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‘Go away.’ Charlie was nose-down in his pillow.
‘Please don’t spoil the day, darling. I know Nanna’s irritating. She irritates me as well and no doubt, when I’m old, you’ll bin my false teeth so you can’t hear what I’m saying either.’
‘I hate Christmas.’
‘So do I.’ And I really meant it.
That made Charlie sit up. ‘How can you hate Christmas?’
‘How can you?’ I smiled, trying not to think of my gravy getting a skin on it. ‘Come on, love, help me out here.’
He got to his feet, torn between wanting a hug and wanting to be bolshie. ‘OK. Sorry.’
I squeezed his hand, or rather the cuff of his sweatshirt. At fifteen, Charlie didn’t seem to have hands any more. He scuffed down the stairs, still my little boy under that gangly mini-man.
In the dining room, I jollied everyone along, praying that Mum wouldn’t choose right now to need an apology. ‘Let’s pull the crackers.’ Polly snatched the fat end of the cracker from Immi, claiming ownership of some plastic earrings. Immi burst into tears and slid under the table, refusing to come out even when Polly handed them over.
As I slopped the chipolatas wrapped in bacon onto plates, I heard Stan throwing up his honeycomb centres in the kitchen. Season of festive fun, my worn-out old arse.
I wondered when I’d last enjoyed Christmas.
An image of peeling off wetsuits, dragging a windsurf up a deserted beach and huddling round a fire with a couple of beers and some prawns on skewers rushed into my mind. I could almost smell the Mediterranean maquis that grew along the seashore. My twenty-one-year-old self, with pink hair, toe rings and a penchant for batik, would be hard-pressed to recognise me now.
The age-old longing that I kept buried, occasionally bunging another layer of earth on top, caught me off-guard. I wondered if he ever thought about me.
Roberta (#ulink_403e2508-ed2a-531a-9700-1b9b7f60a89f)
Christmas Day in the Green household was a day for singing twee Australian songs. This year, I clung to the ritual as proof that we were still a family, rooted in our customs and traditions. I closed my eyes as I sat in the passenger seat, marvelling at Scott who was blasting out ‘Waltzing Matilda’ as though he were off to Bondi Beach with no more on his mind than the state of the surf. Despite Alicia’s entreaties, I couldn’t join in.
When we arrived at the hotel, I prayed that I’d made a good choice this year. I wasn’t sure I could face one of Scott’s forensic investigations into why they’d run out of red cabbage today. Scott strode in, making himself known to the staff, booming a big Happy Christmas to all. Alicia was right behind, light on her feet in her silver sandals, as wispy and delicate as Adele was stocky and stout. Granddaughter and grandmother linked arms together, pointing out the tree covered in glittery hearts and crimson ribbons. I glanced around at the other families and wondered if any of their smiles camouflaged upset so intense that they could feel it trembling in their chests.
Staff in black and white uniforms offered us Buck’s Fizz at the door to the wood-panelled dining room. Scott picked two from the tray. As we sat down, he handed one to Alicia.
‘She’s under eighteen. She can’t drink that in here,’ I said.
‘Lighten up. It’s Christmas, for God’s sake. Bloody British licensing laws. They’re not going to chuck us out. It’s only like a bit of lemonade and orange juice.’
Alicia looked at me, not knowing which way to jump. She’d been pretty subdued since my return from the police station and I hated her having to be the peacemaker, in the impossible position of trying to protect me without angering Scott. I put on a smile. ‘I’m sure Daddy’s right. Just don’t draw attention to it.’ She glanced round and took a big gulp.
Adele was cooing over the log fire. ‘In all these years I’ve never got used to Christmas in the sunshine.’ Off she went on her usual discussion about what it would mean to move back to Scotland now, but with all her brothers dead, and barely knowing her nieces and nephews, except that wee Caitlin who would keep coming out and staying for months on end …
Scott yawned and beckoned for some more drinks. Alicia started texting God knows who. Adele paused just long enough to order her meal then continued to reel off a never-ending list of relatives with respective geographical locations. ‘My cousin Archie is still in Aberdeen, but his wife, Siobhan, she passed away in 1999. No, let me think. Not 1999. It must have been 2000, because it was the year Sydney had the Olympics …’
My will to live was seeping away by the time the scallops on pea puree arrived. Scott raised his glass in a toast. Alicia’s glass was empty and two bright spots had appeared on her cheeks. I ordered her an orange juice. We drifted in and out of conversation, with Alicia quizzing Adele about whether you could tame a kangaroo while Scott quaffed the Châteauneuf he’d chosen.
Enormous platters of roast goose arrived. ‘I wonder how Octavia’s getting on cooking for her brood,’ I said. ‘It’s such a luxury to have it all done for you.’
Scott looked over at me. ‘She hasn’t trained Jonathan right, has she? Unlike you, who’s never cooked from day one.’
I put my mouth into a smile and kept my tone light. ‘That’s not true. I do cook, though I get a bit stressed if I’m catering for a lot of people or your business colleagues.’
Scott always liked to make out I was too idle to do anything myself, but the truth was he thought paying other people to clean, fix and garden was a sign that he’d arrived. He loved boasting that his wife didn’t have time to work because ‘managing the staff was a full-time job’. Despite Scott’s dismissive words, cooking was the one area where I still retained a little control.
Adele was brewing up opposite me, no doubt ready with some comment about how she always makes double the amount and freezes half of it, but Scott hadn’t finished.
‘Come off it. When did you last cook a proper meal? Something that wasn’t out of the freezer or the microwave?’ He stuck a whole potato in his mouth and sat back with his arms folded.
Alicia frowned and put her fork down. ‘Dad, that’s not true. Mum was cooking fish pie the other night when you called the police on her. And she’d made that asparagus quiche she’d seen in a magazine.’
Adele jerked round to face Scott. ‘Police? What police? Scotty?’
Scott ignored her. Everything in me tightened, ready for blast-off. Before I had time to think of a cover-up, if a cover-up were possible, Scott turned on Alicia. Bits of potato flew out of his mouth, sticking to his wine glass. ‘If you hadn’t gone out dressed like a little trollop then I wouldn’t have got angry with your mother.’
I put out a calming hand. ‘Anyway, that’s all over and done with. We were both a bit silly. Come on, let’s not spoil Christmas Day.’
I expected Alicia to back down and appease Scott as she usually did, but she surprised me. ‘I’m not spoiling it, Dad is. I wasn’t dressed like a trollop, was I, Mum?’ Alicia said.
‘I’m not going to discuss any of this now,’ I said, making a conscious effort to keep my voice low.
The Buck’s Fizz had unleashed a bravery in Alicia I’d never seen before. ‘There was nothing wrong with what I was wearing. It’s called fashion, Dad. You’re always ruining everything. Keira’s mother saw the police taking Mum away on Thursday night. All my class were asking me how many years she’d got and pretending to put handcuffs on me.’ Her bony shoulders were hunched up around her ears.
‘Why did the police take Roberta away?’ Adele was wide-eyed. ‘Scotty? You didn’t tell me that.’
I was just working out which words I was going to put together to form an explanation that wouldn’t wreck the whole day when Scott slammed down his knife and fork with such force it made the glasses chink together.
Scott scraped back his chair but didn’t get up. ‘Mum, shut up. It’s none of your bloody business.’ I had my hand on his arm to quieten him down, but it was too late. ‘Don’t you dare shush me. If you weren’t such a shit mother, I’d never have called the police in the first place.’
The silence in the dining room dominoed from table to table until the only noise was the laughing and banter from the customers by the window. I steeled myself to look round. The Maître d’ was bristling his way over.
‘Everything all right, sir?’
‘Yes. Fine.’ Scott didn’t sound contrite or conciliatory.
The Maître d’ didn’t go away. I was aware of the woman at the next table telling her children to be quiet and turning their heads away from us. I closed my eyes. I wanted to smile and pretend everything was OK. I looked down at my plate and picked up my fork. My stomach wouldn’t co-operate. It had shut down, closed over like a pair of lift doors. Alicia was huddled in her chair, tension radiating from every pore.
Adele stepped in. ‘Sorry for the noise. My son is a very passionate man and I think I may have spoken out of turn. That’s families for you. We know how to push each other’s buttons, don’t we, Scotty?’
Scott mumbled something and the Maître d’ offered a crisp, ‘Very well, sir,’ and clipped off again.
Nobody spoke. Not even Adele. Alicia sat opposite me with fat tears dropping onto her plate. I reached over for her hand. She gripped my fingers hard, like she used to when she was a toddler and a dog sniffed at her. ‘I can’t eat any more.’
Maybe it was the rasp in her voice. Or the whispers in the dining room. The heads craning round pretending to look for a waiter, but having a jolly good stare at the wife with the atrocious husband instead. Alicia’s humiliation was tangible, her whole body rigid. We were supposed to protect her, not invite ridicule. I looked at Scott. His jaw was set, that familiar look of self-justification clamped around his features. A hot rush of emotion coursed through me. Then a surge of release as though I’d removed a pair of crippling shoes.
Just because I wanted our marriage to work didn’t mean I could make it work.
I was never going to make it right. Never. I got quietly to my feet, fished in my bag and handed the BMW key to Alicia. ‘Just pop out to the car for a minute, darling.’
Alicia hated being the centre of attention, and relief mingled with her confusion. She scuttled past Scott before he had time to argue. I looked at Adele, who was fiddling with her necklace and looking every one of her sixty-eight years. ‘I’m sorry, Adele. We shouldn’t have let you come over this year. We’ve had a bit of a tough time lately.’
I sucked myself in, clenching every muscle in my stomach in case I suddenly jellyfished onto the floor. There was only one chance to say this. I screwed up my eyes, then dived in. I forced out little more than a whisper.
‘I’m leaving you.’
Scott sat back in his chair, hands in the air in disbelief. ‘Don’t be silly. Where are you going to go? Come and sit down.’
I couldn’t say anything more. Too many eager faces were waiting for my next move. Yet another occasion when a random crowd would witness Scott ‘having his say’. I’d add it to the list of sunny barbecues spoilt by a wine-fuelled argument with the host. Parties when Scott had decided to ‘have a word’ with a guest he deemed to be flirting with me. Meals where the chef’s opinion on what made the perfect dish differed from Scott’s. Enough of my life had been played out in public. I stared at the man I’d loved for so long.
Maybe I still loved him. Now I had to save myself. And Alicia.
He looked like he didn’t believe me, as though he somehow thought he had the magic word, the clever spell to bring foolish Roberta back in line. My last glimpse of him was sitting there puzzled, as though he’d been showering me with compliments and I’d taken umbrage at nothing.
I turned round and concentrated all my energy on putting one foot in front of the other. I squeaked out a ‘thank you’ and a ‘sorry’ to the Maître d’ at the door without stopping to hear his reply. Just a corridor to go. A courtyard with a Christmas tree. A patch of grass. Then the car. Alicia was standing by the passenger door as pale as an icicle in the sun. I pushed out the last words I could manage.
‘I’m sorry, darling. I’ve left your father.’
Octavia (#ulink_33c7f3f3-e67e-56b6-b066-df3da9780e8c)
Christmas Day wasn’t a day for unexpected visitors, so when the doorbell rang, I assumed it was carol singers and left Jonathan to deal with them while I organised the Christmas pud. I’d poured the brandy over it and Polly was about to take centre stage lighting it, when Jonathan shouted through to me.
‘Roberta’s here. And Alicia.’ Jonathan didn’t do gushing welcomes.
I came out into the hallway, squeezing past Jonathan and all the anoraks breeding away on the coat hooks. Jonathan clearly thought he’d covered the social niceties and disappeared back into the dining room. I hugged Roberta. ‘Happy Christmas. Hello Alicia, darling. Come on in. Have you had a good day? You’re early. I thought we were walking at four.’
Before she could reply, Polly shouted from the dining room. ‘Mum! Mum! When are we going to light the pudding? Charlie says he’s doing it, but I want to.’
‘I’m coming. Just a sec.’
I turned back to Roberta. She was silent, flicking at the tassels of her scarf. My smile faded.
She stepped forward. ‘I’m sorry to do this to you on Christmas Day. I know you’ve got your own issues to deal with.’ She didn’t get any more out. Just stood there, silent tears running down her face. Alicia was wary, her face buttoned-up and defensive. I did an inward sigh.
‘Not more trouble with Scott?’
Roberta nodded.
Polly shouted again.
I took Roberta’s arm. ‘Oh God. Shit, just let me do the Christmas pud with Polly, then I’ll be right with you. Come through.’
‘It’s OK. I’ll sit in the kitchen. You finish lunch. We don’t want to get in your way.’ Roberta looked gaunt. I wanted to bring her in and warm her up with chunky soup and beef stew.
I ushered her down the hallway. ‘Make yourself a cup of coffee. Alicia, there are some little chocolates on the side, lovey, help yourself.’
I dashed into the dining room and sat back down next to Polly. Jonathan raised his eyebrows. Turning away so Mum couldn’t see, I pulled a ‘yikes’ face at him. As Polly snatched up the matches, I put my hand out for them. ‘Here, let me show you.’
‘I can do it. I’m not a baby.’ She scraped away until the match snapped.
‘Isn’t Roberta coming in to say hello?’ Mum asked.
‘Not just yet. She didn’t want to interrupt our lunch.’ Roberta wouldn’t need Mum’s tuppence-worth today.
‘It’s very rude to leave her in the kitchen.’
I cut Mum off, leaving her pursing her lips and muttering about common courtesy. I turned back to Polly.
‘Right, darling. Have another go. Strike it gently, but quickly.’ I was itching to put my hand over hers and hurry her along, conscious of Roberta sitting next door with her life going up the Swanee while we were faffing about with the finer points of pyrotechnics.
Tongue out in concentration, Polly raked the match across the box until, to everyone’s relief, it finally burst into flame. I pushed the pudding across to her. The brandy lit with a whoosh. Polly beamed. I glanced through the hatch at Roberta. I wondered if she wanted to stay the night. Jonathan had already given me the belt-tightening speech, as if I needed it. He wouldn’t be sharing out his dinner too eagerly.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Polly lean forward to sniff the brandy that was licking about over the pudding in a purple haze. I managed to say ‘Careful’ before a flame burned its way up a length of her brown hair. She screamed. Jonathan grabbed a serviette and his glass of wine and belted round the table, sloshing and smothering. I shot out of my chair, patting at her with the edge of the tablecloth.
Polly started crying, ‘My face, my face.’
The room smelt as though I’d let a pan of rice boil dry. Jonathan dashed into the kitchen, shouting at Roberta to get some ice out of the freezer. Immi came flying round and clung to me, shock pinching her face. I cuddled her while I inspected the damage.
A chunk of hair had burnt off about halfway up, the charred ends black against the pale brown. A red welt ran vertically up her cheek.
Jonathan raced back in with a bowl of iced water. Polly was shaking as we bathed her face. Jonathan held back her hair, shushing her gently. ‘It’s going to sting for a bit, but you’ll be OK.’
‘What about my hair? They’ll all laugh at me at school.’ Her little chest was heaving up and down.
‘We were going to get it trimmed anyway. The hairdresser will sort it out.’ I leaned towards Jonathan. ‘Do you think she needs to go to hospital?’
I thought I’d whispered, but Polly wailed, ‘Hospital? I don’t want to go to hospital.’
Jonathan frowned. ‘No, I don’t think so. Let’s see what it looks like in a few minutes.’ He carried on holding Polly’s hand and telling Immi not to worry. Charlie had already decided that Polly was being a drama queen.
Roberta’s head appeared through the hatch. ‘Is she OK?’
I nodded. ‘I think the skin might blister a bit but it’s not too bad. You’d better stay out there.’
Roberta nearly managed a smile. At the sight of anything worse than nettle rash, Roberta was a great one for fainting to the floor like a Victorian duchess.
While we held Polly’s cheek in the water, I murmured to Jonathan that Roberta might need to stay the night.
‘On Christmas Day?’
I must have looked incredulous that Roberta’s whole world was going tits up and Jonathan was quibbling over a clash of diaries.
‘Go and deal with them. I’ll look after Polly,’ he said, pulling her into a cuddle.
I called Alicia through and persuaded Charlie, with a bribe of cheesy footballs, to show her how to play Rugby League Live on the XBox. Alicia perched on the footstool, straight-backed. She always looked as though she was doing you a favour by sharing the air in the room. I could see why my children found her hard to warm to.
I grabbed a bottle of Shiraz and another of Chablis, and went to join Roberta. Wine cutbacks would have to start another day.
‘What’s happened now?’ I poured us both a huge glass of wine.
‘I’ve left him. I hope I’ve done the right thing.’
