Fourteen

While they were chatting, Marina's voice came from the kitchen: "Dinner's ready! Come and sit down, everyone." The table was already laden with food, both Scottish in flavor and English in style. The appetizer was smoked salmon from the Scottish Highlands, served with gherkins and rye bread, salty and savory with a faint scent of pine. The main course was, naturally, the roast turkey that no English family's Christmas is complete without—its skin roasted golden and crisp, with fragrant roast potatoes arranged beside it and Brussels sprouts blanched just right, the whole thing drizzled with gravy. Of course, Ethan's and Du An's favorite was still the Crowdie pudding in the middle, wrapped in coarse cloth and steamed. It was an authentic Scottish Christmas dessert, made by using Crowdie cheese in place of the cream in a traditional Cranachan—denser than an English Christmas pudding, and mixed with dried fruit and cinnamon. Seeing how much Du An and Ethan loved the Crowdie pudding, Lauren smiled and handed Du An a plate. "My dad always says a Christmas without Crowdie isn't a real holiday." Dalglish picked up his knife and fork and said to Lauren, "Back in the old days in Glasgow, after we came home from church on Christmas Eve, your grandma would lift the pudding out of the pot, pour brandy cream over it, and the whole family would gather round the fireplace, eating and chatting. In all the decades I've been in Liverpool, I've never been able to forget that taste." The whole meal passed in lively cheer. Du An took a bite of butter shortbread; it was so crisp it crumbled, and its rich, buttery fragrance was utterly delightful. In all his life until now, he had scarcely ever tasted anything like it—the dishes Grandma made were always either sickeningly salty or greasy. After the meal, everyone pulled Christmas crackers together. In front of each seat lay a brightly colored paper tube; two people grabbed either end and pulled hard, and with a bang out fell a colored paper hat, a small toy, and a slip of paper with a corny joke. Everyone put the crumpled paper hats on their heads—Dalglish wore a red one that, set against his salt-and-pepper hair, looked especially comical. Even Marina couldn't help laughing out loud. That night they chatted until quite late. The next day. When Du An woke, Lauren's laughter from the night before still lingered in his ears. He stared at the ceiling, dazed for a couple of seconds, the corners of his mouth curving up on their own. In all the years he'd been growing up, this was the first time he'd felt that celebrating a holiday could be something to look forward to like this. After he got up, the others were up as well, one after another. When they saw him, each of them called out, "Du An, happy birthday! Merry Christmas!" Du An answered them all with a smile. He felt a little dazed. So he was fourteen now. The rain outside was even heavier than the day before; the wind set the windowpanes humming, raindrops pelting the glass with a patter, and the sky was gloomy and overcast. Paul, holding a cup of hot tea, pointed out the window and sighed. "Just saw the news—the New Year's fireworks at St George's Square have definitely been postponed. The way this rain looks, it'll keep on for another week. What a shame; it's always so lively every year." Everyone joined in with a few words of regret, but it didn't much dampen their spirits. Being together as a family mattered more than any form of celebration. Around noon, Kelly's husband Richard arrived with their three-year-old son, Jack. The little one shyly hid behind his dad, peeking out with half his face at Du An and Ethan, but in less than ten minutes he'd gotten comfortable with them and was chasing Ethan around the living room. That day's lunch was even grander than Christmas Eve's—a proper Christmas feast. Jack sat in his high chair, clutching a butter shortbread and gnawing at it till crumbs covered his face, keeping everyone laughing. Looking at the little one's round, chubby face, Du An couldn't help but smile. When evening came, Marina wheeled out a large cake from the kitchen. The cream was spread smooth and even, with a small football drawn on top in red jam, and beside it two candles shaped to form the number 14. "Du An, happy birthday!!" Everyone cheered. Then Lauren piped up at once, "Come on, let's sing the birthday song!" The lit candles flickered, their flames dancing gently. "Happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Duane..." The melody rose. Everyone's voices were impossibly warm in the winter night. Du An stood before the cake, watching the flickering candlelight, watching the smiling faces gathered all around him, and his nose suddenly stung. On every birthday in years past, Grandma would buy a palm-sized cream cake from the bakery on the corner, stick two candles in it, pat his head, and say, "Happy birthday." No singing. No crowd like this. There had always been a melancholy in Grandma's smile that never quite lifted. He knew she carried more than a decade of grief buried in her heart; he was a sensible boy and never once said he envied others—he simply felt that having a cake to eat was already good enough. But now, hearing so many heartfelt blessings, listening to the birthday song, the tears welled up uncontrollably anyway. And at last they spilled over. Beside him, Ethan watched his brother cry, pursed his lips, and scrunched up his face hard trying to hold it in—but his tears came tumbling down, drip by drip, even faster than Du An's. Seeing this, Marina came over at once, stretched out her arms, and gathered both boys into her embrace, one on either side. Her voice was gentle as water: "Silly children, it's such a happy birthday—what are you crying for?" She patted their backs softly, her chin resting on the top of Du An's head. "From now on, every Christmas and every birthday, we'll spend them together. This is your home. Whenever you miss Grandma, we'll go see her together. If she could see how well you're doing now, she'd be happier than anyone." Du An wiped the tears from his face and said, "Yeah!" Lauren leaned in with a smile. "All right, all right, no more crying! Du An, hurry up and make a wish and blow out the candles—wait any longer and the wax will drip onto the cake!" Du An nodded and gently closed his eyes. In his heart he slowly made his wish: that Grandma would wake up soon, that he could win himself a firm place at U18... He opened his eyes, blew out a breath, and the two candles went out together. Clap, clap, clap! A burst of applause and cheers rose through the living room. Lauren leaned in curiously, her eyes sparkling. "What did you wish for? Tell me secretly—I won't tell a soul." Marina smiled and tapped her forehead. "Silly girl, say a wish out loud and it won't come true. Come on, let's cut the cake—everyone have a taste." Dalglish, sitting nearby, looked at the cream cake on the table and suddenly laughed out loud. Turning to Marina, he said, "Seeing this cake, I suddenly thought of that fellow Rush." Marina shot him a look, but a smile lingered at the corners of her mouth. She plainly knew he was about to dig up an old story. All the children turned to look at him. Dalglish leaned back in his chair, sinking into memory. "That was back when I was managing Liverpool. At the end of the '87 season, Rush was transferring to Juventus, and the whole team decided to throw him a surprise farewell party. We kept it from him—had the Morans use a dinner invitation as an excuse to lure him to a restaurant, then led him into a pitch-black private room. The moment I flipped on the lights, the whole team was there, cheering his name, and the guy's eyes went wide; he was utterly stunned. That night everyone drank themselves silly, staggering all over the place. And then, a tipsy Rush, carrying the farewell cake they'd all given him, quietly crept around behind Marina."