Chapter 2

The two men began to go through the groceries, Colin telling Martin what each item was as he pulled it out. Martin would attach the correct label to the jar, can, or whatever, and set it to one side.

“These are the cooked meats you asked for,” Colin said coming across three packets of sliced meat. “Want me to put them in alphabetical order?”

“Please.”

There were four ounces each of ham, pork and beef. “Okay, the beef is on the top, ham in the middle, andpork at the bottom,” Colin said, handing them to Martin.

Their hands touched momentarily. Colin noticed the contact was held a fraction of a second longer than was usual. His arms ached to hold the smaller man, protect him, tell him everything would be all right, but he knew he couldn’t go round hugging his customers; many of them would take offence.

Martin took the packets of cooked meat and turned away, but not before Colin saw the stray tear run down his cheek. Colin’s desire to hold Martin became almost irresistible.

“Oh,” he remembered, “there’s the frozen turkey leg you ordered, it’s still in the van’s freezer,” he said, leaving Martin’s house to retrieve it.

Once outside, Colin used the few seconds in the cold to get a hold of himself. Retrieving the frozen food, he returned to Martin’s kitchen.

“Here we are.”

“Thanks,” Martin said, putting the poultry in the bottom drawer of his freezer.

“And finally,” Colin said, trying to lighten the mood, “Your Christmas pudding.” It looked so pathetic in the palm of his hand. Yet more evidence that Martin would be eating alone this Christmas. Hetried, probably unsuccessfully, to keep the happy tone in his voice.

“Oh yeah, not that much of a fan of Christmas pud, but you’ve got to make the effort, I suppose,” Martin said, obviously trying to remain upbeat himself.

“Yeah, know what you mean. My housemate’s girlfriend is coming round to cook us lunch on Christmas Day, but it’ll be a case of two’s company, and three’s, well…”

“You’re very welcome to come and eat here with me and Toby,” Martin said quickly.

Oh, “I wouldn’t want to put you out.” Colin thought politeness dictated he should make the token protest.

“You’d be very welcome. Toby is great company, but he isn’t all that good at pulling crackers.”

Yet again came the desire to protect. “Well, if you’re sure.”

He’d thought about going down to his folks in London, but his mother would have a houseful, his brotherand two sisters would be there with their partners; Colin didn’t fancy turning up alone. He’d taken Simon the previous year, but the visit hadn’t gone well.

“If you want to try out my culinary skills first, the soup should be about ready, I think,” Martin said, lifting the lid of his wristwatch and feeling the hands to determine the time.

Colin hadn’t failed to notice the large pan that had been simmering away, filling the kitchen with wonderful smells.

“Thank you. I was probably just going to grab a take away or something, but…”

“It’s nothing special, just a chicken carcass and a few vegetables that I threw together. If you have other deliveries to make, it can easily wait.”

“You were my last customer. If you’ll let me use your phone, I can book off work, they won’t mind me holding on to the van for a bit.”

“It’s through here,” Martin said, his face lighting up.

* * * *

“Well, you’ve passed with flying colours,” Colin said after downing a second bowl of soup. “That was smashing, thanks.”

Martin was glad. There was just something so satisfying about being able to feed someone. It was as if…Martin stopped himself from going down that road.

The two were relaxing in Martin’s front room, a room he mainly reserved for Sundays, and special visitors, not that he received many of those.

“Glad you liked it.” Mentally crossing his fingers, he asked, So, you’ll come and be our guest on Christmas Day, then?”

“Love to.”

“Great.” Martin smiled.

Hugging himself Martin began thinking about what he would make for the two of them. Turkey of course, but…

“So, you like to go to the theatre, then?”

“Huh?”

“Oh, sorry, there’s an envelope from the West Yorkshire Playhouse on your mantelpiece.”

“Oh, it’ll be a brochure for next season’s performances, I expect. I haven’t scanned it through thecomputer yet.” Martin’s PC had a programme which converted printed text into synthetic speech. “Now I know what it is, I won’t need to bother with it.”

“You don’t like going?”

Martin wasn’t sure how to answer the question. He loved live theatre. The theatre management provided a special audio described commentary via infrared headsets on certain nights for visually impaired patrons. But the last time Martin had gone, he’d found himself unable to relax and enjoy the play, because he had been overly concerned with the logistics of getting to the theatre, finding his seat, obtaining a drink during the interval and getting out in time for his bus home. Martin was forced to conclude that it just wasn’t worth the hassle. It wasn’t all that much fun going to such places alone,either.