Chocolate with Charlie

The doorbell chimes, jolting me out of my slumber, my head resting on the dining table. I glance at the clock on the cluttered mantlepiece: two minutes after midday, it says. 

“So what?” I respond. “It’s Christmas Day, and I have nowhere to go, no-one to see, nothing to do.” In response, the clock loudly, derisively and deliberately clicks forward another minute. It’s the most opinionated clock I’ve ever known, reprimanding me with its constant click click click as it shifts from one minute, marked with a fading red stripe on the greying, once white dial, to the next. It doesn’t count down the seconds, or make a regular ticking sound. Just the click, on the minute, every minute, loud enough to keep me awake at night. I live in a bed-sit in the yard out the back of the house. It has a small kitchen-dining room, one bedroom, and a tiny bathroom with a shower, hand-basin and toilet partitioned off in one corner.  The door chimes again. Twice. 

“Coming”, I call, hunting for my trousers and shirt, which I discarded in the bathroom the moment I stumbled home at about 3a.m. that morning, rushing to disgorge the pints of beer I’d drunk at the “Annual Christmas Gathering of Hobos and Lost Souls”, held as usual in the one-acre wood that encircles the pond at the local park. 

“Just a moment” I call as the chimes sound again. “I’m in the bathroom.” The trousers and shirt are in no shape to be worn, so I leave them in the corner by the shower and hunt in the trunk that serves as my wardrobe for my Christmas uniform ­– blue jeans faded beyond fashionable and a red and blue Hawaiian-themed cotton shirt. The jeans are held up by a red dressing-gown belt. They are too long and the shirt is too tight: I have short legs, a long trunk and thin gangly arms. The crew have nicknamed me Monkey. I’ve learned to live with it.

I open the door  just as it chimes again. Charlotte “Charlie” Grimes greets me with a playful punch to my shoulder, a grin as wide as the London Bridge, and a nearly empty whiskey bottle in her left hand. She is tall, slim, and her Jamaican ancestry gives her a light tan. Which I like. It’s sexy, but she makes me look whiter than white. That’s not sexy. 

“Happy Christmas, Jimboy,” she says.

“Come in,” I say. “Sit yourself down.”

She does, at my place at the table. She always does that. She inspects me, top to bottom. “Not bad,” she says. “At least you’ve made an effort. Thanks.”

I guess I look a bit puzzled, because she says “You’ve forgotten, haven’t you? You asked me to drop by for lunch when we were talking in the park last night. So here I am. With lunch”, she says, holding up the bottle.

“Cool,” I say. “Thanks.”

“And…?” she asks, standing up and posing like a model. 

“And,” I say, “You look great.” She’s changed her outfit since I walked her home this morning. “I love the dress. And the blouse.”

“And…” she asks again, kicking her feet like she’s trying to shake some dog shit off them.

“The shoes,” I say. “They’re great.”

“And they’re real Doc Martins,” she says.  “Birthday present from a secret admirer.”

“Which one?” I ask.

“Never you mind,” she says. “No, I’ll tell you. My Uncle Howard. The one who helps out at the recycled clothing place. They’ve got some good stuff. You should go there. But only when he’s working. You’ll get a better deal. Specially if I’m with you.”

“Cool,” I say. “I need new shoes.”

“And everything else,” she says, grinning and punching me on the shoulder. She’s a star at her boxing club, and it hurts. 

“I’ll get the glasses,” she says, as I rub my shoulder and swing my arm around.

She’s been here before, so she takes the glasses out of the fridge, walks one step to the kitchen sink, and rinses them under the hot water tap. My theory is that the fridge is cold enough to stop bugs growing, so I don’t usually wash them. She is polite enough not to make an issue out of it; I am polite enough to not care if she washes them or not. 

She pours a healthy shot into the glasses. “Cheers,” she says, holding her glass up to her eyes and looking at me through it.

“Good health,” I say, “and may the bird of paradise fly up your nose.”

She tries to muzzle her laughter and snorts a shot of whisky out of her nose.

“Charming,” I say. 

“Waste of whiskey,” she responds. And adds “so, what’s for lunch? Anything special?”

“I was thinking of doing something tonight,” I say. “Proper dinner. Maybe down at the pub.”

“Is that an invite?” she asks.

“Absolutely. Would you care to accompany me?”

“Absolutely. Who’s paying?”

“Me. I’ve been saving up. Just for us. I meant to ask you last night, but didn’t get the chance.”

“We were all too drunk, you mean,” she says. 

“That too.”

“So, what’s for lunch?”

“Haven’t been to the shops yet. Cupboards are a bit empty. I wasn’t expecting to see you till tonight.”

She gets up, rummages around the cupboards and shelves. Looks in the fridge. 

“Found something,” she says. “I’ll get it ready. But not before you’ve had a shower. You stink. But make it a quick one. Lunch won’t take a minute.”

When I emerge, clean, smelling soapy, she covers my eyes with her hands, leads me to the table. 

“Open your eyes,” she says.

Two places are set, formal, mismatched knives, forks and spoons placed in Royal Family style beside my best – and only – crockery and cutlery. On a clean table cloth, which she must have smuggled into the house with her. 

“You sit down there,” she says, steering me to my usual seat, where I can keep an eye on who is coming up the path. “I’ll serve lunch.”

She takes the two steps to the kitchen bench, turns, returns, stands at my right side, leans across me, places a steaming cup of chocolate on my plate. Walks around the table, sits opposite me, places a steaming cup of chocolate on hers. We look at each other. She sees the question in my eyes.

“Carton of chocolate milk hiding at the back of the fridge,” she says. “Behind the six-pack of beer.”

“Happy Christmas, my darling,” I say.

“Cheers, my dearest,”  she says.