One of the pleasures of the annual Festive story, is the chance to fill in a little more back story for Nathan and friends. As I always say, they’re canon if you want them to be. This particular story takes place in between the events of The Venetian Game and Vengeance in Venice.

Apart from Noddy Holder personally bellowing those famous words into your ear, nothing says “It’s Christmas” quite like a Tuesday night in Mestre.

‘Cheers, vecio.’

‘Cheers, Dario.’

We clinked glasses.

‘All finished for the year, then?’

He grinned. ‘All finished now until Epiphany. Two weeks of freedom. Well, I call it that but it’s not really. Never is with a baby in the house. And then it’ll be up to Trieste to see the in-laws.’

‘They must be excited. First Christmas for little Emily.’

He smiled again, the corners of his eyes crinkling. ‘Nat, man, I’m excited. My little girl’s first Christmas, you know? And she won’t remember it, it’ll just be another day to her.’ He tapped his chest. ‘But I’ll remember it. Anyway, enough about me. What are you doing? Or should I say, where are you going to be?’

‘We thought about Fede’s place on the Lido. Or her mother’s, in Chioggia. But then I decided the Consular Residence would be suitably impressive. I sent them both proper invitations and everything.’

‘Nice.’

‘Trouble is, I’m a bit worried that I might have raised expectations a little high, and Federica’s mother might be disappointed when she sees that the British Diplomat’s Consular Residence is rather more humble than she might have expected. Secondly, she’s not been introduced to Gramsci.’

Dario winced.

‘Anyway,’ I continued, ‘I’m doing the cooking. Last year, Gramsci and I subsisted on frozen pizza. This year is going to be different. The whole traditional Dickensian Christmas experience.’

‘Terrible social hardship and cholera?’

‘More like – ‘ I did my best Alastair Sim impression – ‘you, boy! Fetch me the finest goose in old London Town’.

‘Goose? You have that for Christmas in England?’

‘We used to. It’s something we’ve forgotten. To be honest, I’ve never cooked it before. How hard can it be, right?’

Dario shrugged. ‘Who knows. There’s an agriturismo we go to for St Martin’s Day. They’re good at it.’

‘Nice.’ A thought struck me. ‘Hang on, I hadn’t thought about that. St Martin’s Day was only, what, six weeks ago. Is it a bit weird to be cooking goose again?’

‘Not ideal if you’re a goose, I suppose. But I see what you’re doing. It sounds nice.’

‘It’ll be more than nice, Dario. It’ll be an event. Christmas crackers, party hats, Hawkwind’s Yule Ritual on the stereo.’

He frowned. ‘Does that count as Christmas music?’

‘It’s got the word Yule in it. Of course it does. Anyway, I’ve ordered a goose from a butcher on Giudecca. Cost me a fortune, but they tell me the geese are all hand-reared and listen to classical music.’

‘Wow.’

‘I’m taking no chances, Dario. Marta – Fede’s mum – is going to realise what a sound chap her daughter’s boyfriend is.’

‘Sounds like a lot of work, Nat.’

‘It’ll be worth every moment, I’m sure. Oh and there’s one other thing.’ I held my hands out towards him. ‘What do you see?’

‘Er. Nothing.’

‘Exactly!’

‘I don’t understand.’

I tapped the third finger of my left hand, where a faint white imprint could still be seen.

‘The ring?’

‘Yep. I heard from my solicitor a week ago. Another three to four months and I’ll be a free man again.’

‘Wow. Congratulations.’ He paused. ‘And how’s the almost-ex?’

‘Oh, she’s fine. And so is Kiril.’

‘Kiril?’

‘Bulgarian ski instructor. They met last Christmas. The one I spent alone with Gramsci. But, hey, I’m over it now. So the ring has come off forever. And, with a bit of luck, it might even pay for the goose!’

‘Nice one. I’m glad it’s working out. You all sorted for presents?’

‘Absolutely, I am. Both Federica and Marta. Nothing too expensive, nothing too flashy, but all immaculately tasteful.’

‘Brilliant. Sounds like you’ve thought it all through.’

‘Oh, I have.’

‘What about New Year’s Eve?’

My beer was halfway to my mouth. ‘What?’

‘New Year’s Eve. You know. Red underwear.’

‘You what?’

He looked puzzled. ‘Red underwear for New Year’s Eve. For good luck, you know?’

I stared at him in silence for a moment, and then burst out laughing. ‘You bastard. You had me going there for a moment.’

‘Nat, I’m not joking. How long have you been in Italy?’

‘Coming up for ten years now.’

‘And you never did the red underwear thing for New Year’s Eve?’

‘Dario, seriously, I’ve never heard of it.’

‘You don’t do this in Britain?’

‘We’re British. Of course we don’t do it.’

‘Wow. Well, that’s something you’d better get sorted.’

‘Are you quite mad?’

‘It’s a very Italian thing, Nat. It brings a great deal of good luck.’

‘It brings a great deal of embarrassment as well.’

He shrugged. ‘Okay. But what if Federica’s got you something?’

‘Then I’ll smile and laugh it off and say I didn’t realise we were doing that.’

‘And she’ll think you’re some kind of uptight, repressed British guy.’

‘I am an uptight, repressed British guy. Look, Fede and I have been together maybe seven months. I’m not sure we’re ready to take our relationship to that level yet. I mean, how long were you and Vally together before – before – you know – ?’

‘I think maybe the following Monday. Hey, you want to do the whole traditional English Christmas thing, great. But this is a traditional Italian thing. You could kind of meet in the middle?’

‘A grand meeting of civilisations over a pair of pants? I don’t think so. Look, I’ll compromise and cook musetto and lentils for New Year. But that’s it. And, come on, there’s no way Federica would have gone out and bought me a pair of pants.’ I paused. ‘Would she?’

But Dario only smiled…

—–

‘I can never remember what you English call these,’ said Marta. She reached out and made to pat my chest, before drawing back as if embarrassed. 

‘This? A sweater, I suppose. Or perhaps a jumper.’

She smiled. ‘A jumper. A strange word. You’d think that would make it easier to remember. At any rate, it’s very colourful.’

I looked down at the pattern. Snowmen, Santa Clauses, Christmas trees and snowflakes all mixed together in a pattern that clearly suggested the wearer was in the most festive of spirits and nothing was going to stop him.

‘And the words?’

‘Nadolig Llawen. “Merry Christmas” in Welsh.’

‘ I don’t think I understand.’

‘I went to university in Aberystwyth. I have vague memories of buying this. I think it must have shrunk a little over time, but it still fits well enough for one day a year.’ I patted my stomach and the action was enough to activate the small concealed button on the inside of the jumper. Once upon a time it had bleeped a cheery “We Wish You a Merry Christmas”. Now, the victim of multiple washes and a near-exhausted battery, it stuttered through an atonal nightmare that Karlheinz Stockhausen might have scribbled down had he awoken from the blackest of nightmares on Christmas night.

‘How wonderful,’ said Marta. ‘Do they all do that?’

‘More than you might think. But this was cutting-edge at the time.’ I patted my stomach once more and immediately regretted it as the tune warbled out again; this time stumbling slower and slower towards a final, despairing bzzt.

‘And everyone wears these? Every year?’

‘I think there might even be a law.’

Gramsci lay, contentedly, amongst a pile of discarded Christmas wrappings; occasionally swatting a scrunched-up ball across the room in the hope that one of us would throw it back.

Stripping down the goose carcass, I thought, would make for a hearty soup and a good few litres of stock. There was sufficient fat to keep me in roast potatoes until the next festive season. And the remains of the Christmas pudding, I’d explained to Federica and Marta, would make for splendid breakfast fried up in butter tomorrow morning.

They’d both looked at me, unsure as to whether I’d been joking.

There was washing up as well, of course. Lots of it. Fatty with goose grease and gravy stains, it was not going to be a pleasure. But that was tomorrow’s problem. In the meantime, Martin Barre’s guitar was singing out the final few phrases of “A Winter Snowscape”; a sign that The Jethro Tull Christmas Album had reached its end. Federica, perhaps wisely, had done some research ahead of the game and informed me that – if it really had to be one or the other – the Tull were a more festive musical alternative to Hawkwind.

She patted me on the arm. ‘That was lovely, caro. Our first English Christmas. Wasn’t it mamma?’

Marta smiled. ‘As Federica said, it’s all been lovely. Thank you.’

Fede got to her feet. ‘Come on then mamma. Let’s get you on to the boat.’

‘I can manage that myself, Federica. There’s really no need.’

‘It’s no problem at all.’ Fede kissed me on the cheek. ‘Nathan will be wanting to start on the washing-up, after all.’ She lowered her voice and whispered to me, ‘Sorry, but mamma will be lonely if I don’t spend Christmas evening with her.’

‘Are you sure that’s all right, Mr Sutherland?’, said Marta, a reminder that I hadn’t quite made it to plain old “Nathan” status just yet.

‘Absolutely,’ I smiled. ‘Washing up first,’ I lied, ‘and then Gramsci and I will settle down and watch a Christmas film.’

‘That’s nice. What do you have in mind?’

‘I’ve already done The Brighton Strangler. But for Christmas Day itself, I think it has to be Where Eagles Dare.’

‘I don’t think I know that.’

‘There’s lots of snow, spectacular alpine scenery and Richard Burton machine guns hundreds of Nazis. Perfect Christmas viewing.’

She looked confused but managed to smiled. ‘Oh. Is that another very English thing?’

‘It wouldn’t be Christmas without it, signora.’

‘Nathan has very strange ideas about what constitutes a Christmas film,’ said Fede. ‘What was that horrible thing you made me watch last week?’

‘The Legend of Hell House? It takes place at Christmas. Therefore it’s a Christmas film.’

Neither of them looked convinced, but they smiled anyway. Fede gave me a hug and a kiss and whispered into my ear once more, ‘Well done, caro.’ She raised her voice, ‘I’ll see you New Year’s Eve. And, don’t worry, I’ll have your present.’

The earth seemed to stop moving. Even Gramsci, rustling under his nest of wrapping paper, fell silent.

‘My – present?’

‘Of course. It’s an Italian tradition, isn’t it mamma?’

‘It is,’ Marta smiled, ‘Federica’s told me all about it.’

I turned to Fede. ‘You told your mother?’

‘Of course.’

Marta giggled. ‘But I’ve been sworn to secrecy. I’m not to say a word.’

There were further hugs and kisses, and they made their way out into the darkening streets. 

I closed the door behind them, and then slowly slid down the wall into the crumpled pile of wrapping.’

‘Well now, puss, ‘ I said, ‘New Year’s Eve just became a whole lot more complicated, didn’t it?’

There was a little m’yeep from under the pile, and a paw emerged to send a scrunched up ball flying across the room.

—–

You can cook a musetto forever. A cousin of the more famous cotechino, it’s a deeply savoury and meaty sausage made from the muzzle and head of a pig. The texture might be described as unctuous if you were feeling generous, or gelatinous if you weren’t. A good musetto was a fine thing but, by now, I had come to think that it was a fine thing to have perhaps just once a year.

I had boiled it and boiled it, changing the cooking water twice as the fat ran out, and still it bubbled away as if it was perfectly happy to carry on like this for hours to come. The lentils – the other essential component of the dish – had been ready for hours and sat in a covered pan, ready to be warmed through whenever the musetto decided it had finally had enough. The two of them, eaten together on New Year’s Eve, were supposed to bring good luck. 

And I was all in favour of a bit of good luck. The past twelve months had been relatively kind. On the plus side, I’d met Federica. On the other hand, a man called Arcangelo Moro had tried to kill me. If next year could be more of the same, ideally without the threat of bloody murder, I’d be okay with that; and if boiling a sausage for hour upon hour could help, well, I was prepared to give it a go.

I heard the rattle of keys in the lock, and smiled. We’d exchanged keys to each other’s apartments as a pre-Christmas gift. That felt kind of significant.

Fede gave me a hug and a kiss and smiled as she realised what was cooking.

‘Cotechino?’

‘Better than that. Musetto.’

‘Wow. You’re really going for this, aren’t you?’

‘I meant what I said. I’d do the cooking over the holiday. Christmas Day, British-style. New Year’s Eve, Italian-style. Are you sure your mother didn’t want to come?’ I looked over Fede’s shoulder as if she might be hiding.

‘No, she’s with the same group of friends she’s gone out with on New Year’s Eve for the past twenty years.’

‘That’s nice.’ No Marta, I thought. That, at least, would take the edge of the situation; turning it down from “excruciating” to “mildly embarrassing”.

‘It’s not a reflection on your cooking. Although she did wonder just how anything gets done in the UK between Christmas and New Year.’

‘It doesn’t. The Christmas season – like ourselves – expands a little bit more every year. One day it’ll be like your eighteenth century Carnevale.’

She reached into her bag and pulled out a small, flat, parcel wrapped, appropriately, in red. ‘Are we doing presents first?’, she said.

I raised the lid on the musetto, and nodded. ‘We’ve got hours yet.’

‘Well, I got you this. I hope you think it’s okay.’ She made to pass it to me but I shook my head. 

‘Tell you what, why don’t you open yours first?’ I passed her a package, considerably smaller than the one she’d offered me. Perhaps just three inches in a height and an inch wide.

She looked puzzled, but smiled once she tore it open. ‘Lipstick?’

‘Not just lipstick. Red lipstick. I thought it would be appropriate and something I could buy without any, you know, awkwardness. Hang on, no, I didn’t mean it to sound like that, I meant – ‘

‘You might be babbling again, caro.’

‘I am, aren’t I? Anyway, I bought you this. And then I started to think – hang on, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wearing lipstick and – you don’t, do you?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’ She kissed me on the cheek. ‘Now, in a perfect world, that would have been a big bright red lipstick kiss. But, well, we’re not in a perfect world. It was still a nice thought, though.’

‘Well then I started thinking that I’d got everything wrong and this wouldn’t do at all and so – ‘ I shooed Gramsci off the gaily-wrapped box under the Christmas tree and held it out to her. 

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s your New Year’s Eve present. Well, presents, to be exact.’

She looked down into the box. ‘What, all of them?’

‘All of them. Now, let me fix us a brace of Spritzes first. I’ve invented this thing called a Spritz Nathan. It’s a like a regular spritz except you remove all the boring things like water and replace them with Prosecco. I’m hoping it’ll catch on…’

—–

Fede and Gramsci sat amongst the discarded wrappings, surveying their respective hauls. Which, in Gramsci’s case, meant the paper.

Fede ticked her presents off on her fingers. ‘So, I make that – red slippers, red earrings, red necklace, red scarf, red woolly hat, red mittens – ‘

‘Red lipstick,’ I reminded her.

‘Of course.’

‘That’s what started the whole thing off. I realised I’d never seen you in lipstick before. And so all the other red things were by way of compensation.’

‘That’s ever so kind of you caro.’ She leaned over and kissed me. ‘I just don’t understand quite why. It’s all lovely but – ‘

‘As I said, I was panicking and decided to just throw red things at the problem until it went away. It’s like this. I’m a middle-aged British guy who’s only just learned about the whole lucky red pants thing and I’m sorry, I tried, I really did, but when it came right down to it I just couldn’t do it and so…I got you all this.’

‘The “lucky red pants” thing?’

‘Dario told me all about it. Red underwear for new year. Good luck. All that stuff. And as I said, I’m a middle-aged British guy and I didn’t want to seem weird and so – this.’

‘That’s very kind of you caro, but it’s precisely because you’re a middle-aged British guy that I didn’t do the underwear thing.’

‘Hang on. You didn’t?’

‘God, no.’ She started to laugh. ‘You really thought that?’

‘Dario,’ I muttered, and she laughed some more.

‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘You’d better open it up.’

My hands were shaking with relief as a I tore the paper open. And then I started to laugh as well.

A Blu-Ray. Of Dario Argento’s Profondo Rosso.

‘You bought me this?’

She smiled. ‘One of your horrible films. Was I right?’

‘It’s one of my favourites.’ I hugged her. ‘Best girlfriend ever.’

‘I try. And it seemed appropriate.’

I looked at the cover. ‘Well, it’s certainly red. Deep Red!’

‘There’s just one thing though. I don’t have to watch it with you do I?’

‘It’s a Christmas film!’

‘Is it? Is it really?’

‘Well, there’s a special festive Christmas knife murder in the opening scene.’

‘Mmm. Okay. Maybe just the once though.’

I hugged her to me as I heard the musetto boiling away on the stove. It was still, I thought, several hours away from being properly cooked. But that didn’t matter. Perhaps we wouldn’t need any extra luck in the New Year after all.

Happy New Year, everyone!