‘Merry Christmas Dad,’ I said, holding out my arms. Every time I saw him I was shocked at his appearance. He used to be so imposing, his dark hair immaculately neat, his almost six-foot frame ramrod straight, towering over me and my mother; he’d been so strong, capable. But now he was only a shade taller than me, and hunched over a walking stick as though his spine had given in to gravity. He was still wearing a shirt and tie though, the way he always did for special occasions, his shirt tucked neatly into belted trousers, which were so loose they were threatening to win their fight with gravity too. His frame felt tiny as I hugged him.
‘Hello you two,’ he said, pulling away and beckoning us inside. We followed.
The piles of junk – books, magazines, newspapers – that had lined the hallway for years had become even more out of control now, and there was a double layer of them so that the once wide, spacious hallway was now a thin, narrow alley leading from the front door into the back of the house. It was dark, the windows having been blocked by books, and the old black and white tiles that had once been one of the best features of the rundown place were now varying shades of grey, buried under years’ worth of grime.
His stick tapped on the tiles as he walked, and my heart cracked a little as I watched the back of his head, looking old and frail even from behind.
‘We’re in here,’ Dad said, gesturing at the living room pointlessly, even though it was the only room in the house apart from the kitchen that we could actually get into. A ribbon of sunlight slipped through the net-covered windows, but the room was still dim, lit by a single bare bulb despite the sunny day outside. As always, I was hit not only by a sense of fury for what my father had done to the house I’d once loved, but by a sense of melancholy for what felt like the loss of a friend.
‘What have you got there?’ Dad said, pointing at the box in my hand as he lowered himself into his armchair.
I pulled a small, pre-lit Christmas tree out of the box. ‘Ta-da!’
He smiled but said nothing.
‘I knew you wouldn’t have one, so I thought I’d help us get in the Christmas spirit,’ I said.
‘Thank you Reeny, that’s very thoughtful.’ I smiled at his pet name for me as he glanced round. ‘Although I don’t know quite where you’re going to put it.’
I followed his gaze round the room.
‘Hang on,’ Greg said. He shuffled a few boxes around then took the tree from my hands and placed it on the makeshift table. It was battery controlled, so he flicked the switch and the lights came on instantly, twinkling incongruously.
‘That’s better.’ Dad studied the tree, a small smile playing on his lips and I knew bringing the tree had been the right thing to do. He pushed himself to standing again and grabbed his stick.
‘Sit down you two,’ he said, waving his hand towards the sofa. ‘I’ve got something for you.’
‘Do you want me to get it?’
He shot me a look. ‘No thank you, I’m perfectly capable of walking into another room. I manage it perfectly well 95 per cent of the time when you’re not here.’
Chastened, Greg and I did as we were told and perched on the sofa while Dad shuffled away.
‘Whoa, it’s gotmuchworse,’ Greg whispered as soon as Dad was out of earshot. Greg hadn’t been round for a few weeks and as I looked round now I realised he was right. Things in here had deteriorated despite my attempts to help Dad clear it. I’d seen Dad’s hoarding increase over the years, and I’d been vaguely aware that it had been getting out of control recently. But sitting here now, with the Christmas tree I’d brought dwarfed by the piles of – well, crap – that were shoved into this space, I felt my heart pinch with sadness at just how bad it had become. My mind reeled back to a time when my mother was still living here with us. As I stared at the piles of boxes I could almost see the ghosts of our former selves, dancing round the room to our favourite songs, drinking Dr Pepper and laughing our heads off. My mother’s golden hair flying wild around her head, her dress flaring, my heart full of joy. Then I focused on the room as it was now, and I felt a deep, lingering sadness for everything that had been lost.
My father returned before I could reply, a couple of small packages tucked under the arm that held his stick, a plate full of mince pies in the other hand. I took the plate from him and balanced it on the tiny table, then Dad handed Greg and me a parcel each. They were both neatly wrapped in midnight blue paper covered in tiny silver stars. This was the first surprise. I usually got something hurriedly wrapped in utilitarian brown paper, or even squashed into a paper bag, not a ribbon or a bow in sight.
‘Thank you.’ I reached for my bag. ‘We’ve got your present here too.’ Dad was so difficult to buy for – with a house full of more things than he could ever possibly use, most of them utterly useless, there really wasn’t anything he could ever need – but I always tried to find him something thoughtful every year. I was quite pleased with this Christmas’s offering.
‘Aren’t you going to open it then?’ he said, indicating the package he’d handed me.
‘Oh, yes,’ I said. I couldn’t work out why he was so eager for me to see what he’d bought me. He never had a clue what I liked and often just bought me a voucher or something for the kitchen. Intrigued, I unwrapped it carefully, picking the Sellotape off and peeling the corners back.
‘Oh!’ I gasped when the gift was revealed. It was a bottle of perfume.
‘It was your mother’s favourite, if you remember,’ he said.
‘Yes. Yes I do remember. Thank you Dad.’
‘Yes, well. You always liked it. You’re very welcome.’
I peeled the cellophane off the box, tipped the bottle into my hand and squirted it onto my wrist. In that instant I was transported back to my childhood, the scent of Mum’s perfume lingering in every room, and I felt an unexpected rush of love for my dad for choosing something so thoughtful. I blinked back the tears that threatened to spill. Music might transport us back in time, but the power of scent shouldn’t be under-estimated too.
‘Are you going to open yours?’
He picked the parcel up from his lap and I watched his once-strong fingers fumble with the paper, but resisted the urge to help him. He didn’t like to show any weakness.
‘Please have a mince pie,’ he said as he picked fruitlessly at the Sellotape. ‘Dinner won’t be ready for a while.’
