It’s just what I wanted / David West

I’ve been tossing and turning all night, but my two brothers seem to be sleeping soundly. I’m Tim, I’m eight-and-a-half years old. Jimmy is ten, Rocky is seven. It’s Christmas Morning, early. I don’t know exactly what time it is, because we don’t have a clock in the room. I’m excited because I think this year Father Christmas is going to bring me what I really, really want: a two-wheel bike. It will be second-hand, I know that, because there are five kids in our family and Dad doesn’t earn very much. He works in a warehouse, stacking shelves and packing orders. It could be Jimmy’s old bike, and he’ll get a new second-hand one. I secretly want a watch, but I’ve never told anyone: I know Santa would never give kids like us anything as expensive as that. Rocky says he doesn’t care what he gets, as long as he gets something. It’s pointless wondering about it, he says. Dad likes it when he says things like that. He’s Dad’s favourite: “Wise beyond his years”, he says. I’m not sure what that actually means, but I don’t like it. After Rocky, I think he likes my two sisters better than he likes me and Jimmy. I’m sure I’m at the bottom of his list: I’m always the one who has to put the toys away, tidy up the books and comics we’ve left lying around the place, clean the toilet and hand-basin if someone leaves them dirty. I usually have to wash and dry the dinner dishes on my own, too, but sometimes Mum gives me a hand. Jimmy and Rocky do them together. My twin sisters, Gloria and Glennis, don’t have any chores to do yet. They’re five years old. Dad says they’re the “apples of his eyes” but they still come second to Rocky. Our mother just treats us all the same. We can do what we like, as long as we don’t bother her, and do whatever she tells us to do as soon as she tells us. Dad says she’s too soft on us, but Mum just shrugs and says “Well, you stay home all day and look after them, then. I’ll go out to work.”

Anyway, like I said, I was tossing and turning, wondering if I’ll get my new bike. But I must have fallen asleep sometime, because when I woke up it was getting light outside and I could feel something on the end of my bed. “Christmas is here,” I said, loudly. This woke my brothers up, and Jimmy growled me: “Shut up and go back to sleep,” he said. “It’s too early to get up.”

“Father Christmas has been,” I tell him. Rocky sits up and says: “So what. It’ll just be the usual crap. New socks and undies that we need anyway. And a bar of chocolate or something like that. Go back to sleep.”

Jimmy joins in. “Yeah. Nothing worth seeing here,” he says. “Remember last year we got chocolate eggs left over from Easter. They’d been in the back of the fridge all year.”

But I’m awake now, and crawl to the end of my bed to see what I’ve got. Three different presents, in the same wrapping paper. The same as at the end of the other two beds. I tear the first one open. I know I’ll get a growling for not saving the paper, but too bad. This is Christmas. Rocky is right: two pairs of white underpants, two pairs of grey socks, and a plastic bag with half a dozen chocolates, wrapped in that shiny paper they use.

Jimmy and Rocky have given up on going back to sleep and are sitting on their beds, opening their presents too. They’re the same as mine.

“Not even our own box of chocolates this year,” says Jimmy. “Last year they gave us a box each. Looks like they’ve just split one box three ways this year. Bastards.”

He throws his handful of chocolates at the wall. They rattle and clatter and bounce down onto the floor. Rocky asks him to calm down. Jimmy rolls the wrapping paper up into a ball and throws it at the wall. Rocky tells him to pick it all up. “Make me,” Jimmy says. He’s older and bigger than Rocky, but Rocky leaps out of his bed and throws himself on top of Jimmy, knocking him backwards. His head hits the headboard, and he yells. “Shut up,” Rocky says. “You’re not hurt.”

But he is. Jimmy touches the back of his head, puts his hand out so that Rocky can see it.

“Am too,” he says, showing us the blood on his hand.

“Shit, sorry,” says Rocky. “Can I have a look?”

“No.” He asks me to have a look.

“Doesn’t look that bad,” I say. “Just hold a handkerchief against it until it stops bleeding.”

The bedroom door flies open, banging against the wall. 

“What’s all this noise in here?” our father yells.  He steps on one of the chocolates. “And why are the chocolates all over the floor? What’s going on?” He sees Jimmy holding a handkerchief to the back of his head. “What the hell is happening here?” he asks. “Have you guys been fighting again?”

“No,” says Jimmy. “I just knocked my head on the back of the bed.” 

“Rocky pushed him,” I say. “They were fighting. And Jimmy threw his chocolates at the wall.”

They both say they weren’t fighting. Jimmy says I threw the chocolates. 

Dad strides over to my bed. Hauls me out. He’s big and strong. Holds me by the shoulders and shakes me. Tosses me back onto my bed. Picks up my chocolates, gives them to Jimmy. Tells me to pick up the ones Jimmy threw, tells me they’re now mine. Some of them are broken: I can feel the soft centres squishing around inside the wrapping. He stops in the doorway as he’s leaving the room. Points at me: “Go and help your mother in the kitchen. She’s got a lot of work to do getting Christmas lunch ready. And you can clean up afterwards on your own.” He leaves the room. Jimmy and Rocky get off their beds and stomp on the chocolates scattered on the floor. Gather up their presents. Leave the room. 

I follow them into the hallway. Mother is standing there, talking to Dad.

“Thank you,” my brothers say in unison, “It’s just what I wanted.”