He sees the house as he is walking by; a boy walking from somewhere to nowhere. Within the helmet of unwashed hair a face lies, no older than ten, yet aged beyond his years. When he was born is not known to him … it isn’t important. He stops walking to look at the lights, hear the laughter emanating from within.
    Clothes – stolen from an overfull Salvation Army bin, and smelling like an animal had defecated in it – caught on rose bushes the size of small mountains as he made his way there, perhaps because of the many flashing decoration lights. He was not ignorant of the time of year – rather, he failed to see what made it such a happy time. It was a day much like any other, in his year.
    He pulls the sleeve of a dark green jumper up onto his shoulder; thankful for it, yet angry it was not his size. Kneeling beneath the meagre shelter of the eaves he looks in on the festive dining room as day reaches its powerful zenith.
    A mother and father sit with two kids. At the far end of the table, a baby is crying in its high chair. The boy outside only looks at them for a moment before turning his gaze to the food on the table. And a veritable smorgasbord it is. Roast chicken, thick slices of ham and turkey. Aluminium foil unwrapped to reveal smoking hot roast potatoes. Steaming bread rolls, succulent pineapple and beetroot. Gherkin and sweet onions. Rice salad and coleslaw.
    Through the open window he could smell it all – a feast fit for kings. He is so intent on the table he doesn’t hear the baby’s crying stop. His stomach wallows with want.
    The mother disappears. Despite the father’s requests, his two boys clamber out of their chairs to play beneath the tree, yelling and laughing. It isn’t a real tree, but it is covered in tinsel and baubles nonetheless.
    One boy grabs for a remote control, a small car begins tearing around chair legs. The other boy makes for a transformer, then makes a base for it out of the pile of wrapping paper in the corner.
    The boy outside scratches at sores beneath oily hair and wipes his nose.
    The father grins broadly as the mother enters with the pudding. She sets it on the table and serves a piece to everyone except the baby. The father reaches over and caresses its head, saying ‘Maybe next year’ with sorry eyes. The mother pours the custard. The kids stop playing and run back, afraid to miss out.
    The boy outside tries to hide as the mother’s nose wrinkles.
    Father notices it too, makes a face. ‘Probably a dog got into our front yard again, dear. I’ll close the window, you’ve earned a rest.’
    The boy shrinks against the wall beside the window, emerging only after he hears the dull footfalls with recede. Shut out, but never in to begin with.
    He imagines. Imagines what it would be like, being in that room, eating that food. Having a caring family. Having parents. Having the security of a roof overhead, one that no one could take from you. Not having to wonder where the next meal would come from. Not having to fear the weather.
    If Christmas was truly a time for giving, why didn’t he get anything? The boy peers inside again. He didn’t understand Christmas, didn’t understand how people that had everything he ever wanted got more, while he had next to nothing, so got nothing.
    Hardened by time, he did not cry. He felt he knew how the world worked on some grand scale, that perhaps the knowledge made him wise. But being wise did not help him, so he banished the thought.
    The boy outside looked in at the perfect white walls, a full wall bookshelf, and a floor littered with toys he did not comprehend. He despaired, then crept away, unable to withstand the torture.
    But the father paused with a spoon of custard-coated pudding halfway to his mouth, watching the boy as he made his way back to the road. He glanced at the others, saw that they had not seen the intruder. A moment of indecision gripped him. He cleared his throat loudly, tried to seem innocent as he grinned at the boys.
    ‘How about we … leave a few things for the elves, hmm?’ His wife gave him a curious look. He coloured. ‘It’s only fair – we did feed Santa last night, after all.’ The boys roared their approval from food-filled mouths.
    The father grabbed a bit of everything with nervous hands, then, sensing his wife did not want to see too much food gone to waste, grinned and left the room.
    ‘Where are you going with that, Claude?’ his wife’s voice floated down the hall behind him.
    He had to run to catch the boy. Even then he almost missed him – the sound of running feet almost startled him. But at the father’s insistence, with small words of encouragement and proffering the plate, the urchin re-entered the yard. The father looked back to the house, afraid his wife would see, but the tree on the corner of the driveway blocked his view, for which he was grateful. He set the plate down on the gravel and backed away, returning to the house once he saw the boy had started eating.
    He bumped into his wife on his way back to the back door. She grinned at him.
    ‘That was a very nice thing you did. Why didn’t you tell me?’
    The father turned at the little wooden gate, slipping an arm around her waist as they both watched the boy eating.
    ‘Well, I er, know what you’re like, sometimes. You don’t like waste.’
    ‘Waste! That isn’t waste.’ She leaned up and bit him on the earlobe. ‘Just when I think I know all there is to know about you. Come on inside, before the kids wreck everything.’
    The father fended her off playfully. ‘I should’ve known better to think you wouldn’t follow. Okay, just give me a minute and I’ll be there.’
    He turned back to look up the driveway, but the boy had already gone, the plate empty.
    ‘Merry Christmas boy,’ the father murmured.