discoveredinalj | Discovered in a Box of Baubles Day 6: "Please Have Snow and Mistletoe" part 1

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Please Have Snow and Mistletoe, Part 1

1980

A battered Albatross cab drew up and parked on Litchurch Street, in front of an ordinary semi-detached with cabbage and carrots in the front garden. The passenger fumbled with bills, gave a few to the driver and waved off the change. Looking at the gate and the vegetables, he rubbed his face down to his white-streaked beard. He'd noticed how much it looked like his father's. He'd grown it for his next undercover assignment.

He'd never been here. He'd never been given this address, had to look it up in CI5 files.

He didn't know whether he'd even be let in.

No use just standing at the gate. He lifted the latch and went up the path. Rang the bell.

There was no dog, no sound beyond the door for several seconds, then steps shuffling on the tiled floor.

The door creaked open, only a few inches.

“Hullo, Mum,” he said awkwardly. “It's Ray.”

The pause seemed minutes long. Then she said, her voice cracking, “What happened to your face?”

“May I come in?”

She stepped back, with a gesture that looked almost like welcome.

The sitting room was in front, with a suite that had flowered slipcovers in bright green and blue and red.

Doyle sat on the plump cushion and wished for tea. “Cuppa?” his mother asked, as sourly as if she had lemon in her mouth.

“Ta,” he said, and she went out with that same, slightly dragging step.

The tray she carried in was small, two cups and a small plate of biscuits, a sugar bowl and a little milk jug. “What do you take in your tea these days?”

“Just milk,” he answered, and took a sip when she handed it to him. She drank a bit too, then looked at him expectantly. “I joined the Met, London police, after leaving school,” he said. “At the end of training, a group of us went pubbing. No badges or uniforms, just a friendly few rounds at a number of pubs. We were a bit merry, no more. The kind of area where coppers are called 'the filth.'” He shook his head. “Dunno why we were such fools. Local gang caught up with us between pubs, mugged and beat some of us. Me.” He drank the rest of his tea, while she watched him silently. “Woke up in hospital, and they rebuilt what they could. Best they could do, eh?”

Her eyes fell to her hands, clasped together on her lap as if she wanted to touch him. He felt his mouth twist.“I'm in CI5 now.”

“I've heard of that. I think.”

“Lot of opinions, not many facts. Mr Cowley, he runs it, issues enough D-notices, not much gets out.”

They looked at their cups, dregs in hers, his slurped up. She used to scold him for the uncouth noise he made, but now she didn't meet his eyes. He glanced around the room, occasional tables and mantel, including a family portrait. His father's beard could have been his own. Looking out of the photo, he squinted slightly but had no spectacles. His cheeks were even. Mrs Doyle's hair was in one of those '40s puffs with the ends curled under.

On one side was a little frilly bit of tulle and a spray of cloth flowers. She had never liked the bird-wings other women wore. More cloth flowers, a wedding bouquet, were under a glass dome. He remembered them.

He wanted to come back, eat mince-pies and hang a mistletoe bough. He wanted to return with Bodie.

“Mum,” he said, and heard the roughness in his voice, so he cleared his throat and said it again. “Mum, we work in pairs in CI5. Partners. My partner and I … we share a flat. His name is Bodie. I'd like to bring him. I'd like you to meet.”

She thought about it. He remembered that last night, when he'd stuffed things haphazardly into his gym bag and bundled it down the stairs and out, then sat and sniffled on the bus stop, poking things back into the bag that were falling out, forcing the zip closed and remembering her voice thanking God that his father was dead so he would never have to know that Ray … she had no word to call it and too much shame to speak it if she had known one.

She cleared her throat too. “I haven't celebrated Christmas for … a long time.”

“Maybe this year?” Please, he thought. “Room enough for the tree there, eh? You reckon?”

“Your … partner? Is he … a northerner?” The end of her mouth curled up, slightly. “You never used to say 'reckon.'”

“Yeah. Born in Liverpool.” The thought of Bodie made him almost smile. “A charmer, he is. Keeps me from losing me temper. Saves me life.”

“Does he? Something to thank 'im for, then.”

He wanted to challenge that, say something like 'You sure you want to thank him?' but he closed his mouth and thought about Bodie. The way he charmed women, old or young, even when he was nervous … he remembered going to see Tony Miller's mother. Bodie'd whinged about missing the lasagna his new bird was making, but when they got there, he handed Mrs Miller his clean handkerchief and made her tea, and ate the sandy tea-cake she served them, and remembered or made up stories of Tony's kindness and bravery.

Even Mrs Doyle wouldn't be able to resist him. Doyle couldn't, even when he'd made a lasagna to make up for the one he'd missed.

“Tomorrow, then, OK?” he said, wanting to get back to Bodie. Home for Christmas Eve.

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