THE PLOUGH
Peter wasn’t there. Or at least, Maddy couldn’t see him: she had parked the car, was lingering outside the pub, under the porch. Through the thick mullioned windows, she watched them: the other diners, laughing in their festive jumpers, lifting glasses of champagne. And why not? It was approaching midday on Christmas morning, and they weren’t having to cook. Soon, they’d be sitting eating salmon and turkey and mince pies, and other people – people Maddy very much hoped were being paid at least double-time – would bring the food, and take it away again, and then do all the washing-up, unnoticed, unseen.
Maddy had never been out for Christmas lunch before, and now that she was here, a low gnawing guilt clawed at her – surely all the staff, in their tinsel boas and paper hats, would really rather be at home with their families. And Peter wasn’t even here. She turned from the window, back towards her car, slick with fine Christmas-morning drizzle. Perhaps she ought to wait there; they’d said midday, she was still a little early. She wasn’t sure she could face standing at the bar with a lone glass of fizz.
Peter had offered to drive her: Maddy couldn’t quite think, now, what had possessed her to refuse. Some stubborn autonomous instinct: she was so used, now, to self-sufficiency, though she’d let him walk her home after Fran’s party. Walk her home: an archaism, though it had been lovely, walking slowly through the cool deep-night streets of Lenbourne (it had been very late when they’d left, close to 2am). On Market Square, they’d paused before the tree. White globes of light, shining in the darkness: Peter had taken her hand, and carried by the moment – she’d been more than a little drunk – she’d turned to him, lifted her face to his. Wondered whether to invite him up; had wanted to. But no, at her door, they’d kissed again, and then he’d said that he should be getting home, that he’d see her for their Christmas booking at The Plough. And now here they were. At least, here she was.
It was almost five past. Maddy watched an older couple step from their Audi, tanned and sleek. “Merry Christmas,” the woman said as they passed, and Maddy shot back the same, smiling, though a tough little husk of anxiety was taking root. Perhaps Peter really wasn’t coming; perhaps he’d thought better of the whole thing.
The rain was easing. She was already beside her car when she heard her name, and turned to see him, Peter Newton, grinning at her, boyishly delighted.
“Happy Christmas! Have you just arrived? I was ridiculously early – excited, I think – so I went for a walk. You’ll have to excuse the shoes.”
His brown leather ankle-boots were caked in mud. Above them he wore dark jeans, a jumper, an unbuttoned waxed coat. Bah Humbug, the jumper declared, over a pattern of woven stars. His hair was damp. It surprised her anew each time: the crumpled loveliness of him. “Like Monty Don,” Fran had said at the party, and Maddy had agreed, though the resemblance hadn’t struck her before.
Peter stepped forward, took her hand. The action steadied her: so they’d both been early, both excited, or nervous, or a heady blend of the two. A date, on Christmas Day: the meal, Peter’s company, the warm festive fug of the pub, and all that might come afterwards: all that this meant, or could come to mean.
“Shall we?” Peter said, and Maddy nodded, and together they crossed the car park, and went inside.
LAURA BARNETT adores Christmas and the interlinked stories in
Gifts (Weidenfeld and Nicolson) celebrate all that is wonderful, sad, strange and happy about the season. Her simple thing is “exploring the countryside around my Kent home with my husband and toddler.”