Mother of all Christmases

As we get ready to celebrate, this short story by features some of the things in 2020 which are now part of our daily lives – but it’s a tale about a love that never dies

CHRIS pulled his Christmas jumper over his head. Every time he wore it, he thought of Andy Murray. If the legendary tennis star could wear humiliating novelty knitwear to please his family, so could he.

At least his own mother would not post the picture of his torn face on top of a snowman to her 20,000 followers on Instagram. If only. Chris’s mum died of breast cancer at the start of the year.

Tonight was the family’s festive quiz. This ritual had evolved through the decades. As a wee boy, he remembered photocopied sheets of paper with two celebrities’ faces cut in half, then reassembled with Pritt stick. Every year he struggled to pick out John Major spliced into Bruce Forsyth or Delia Smith merged with Kate Moss.

As technology advanced, the music round would involve a long wait while Uncle Joe and his daughter Ruby attempted to play a compilation of festive advert music through the host’s wifi.

Chris had hoped a global pandemic might kill off the Christmas quiz for good. Uncle Joe’s heart condition ruled out visitors. His cousins and sister were in England and his twin nieces, born at the height of lockdown, were too small to know that Boris Johnson’s dog is called Dilyn, never mind get bonus points for the correct spelling.

But no. Uncle Joe decreed that the extended family should gather via Zoom for an online version of what he called “this beloved and long-standing family tradition”. Christmas jumpers would be worn. Participants should provide their own refreshments and be prepared for a treasure hunt round.

Chris’s spirits, which were already low, hit the carpet. He messaged his cousin Ruby who confirmed her father had talked of little else since November. He had ambitious plans for a video clip round and was even talking about break-out rooms – despite the fact he struggled to unmute his microphone.

Two hours of enforced jollity in front of a laptop were just what Chris did not need. His work involved sitting in front of a screen trying not to scream while idiots asked him stupid questions. He didn’t need to do it all again on a rare day off.

Chris was a customer service associate at a well-known store selling upmarket kitchen gadgets and what they called “homewares”.

He spent his shift wearing a microphone headset and explaining, as gently as he could, that the plug-in clothes airer that cost more than £100 did not come with the dinky little clothes pegs and the special mesh trays for cashmere jumpers. These were extra. It was not his life’s ambition to talk confused elderly people through the different grades of vanilla bean paste but there was not much demand for stage managers when every theatre in the country closed down in March.

Chris knew he was lucky to have his virtual call centre job. But that did not make the endless round of Zoom meetings, queries about oven liners and pop-up messages from his manager when he was being too generous with the refunds any more bearable.

On the few days when the call centre was closed for the Christmas break, he had hoped to keep his computer switched off.

But Uncle Joe was having none of it. And since his own dad had not been around since he was in nappies, he was very grateful to the nearest he had to a father figure in his life – even if he was useless with technology and liked two kinds of music, country and western. And supported Partick Thistle.

So, on with the acrylic snowman and as much Christmas spirit as he could muster. He arranged the laptop on a pile of books then moved the tiny Christmas tree so it could be seen in the background.

His mum had brought it round the December before she died, horrified that his small flat had no decorations.

She did not think the fact he’d been in panto rehearsals since the end of October was any kind of excuse. Chris had made a graceless

fuss and shoved it in a corner. This year, he took huge care of its tiny metal branches and the box of pinky nail-sized baubles that she brought to decorate it.

He switched on its tiny batteryoperated lights, flipped the top off a bottle of beer, took a deep breath then opened his laptop.

Joe’s cheery face beamed out from his screen. His jumper had the logo of a German discount supermarket in the middle.

“Partick Thistle don’t do a Christmas jumper,” he told his confused nephew. “This was the next best thing.”

Ruby and her twin sister Ella were in their own rectangle.

Ruby’s top said “Sleigh the

patriarchy”. Ella’s read: “I’m on the naughty list”. Chris wondered if it had shrunk in the wash.

There was an empty square with his sister Gillian’s name on it. Her husband Rob popped up to say the girls had just gone down for a nap and that she was on her way.

His black sweatshirt had the legend “My Christmas Jumper” on the chest. It was also decorated with several blobs of yellowish matter around the shoulder. His eyes fluttered shut as he sat down. “Everybody ready?” Chris took a deep swig and smiled. “Round one: Sport.” His smile wilted. Tennis aside, he had no interest in flying balls. He braced himself for some more Firhill-based humiliation.

“Question one. Who did Forbes magazine name as the world’s highest-paid athlete?”

Easy. That would be Roger Federer. “Who beat Serena Williams in the semi-finals of the US Open?” Victoria Azarenka, obvs. By question three, about Andy and Jamie Murray’s fictional brother, Duncan, Chris realised there was something up. But it was very enjoyable, being able to answer all of the questions. Having served an ace on round one, he was anticipating a double fault on round two. But Joe took a hefty pull of his can of Tennent’s and announced the subject: Scottish pantomime dames. Even better, it was a picture round. All the greats were there: Elaine C Smith in her pink velour J-Lo tracksuit; Johnny McKnight in a Liquorice Allsorts printed bodysuit and matching hat; Allan Stewart wearing what looked like Bagpuss made into a coat; and Stanley Baxter dressed as an onion. Next up: Kitchen gadgets. Chris snorted so hard that IPA came down his nose. They were having him on. He looked at his family on the screen. Gillian had appeared in a rumpled reindeer pyjama top. He was no expert but there could be a small baby feeding underneath it. Rob, swaying slightly, was doing his best to stay awake. Ella and Ruby were giggling their way through their second vodka and Diet Pepsi. Joe was glowing in his tight sweater. They were all poised and ready to answer questions about nutmeg graters. Chris knew that Joe had lived on M&S ready meals since his wife had died, also of breast cancer, 10 years ago. He would not know an icing bag from an ice cream scoop. But here he was, with question one, going on about what kind of cookware is used on an induction hob. It was a bit like being back at work – except he was drinking beer and groaning at Joe’s terrible jokes, which made it not like work at all. With his in-depth knowledge of silicon baking moulds, it was an easy victory for Chris. Joe’s head dipped out of his screen. It then went blank. “Device unknown” flashed on and off. There was a click and he was back. “Ok, the video clips are not happening. Instead, we will go straight to the final round, the treasure hunt.

“I would like everyone to go and change into something pink.”

Chris’s heart sank. His wardrobe was navy, grey and black. If he was feeling wild and crazy, khaki. Then he remembered. When his mum was first diagnosed, he had entered Cancer Research’s Race for Life. The T-shirt must be somewhere.

By the time he had found it, underneath a pair of unfeasibly small running shorts, his screen had turned itself off.

Growling softly, he typed in his password and pulled his jumper off. He rejoined the Zoom meeting while hauling the tight T-shirt over his head.

His head poked out the neckline to a screen that looked like a magic mirror. Everyone else was also wearing a Race for Life T-shirt. The baby, now gurgling happily, was wrapped in a pink blanket.

Joe was grinning as if Partick Thistle had just signed Marcus Rashford and he was moving to Maryhill to banish child poverty and take the team back to the Scottish Premiership.

“Despite coming last in the treasure hunt round, I pronounce Chris the winner of our 2020 quiz. After years of being absolutely humped, he has knocked it out of the park.”

Ella and Ruby, their faces now matching their T-shirts, raised their glasses to Chris and clapped loudly.

Joe continued: “Your mum, my darling wife’s sister, would be so proud of the way you have coped with this horrible year. We all know how much you miss her.”

Joe’s screen went blank again, before a picture of Firhill flashed up.

“OK, that went wrong, it was meant to be a picture of you and your mum in front of a Christmas tree.

“Every year she used to ask me to make the quiz easier for you.

“She sent me suggestions of questions that you would be able to get right.”

Chris ducked below the screen and used the neck of his pink T-shirt to wipe his nose.

“Ella and Ruby have got each other, Gillian and Rob have more babies than they know what to do with and I’ve had 10 years to get used to being on my own.

“So we all wanted to do something special to cheer you up.”

Joe’s screen went dark again. Then, as everyone shouted “Merry Christmas”, up flashed a picture of Andy Murray in his Christmas jumper.

Your mum, my darling wife’s sister, would be so proud of the way you have coped with this horrible year. We all know how much you miss her