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It was the afternoon before Christmas, and all through the house, there was plenty of stirring, as evidenced by—
“Fuck!”
The strangled shout echoed down from the open loft hatch, following a rather ominous thunk, and preceded by a string of curses that would make a sailor blush.
Luckily, Pauline was made of stronger stuff, and mostly looked mildly bemused as she stood at the foot of the ladder into the loft, peering upwards. “Do you need some help?” she asked mildly.
As if in answer to her question, there was a loud clang, followed almost immediately by the sound of breaking glass before Greg appeared at the top of the ladder, red-faced and furious.
“Oh, right,” he huffed, lugging a box down the ladder. “I’m going to make my elderly mother climb up into the loft just because I keep hitting my fucking head on the fucking roof trusses.”
He dropped the box on the floor, sneezing almost immediately as it sent up a cloud of dust. Pauline looked like she was trying very hard not to laugh. “Maybe if you told me what you’re looking for,” she suggested, “I could at least point you in the right direction.”
Greg glared at her. “Seeing as how you haven’t been up there in decades and your memory’s worse than mine—” He broke off with a sigh and scrubbed a hand across his face. “Sorry. I don’t think you can help, Mum, but I appreciate the thought.”
Pauline pursed her lips but evidently decided not to argue with her son, instead telling him, “I’ll just put the kettle on for tea, then.” Greg jerked a nod before starting back up the ladder, and she watched him go, shaking her head once he’d disappeared and turning to head to the kitchen.
Fifteen minutes later, with the tea long since ready, Pauline was about to return to tell Greg when he appeared in the kitchen doorway, another box in his hands. “This entire box can be binned,” he told her, setting it down on the floor. “Unless you were planning on doing something with my school reports, seeing as how it’s only been forty years since I did my A-Levels.”
Pauline shrugged and blew on her cup of tea. “Thought about selling them to the Daily Mail, see what sort of scandal they could make from them,” she said brightly.
“Hilarious.”
Greg slumped into a chair at the table and Pauline watched him over the rim of her tea cup as he poured himself a cup and spooned far too much sugar into it. “Shall I assume you didn’t find what you’re looking for?”
“No,” Greg said shortly.
“Shall I also assume you’re still not going to tell me what you’re looking for?”
Greg took a sip of tea, even that simple gesture somehow seeming unbearably stubborn. “If I thought you could help, I’d tell you.”
Pauline took another sip of tea. “Horseshit.”
Greg promptly choked on his own tea. “Fucking hell,” he sighed, setting his tea cup down. “Fine. I don’t want to tell you because you’ll think it’s stupid. Or I’m being stupid. Quite possibly both.”
Pauline raised both eyebrows. “Which differs from the last fifty-four years– how, exactly?”
Greg scowled. “I’m fifty-six, you wretched old woman,” he grumbled.
“Yes, but you weren’t all that stupid for the first two years.”
Despite himself, Greg huffed a laugh, nearly dislodging his glasses as he rubbed his eyes. “Jesus Christ,” he sighed, but Pauline brightened, recognising the resignation in his tone. “Fine, I’ll tell you, but if you give me any guff for it, I’ll leave you here alone for Christmas, I swear I will.”
Pauline nodded. “Such a punishment for me, getting to spend a quiet Christmas alone while you sulk in your flat.”
Greg’s eyes narrowed. “Do you act this way with my sister?”
“No, but then she always was my favourite.” Greg’s mouth opened and closed in silent indignation, but Pauline didn’t wait for him to gather his wits. “So what were you looking for?”
Greg slumped in his seat. “BT,” he muttered.
“Pardon?”
Greg glared sullenly at her. “BT,” he repeated, slightly louder. “Blue Ted.”
“Blue– the teddy that you, erm…?”
Pauline cleared her throat delicately, but thankfully Greg just nodded without recounting the gory details of what he’d done to the five foot tall teddy bear when he was a teenager. “Yeah,” he said moodily, picking up his cup of tea without drinking from it. “I just– dunno. Been thinking lately. Thought it might be nice to revisit a gift that I actually understood the motivation behind.”
Something bitter crept into his tone and Pauline’s eyes narrowed, just slightly. “The motivation behind?” she repeated.
“Yeah,” Greg said. “I mean the thing was hideous, let’s be honest, but at least I never doubted that you and your friend Carol made it for me because you love me.” He paused before adding pointedly, “Not enough to spend 75 quid to buy me the non-knockoff version, but—”
“Love, if I’d’ve spent 75 pounds on you and you’d ended up having relations with a 75 quid teddy, I would have beat the ever-living shit out of you.”
Greg choked on another ill-timed sip of tea. “Yeah, fair play,” he managed when he recovered somewhat. “Anyway, like I said, just thought it would be nice.”
Pauline nodded slowly. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you think it would be nice?” Pauline asked. “Or more accurately, what brought this sudden thought on?” Greg opened his mouth but before he could speak, Pauline added, “And don’t even try to tell me nothing, because we both know better.”
“Could be,” Greg muttered, a little sullenly. He pulled a face and shrugged. “Dunno, just– that time of year, innit?”
“The time of year where someone gave you a Christmas gift?” Pauline guessed. “Perhaps a Christmas gift that wasn’t entirely what you were hoping for?”
Greg groaned but didn’t try to deny it. “Am I that obvious?” he asked, not bothering waiting for Pauline’s response. “Yeah, I exchanged gifts with– well, that’s not important, and I just thought– honestly I don’t know what I thought since it always has been too much to expect him to ever not obfuscate or beat around the fucking bush, or just say what he feels for once in his stupid life—”
Pauline cleared her throat before Greg could really gear himself up for a tirade. “What did Alex give you for Christmas?” she asked.
Greg gaped at her. “I didn’t– I never said– that wasn’t—” he spluttered, but she just waved an impatient hand.
“Give me some credit, love,” she said. “You’re not exactly renowned for your subtlety, and besides, I have got eyes. And ears. And half a working brain despite what you might think.”
But there was something wary in Greg’s expression as he eyed her carefully, almost as if he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. “And?” he prompted, when it didn’t. “Don’t bother holding back on me now, Mum. Not after all this time.”
She frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.
“Haven’t you got one of your patented ‘It’s not normal, love’s to drop on me?” he asked. “Whether because it’s Alex, or because he’s a he, or because he’s married, or—”
“Love, it may be a little late for me to be telling you this, but you’re not normal,” Pauline told him. “So why on earth would anything about your love life be?”
Greg barked a startled laugh. “Honestly, fair play, yeah,” he agreed, scrubbing a hand across his mouth. “I didn’t expect you to take it so well, though.”
Pauline nodded. “Yes, because you never give me enough credit,” she said. “But let’s not get into that or we really will be here all day. So I repeat: what did Alex give you for Christmas?”
Greg hesitated. “It’s not really about what he gave me,” he hedged, “as much as it’s about what he didn’t give me.”
He stood, heading over to where he’d dropped his bag when he arrived a few hours earlier, crouching down with a groan to dig through it for something, and Pauline tactfully chose not to remark on the fact that whatever the gift had been, Greg had brought it with him all of the way to Shropshire. A moment later Greg returned to the table and set the gift down in between them.
Pauline blinked down at it. “It’s a box.”
That didn’t quite do the box justice. It was certainly a very nice box, made of polished wood with a pretty, geometric design carved into the lid and a burnished brass clasp the shape of what Pauline was fairly certain was a pineapple. “It’s a box,” Greg confirmed.
“What sort of wood is that?” Pauline asked. “Teak?”
“It’s– does it matter what kind of wood it is?” Greg asked, exasperated.
Pauline shrugged. “Well, it might if you’d been hoping for mahogany and got this instead.”
Greg rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. “The type of wood isn’t the problem,” he huffed.
“Is it the fact that it’s a box the problem?”
“No!” Greg sighed heavily, picking up the box and turning it over between his hands. “It’s a very nice box, and it’s a very thoughtful gift in its own way – he knows how I’m always losing my fucking cufflinks because I set them down and then they always seem to fucking disappear, so he got this so I wouldn’t lose them, and it’s– I dunno, it’s nice enough, but it’s not—”
He broke off, hopefully to breathe, seeing as how he’d manage to get all of that out in a single breath, and Pauline nodded in slow understanding. “So it’s not because you dislike it as a gift,” she surmised, “it’s because you wanted it to be something else.”
Greg shrugged. “More or less.”
“Something perhaps a bit more meaningful?” she guessed. “Something more like three little words you’ve been hoping to hear?”
Greg flushed a particularly nasty shade of puce. “That’s not– I never said—”
She reached out and patted his hand. “You didn’t have to, love,” she told him.
“Because you’re my mum and you know me so well?”
“Because you’re an idiot,” Pauline said patiently. Greg gaped at her but she just carried on. “Have you perhaps considered telling him how you feel, instead of just hoping he might magically say it to you first, apropos of nothing?”
Greg looked almost scandalised at the thought. “I can’t just tell him,” he hissed.
Pauline shook her head affectionately. “You really are your father’s son.”
“I can’t tell him because it’s complicated,” Greg said tightly, his expression dark. “It’s not just him and I, yeah? So I can’t be the one to tell him because if I fuck this up, or if I’ve misread something, or—”
“I get that,” she said quietly, and Greg shook his head.
“Do you?” he asked. “Because if I do anything to mess this up for Alex, or for his family– I’ll take whatever I can get, and I’ll be happy with it, I swear, but I just—”
Pauline waited for him to finish, and when he didn’t, she prompted gently, “You just what?”
Greg jerked a shrug. “I just wish it was more than a box, is all,” he said. “I wish I didn’t have to read something into a box, something that might not even be there in the first place.”
“Which is why you wanted BT,” Pauline said, finally putting all of the pieces together. “Because you didn’t have to read anything into that.”
“It was always easier when I was a kid,” Greg agreed. “Less complicated.”
There were a great many things that Pauline could say to that, including listing any number of complications from Greg’s childhood, whether from his father being off teaching somewhere for months on end or just the usual strains of a family that had more fun than money, but in the end she settled for asking, “So what did you get Alex for Christmas?”
“Oh, I, erm, I managed to track down this jumper that he loves,” Greg said, his smile softening, turning almost wistful. “He’s had it for years and managed to get something on it, and of course they stopped making it about a decade ago, but I managed to track down the manufacturer and—” He broke off, frowning at the look on Pauline’s face. “What?”
“Nothing,” she told him. “Nothing at all.” She cleared her throat before asking, “What are you going to do with the box?”
Greg’s smile immediately faded. “Dunno,” he said sourly, glaring at the box as if it had personally offended it. “Probably put it in my dressing room and pretend like it’s not a knife in the gut every time I look at it.”
“Or you could leave it here.”
Greg switched his frown from the box to his mother. “Here?” he repeated. “What do you mean?”
She shrugged delicately. “I mean, if it’ll make you upset to see it, I’m happy to hold on to it for you.” She hesitated. “Unless if you think he might notice that it’s gone.”
“That I highly doubt,” Greg said dismissively, eyeing the box before shrugging. “Yeah, all right, if you want it, you can have it. I’d probably just chuck it out anyway, so at least this way it might get some use.”
“And if he does notice it’s gone?”
Greg pulled a face. “Big if,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “If he does, I’ll make up some story. Something funny that he won’t question.”
Pauline sighed resignedly. “Something at my expense?” she guessed.
Greg grinned at her. “Almost certainly,” he said. “It’s what you deserve, you treacherous old woman.”
Pauline just rolled her eyes affectionately. “Yes,” she said, “I love you, too.”
And when Greg left the day after Christmas to return to London, she tucked the box up on a shelf for safekeeping. Just in case.
Call it a mother’s intuition, but she had a feeling he might want it back one day.
A little less than a year later, and Pauline was woken from where she’d been enjoying a post-Countdown nap on the sofa by an insistent knock on the door. “Just a minute,” she called, heaving herself to her feet and shuffling to the door. She opened it, blinking up at the surprising figure. “Greg?”
“Hello, Mum,” Greg said, sounding tired and a little cross. “Sorry, I forgot my key, and I probably should’ve rung, but—”
She stepped back automatically to let him in. “Did we– did I have my days wrong?” she asked. “I thought Sian was bringing me to your holiday home on Christmas Eve?”
“She is,” Greg said shortly. “This is an impromptu visit because– well, because I need something back.”
Pauline raised both eyebrows. “Oh?”
Greg jerked a nod. “Yeah,” he said. “Have you, erm, have you still got that box?”
Under any other circumstances, Pauline might’ve pretended like she didn’t know what Greg was on about just to tease him, but she sensed that doing so would probably only make things worse. Instead, she crossed over to the mantle, lifting the box down from where it had sat since last Christmas. “This box?” she asked.
Greg’s expression softened. “Yeah,” he said, taking it from her. “Thanks, Mum. I dunno what Alex is on about but apparently he’s properly kicked off about this stupid fucking box, so, you know…”
He shrugged helplessly, and Pauline couldn’t help but grin. “Finally,” she said, and Greg scowled at her.
“Sorry?”
“Nothing, love,” Pauline said brightly, ushering him towards the door. “Tell Alex I say ‘Happy Christmas’, will you?”
“Yeah, all right,” Greg said, leaning in to kiss her cheek before leaving, giving her a wave over his shoulder as he did.
Pauline shook her head fondly, closing the door after him before going to make herself a cup of tea. The apple really didn’t fall far from the tree, she thought, allowing herself a small, triumphant smile.
And sometimes, though you'd never know it from his stand up shows, mother did in fact know best.