Work Text:
On Monday evening, Jo is in a thoughtful mood.
“What were your Christmases like as a kid, Kate?”
Kate laughs. “Family orientated, fun, explosively argumentative a lot of the time.”
Jo curls further into her side. “Tell me more.”
“Well…” Kate looks up at the ceiling, deep in thought. “The most exciting thing about Christmas as a little kid was counting down the days until my brother got home. The gap between us is so big that he was off to uni when I was four, and my sister was six. I would literally sit by the window and wait for him until my mum made me a little countdown calendar, and showed me how to cross each day off. Once he was home he’d take me sledding, or exploring in the woods. And of course I’d be naughty and he’d call me off, and I’d cry until he picked me up and put me on his back. I thought it was great fun at the time, but I must have been bloody unbearable at times.”
Jo laughs. “The wildcard?”
Kate nods. “Sounds about right. I woulda spent my entire life outside as a kid, if they’d let me.”
“Even in all the snow?”
“Especially in all the snow.”
Jo sighs. “I was never allowed out into the snow as a kid unless we really couldn’t help it. The flat was so damp that mum would barely be able to dry anything that got wet, and we could only afford to go to the laundrette to use their tumble dryers every other week.”
Kate kisses the top of her head. “I’m so sorry Jo.”
Jo twists around to settle more fully in Kate’s arms. “It’s ok, we made our own snow. Mum would save the newspapers and we’d cut snowflakes out of them and attach them to the ceiling with thread. I asked her why we couldn’t use white paper once, why it always had to be the dirty grey of newspapers. She told me it had to be authentic city snow - grey from all the people and cars. She’d tell me all sorts of stories about the people who had walked over our snowflakes - where they were going, what they were doing. I hung onto every word, and I don’t know how she had the energy for it all.”
“She sounds amazing.”
“She was. We didn’t do Christmas food on Christmas, always Boxing Day when we’d go out and find the best offers. But she’d always get me a small present. A pack of pencils and a notebook, or a toy when I was a kid, and then books when I got older. It was a bag of sweets once. She walked out of the room after giving them to me, said there was someone at the door. It took me a long time to realise that there wasn’t anyone there, she was just… Yeah. It was rough on her.
I’d always give her things I’d concocted at school - a painting I’d spent hours on, a clay vase for flowers, a picture frame with a poem in it. The vase leaked, I remember. Mum said it didn’t matter, and we spent Christmas afternoon making paper flowers to put in it from the colourful parts of the newspaper that we hadn’t used for snowflakes. And then we’d sit up, and she’d read whatever book I had from the library at the time until I fell asleep in her lap.”
“And then you had a Boxing Day feast?”
Jo laughs. “Well, it seemed like it to me. We’d ransack the shops, find whatever deals we could afford. We had turkey drumsticks one year, it was great. And even brussel sprouts are nice if you cook them in bacon drippings.” She turns to look at Kate. “But what did you have? Tell me.”
“Well, we weren’t rolling in it, but mum and dad did use to save to get a proper chicken. And all the veggies n that - carrots, peas, sprouts. Mum always used to try and make the yorkshires at home, and it always went terribly wrong. I learnt more than one banned word from her adventures with trying to make them…” Kate laughs, caught up in her memories. “And then we’d finish with a Christmas pudding so boozy that it made me tipsy when I was six, and had to be put to bed to sleep it off. Or so the story goes.”
“Typical.”
“Oi, I hold my alcohol perfectly, as you very well know.”
Jo smirks. “If you say so.”
“God though, the Christmas arguments. If we hadn’t all shouted or cried by the end of the day it didn’t count as a proper Christmas, dad always said. I was the culprit a lot of the time, apparently.”
“I’m sure you were an angel.”
“If an angel is a stroppy little girl, angry because her new bike didn’t have fire painted on it , then yes, I was a perfect angel.”
“Oh dear.”
Kate grimaces. “Yeah, not my finest hour. To be fair to myself, I did apologise after I’d calmed down. My brother produced some mysterious cans of spray paint the next day, much to my delight. I spent a wonderful afternoon with him in our garage, practically asphyxiating ourselves painting fire onto my bike with stencils we’d cut out. I still have a photo of it, and honestly? It looks like shit. But I loved that bike with all my heart.”
“And your brother too, by the sounds of it.”
Kate laughs. “Yeah, yeah. I do. He’s great. I should call him soon.”
“I’d like to meet him one day.”
“I’m sure you will. I just wish you could have met my parents, you know?”
Jo sighs. “I know, I know. I wish you could have met mum.”
“I almost feel like I have, the way you talk about her.” Kate trails off as Jo takes a deep breath.
“I’m just… I’m so glad I was able to give her one proper Christmas, you know? I was twenty five, living on the other side of the city from her. I’d just got my promotion to DC, youngest in my team, and they’d given me a pay rise. We had chicken, with most of the trimmings and crackers, and I made a Christmas cake. I gave her a necklace she’d seen on a market stall. It practically bankrupted me, but it was… She died only a handful of months later. I’m glad we had it.”
Kate just holds Jo tighter, pressing her head to her chest. “She’d be so proud of you now.”
“God, Kate, don’t. You’ll set me off crying. But thank you.”
Kate smiles down at where Jo is curled into her, before leaning over and grabbing their mugs of tea from the little table.
“Here’s to Christmas past, hey? And all the memories it brings.”
They clink their cups, and take a mouthful of tea each.
“Jesus!” Jo splutters. “We’ve been talking so long that that’s gone stone fucking cold.”