in no particular hurry to hit the ground.

  “It’s snowing!” said Ben.

  “Yes,” said Daddy.

  “I love snow,” said Ben.

  “Yes,” said Daddy. “Still. It won’t settle.”

  But it did settle. The next morning there was a thin blanket of white over everything. Daddy made Ben wear his scarf to school all the more tightly. “Still. It won’t last,” said Daddy. But it did last.

  Ben didn’t know why the adults didn’t like the snow. It was like rain, but fun rain. They seemed almost frightened of it—the weather forecaster kept giving updates about snow conditions with due gravity, and Daddy listened with gravity too, unsmiling, tense. Ben didn’t get it. Snow was all over Christmas cards, it was in every Christmas song (well, the good ones, not the religious ones), it was Christmas. Pictures of Santa Claus everywhere, beaming out at him, standing knee deep in the white stuff. “Do you think we’ll have a white Christmas?” Ben asked. “I shouldn’t have thought so,” said Daddy, “it’s weeks off, I’m sure it’ll have blown over by then. Don’t you worry.” Ben wasn’t worried. “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas,” he sung. It was the only line of the song he knew. “I’ve got the video somewhere,” said Daddy. “White Christmas. Would you like to watch it with me?” “Okay.” “This weekend?” “Okay.” So that Saturday they watched White Christmas together; they cuddled up close on the sofa, Ben liked to do that when they watched telly, in case there were scary bits. There were no scary bits in White Christmas. “Daddy, the song wasn’t in it,” said Ben, at the end. “No,” said Daddy. And then, “I’m sorry,” as if he’d let his son down.

  And still the snow fell.

  “Can we have a little chat, old chap?” asked Daddy one evening. And he looked serious, even a bit stern, and Ben felt a little scared. “Up here on my knee,” said Daddy, and Ben felt better, he knew up on the knee meant it was going to be all right.

  “I know Christmas is going to be a little odd this year,” said Daddy. “Different.”

  “I know,” said Ben.

  “But I just want you to know. That we’ll have a good Christmas. Don’t you worry. Don’t you worry about that.”

  “Okay,” said Ben.

  “Do you believe me?”

  “Yes,” said Ben.

  “The way to look at it,” said Daddy. “Is that you’ll get two Christmases this year. One with me, one with Mum.”

  “Yes.”

  “Double the fun!”

  “We don’t have to. We could still have one together.”

  “I’m sorry, old chap.”

  “We could talk to Mum about it.”

  “I’m sorry, old chap, I don’t think so.”

  “Okay.”

  “But whatever you want, goes. Whatever else. This will be the best Christmas ever. I promise you. Hey. Hey, look at me. Hey, Ben. Do I ever break my promise?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have I ever broken my promise?”

  “No.”

  “I do my best. I do my best, you know.”

  “Can we have Christmas dinner?” asked Ben.

  “Of course we’ll have Christmas dinner!”

  “I mean, properly. With turkey. And gravy. And those little sausages.”

  “Absolutely we will.”

  “The way Mum makes it.”

  “I’ll make the very best Christmas dinner I can. You can help me if you want. Turkey and chipolata sausages, roast potatoes. Stuffing, you like stuffing, don’t you?”

  “And can we have a Christmas tree?”

  Daddy gave him a hug. “There’s no way,” he said, “that a son of mine isn’t going to have the best Christmas tree there is.” And he hugged his son tight, so tight. “Just as soon as the snow eases off, we’ll go and get one. You can help me if you want. You can help, would you like that?”

  But the snow didn’t ease off. Still the snow fell.

  “Daddy,” said Ben that weekend, “are we going to get a Christmas tree soon? Because all my friends have trees.” “Yes, Ben.” “And Mum’s got one, she’s got her tree.” “I said yes! . . . Yes, B
en. Sorry. Yes. We’ll go and get a tree. We’ll go this afternoon.” So they drove into the town centre in the car. “Look at the speed these people are driving,” said Daddy, “they’re maniacs. In these conditions!” Ben could feel the car slide a little on the road. He thought it was fun. “You’re okay, you’re safe,” said Daddy, and Ben knew he was. They bought a Christmas tree from a man selling them on the pavement outside that cinema that had closed. “Not much left,” the man said, “the best ones are gone.” It’s true, there wasn’t much to pick from; on one or two the needles had half fallen off, and yet the man was still charging thirty-five quid. “That’s scandalous,” said Daddy, and the man just shrugged. “I like this one!” said Ben. “Can we have this one?” The tree was a bit on the stumpy side, and at the top the stem split into two on either side, it looked as if it had a pair of mutant ears. “Look at the ears, Daddy!” laughed Ben. “I’m sure we can find you a better tree than that one, old chap,” said Daddy, “what would your mother say?” “No, I want Big Ears!” said Ben. “Forty-five quid,” said the man, “you’ve got yourself a bargain there,” and he even helped Daddy lug it out to the car, he took one ear and Daddy took the other, “thank you,” he said with a big grin as he pocketed the cash, “and merry Christmas!”

  The tree wouldn’t stand up straight in the living room, it lolled to the right like a drunkard. “What we need to do,” said Daddy thoughtfully, “is put all the decorations on the left, to weigh it down a bit.” Ben asked whether they could do the decorations today, and Daddy said of course they could, no time like the present! Where were the decorations kept? Where did Mummy put them? And Ben said he thought Mum might keep them in a cupboard under the stairs. So Daddy went and had a look in the cupboard, he pulled all sorts of things out. “No luck, old chap,” he said, “any other ideas?” Ben thought maybe the tinsel and the fairy lights and the balls were all in the spare bedroom, then, in one of the cupboards there, and Daddy asked him if he knew which cupboard might be most likely, but Ben didn’t. “Okay,” said Daddy. He emptied the contents of each cupboard on to the bed, putting them all back in again neatly before opening another one—it was quite a good system, but after an hour or so he tired of it, and just stuck back everything into any cupboard any which way. “She wouldn’t have taken the decorations with her, would she?” asked Daddy. Ben didn’t know. Daddy went on, “I mean, what would be the point? She has, though. She bloody has.” Daddy tried phoning her; she was out; he didn’t leave a message. Daddy fumed for a bit, “I can’t believe she’d do that,” he said. “To me, yes, okay. But not to her own son.” He phoned her again, and this time left a message that was very terse. “Let’s have some dinner, old chap,” said Daddy to Ben, “there’s nothing for it.” Ben asked whether they were going to decorate the tree, and Daddy looked a bit helpless, and said they’d have to buy some more decorations first—no, they couldn’t go out today, they’d already been out the once—no, look, it was snowing, look at all the snow. Ben ate fish fingers and chips; Daddy had pea and ham soup, he always had soup, he said it was the least bother. Mum phoned back. Daddy listened to what she had to say. “Oh. Right. But we’ve . . . Right. No, I’ll go and check. Right. Sorry. Thanks for . . . thanks for calling back.” The decorations were in the cupboard under the stairs after all, Ben had been right first time; they were all kept within a box for an old vacuum cleaner. They decorated the tree, they got out all the tinsel and the fairy lights and the balls. They put a star on the tip of one of the ears, and an angel on the other. Ben loved it. “Sorry, Ben,” said Daddy.

  Still, the snow fell. Ben’s school closed a few days early. “Lucky you!” said Daddy. “I still have to make it into work!” Ben was disappointed, though. There wasn’t much work to be done at school this close to the holidays, and now he’d never find out how that advent calendar would turn out, that had been getting quite exciting.

  The Saturday before Christmas Daddy took Ben back out into the snow. “Christmas shopping!” he said. “It’ll be fun!” The snow was falling thick now; each day, it seemed to Ben, a mass of adults outside the window were doing their best to wreck the snow, driving over it and walking on it and turning it to mush—but each night the snow fell again, and by morning had brought back the blanket, unbroken, pure. Ben knew he was as much to blame, though—he loved crunching his footprints into the snow, crunch, crunch. Knowing that within an hour of his doing so fresh flakes would cover up any trace he had ever been there.

  “I want you to get a really nice present for your mother,” Daddy said, and gave to Ben more money than he had ever seen. “Can you hold on to that?” Ben could. Ben had no idea what to get Mum, so Daddy and Ben looked around the department stores together.

  “What are you going to get Mum?” asked Ben.

  “Oh,” said Daddy. “Well. We’ve agreed not to buy each other any presents this year.”

  “Oh,” said Ben. “Okay.”

  “It’s just easier that way.”

  “Okay.”

  “We agreed,” chuckled Daddy, “that this way we’d have more money to spend on you, old chap! So you come out of this rather well! It’s all for you!” And then, “Ben, I’m sorry, what is it, what’s wrong?” And Ben said he didn’t want the extra presents, he didn’t want any of this to be his fault. And Daddy hugged him right there, he stooped down and hugged him, and assured him that none of this was anything to do with him. It was adult stuff, just silly adult stuff. “The truth is,” he said, “the reason Mummy and Daddy aren’t buying each other presents . . .

  is that we just don’t like each other very much at the moment.” And in spite of himself, Ben brightened at that.

  Ben bought his Mum a couple of gift baskets of bubble bath from the Body Shop.

  On the bottom level of the department store, on the concourse between a Poundstretcher and a British Home Stores, there was a Santa’s Grotto. Surrounding the grotto was a little garden, decorated with fake snow, and tinsel.

  “Would you like to see Santa, Ben?” There was quite a long queue, and an unsmiling woman in a booth was selling tickets.

  “No.”

  “Oh. Are you sure?”

  “I don’t believe in Santa Claus. I didn’t believe in him last year either.” Ben put his head to one side, and considered. “I probably did the year before.”

  “What a funny little chap you are.”

  “Don’t you remember? You told me. You told me not to tell anyone, in case I spoiled the fun.”

  “That’s true,” said Daddy idly, “we mustn’t spoil anyone’s fun. Shall we go home then?”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  The snow was falling in thick clumps. Ben laughed at the sight of it. “Come on, Ben,” said Daddy. “Let’s get to the car.”

  “No, Daddy,” said Ben. “Look!”

  And he tilted his head back. He opened his mouth, and stuck out his tongue. And the snow rained on him, it rained all over his face—and some of the flakes too, they landed on his tongue. He turned to Daddy. Eyes gleaming. “You try it!”

  Daddy nearly said no, he so nearly did. But he too put back his head, the tongue came out, he pulled a funny face. “Gurr,” he said. Ben giggled.

  “What does it taste like?” said Ben.

  “I don’t know. Water. It doesn’t taste of anything.”

  “No,” said Ben. “You’re not trying hard enough.” He caught a few more flakes, and then smacked his lips appreciatively. “Delicious!”

  “Delicious!” said Daddy. “Apple pie!”

  “Chocolate cake!”

  “Ice cream!”

  “Um. Peanuts!”

  “Old socks!”

  Ben laughed aloud at this one. And they stood there in the car park, as the Christmas shoppers fought their way around them, catching snow on their tongues, and Daddy laughed too. They were both laughing. Ben found Daddy’s hand, just as Daddy was reaching for his.

  “It’s going to be a
white Christmas, isn’t it?” said Ben.

  “Yes,” said Daddy. “Oh God.” He squeezed Ben’s hand a little tighter.

  The next day was a Sunday, so that meant Ben got to spend it with his Mum. Some Sundays Richard was there too, some Sundays he wasn’t. This Sunday Richard was there. “Come on,” said Mum. “We’re going Christmas shopping, it’ll be fun!”

  Ben had given up asking his mother why she preferred Richard to Daddy. “It’s not as simple as that,” she’d said. “But why, Mummy?” “It’s not something I want to talk about.” “Mummy, why?” And then she’d told him that she didn’t want to be called Mummy anymore, he was too old for Mummy now, surely? He wasn’t a baby. She’d rather be called Mum, from now on, Mum. And that had surprised Ben, and he tried to call her Mum ever afterwards. Even if sometimes he forgot.

  Richard had a son, but Ben had never met him. He was a few years older. Richard wasn’t going to spend Christmas Day with his son either.

  “I want you to buy something for your Dad,” said Mummy. And she gave Ben some money, and he thought it was at least as much as Daddy had given for her present, and he was pleased.

  “What shall I get him?” asked Ben.

  “That’s up to you, isn’t it?”

  Ben was dressed in his warm clothes, thick sweater, thick gloves, stripy scarf. Mum wore a faded fake fur coat Daddy had bought her years ago. As they walked in the town centre snow settled on their hair. “You look like abominable snowmen!” joked Richard. Ben said he was the abominable snowman, but Mum was the abominable snowwoman, and Richard loved that, “Good one, sport. Lisa’s an abominable snowwoman, all right!” Ben didn’t like the way Richard called his Mum Lisa, so easy, as if he somehow owned the name. He called Lisa an abominable snowwoman on and off throughout the day, and Lisa always laughed, long after the time it had stopped being funny.

  They shopped together for another couple of hours or so. Mum said, “Richard’s got a treat for you, Ben!” And Richard laughed, and said it was only a little thing. He’d bought Ben a ticket for Santa’s Grotto. Would Ben like to go to Santa’s Grotto? He’d queued all this time to buy a ticket from the unsmiling woman at the booth, and now all Ben had to do was join another queue to see Santa. Would Ben like to see Santa? In Santa’s Grotto?