Cold Feet

Paul was beginning to regret not listening when Mum'd told him to find some wellies in the shed. Only old people wear wellies. Old people and sissies. What was a bit of snow, eh? What did it matter if he couldn’t feel his feet? True, his plimmies lacked any kind of grip, but everyone was sliding about like they were on an ice rink, anyhow, so no one had particularly noticed. And he'd shut them up with a punch in the mouth if they did say anything.

‘Last one to the corner’s a smelly fart!’ Speno said and they slithered off into the night like a pack of young wolves, laughing and whooping and bending low to scoop balled-up ice to throw through the air. Speno won and ‘ha ha it's you, Paul!’ he shouted, and everyone joined in except Paul.
‘You try running in plimmies!’ he muttered, frowning.
‘You should ‘a worn boots, then!’ Jake Gill said smugly, holding up a foot to show off his own thick-soled docs. Paul ignored him. Instead, he nodded at the large house ahead of them, standing proud behind a snow-topped hedge.
‘Is that it?’
‘Yep, Speno answered, pressing his hair flat with one gloved hand. ‘Are you ready, lads?’
Everyone quietened down at that, coughing to clear throats and shrugging their shoulders to settle themselves back into their coats. Paul elbowed his way up the line behind Speno, following him through the gate and down the neatly gritted path. Speno waited a moment at the doorstep, then pressed the doorbell before counting in. ‘One, two and a one, two, three …’

‘Oh come all ye faithful, joyful and tri-umm-phant!’

The fanlight above the door lit up, illuminating elegant numbers etched delicately within its arch.

‘Come ye, oh come ye to Beh-heth-lee-hem!’

The door swung open, flooding the lads’ faces with warm light and causing Paul to squint a little.

‘Come and be-hold him, born the king of ay-en-jells …’

‘Well, what do we have here?’ the shadowed figure on the doorstep declared, its jovial voice revealing it to be Reverend White. ‘Martha!’ he called behind him. ‘Bring the children and come and see!’

‘Oh come let us adore him …’

A smiling, kindly woman appeared, followed by a young boy in pyjamas and, a little way back in the hallway, the most beautiful girl Paul had ever seen. Diana White. Their eyes met for the flicker of a second before Paul looked away.

‘Oh come let us adore him …’

Reverend White peered at them all, leaning forwards as if to get a better look. ‘‘If it isn't Martin Spencer!’ he smiled. ‘And is that you, Paul Thomas? Goodness, child, is it plimsoles you're wearing? Your feet must be frozen on a light night like this!’

‘Oh come let us adore him, Christ the Lord!’

Paul felt his cold face flush and wished the grit-covered earth beneath his stupid numb feet would open wide and swallow him whole.

Alison Mott