A Tale of Two Christmases

This story takes place in England. It is intended to stand alone, but is also a sequel to my series Educating Laura. This story contains only vanilla heterosexual sex, though queer and kinky sex are mentioned (and feature in chs.5 and 6 of Educating Laura).

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It was time to leave college. I'd stayed until the last day permitted, before Christmas. I took the train down to London with my mate Adrian; both of us morose at the prospect of extended time with our depressing families. Not that I knew much about his, somewhere in small-town Northern Ireland, though he'd once said regarding his dad, "and people think I'm an alcoholic!" He'd negotiated staying in college, last year, but this year decided he needed to return, for his younger sister's sake.

He had a large shoulder of whisky, which he cracked open on the train.

"It's only 11am! Bit early, even for you, isn't it?" I didn't want him to miss his flight.

"Flying is exempt from restrictions on drinking. That's why they have pubs in the airport, open from 5am." He swallowed a large mouthful. "Besides, everyone needs booze to cope with fucking airports. And pre-Christmas travel." He took another swig. "And Christmas."

The boy had a point. "Pass it over here, then."

"Sláinte."

"Cheers."

We'd polished it off by the time we reached Kings Cross an hour later. The things I do, to support a friend.

I saw him safely off to the Piccadilly Line. I had faith he'd manage to navigate Heathrow at the other end.

"Cheers, Laura. Not going to say 'have a good one'. Illegitimi non carborundum."

Don't let the bastards grind you down. I returned his hug.

"I'll try. Don't you go getting into fights, now."

"Eh, wind yer neck in! I never start the brawl, me. You, don't you get too lonely. If you can't go stay with Richie or Sanj, just fuck off down your local pub. Nurse a nice wee half for a couple hours, everything will seem better, aye? Find yourself a fit barman, maybe?"

"In the village? Some chance!"

"Eh, take over a shift or two yourself. That'd bring all the talent knocking!"

Bless him, he was trying to cheer me up. One more hug. He stumbled onto the escalator, with a final wave.

I stomped off to catch my train to Yorkshire, first stocking up on provisions. The train would be rammed, and likely delayed. I considered a bottle of wine. No, I didn't want to be wasted when I got to my parents' place. Even though Mum would be off her tits, on whatever her latest bloke had her on.

It often occurred to me, that I could solve all the problems of my skint student lifestyle by stealing half the drugs knocking around Mum's house, and selling them. Only problem: I had absolutely no idea how to go about drug dealing. I had to admit, guiltily, that it was mostly that, rather than the prospect of fucking up people's lives, which stopped me.

I'd stick to the moral high ground. No idea why I really bothered. Mum certainly hadn't taught me any morals, just screaming at me for being a whore when I'd annoyed her, usually by my bare existence. I really couldn't blame Dad for fucking off to South America and almost never returning to England. I didn't think he'd been in the house in five years.

I did blame him for not seeing me in the last five years, because he claims he'll be arrested if he sets foot on British soil. Something to do with tax fraud, which he maintains is his partners' fault. I don't really believe him, because he knows about his money. Still, he paid for me to finish at my boarding school, and for me to fly to Germany for a gap year programme, and he did set up a monthly standing order to cover my living costs all through university, so it could be much worse.

We talk every month or so, he sends me funny emails. We don't talk about Mum.

Christmas, growing up, was always unpleasant, even when Dad was around. Mum would get drunk, refuse to let us help do anything, then have hysterics because no-one had helped. She's a nasty drunk, unlike say Adrian, who's just trying to make demons in his head shut up, gets cheerfully lairy, then passes out in a corner. Dad used to say Mum doesn't mean half of what she says, but she does.

My half-sister stopped visiting once she was fifteen. No-one could blame her. She's ten years older than me, so I hardly know the woman. We don't get on. It's not even that; I'm just a random stranger, really. I spent Christmas two years ago with her, just two nights, and it was OK. Just all stiltedly polite with the unwanted house guest, and her bloke and toddler glaring at me, still asleep on the sofa come 6am. If it came down to a choice of hers versus a park bench, I know I could call her. But if there's an alternative like staying at college, or living on a camp site all summer, then that's what I've done.

Last year, though, was the best Christmas of my life. See, when I worked on that camp site, supervising bunches of deprived kids each week, for the summer after first year, I met Andy and Ali. I noticed Ali first. Alison, her name is, unless you're a friend. She was well gorgeous, under unkempt shaggy hair, about five years older than me. Turned out she was living with our boss, as well as sleeping with the woman. Said boss wanted a more open relationship, including the other on-site lesbian; Ali didn't. They split up, so Al spent the first month like a wet week, crying half the time.

Andy's a wiry wee Scotsman, like a Roman god with his tanned skin and curly dark hair. Hot and sexy, with his strength and competence, but shy as anything. Never talked much about himself. It turned out he was hiding the fact he'd served five years at Her Majesty's Pleasure. He'd admired Ali during the year they'd worked together, but he was still getting his head round life outside jail. It made him seem younger than his decade older than me. Ali was adjusting, too, having escaped an abusive relationship then jumping into bed with an over-earnest lentil-weaving feminist -- her boss -- more quickly than she should've.

And then I invited Richie to stay with me -- in my small tent -- for a weekend. Richie lived on my corridor at college. He studied mostly biological sciences, so we had Chemistry together. Many people wrote him off as an arrogant arsehole with long ginger hair. Which he was! Thing was, as I learned from phone chats to him from the campsite, he was also kinda self-effacing, pulled his weight when there's work to be done, and had listened to how to behave round women. In particular, I discovered when he visited that he likes doing stuff which gets women off, and wasn't shy about offering it.

Add Richie's total lack of tact and bluntly pointing out what everyone's embarrassed about, and our tent ended up acquiring Andy, for a threesome. As you do. Of the M-F-M variety -- Richie's a bloody scientist so has tried everything, but Andy's politely not interested in men.

Andy and Ali finally decided to try both living together and having a relationship, despite knowing Andy wanted to leave London as soon as he got through his social work degree, while Ali loved the city life and would live nowhere else.

And for good measure, the lads got me and Ali together.

It was my first proper relationship with a woman. Forget the kinky stuff we also did -- Richie and I were already figuring that out. But while I'd slept with a couple women, and kissed and messed about with a few more, Ali was the first woman to steal my heart. First anyone, really.

So I'd spent second year visiting Ali every other weekend. At first, in their cramped attic bedsit, where I'd often end up shagging Andy again too, with Ali's full knowledge and enjoyment. Then, six months later, in the one-bed flat they moved to. Andy slept on the sofa-bed when I stayed over there, though we still fucked occasionally, just because we could.

Which meant last year, while the total opposite of glamorous, was probably the best Christmas I'd ever had. Two weeks of being welcome in that sloping-ceilinged room, sharing the bed with both of them, though often one or even two of us would shift to the sofa-bed, which pressed up against both the bed and the kitchen cupboards when opened out.

Ali and Andy worked up until Christmas Eve at the community centre, sorting out provisions for those who needed it. We'd agreed to stick to a tight budget, relying on my cooking whatever I could get. Cooking with limited resources, like on a campfire or a single gas burner, using whatever food exists, is a skill of mine.

Doing youth work, and tracking down anything free to donate to our community centre, had given me experience in blagging. I hit the posh butcher by Borough Market on the afternoon of the 23rd. Last day open before Christmas. I told the avuncular chap behind the counter about my limited funds, that I'd be happy with stew or a roast, whatever he could recommend.

"Uh-huh? We close in an hour. Come back in 45, I'll have a bag for you.

I stocked up on veg from a market stall, following the same principle. The guy was happy to fill up my granny trolley with stuff that wouldn't last the week, as well as root veg to last Andy the month. They'd keep, in sacks, on his otherwise-useless Juliet balcony. A supermarket had medium Christmas puddings left; I bought two. Andy had booze to ignite them. Cream, eggs; battered boxes of stuffing mix marked down. That was enough.

Back at the butcher, I shyly waved my receipt. "Seriously, whatever you can do. I'd just like some bacon in it." I had a pile of Brussels sprouts and mushrooms. Bacon was the only way to make sprouts edible, in my book. "It really doesn't matter what, I'm having a great Christmas with a few friends, whatever we end up eating."

"Ah, love. Seeing you've actually come back! There's a lady who was supposed to collect her turkey and trimmings two days ago. Hasn't been in contact. Her pack is yours, if she doesn't pop in in the next ten minutes."

"What? Really?"

"If you could take it off our hands. We need the space, see. There's a limit to how much turkey mince people buy in January. There's bacon included, and your stuffing, pigs, chipolatas, and goose fat for your spuds..."

"I'm not getting my hopes up. Seriously, that pork loin for four, with some bangers and bacon would be fine."

The butcher checked his watch. His daughter rolled down the blinds in the window. "Sod it. It's yours. Can you fit that box in your trolley? Fab. Follow the instructions on the box, couldn't be easier. Organic turkey, the leaflet tells you all about the farm in Norfolk it's from. The thermometer pops out when it's done."

"Wow. This is amazing! I've never..." I'd had trad dinner, several times, but always been too tense in my throat to taste it. Andy, for sure, would never have had a full good-quality Christmas roast.

"Anything else I can do you for?"

I shook. I felt like Bob Cratchit being presented with the festive turkey; it was unbelievable. But while we were still in my dream, I found a couple pound coins in my pocket. "This is all I've got. Any chance of a small slice of cheese?"

He stepped over to his cheese counter. After musing a moment, he picked up two chunks of cheese, already in cling film.

"These are a bit squashed. Have them both, love."

"They really aren't," I objected.

He slapped his giant hand onto the wrapped wedges. "They are now. Off you go. Merry Christmas. Oh, you'll have me bawling too, sweetheart. Here." He ripped some paper towel off a roll. "You're with friends, yeah? Gonna be a good one?"

I nodded, sniffled again. "Even before you've been so kind."

"Eh, that's what the Christmas spirit is all about. Your last customer gone, love?" This was to his daughter. "Lock the door, then. Phew. Nothing like customers demanding the earth, these last couple days, to turn you into a total Scrooge. Blast the lot of them! Especially this branch, with all the entitled lah-di-dahs wanting to be waited on hand and foot, no concept of queuing! How many staff do you think we can physically fit behind this counter? Idiots, I tell you! You cook your dinner, and you all enjoy it, that's all I ask, right? Then, when you're older, and settled, and earning more, you might come back and be a regular customer. Got it? Good. Have a good one, sweetheart."

I called Andy to help me carry the trolley up the stairs to his bedsit. My eyes leaked again when I found a jar of cranberry jelly had been snuck into the bag. But when Andy lifted up the boxed turkey, holding it aloft in awe, his face made my Christmas. I knew he'd grown up on the breadline, child of a single mum on a sink estate in Scotland. I guessed that even if he'd gone to relatives for a full roast, it certainly wouldn't have been a Kelly Bronze turkey with organic pork in the trimmings!

We'd fantasised about me doing the cooking in only an apron, wearing nothing else. That didn't happen. Even with three of us, the room was far too cold for that. Despite that, it was still a wonderful day.

Come Christmas morning, I'd woken up in the bed with both Andy and Ali. It was as well Andy was a wiry guy, and Ali and I were slim. Ali had acquired tacky foil decorations, Andy had found a tiny tree in a pot, but even without those and the token presents dwarfing the tree on Andy's desk, my relaxed happiness made it the most Christmassy morning I'd ever had. For a wonderful long time, I received kisses from both Ali and Andy. Then I got the bird in the oven while Andy made us all tea and toast; Ali did her stretches which she hoped would reduce how often her joints ached.

"When do we need to start the rest of the cooking?" Andy asked.

"In about two hours. Parboil spuds and parsnips, put stuffing and pigs and sausages on to bake, then roast the potatoes while the meat rests. Make the gravy and cook as many other veg as we can be arsed to."

"Or how many pots I've got."

"That, too. We'll be fine, love."

"Aye. In that case, I think we need to celebrate Christmas proper, don't you think?" He looked meaningfully from me to Al.

"Do you think we should dress up, with some tinsel and glitter?" Ali asked me jokingly. Andy never got tired of watching me and Ali having sex. Just as well, given the total lack of privacy.

With other guys, it might have been weird, but with these two, who'd announced they were now my family -- cue jokes about being Mummy and Daddy, despite being only five and ten years older -- it was our normal. We'd got together in a tent, all of us. Richie had been observing, the ever-attentive scientist, until he'd ended up fucking me while Ali and Andy stepped up their kissing.

"Come here, love." I beckoned Ali over, still in awe of the beautiful starkly-blonde goddess I'd acquired.

She rolled over. "My pretty Christmas angel." I drowned in her kisses. "So lovely. And a talented chef!"

"And what am I? A gnome and pot-washer?"

It wasn't wrong, and we laughed. "You're more of a fire god," I assured Andy. Red-brown, always moving.

We'd got the movements down. Andy sat up at the head of the bed, to enjoy the view. Ali and I sprawled to the side of his legs, to enjoy each other. We weren't putting on a show, as such. A few times, we had, for him, because the idea was fun. But today we were just two queer women, loving each other's bodies.

While I still shagged Andy sometimes, too, that was different. Ali and I were romantic, loving, in that way. He and Ali might be. They loved each other as friends, and as chosen family, but parts of Ali's lusts were aimed only at me, not him. I fulfilled her kinky desires; he and she only had straightforward sex. On the other hand, he got to live with her. But they both knew it was partly -- mainly? -- a relationship of convenience, given Andy only tolerated London for work and the degree he'd just started. The days of their closeness were therefore numbered: three years max, before Andy got a job at an outdoors activity centre, anywhere in the countryside.

I still wanted to do a PhD after my degree, which most likely meant moving to London in 18 months time. If they got a bigger place, as they hoped to soon, perhaps it could be a seamless switch, swapping Andy for me living there, him becoming the regular visitor?

Ali rolled herself onto me, sucked my tit, crossed her arms under her chin. "Merry Christmas, babe." Her leg pressed down between mine. "You need unwrapped, already!"

I removed my pyjamas for her. "You'd better keep me warm, then." The room lacked any insulation.

She kept me warm, all right. I got Andy to really get me warm inside, after. There was something about having two different people, both loving me, which warmed a part of my heart I'd never previously let anyone near. Plus, it was hot. Some people said only sluts had threesomes. I figured, with increasing conviction, that sluts were great!

I left Andy and Al to snuggle while I threw on old clothes and started cooking, against a backdrop of Classic FM playing all the proper carols and hymns. I sang along, enthusiasm making up for deficiencies in pitch. They humoured me, adding an off-key alto and a decent tenor to the choruses.

Andy's bedsit had most comforts squeezed into the small space, but a dining table wasn't one of them. Our Christmas dinner -- excellent, if I say so myself -- involved sitting on the sofa, plates on our laps, drinks on the floor. But it was no worse for that. Our plates were piled high with luxurious food, we had wine, and we had Christmas crackers to generate terrible jokes and party hats. Perfect festive fun. What I'd always dreamt of.

Andy got up to serve himself more roast potatoes and gravy, then, as if he'd forgotten he was allowed, added another pig-in-blanket.

"Whoever thought of wrapping bacon round a wee sausage, eh?"

A genius idea, Ali and I agreed. We all ate our fill. Three-quarters of the turkey remained.

I stood up. "Right, you two! Time for the traditional brisk walk, before you get your pudding!"

Ali moaned, but I knew sitting around all day wouldn't be good for her. We layered on outdoor clothing, and headed down the two flights of stairs.

"Merry Christmas!" A rare day when everyone even in south London chats to each other.

"You lucky, lucky, bastard!" Some lads saw Andy holding both my and Ali's hands.

I cherished Andy's shy smile, as he raised both arms in agreement.

When I ended up in the middle, Ali in my arm, Andy holding my other hand, no-one noticed.

The Afghan family on the ground floor brought us samosas; we took turkey and roast potatoes down to them. There was enough leftover meat for the two odd chaps who also lived on the top floor. Both around sixty, quiet mumblers, but never a problem. They seemed happy to have it. Hard to tell. The two women from the middle floor appeared to have gone away for the duration.

We microwaved our Christmas pudding and set it carefully on a plate. I poured a couple shots of rum, our only spirit, over it; Andy held a match and set it alight. The crackling blue flames reminded me of my awe as a small child, seeing food on fire, yet not being destroyed. The flames died down. We gave it another minute to be sure, then helped ourselves to generous bowlfuls, thick white cream on top.

"Ah, this is the life," Andy declared, feet up sideways on the leather sofa so he could see me and Ali, sitting up on the bed.

"Yup," Ali agreed. "Pass us that wine, love."

We might not have had traditional sherry nor brandy, but rum and a decent red, and a crate of beers for Andy, ensured we reached the traditional amount of tipsiness. Followed by less-traditional but predictable sex between the three of us. I fell asleep, happy and merry, between them.

We had a mellow Boxing Day, too, lounging around watching old films, reading our new books, playing the silly game Ali had got me, stacking small plastic chairs until the stack fell. On the 27th, we hit various sales. I scored some clothing, then discovered jars of mincemeat reduced to near-nothing. I happily spent a few hours making mince pies. More like pasties, given the lack of bun tins, but they tasted good.