No additional warnings for this scene.
The bets started early that year, before the first of December even rolled over. The odds were never good but money was put down anyway because it was tradition, and as Phyllis always took great pains to point out, the Guv was damn unpredictable at the best of times. There was always 1968, several people whispered with a conspiratorial air, and those who were there nodded knowingly in dismay.
Sam asked, of course, but no one said, only giving him snide looks or snickering behind his back, and so he assumed this was another ‘rite of passage’-1974-bullshit that he was going to have to live through, and he fervently hoped it had nothing to do with the Guv and a paddle. Chris tried to warn him, but Ray broke that up quickly, and when Sam at last turned to Annie she claimed it was not worth her life to discuss it.
He was forced to lay a marker on “no” because that was the bet, “yes” or “no” and he was hedging his own bets. He obliquely inquired to Gene about it, but – incredibly – Gene flushed red and stammered and finally just knocked him into a wall with the comment “not this year.” That was his entire refrain, in fact, “not this year” over and over, when anyone even mentioned the holiday party. No one would dare laugh at his face, but they felt free to laugh behind his back, and as the day of the holiday party drew near, Gene’s mood deteriorated to the point that he could clear a room just by walking by it.
When the party started, with several departments convening in CID – the only room in the building in which it was acceptable to get pissed, Sam unsurprisingly discovered – everything seemed normal. Normal for 1974, with horrible paper decorations and suspicious punch and a raft of desserts featuring marshmallows. The portable record player was scratchy and mono, and Sam cringed at Burl Ives, who was inescapable in every decade. The drink table, or tables, were laden with half the liquor supply in Manchester, and the entire Women’s Department eyed it warily, all agreeing to drive each other home early. But not too early, because the bet was on.
Sam actually wanted to leave before the Women’s Department, feeling that he ate his weight in ginger snaps and some odd pumpkin-cheese dip and drank enough to start feeling a bit ‘randy.’ He was urging Annie out the door with a few well placed, discreet gropes but incredibly, she refused to leave and set Chris on him, whom Sam would not grope for all the money of Babylon.
“Come on, Guv.” Phyllis snorted, raising her glass. Sam looked over at Gene. He was already pissed and it was not even nine o’clock yet, and he looked dangerously angry on top of that.
“Noooawp.” He drawled, and someone laughed but was shut up quickly.
“Tradition, Guv,” Phyllis said, annoyed.
“My arse.”
“Glady, Guv, if you don’t do it.”
Gene stared at her, and Phyllis stared at him, and he shook his head.
“I mean it, I’ll ‘ave your arse.” Phyllis pointed and Sam was the only one who laughed. Looking around, he saw that everyone was in a state of petrified horror, looking at Gene, holding their breath, and Sam had the ridiculous notion that Phyllis was daring him to moon them or something. He tried grabbing for Annie again but she pushed him off, transfixed.
“Go on, the lot of you sods. Drink or sumthin’.” Guv glared at them and waved his glass, but no one even twitched.
“Coward. Never thought I’d live to see the day Gene Hunt was scared.” Phyllis snorted again, and Gene stood up, bowing up, and Sam wondered if Gene ever really hit a woman before. “Oh no don’t you get like that! Yer own fault. My own grandson got more balls than you.” Phyllis slammed her drink and then crossed her arms.
Apparently, having his balls compared to Phyllis’ grandson’s was over the line, so Gene slammed his drink and stood up straight. A chill went down Sam’s spine and he counted the steps the to the door….
“The First Noel, the Angels did say
Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay…”
Tenor. The Guv was a tenor. Sam stared in a mixture of curiosity and horror, wondering if Gene could really pull this off.
“In fields where they lay keeping their sheep
On a cold winter's night that was so deep.
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel
Born is the King of Israel!”
The song kept going, and Gene kept the tune flawlessly a cappella. His voice rose and flowed to the words, and he hit all the notes perfectly with a booming resonance that vibrated through his audience. As he built up to a crescendo on the final verses, Sam slumped against the desk next to him in awe, and would swear later that he felt the desk itself vibrating. Gene’s eyes were closed and he looked entirely at peace in the song, moved by it, and capturing its splendor as if he lived among such precious, delicate beauty every day.
The final note drifted away like measured silk, gorgeous and perfect. Sam looked around and saw a few wet eyes, and the Women’s Department as a whole was utterly destroyed – except Phyllis, who was grinning like a cat. Not a second passed before wallets were being drawn out.
“Com’on, Boss. Pay up. You bet ‘no’, yeah?” Chris nudged him good naturedly. Sam just stared at him and then over at Gene, who collapsed into a chair with a full bottle in his arms which he clearly was not going to share. Chris nudge Sam again. “Choir boy. Used to solo for the Manchester Symphony Choir, ‘fore ‘e made DCI.” Chris explained nonchalantly, and Sam just shook his head, still speechless.
“Okay, Sam, we can go now.” Annie bounced up, happy and bright eyed.
Sam looked over at Gene, who despite the exquisite performance was the shattered picture of humiliation. He was carefully avoided by everyone around him as they all set about collecting on bets.
“No, I think we’ll stay for a bit, yeah?” Sam kissed her on the cheek and made his way over to Gene.