Christmas Pints and Proper Snogging

December 21st, 2007.

Upper Nettlefield, England.

As we stand on the stoop, about to leave for the pub sing, I have no idea today’s the day I’ll see him.

“Hannah,” Mum yells, screeching through the doorway. “Are you waiting for Christmas or the Second Coming? ”

“Oi, keep your pants on!” Hannah shouts from inside. “One second.”

Mum, Dad, Noah and I huddle on the stoop alongside the couple from next door, properly bundled in coats and hats. Our neighbours raise their eyebrows at each other, as if marking Hannah for the naughty list.

Noah, for his part, is looking politely down the road in the direction of the high street.

“Mum,” I whisper. “Could you keep the madness in check please? You’re going to scare Noah off.”

Her nose is already ruddy from the cold and tiny droplets of water stick to base of her red wool hat. She pats my cheek as Hannah barrels through the door between us. “Oh, love, if dad’s jumper doesn’t scare ‘im off, nothing will.”

The jumper in question features a wooly reindeer face on front, and a bushy tail that announces his backside with rather more pomp than it merits. I roll my eyes.

My family trudges down the lane and I fall into step beside Noah. “Sorry ‘bout them.”

He shakes his head. “Trust me, mine’s worse.”

I hum in acknowledgement. Don’t know much about his family, only that they’re Canadian.

Obviously.

Ahead, the high street bustles with life. Strings of fairy lights glisten from store windows and red wreaths decorate the lamplights. Some passersby carry herculean shopping bags, arms overladen with wrapping paper and bows.

Most, though, have empty hands and full pockets, heading to the Bull & Boar. The pub is feasting on villagers today, a rush of people flooding to it while crowds loiter on the patio: pints in hand, baubles on heads.

“What am I getting myself into, exactly?” Noah asks in a low voice.

“Tradition,” I say. “You know, singing, drinking, vaguely competitive bell ringing.”

“Er, right.” Noah dutifully squeezes through the pub’s door.

In the entry hall, someone’s distributing carol books to every other arrival. Mum and Dad don’t need one and neither do our neighbours. Most people here know the carols like they know their route home from the pub — and they can do both just as well sober as they can piss-drunk.

Noah and I take one to share and push further in. The crowd is so thick you could lift your feet and still be carried to the bar.

Mr. Fielding, my year five teacher, brushes against my elbow. “Alrigh’ there, Bradley? Not here to nick another gingerbread house, are ya?”

“Nah, I’m all above board now,” I call back.

“Previous life as a thief I take it?” Noah says.

I feel a jolt of pleasure at the memory. “My partner-in-crime was a bad influence.”

We shoulder through the trench of red-and-green jumpers. They’re lined up three people deep around the bar, waiting for pints. Against the opposite wall is an 18th-century piano, keys yellowed, that’s sat in the church forever.

We’ve missed it then: half the village blitzing down the high street, chasing down the rolling piano (it’s only ever crashed once — and we collectively agreed to blame a rogue patch of ice. The lad who forgot to attach the safety cord couldn’t have handled the shame).

I’ll make sure Noah sticks around to see the seventeen drunk elders wheel it back to the church when we’re done.

As I’m examining it, a tall bloke, his back to me, slides onto the piano bench, and messes around with a stack of sheet music.

The back looks terribly familiar.

My stomach twists. I strain forward, trying to see. But it’s ridiculous, isn’t it? This is the pub sing, not a Hallmark movie. We’d never qualify for a Hallmark movie: there’s no alcohol allowed in them and couples only get to snog if one party is returning from war.

“Bradley!” Mrs. West from down the lane blocks my view. “Good to see you, love! You must be in – what? Your second year now?”

“That’s right.” I peer around her impressive figure, trying to see the piano. I catch a glimpse of brown hair. Turn around, turn around.

“And who’s this?”

The man at the piano turns to greet someone. I catch the side of his face.

Crashing.

Every atom of my body is crashing to the ground.

It’s him. It’s Ed.

He must’ve just finished his first term of uni.

Unless he took time off after his A-levels, of course. He could be on a gap year.

He could be playing Ebenezer on the West End, for all I know.

“Bradley, dear?” Mrs. West’s voice again. “Who is this?”

I blink at her. Noah is standing beside me.

“Oh, this is Noah,” I say. “He’s Canadian.”

There’s a pause and I realize this is not a helpful explanation.

No one comes here, not tourists. Noah is surely the first Canadian ever to set foot in Upper Nettlefield. I should give him a flag to stick in the ground so he can claim the land for his people.

I wonder what Ed would think of that, he used to love loud, pointless jokes. Like stealing the gingerbread house and ransoming it for a screening of Die Hard at the school’s holiday movie night.

“That explains the politeness,” Noah adds dryly, shaking Mrs. West’s hand. “I’m on study abroad. The Hutchingtons were nice enough to take in a stray this Christmas.”

“Oh, how lovely!” Mrs. West shrieks over the din. “I’ve always wanted to meet a Canadian! Can you say ‘about’ for me?”

“Ugh…” Noah stares.

“Just kidding dear, oh there’s Mr. Tottam, must speak to him about my Christmas kettle, I’m so sick of it playing Santa Baby, see you later!” And then she’s off again.

I’m swelling with energy, like a little kid who can’t sit still, trying to get a better view of Ed without looking like I’m looking at him.

It’s criminally stupid to be so antsy. No one knew about us, anyways. It was years ago.

Has he told yet? Better him than me. He’s a choir boy. He’s the village pianist. He drives hours some weekends to catch a show in London. The village would accept him, easy. If he hasn’t come out yet, everyone probably predicted it ages ago.

I want to go over and say hello, like you would an old friend. I’d pat him on the shoulder, put a hand on his back….bang him on the piano — no.

No, of course we can’t do that at the carol sing.

Noah is staring at me. Mrs. West is gone. “What’s up, man? You look weird.”

“Um.” Glancing back at Ed, I see his hands run from one end of the piano to the other, playing a tinkly scale. At least, I think it’s a scale. It could be arpeggios. Ed taught me how to play both. “Come on, let’s go find the others.”

When the singing starts, we’re standing with my family near the bar. Noah clutches the carol book, its faded pages overwhelm the plastic ring-binding, forcing us to dive after spare sheets as they break free.

Ed stands and turns to the crowd, drumming the piano for attention. He’s taller than I remember, his face is fuller, and he seems ever-more capable of breaking my heart.

But it feels like he could be doing GCSEs and I could be revising for my A-levels and we could be together again: fifteen and seventeen, in a secret universe undiscoverable by anyone else.

Of course, technically I was ‘with’ Monica West, but Ed and I were together in the sense that mattered.

He greets the crowd. I can’t tell if he’s seen me. “Ladies and gentlemen—”

“There are no gentleman here!” A wrinkled man in the first row yells.

“Let the lad speak!”

“Oy, just start already!”

Ed smiles. “The first song is Deep Harmony. And I’ll have no foul language from the scoundrels in the front.”

Everyone laughs. The younger people get about opening their books to the right page.

“Deep Harmony?” Noah says. “Is that a Christmas song?”

“It’s a local carol.”

Noah stares at the table of contents. “All of them?”

All of a sudden Ed is furiously playing the opening, and the singing begins. I find the melody and muddle along best I can. Dad goes booming about the bass line, his face quickly becoming red with the effort. When the basses have the fun bits, I join him.

As we putter through the music, people wander, fetching another drink or saying hello to a friend. The pub’s windows are adorned with silver stars and every time we hit a big moment, they vibrate as if trying to escape the racket.

We are not a gentle choir.

Noah fumbles along with the words, grinning the whole time. The raunchy ones, like the Eight Jolly Fishers, make his eyes bulge out rather like the fish we’re singing about.

As we come to the end of Peace O’er the World, a man behind me flourishes his pint and half the drink soars over the sides.

It’s a direct hit. Beer in my hair, staining my shirt, pooling in my ear.

“Merry Christmas!” The man yells: a blessing after baptism.

I’m laughing and Noah is too. My abs cramp, breathless.

The pub takes notice, raising their glasses to us. When Noah shakes out his hair, beer droplets spray those around us like a sprinkler.

“Alright,” Ed calls from the keys, shouting to be heard. “That’s a sign for a break if I ever saw one. We’ll resume in ten.”

“You want another drink?” Noah asks.

Everyone is moving now, Mrs. West — on her third mulled wine and fresh off a failed attempt to start a conga line — bowls past us for a stool.

I’m trying to find where Ed’s gone. He’s either joined in the general rush for the bar or the exodus to the smoking patio. My moneys on the smoking. “Sure.”

As we push up to the bar, Noah says, “that was nice.” He must catch a glimpse of my face because he chuckles. “No, really. It’s a nice change from the songs you get on the radio. This pub here, this is nice too. Like a huge family.”

“A family that’s absolutely bonkers,” I correct.

Then I lean forward to the barmen to request two beers.

When I turn back to Noah, Ed stands beside him.

“Alrigh’ Bradley?”

He reaches out and touches my arm. I feel the indent of each finger, pressing through my thick sweater. Goosebumps erupt all over my body.

He’s touching me. Why is he touching me? Was he always touchy-feely? I can’t remember now.

I should step back, so as not to draw attention, but I can’t. It’s magentism. Or something like it. Like ‘mistletoe’ and ‘holly’, we have to be stuck together.

“Hey Ed,” I say. It is taking every ounce of strength I have to keep my voice light and airy. “Happy Christmas.”

“Who’s this?” The question sounds casual but the vein on the side of his neck pulses. I can see tension in his jaw.

Maybe he’s not so good at pretending either.

“Noah,” Noah fills in.

“Ah,” Ed says. “An American.”

I try to communicate with my eyes that Noah and I are not a couple. He’s not my type, for one. Ed should know that.

Ed should also know he needs to go away now. He should know he’s making my face burn. Even the back of my neck feels hot. People will catch on. It’s a wonder no one’s noticed yet that I’m smoldering over here.

“Canadian, actually,” Noah says. “But thanks for playing.”

We’re standing there, staring at each other, blocking a key route to the bar.

Noah is giving me a why is this awkward? look.

Ed is giving me a why would you bring your new boyfriend to the carol sing?

I’m trying to convey: it’s not awkward and we’re not dating but my telepathy skills seem to be acting up.

Then Mum appears. “Oh, hello Ed.” She puts an arm around him. “Good to see you chatting with our Bradley. You two were such good friends when you were in school. Weren’t you, love, hours up in your room?”

That’s it. The walls are closing in. I don’t know how it’s possible for walls to move, but the room is smaller. And someone’s turned the heat up. It’s ten, twenty, thirty degrees hotter and everything in my body is burning.

It is loud.

So loud.

So hot.

The laughter booms like a bomb.

“Toilet,” I manage to say.

I trip away from them, pushing through the crowd. My breath comes in gasps. I stumble to the door and burst outside, gulping in air as if I’ve just been dowsed with a water hose.

A group of people are gathered around the pub’s threshold, staring. I rush past them, walking around the building. Folks were out on the patio earlier, but somehow it’s empty now. I put my hands on the wall and breathe.

No one noticed anything. I’m quite sure they didn’t.

Mum would’ve said the same thing to any friend who used to come round. Wouldn’t she?

I take another deep breath.

Such a small thing shouldn’t have reduced me to this. It’s too much: seeing Ed, seeing Ed jealous, seeing Ed with Mum.

Worst of all, Mum seeing me with Ed.

We weren’t a Hallmark movie, that’s for sure. We did proper snogging, for one, sometimes drunk, taking photos that would make the Vanessa Hudgens’ leak look tame. The summer before I left for school, we copulated with bunny rabbit-esque frequency. But there was more than that, too, we got our romcom moments: moonlight picnics on an open field, a stolen weekend by the sea, long train rides to London where we’d spend time shopping and drinking and pretending we weren’t afraid.

We never should have broken up. But we couldn’t stay together when I went away to uni.

At least, we couldn’t stay together without telling the world the truth. Neither of us wanted that, back then.

“You forgot your drink.” Noah comes around the corner with two beers in hand. I have no idea how he found me. He narrows his eyes, as if studying me. I’m suddenly grateful I’m not crying. Then he puts the drink on the ground. “You doing okay?”

“Sure,” I say, in between deep breaths.

Yes, I fantasized about speaking to Ed. Of course, I was happy to see him.

I’m always happy to see him.

The fantasy in my head, though, does not take place in public with the entire village, including my family, as our captive audience. Did Dad see how red my face became? Did Hannah notice how his hand lingered on my arm?

Ellen from TV is gay. Mum loves Ellen. Dad adores Elton John. It’s different, though, when it’s with your own kid. Isn’t it?

“You can talk to me, you know,” Noah says. He wanders a meter or so away, then leans against the wall, staring out at the street.

Everyone always says that. I mean, what else would they say: you can’t talk to me? That’d be rude.

How many of them mean it, though? If I called at night when I was alone or scared, how many would answer? How many even pay attention when you’re talking?

I realize I’m gripping the cavities of the brick wall so hard, my knuckles have turned white.

I let go. “It’s nothing, really.”

“You’re lying.”

I whip my head over to look at him, but he still gazes down the high street. I suppose it’s a fair comment. I fled a pub and am now taking deep breaths in the December chill. He wasn’t meant to believe it, anyway.

He was supposed to nod along while secretly acknowledging that I’m full of shit.

Noah takes a sip of his beer, still leaning against the wall. “Wanna know something?”

I’m not sure where he’s going with this. “Sure.”

“I’m older than you,” Noah says. “Even though we’re in the same year.”

“Yeah, I noticed that.”

Noah smiles but the smile is sour, tinged with irony. “My sister stole all the money I’d saved for university. She stole it my last year of high school, for drugs I assume. I freaked out, failed my classes. Had to repeat the year.”

“What?”

“Skye took my bank card, guessed my password, drained the account.” He sighed. “Don’t make your pin your mom’s birthday.”

“Oh, hell.” I’m quiet for a moment. “How’d you get here then?”

“It’s complicated,” Noah says. “Basically, our grandmother had an inheritance set up for us, but it didn’t kick in until this year, when I turned twenty-one.”

“That’s bad, mate,” I hesitate for a moment. “Is that why you didn’t go home for Christmas?”

“There’s no one to go home to,” he says. “Except for my dad, and he doesn’t count for much.”

Noah takes another sip of his drink, seemingly nonplussed.

I don’t know what to say. I’m reeling. “That’s awful.”

He’s living a Dickensian tragedy and behaving like a saint, while I’m wallowing in unresolved feelings about my ex and behaving like a puddle. Goddammit.

“Alright,” Noah nods at me. “I’ve told you mine, now you tell me yours.”

The door beside us opens and with it comes a burst of singing. They’re hearty and robust, like proper English Citizens, up to marching over a moor or sitting bravely in a tube station with ‘keep calm and carry on’ posters overhead. Ed is playing them forward.

There’s this pain that tugs at my heart when I think of him. Pain and this other feeling too, like the moment after hearty laughter when you want to grab onto your joy and make it linger a bit longer.

I realize I’m shaking. I lean further into the wall because it feels as if my legs will give out on me.

I’ve never told anyone.

“It’s complicated,” I manage.

“Just try me.”

I need to say two words. Simple words. Five letters and one apostrophe total. Somehow, I know I won’t stop shaking until I say them.

Noah’s gaze is steady and patient. My eyes anchor to his.

I say it.

There’s a long moment of silence and then Noah grins. “So, does this mean you’re not secretly in love with Lily?”

“Lily?” I’m confused. “My flatmate Lily? No, I’m not secretly in love with her.”

“Perfect,” Noah says. “Would you help me with her, then?”

I reach over and punch him in the arm. Noah chuckles, scrambling away.

I suddenly feel lighter. My heart steadies. There’s a drink sitting at my feet! I reach down and scoop it up, savouring the taste on my lips.

“You were with that guy then, weren’t you?” Noah says. “The piano guy?”

“His name’s Ed,” I explain. “We dated for years, secretly.”

“Your parents don’t know.” It’s not a question.

“Ha.”

“You know, it’s not a bad thing. They don’t seem like the kind of people who’d be upset you were happy.”

“Eventually, maybe.”

The streetlamps flicker on one by one as dusk settles around us. The pub door opens again, and then again, each time bringing with it a burst of sound.

“We should go back in,” I say. “Wouldn’t want to start any rumors.”

“Fat chance of that.” Noah grins, pushing his hair out of his eyes as we head inside.

When we re-enter the pub, a great shout comes up from the patrons.

“Bradley, there you are,” Dad pulls me deeper into the crowd.

“We were waiting on you to do Merry, Merry Christmas!”

There are hands on me, tugging me. I look back for Noah, who tilts his hand towards his mouth in the drinking sign. He’s going to get another round.

“Last one, Bradley,” Ed is calling to me from the front of the room. “You know the duet bit, come give me a hand!”

I look at the grinning faces around me, red from the heat of the room and the alcohol flooding their bloodstreams. Ed pats the bench next to him and suddenly I’m being pushed forwards, beside him, my hands on the keys.

“Come on Bradley,” someone from the crowd shouts. “Give us a show!”

“I don’t know if I remember,” I say.

Our bodies are closer than ever, with my shoulder pressing into his. For a moment, the room feels silent.

He glances at me from under his eyelashes, speaking easily. “Sure, you do.”

Like it’s simple, like it’s a given.

And maybe it is.

In the moment before the tune jaunts to a start, I find Noah, alone at the bar. He raises his glass to us, though his smile doesn’t seem to reach his eyes.

Beside him are my family, loud and over-excited, delighted to have me in their midst.

Ed counts to three and we hit the first notes.