A Christmas Gift. Sue Moorcroft

a new girlfriend and was hoping Shaun’s approval might pave the way to him talking to their parents again. Now, of course, he thinks the “someone” was me. But Dad died before he could set up the meeting.’

      Georgine found it hard to even imagine the situation. She’d had such a golden childhood, brought up by loving parents whose marriage gave at least the illusion of security. ‘But when your dad died, didn’t your mum contact his family? Tell them about you?’

      His eyes grew shadowed. ‘She took it into her head that if they knew about me they’d try and get me off her. Do you remember Garrit?’

      Georgine nodded. She had known the man Rich had lived with was not his natural father. He’d always referred to him as Garrit, like everyone else, as if Garrit hadn’t been worthy of a first name, let alone a title like ‘dad’.

      ‘Mum hooked up with him. He was a shit but a kindred spirit so far as booze was concerned.’ Joe paused to give a little shake of his head as if finding the workings of his mother’s mind hard to comprehend. ‘When I began infant school she registered me as John Joseph Garrit. She told the school she didn’t want my real father knowing where I was, but she meant Dad’s family, if they ever discovered I existed.’

      ‘Do you think the Blackthorns would have wanted to take you off her if they had?’ Georgine took a gulp of her wine to free the lump that had risen to her throat at the way the child Joe had been helpless to influence his own fate.

      ‘They would have been heartless bastards if they didn’t, considering the life I was living.’ Joe smiled bitterly. ‘The years went on. Mum and Garrit sank lower, neither of them holding down a job, Garrit doing bits and pieces on the side and claiming every benefit he could think of. Once I reached my teens he used me as a runner for whatever he was mixed up in – obviously dodgy. He used to send me off with packages or envelopes with promises of dire retribution if I peeked at the contents or didn’t bring the payment straight back to him. We ended up in the worst house on the worst council estate in Bettsbrough, filthy curtains at the windows and a garden that was a rubbish heap. I used to have actual nightmares that you’d somehow find out where I lived and turn up.’

      Georgine took another glug of wine. Of all the horrible aspects of the life Joe had lived as Rich Garrit, that was what had given him bad dreams?

      He carried on, the evenness of his voice making the bite of his words all the deeper. ‘I hated Garrit. He knocked us all around and was verbally abusive. When I was about nine I found my birth certificate in a case on top of a wardrobe. It took me a few minutes to realise from the date of birth that John Joseph Blackthorn was me and that I’d once had a dad called Tim. I asked my mum about him. She was economical with the truth and said he hadn’t stuck around. I used to fantasise he’d come back for me, that he’d be a good man I could live with. In my head, I tried my real name on for size. “I am John Joseph Blackthorn”. I used to write it on bits of paper and then rip them up so nobody found them.’

      Tears pricking in the backs of her eyes, Georgine murmured, ‘I had no idea.’

      His smile was bleak. ‘I probably should have been an actor, I covered up so well.’ He glanced up as if checking no one was listening in. ‘It got worse when I went to senior school. My primary school had been in the crappy area we lived in, but Bettsbrough Comp was fed by several other primaries and I finally saw how shit my life was when I met kids from comfortable homes.’ He took a slow breath. ‘Apart from you, they either laughed at me or ignored me. I think that’s why the kids from the Shetland estate formed their rat pack. Stuck with their own. We called the Shetland estate “Shitland”, do you remember? I was unwillingly absorbed by the definitely dodgy Shitland gang. They all had nicknames and with stupid teenage humour they called me “Rich” because I wasn’t.’

      Georgine swore under her breath. His smile flashed at hearing her curse but she couldn’t smile back. ‘You made people laugh. You were perpetually clowning around.’

      ‘Sometimes they laughed because I meant to make them laugh,’ he acknowledged. ‘Sometimes they laughed because I had to wear wellies to school that were so small my heels stuck halfway up the leg part and I had to walk around on my toes. You should try that some time … all day.’ Beneath the table he shifted his legs, as if his feet, tonight in tooled leather, remembered those wellies. ‘I found that if I laughed at myself then at least they were laughing with me more than at me, but I hate to even remember those old humiliations.’ He fell silent, propping his chin on his hand and gazing across the room, perhaps seeing not villagers chatting but long ago insensitive teenagers sneering and pointing.

      Allowing him time to gather his thoughts, Georgine fidgeted with her wine glass on the table. If she positioned it correctly the Christmas lights on the bar were reflected, as if the last mouthful of wine was joyfully twinkling.

      But it was an illusion.

      So much of life was.

      Quietly, she waited.

      Finally, he heaved a great sigh. For the first time this evening, he seemed reluctant to meet her eyes. ‘Remember the Christmas card?’

      Georgine nodded. The shiny blue front had been hand sewn painstakingly with gold beads, the careful lettering inside. To Georgine, Merry Christmas, Rich. How could she forget?

      ‘I’m really sorry about how I behaved.’ He groaned, closing his eyes for an instant. ‘You’d always made me feel … well, as if I was just like everybody else.’ He held up a hand as if she’d tried to interrupt. ‘We both know I wasn’t. “Neglected” I heard Miss Penfold call me, the one who looked after the sale of second-hand school uniform, which she gave me free if I was looking particularly desperate. “Neglected” was a sanitised term for not enough food or adequate clothing.’

      ‘Are you sure you want to tell me all this?’ Georgine’s hands had begun to sweat at the way Joe was exposing himself with this bald recounting of his early life.

      The expression in his eyes altered, became wary. ‘Aren’t you sure you want to hear it?’

      It sounded like a test: Are you strong enough to listen to my story?

      ‘Listening’s hard,’ she admitted, ‘knowing that all this was going on right under my nose. But it’s a lot easier than living it. Would you like another drink before you go on?’ She reached for her bag. But when she turned back, purse in hand, she saw he was already up and threading his way through the drinkers that filled the area in front of the bar.

      He was served quickly this time. He dropped back into his seat and slid her glass of wine across the table to her before taking a gulp from his fruit juice, waving away her attempt to pay for the round. It seemed that all his attention was focused on telling his story now he’d begun. He rested his elbows on the table and leant closer. ‘I made that Christmas card at lunch times in the art room. I wanted to show you what your friendship meant to me.’

      ‘Why did you sign it “Rich”, not “Joe”?’ she asked, frowning as she tried to put herself in his place.

      He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Would you have known who Joe was?’

      ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘Because you hadn’t told me. I don’t understand why even the teachers called you Rich.’

      The hint of a smile flashed in his eyes. ‘I brought that on myself with silly boy bravado. When I first joined Bettsbrough Comp my form teacher called me John, as I was on the register as John Joseph Garrit. I said I was called Joe and he got me a form to fill out to tell the school what I wanted to be known as. Bettsbrough Comp was trying to be forward-thinking over that kind of thing. But I was sitting with my Shitland mates when I completed the form and one of them snatched it off me and in the box “What would you like everyone to call you?” he wrote in my nickname, “Rich”. Everyone thought it was hilarious. We all laughed. So I handed it in like that.’ Slowly, he sat back, folding his arms as if putting up a barrier. ‘The deputy head called me in.’

      ‘Mr Jenson,’ she supplied.

      He