Christmas Spirit

Jim couldn’t feel the warmth of the fire crackling in the hearth, even though he was standing right next to the mantelpiece. He didn’t mind. The tinsel-strafed front room of his old home was aglow with festive joy in a way it hadn’t been for far too many years.

The family was round for Christmas. Just… not his family.

From the hall, the doorbell rang, and Jim watched as, a few seconds later, two youngsters burst through the living room door like just-released pinballs, followed by two slower-moving parents groaning under the weight of armfuls of presents.

The incoming kids leapt into a melee of grinning children already playing down the far end of the room, in a space left specially clear of anything wreckable. They were nearing a critical mass of overexcitement already as they did their best to trash the presents they’d been allowed to open.

Their newly-arrived parents – Jim and his wife, Chana – deposited (well, dropped) the presents they’d been carrying under a Christmas tree you could barely see through all the baubles and fairy lights, then collapsed on the sofa. Nathan, who lived in the house now, came in from the kitchen, bottle of wine in one hand, three wine glasses in the other. Seconds later the glasses were full but emptying fast as the adults filled themselves with Christmas cheer.

The doorbell again. More new arrivals. Nathan’s husband’s mother this time, a woman with a purring laugh and gloriously age-inappropriate dress sense, and her new boyfriend, about whom Jim knew little, except that Nathan and his husband, Blake, had been placing bets on how many seconds it would be before he mentioned his BMW.

“I’ve parked the BMW on the road – you think it’ll be okay in this area?”

Blake grinned; Nathan groaned.

The house was full of people, but none of them could see Jim. They didn’t know he was there. They didn’t just look right through him, they often reached or walked right through him too.

That was okay. This was still the best Christmas he’d had in… well, probably since he’d been a child himself. It didn’t matter that none of these people even knew who he was.

He was glad that Nathan and his husband had opened up the fireplace. He didn’t really know why his own wife, Mary, had had it bricked up when they’d moved into this house all those many, many years ago. It was what people did back then. Mary was very much in favour of doing what people did.

His own three sons had grown up here, celebrating Christmas in front of a three-bar radiator and a plastic tree. He was rarely here to celebrate with them. He wasn’t a bad father, as such, but his life choices came with sacrifices. It kept his family fed and housed and clothed. It paid for a seemingly endless supply of overpriced, player-endorsed football boots.

Even when he was home, his kids treated him like a stranger. He couldn’t blame them. They felt like strangers to him. Mary monopolised their love, and he let her. It was easier. He preferred the camaraderie at The White Lion rather than having to pretend to be impressed by any of his sons’ non-existent soccer skills.

Then he got old. And Mary died. And his kids were pursuing new lives that he played no part in. Months and then years would pass with no contact with them. Andy had moved to New Zealand so at least he had an excuse, but Chris and Paul each lived just a few towns away, and he never saw them either. All he got at Christmas for 15 years were two cards, one from “Andy and family” (he didn’t even know if that family included any children), the other from Chris and an ever-changing list of partners (one year it was “Francis”, which did make Jim wonder if his son had come out of the closet, before deciding it was probably just a spelling mistake). As for Paul, he may as well have died. But surely Chris or Andy would have told him. Surely…?

And so Christmas for Jim had for years been a few pints with an ever-dwindling group of mates at The White Hart, until it had been just him talking to the barman. Eventually he’d become too frail to make it out, and he just sat in front of the TV with Jimmy Stewart and a three-bar radiator for company.

His body had been slumped in his armchair for three weeks before it was discovered. Not by any of his sons, of course. By the police, after a neighbour complained about the smell. He watched his body decomposing with an almost scientific detachment. Being dead wasn’t that much different to being alive. He was trapped in his home, with no one to talk to.

The house sold surprisingly quickly, after a rigorous deep clean and the unceremonious dumping of his life’s belongings into a series of skips. Jim did wonder if Chris might show up to handle things personally but the traumatic possibility of inhaling eau de dead dad must have proven too much. Or, more likely, he just didn’t care. It wasn’t like Jim had anything worth selling. Just burning.

Instead a bunch of professionals in masks, white wellies and disposable full-body suits spent days erasing all evidence of Jim from the house. He was impressed with the results.

A few months later Nathan and Blake moved in. Jim was briefly taken aback but it wasn’t like it was the first time he’d lived in close quarters with men who batted for the same side. He’d never been as vehemently homophobic as a lot of his mates, but it was still something he wasn’t totally comfortable with. On a basic level, he just didn’t understand the attraction – women were quite obviously sexier than hairy, stubbly blokes – but hey, whatever floats your boat. Just as long as it wasn’t forced in his face.

But now it was very much in his face. Not that he’d stand around unseen in the bedroom (or the kitchen or the shower or the living room – Nathan and Blake made full use of the facilities) while they were having it away. He made himself scarce at the first sign of things getting racy. But there was no escaping the fact he was cohabiting with a gay couple and learning far more about how a gay couple interacted than he’d ever thought he’d be able to handle.

And to Jim’s own surprise, he handled it just fine. At least the house was full of some life and passion, in a way it hadn’t been for a long, long time (probably since before he and Mary moved in, if he was honest). Okay, the guys’ relationship had its rough moments, but when there was a falling out, Jim found himself rooting for them to get over it.

And not just because they often watched live football on a massive 65-inch TV screen, though that helped. He’d forgive them a lot for that. But honestly, what was there to forgive, really? Sure, the world had moved on in his lifetime in ways that sometimes made him feel a bit icky. But what would stewing on those things achieve? Apart from making him sour and miserable. Why not just sit back and enjoy the high-def footie?

Jim had finally learned the true meaning of live and let live now he was dead.

From his place by the hearth, Jim surveyed the synthetic glitz and authentic glee that swirled before him like a Christmas kaleidoscope. He was disconnected from it in all practical ways, but felt totally swept up in it. He almost felt a little tipsy.

You know, thought Jim, there’s one thing this party’s missing…

He raised an imaginary glass, and made a toast that nobody could hear. 

“Merry Christmas, bum chums!”

…an embarrassing uncle.

© Dave Golder 2025

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