Cold comfort

Stamping my wet boots on the rough matt, I unbuttoned my coat and confronted the cacophony that filled the supermarket. By the entrance an over-enthusiastic teacher was waving her arms around like a crazed conductor in the direction of a small group of bemused children as they mumbled carols. One of them was clutching a bucket handle in their tiny, gloved hands for passers-by to drop money into. Mentally I wished them good luck. The teachers fervent smile looked as frozen as the children did. Around me, cash registers beeped and other shoppers chatted under the harsh overhead lighting and red, gold and green tinsel. I paused for a second enjoying the smell of the tightly wrapped pine trees mingling with the odour of freshly baked bread. Each of my senses were challenged.

Grabbing a basket with one hand I felt in my pocket for my shopping list with the other. Times were tough, right now, but I would be buggered if I wasn’t going to make my famous Christmas cake this year. I would just have to be frugal with the ingredients; supermarket own brand brandy instead of the good stuff, and maybe leave out the cherries, and thinner marzipan, but essentially it would be the same cake. I glanced at the piece of paper and noticed that Mark had scribbled something at the bottom; clementines. He wasn’t a fruit fan, but he did like clementines and satsumas at Christmas. First I would get all the ingredients I needed and then, if there was enough money, I would double back to the fruit and get him some.

Away from the lacklustre Christmas carol’s, the crowd thinned and the atmosphere became less frantic. I wandered down the home baking aisle and stood in front of the dried fruits. They were so expensive. Maybe I should leave out the mixed peel too. With a sigh, I found the cheapest bag of raisins and placed it in the basket along with one block of marzipan and six eggs. In the background over the supermarket speakers Billy Ocean could be heard singing about a ‘Caribbean Queen’. I smiled. It seemed a ridiculous juxtaposition of the exotic with such a banal setting of a supermarket in a small town in mid-winter. And not a bit Christmassy. I checked my list again and continued with the task, all the time trying to keep a mental tally of the cost. By the time I had all the items in my basket I was satisfied that I would be able to afford some clementines, and I made my way back toward the carollers near to the fruit and veg.

The weight of the basket was making gouges in my fingers, so I hoisted it further up to my forearm and rested it on my hip for some relief. The fruit and veg aisle was busy with people purchasing string bags of whole nuts and small boxes of sticky dates that only appeared at Christmas. I wouldn’t be wasting any money on them this year. I peered around the aisle on the lookout for the citrus fruits and heard my name called. I turned and swallowed hard when I saw a familiar face.

‘How are you?’ he asked, tentatively.

I felt my whole body bristle with tension, ‘fine,’ I answered. I cleared my throat and repeated myself, ‘fine thank you, Colin.’

I didn’t want to reciprocate. I wasn’t sure I cared how he was. I didn’t even want to be seen talking to him. For a split second I felt self-conscious about my basketful of cheap produce. Almost ashamed that I had to count the pennies and buy carefully and cheaply. I spied a bottle of wine and some chocolate cake in Colin’s basket and felt a twinge of jealousy and anger. But that quickly flipped to a feeling of pride. Pride that I could still feed my family, and still make my Christmas cake despite the lack of money and lack of a future, because of some peoples lack of a backbone. And I felt myself stand taller, and my basket, while still heavy, became a symbol of spirit and determination. He glanced into it as I now held it in front of myself with both arms linked through the handles.

He smiled, ‘oh, I remember your Christmas cakes,’ he said, ‘ they were the highlight.’

‘Well, we have to keep up traditions,’ I replied.

‘We would all get really excited every year when Mark would bring that battered old tin down with him. It kept us going through the hours down there. Those plump sultanas and rich icing, and you were always very generous with the brandy in your cake. And that smell when he opened the tin…’ his crow’s feet crinkled as he spoke and his eyes glazed over.

I knew that my cake was appreciated by Mark’s friends down the pit each year, but this year it would stay above ground, with Mark and his true friends. I was about to end the awkwardness and return to my task, but I was too slow.

‘How's the family?’ he asked, ‘how did Lisa do in her exams?’

Lisa and Colin’s daughter, Melanie, had travelled through school together and had both turned sixteen that summer. Previous birthdays had always been celebrated with barbecues either at our house or at theirs with Colin and his wife Sheila and their other two children. And not just birthdays, but wedding anniversaries, New Year's Eve parties and quite often not for any reason at all other than enjoying each other’s company.

But that was then.

‘She did really well, actually, she wants to go to university,’ I answered.

He raised his eyebrows, ‘university? Wow, good for her,’ he nodded, ‘Melanie keeps talking about joining the navy.’

Around us people picked up bags of carrots and potatoes and apples, and the icicle children sang about a little donkey as Colin and I faced each other in this uncomfortable encounter. Good manners were urging me to enquire about his wellbeing and ask after Sheila, but anger and hurt held my tongue. Colin opened his mouth as if to speak but it closed into an embarrassed smile. There was a war going on in our neighbourhood, indeed, across the country. Sides were taken, boundaries were crossed, friendships extinguished and families broken.

‘Merry Christmas,’ Colin said, almost apologetically.

Merry Christmas? Merry fucking Christmas? How dare he? Tens of thousands of families had no money and were fighting for their livelihood and for the livelihood of their communities, while he and the others like him broke the picket lines and pandered to Thatcher's government like scared children. Yes, he had a wage. Yes his family would have presents this Christmas, but what about next year? And the next? What about a future for the next generation? Without men like my Mark the country was doomed. And if that meant fewer presents under the tree and substandard Christmas cake it would be worth it. I unclenched my jaw and nodded politely.

‘Merry Christmas, Colin,’ I said before turning on my worn heels and making for the till.

I dropped a ten pence piece into the child’s bucket on my way out, feeling brighter than when I went in. Self-respect costs nothing. It had started to rain as I reached the bus stop and as I rummaged through the shopping for my umbrella I caught sight of the raisins and marzipan, and cursed. I had forgotten Marks’ clementines.