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Beth, I just love this story. And the spreads you’ve worked up are really wonderful. I know we’ll get a lot of interest in this one, I’m only sorry that I won’t be able to take you all the way through, but as you know, my own little arrival is about to put in an entrance. It’s been great working with you, and I’m sure you’ll be in good hands with Vanessa.
I’m wishing you great success for your little angel. You deserve it so much.
Much love
Karen x
It’s great that Karen likes my new idea, not so great that she’s gone on maternity leave during the biggest crisis of my career. Just as I pick up another version of the spread, and decide it’s as rubbish as the rest, I’m sidelined by my mother ringing.
‘So, what are your plans for Christmas?’
Typical Mum, straight to the point as usual.
I swear she asks this question earlier and earlier every year. Just in case Daniel and I have made devious plans to escape the Holroyd Family Christmas and booked a week away somewhere. As if we would. As if we could.
‘Mum, it’s August!’ I protest. I scrumple up the sketch and throw it on the floor, where it joins all the other discarded pieces of paper. I honestly don’t know what’s wrong with me, I don’t normally find it this hard to get my ideas down.
‘And soon it will be September and you’ll be too busy to talk to me.’ My mum does such a good line in passive aggression. I not only speak to her every other day, I’m usually round her house once a week. I am after all the dutiful one of the family. This is my job, while my erstwhile brother, Ged, takes gap years aged thirty-six and at thirty-eight my sister Lou lurches from one disastrous love affair to another. I’m the one who did things right: had a family, moved close to Mum and Dad.
They still live in the cosy cottage where I grew up in the small Surrey town of Abinger Lea. Our house is about a mile away from them. Initially we stayed nearer to London, in the house Daniel’s mum left him, but then when the children came along I needed some help and it seemed like a no-brainer to come here. We like being close to the countryside while having good train links with London, which has been useful for my work. Daniel used to work in an inner-London comprehensive, but he’s just about to start a job in the slightly larger town of Wottonleigh, which is only three miles away. That’s going to make life a lot easier.
It’s not as though I don’t like being near my parents, it’s just that sometimes I wish I wasn’t the ‘good’ sibling. It’s a feeling I’ve had more often than not lately. Mum and Dad are perfectly capable, but I seem to always be doing them little favours, like dropping Mum off into Wottonleigh when Dad’s busy playing golf, or going to the art classes I finally persuaded him to take (he’s always had a creative side, but he keeps it under wraps). And I seem to be on constant call to help them sort out their computer problems. I feel rubbish for being so resentful, particularly as they were always so great about babysitting when the kids were small, but sometimes I feel stifled by the fact that I’ve never quite managed to move away from my family.
Belatedly I realise Mum is still in full flow.
‘Anyway, as I always like to say, fail to prepare—’
‘Prepare to fail. I know, Mum,’ I say. ‘Anyway, we’ll do exactly what we do every year and come to you. I don’t know why you feel you have to ask.’
I’ve occasionally tried to change the ‘Christmas Plan’ by suggesting that I take the slack for Mum and have them all over here, as it’s not as though we don’t have the room. But she always knocks me back, and I’ve given up trying, even though the kids get more and more stroppy about it each year. Sam is going to be eighteen next year and Megan’s fifteen. They’re not little kids any more, and I think Mum forgets that sometimes, and doesn’t quite get that they have other things going on in their lives, particularly around Christmas time. The trouble is, Mum loves doing Christmas, so even though I have a family of my own, I don’t get a look in. The only time I was allowed remotely near the turkey was the year Mum had had a hysterectomy, and even then she sat directing operations from the lounge. Nightmare.
‘I just wanted to check, dear,’ Mum says, ‘in case you might have had other plans.’
I refrain from snorting. I know far, far better than to make other plans.
‘You’ve no need to worry, Mum, we’ll be there,’ I say, and put the phone down.
‘Who was that?’ Daniel wanders in from the garden, where he’s been working hard cutting the grass. Sweat is pouring off his brow, and he’s taken his T-shirt off. I take a minute to enjoy the view. At forty-two my husband bears a distinct resemblance to Adrian Lester, and is still pretty trim and sexy for his age. Sure we argue like all couples do, and in term time when he’s busy I sometimes wish we saw more of him. The great thing though is that despite the ups and downs of married life, I still fancy the pants off him, and that’s dead lucky at my age. I know so many women who moan constantly about their husbands. While we have our disagreements, Daniel and I still get on pretty well, and at this particular moment I am rather wishing we were alone in the house. Shame the kids are upstairs.
‘Mum,’ I say, in answer to his question. ‘I’d put your shirt back on before the kids see you, they’ll be horrified.’
Daniel looks upwards to their bedrooms.
‘I doubt they’re going to be downstairs in a hurry,’ is his wry response, and I laugh. It’s the summer holidays. They’re teenagers, it would probably take a bomb to get them up before lunchtime. He comes and gives me a kiss. I feel a little lurch of desire, and regret even more that the kids haven’t gone out for the day.
‘Ugh, you’re all sweaty,’ I say jokingly, pushing him away.
‘Just the way you like me,’ he teases. ‘What did your mum want?’
I roll my eyes. ‘To ask about Christmas. Honestly, it’s only August.’
‘Oh, come on, you love it,’ says Daniel, ‘the Holroyd Family Christmas is legendary. Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas if we didn’t go to your mum and dad’s.’
This is true. There was the year Dad accidentally set fire to his beard when he dressed up as Santa, and the year that Mum cooked the turkey with the giblets in by mistake, not to mention the year when Lou and Ged had a massive row and Lou ended up in floods of tears in the kitchen with me and Mum comforting her. Oh wait. That happens nearly every year. Perhaps Daniel is right. I suppose it wouldn’t be the same if we didn’t go.
The Christmas Day routine in our family never varies. Mum and Dad come back from church at 10.30 – some years if I’ve been nagged enough I join them – and we go round for drinks at eleven – Dad always believes in opening the bubbly early. Mum has usually been up since 6 a.m. slaving over the turkey so we can eat promptly at 1 p.m., making sure we have plenty of time for lunch before the Queen’s Speech, after which Dad makes us all sing the National Anthem. Depending on the levels of drunkenness (in which Mum disapprovingly doesn’t take part) this is either hilarious or excruciating. After that it’s a free-for-all with presents, and we collapse in front of the TV till Mum starts producing turkey sandwiches and Christmas cake. By this time Dad, Daniel and my brother Ged will have usually managed to demolish a bottle of port between them before Dad insists it’s time for Christmas charades, the bit of Christmas Day which I absolutely loathe. Everyone else always gets into the swing of it, but I’ve always hated it, ever since I was little. Dad gets really involved: I blame the fact that his job in insurance always suppressed his creativity, so he insists on letting rip at home. I hate standing up in front of other people and performing; I always find charades a massive trial. Maybe that’s why I’m an artist. I prefer to channel my creativity from behind an easel. Growing up hasn’t made it any more fun. I long for a charades-free Christmas, but I won’t be getting it any time soon.
‘It would just be nice to be at home one year, don’t you think?’ I say half-heartedly, but I know Daniel doesn’t really get it. His family are so different from mine. He was very close to his mum, who died shortly after we met, but he doesn’t get on well with his dad. They’re barely in touch. He very rarely talks about it, though I do know his dad was pretty useless when he was little. It makes me sad, because Daniel has so much love to give, and as an only child he has no family of his own since he lost his mum. From what he’s told me he had very quiet Christmases growing up, so he’s always loved being part of our family celebrations.
‘Nah, that means we’d have to do all the hard work. Come on, Beth, it will be fine.’ He comes over and gives me a big hug. ‘You’ll enjoy it – promise.’
Lou
I’m lying in bed with Jo one Saturday morning in August when Mum rings up.
‘Hi,’ I say, suddenly feeling immensely guilty. She doesn’t know about me, or about Jo. As ever, when I speak to her on the phone if Jo’s about I feel like there’s a big red sign on my head saying ‘Your daughter’s a lesbian!’ which she can somehow see. Which is ridiculous. One day I’ll tell her. One day. When I’m sure she won’t flip out and I won’t be cast from the family home. She and Dad are so old-fashioned I have no idea how they would take it. So I’m not going to be telling them any time soon.
‘Who’s that?’ says Jo, tickling my feet.
‘Mum,’ I mouth, trying not to giggle. I get up out of bed, not wanting to be distracted, not wanting to feel that I have to behave myself. Oh God, I wish it wasn’t like this. I wish I could tell my parents and my family who I really am. I haven’t even told my sister Beth. I want to, and she keeps hinting that Jo and I should come round, but I’ve let her think ‘Joe’ is a boy, and now I don’t know how to get out of it.
Jo of course doesn’t understand this. Her parents are perfectly relaxed with her being gay, in a way I can’t imagine mine ever being. So much so that it took me till my late twenties to really admit to myself that I was into women not men. At school being a lesbian was pretty much a dirty word, and I thought I was odd for being attracted to girls. So I continued to have awkward sex and fumbled encounters with men I didn’t fancy, until one day I realised I couldn’t go on with it.
But I still haven’t told my family, and now I don’t know how to. It’s pathetic to have got to thirty-eight and not come out to my parents, and I know Jo doesn’t understand it, but I can’t see a way to get around it.
I tune into what Mum is saying. Oh. Christmas. Of course. We have to have the Christmas conversation in August in my family. It’s bloody nuts.
‘Yes of course I’m coming for Christmas, Mum. Where else would I go?’
‘And you haven’t got anyone you want to bring?’ She dangles the question. Christ – does she know? Has she guessed by some kind of telepathic Mum power?
‘No, no one,’ I say. ‘But don’t worry – I’ll be there.’
‘Jolly good,’ she says. ‘And how are things at work now? Any better?’
I sigh. ‘Not really. We’re all still in limbo, just waiting to hear.’
I work in credit control and the company I’ve just joined is in trouble. They’ve told us there might be redundancies but, surprise surprise, no decisions have been made yet. The waiting isn’t fun at all.
‘Well, you keep me posted,’ Mum says, and I promise I will.
I get off the phone and get back into bed with Jo, lovely Jo, with whom I’ve spent a blissful spring and summer. I put my arms around her, trying not to think about work. I’ll cross that bridge if I come to it. For now, Jo is all that matters. We’ve had such a good summer; we’ve even spent a fabulous week in Greece together. I still can’t believe someone like her would be interested in me, and have to keep pinching myself because I feel so lucky.
‘What did your mum want?’ she asks.
‘She just wanted to know about my Christmas plans,’ I say.
‘Christmas? Now?’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘Mad innit?’
‘So what are your Christmas plans?’ she asks. ‘We could do something together if you want.’
Woah. I wasn’t expecting that. I’m completely nuts about Jo, but I can’t seem to shake the feeling that she’s too good for me. Maybe it’s just because I’ve had so many disappointments in the past. I don’t want to jump in head first when it could still all go down the pan.
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘I have great difficulties getting out of my family Christmas.’
‘Oh, go on Lou Lou, it will be fun.’ She seems a bit disappointed, which gives me a secret thrill. Much as I want to commit to it, I am too afraid to jinx what so far has been my most successful relationship yet. I prevaricate instead.
‘Christmas is ages away. Let’s not think about it now.’
So we don’t, and I put it to the back of my mind. If by any chance I’m lucky enough to still be with Jo at Christmas, I’ll worry about it then.
Daniel
‘Good luck.’ Beth kissed Daniel as he left the house at 8 a.m. for the first day at his new school. There was a lot riding on this new job for him.
‘I think I’m going to need it,’ he grimaced.
‘Oh ye of little faith,’ said Beth, ‘you’ll have them eating out of the palm of your hand by the end of the day.’
Touched as he was by her belief in him, Daniel wasn’t entirely sure whether that were true. Moving from the big inner-city comprehensive which he’d run for the last five years to a much smaller Academy in leafy Wottonleigh was a big leap. In many ways, it should be easier: the results were better, the majority of students spoke English as a first language, and the parents, by all accounts, were committed to both the school and their children’s education, which had been far from the case for so many of his former pupils. Daniel had loved working in London, but the stress of commuting and the strain of the job was becoming untenable. He and Beth hadn’t seen nearly enough of each other in the last few years, and he was uneasily conscious that he sometimes spent more time thinking about other people’s children than he did about his own. So the chance to work locally seemed too good to be true.
But … it was one thing being that rare beast – a black Head Teacher – in the inner city; it was quite another out in the sticks. Daniel was used to being one of the few black faces he saw every day in Abinger Lea, but would the parents at his new school accept him? And would the staff? The governors had given him the heads-up that his deputy, Jim Ferguson, had been certain Daniel’s job would be his. There was bound to be resentment, particularly if they disagreed on the running of the school, which after a couple of short meetings with his staff team, Daniel felt sure was likely. From what little he’d seen, Jim Ferguson was a yes-man, who liked to keep wheels well oiled. He was a capable administrator, but an uncharismatic teacher. People respected him, but they didn’t like him. It was why he hadn’t got the job.
‘This school needs new blood,’ Sarah Bellows, the Chair of Governors, had told him. ‘It’s doing well, but it could do better. It needs strong leadership and an inspiring educator in charge. We believe that’s what you can offer us.’
That, and the chance to bring the school up from Good to Outstanding in their next Ofsted report, which was due to happen some time in the spring term. Daniel was under no illusions that inspiring educator or not, the bottom line was they wanted better results. If he failed to deliver, they’d probably revert to Plan B and Jim Ferguson would get the job he craved. In the meantime, Daniel had to find a way of trying to bring him onside. He had a feeling it wasn’t going to be easy, a feeling that was confirmed when Jim arrived late at the staff meeting. It was a getting-to-know-you session, which Jim was supposed to be chairing. The fact that he couldn’t be bothered to turn up on time didn’t bode well. He didn’t seem impressed when Daniel outlined a few of his ideas about how to improve staff morale by using their freedom as an Academy to invest in proper pay structures, and allow younger teachers to see that there’d be opportunities for advancement if they worked hard. He also rolled his eyes when Daniel began to talk about setting higher standards of uniform conformity. He’d been horrified on a visit in the summer to see how lax the staff had been in implementing many of the school rules. He wanted to use his new role to ensure the students took the greatest pride in themselves and their school by giving them more responsibility for helping keep it tidy.
‘With all due respect, Head Teacher,’ said Jim, managing to make his title sound like an insult while smiling at him, ‘I think you’ll find morale at this school is very high, and that the students already take pride in their environment. I’m afraid you’ll find there’s very little to improve in that regard.’
‘It can’t hurt to take a look at it though, can it, Jim?’ Daniel said. ‘And please, no formalities, do call me Daniel.’
If there was one thing Daniel hated it was unnecessary bowing down to hierarchies. He had a feeling that Jim would see it differently.
‘Of course, Daniel,’ said Jim, with a smirk, managing again to make it sound sarcastic.
Unwilling to get into an awkward discussion on his first day, Daniel moved on, and by the end of the meeting felt he hadn’t acquitted himself too badly. It was clear that one or two members of staff were definitely Team Ferguson, but Carrie Woodall, Head of Maths, sidled up to him after the meeting and muttered, ‘Welcome on board, and don’t take any notice of Jim – he always likes to throw his weight around.’ Daniel smiled politely, but didn’t comment. It was good to know he had supporters though. Determined not to let Jim’s negative attitude ruin his day, he spent the rest of it trying to get a handle on what the job entailed. It was busy and exhausting, but by the end of it he felt exhilarated. The kids were nice and polite, the teachers, in the main, friendly, and even if he worked late, he lived a mere twenty minutes from home. More time with Beth. More time with the kids. Despite any difficulties that might lie ahead, this had been a good move.
*
Christmas Day
Beth
‘Merry Christmas.’
‘Bleugh.’ I awake gingerly, my head hammering from a combination of too much wine and not enough sleep, to see Daniel enter our bedroom bearing a tray with two glasses of fizz, and scrambled egg and salmon for breakfast. ‘Is it time to get up already?’
‘Afraid so, but I thought after the night you’ve had you deserved breakfast in bed.’
Although I could really do with staying in bed several hours longer, I’m touched by his thoughtfulness. I had hoped to be up and about early on Christmas morning, but thanks to Sam choosing last night to get spectacularly drunk I’ve barely slept. He’s started going out a lot more recently, and I’m struggling to get used to the nights of sitting up worrying where he is. Daniel tells me not to fret so much and tells me he’s just being a teenager, but it’s not easy. And last night, despite promising to be in by midnight, Sam finally staggered home at 3 a.m., having lost his iPhone in a nightclub, and promptly threw up everywhere. I hadn’t been able to sleep for worrying, and I came downstairs to find him lying with his arms wrapped round the base of the toilet bowl. I couldn’t get him upstairs so I ended up sitting up for the rest of the night, checking on him intermittently. I’ve only been back in bed for a couple of hours.
‘And this is for you,’ Daniel says with a flourish, handing me a present.
‘This doesn’t look much like a puppy,’ I say in mock disappointment. I’ve always wanted a dog, thinking it would be romantic to go for long walks together in the country, but Daniel can’t stand the idea. It’s been a standing joke with us for years that he’s going to buy me a puppy for Christmas. I know he never will.
‘Next year,’ he grins, giving me a kiss. ‘Anyway, I think you’ll like this more.’
I do like it. Daniel has thoughtfully bought me a set of paints and paper, and some lovely new pencils. He knows I’m still struggling with the book I’ve been working on all year.
‘Thought they might help boost the creativity,’ he says, as I lean over to kiss him.
‘Thank you, they’re perfect,’ I say. ‘And so are you.’
We stay together for several minutes in a cosy embrace, before Daniel says, ‘Breakfast?’ and I tuck into the scrambled eggs. The bed is so warm and comfy. I sigh, wishing once again we could stay at home this year. But no chance of that of course, so after breakfast, I go to call Megan and Sam, neither of whom want to move. They’re still not out of bed by the time Daniel and I have showered and dressed. We look at each other wryly. Time was when they’d have been up for hours by now, and we would be at the end of our tether. How life has changed.
Eventually we manage to bully them to get up, and we have just enough time to open a few presents, before chivvying them off to get ready to go to my parents’. Relaxing it’s not. One day I’ll manage to get the Christmas I want. One day …
Finally we load ourselves and several bags of presents into the car, with Megan whinging about wanting a lie-in, and Sam sitting in moody silence. His eyes are red and bloodshot from whatever poisons he thrust down his throat last night. I’m beyond cross with him, but it’s Christmas, so I’m determined to be cheerful. I put some Christmassy tunes on, but Sam moans that they’re making his head hurt. I heroically manage to restrain myself from snapping whose fault is that then? I feel that would be distinctly lacking in Christmas cheer.
Fortunately the drive is a short one, and while Daniel parks the car, the rest of us stagger into the house with the presents.
‘We’re here!’ I shout, pushing open the front door. ‘Merry Christmas!’
‘Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas!’ Dad comes bounding into the hall, which as usual is strung with horrible paper decorations we probably made in infant school. He’s dressed in his usual Santa Claus outfit; he insists on wearing it every year, even though it gets more and more threadbare. I can hear Christmas carols playing in the background, and begin to relax a bit. As usual, Mum will be chopping vegetables in the kitchen, warbling away to them. I take a deep breath. It is Christmas after all; I need to let go of my lack of sleep induced grumpiness.
Dad is waving a bottle of Prosecco around and looks rather red in the face. It’s unlike him to start drinking before we arrive, but never mind.
‘Still not got rid of that ghastly costume, Dad?’ I laugh. It’s a running joke every year.
‘Never!’ he says. ‘Bubbly anyone?’
I accept a glass, but Daniel says no as he’s being generous and driving this year. Sam looks like he might throw up at the thought, but I let Megan have a small one.
‘Where’s Mum?’
Is it my imagination, or does Dad suddenly look shifty?
‘Kitchen,’ he says.
Dad is in full mein host mode and ushers Daniel and the kids through to the lounge. Honestly, it makes me laugh how well he and Daniel get along now. To think of the grief I got when I first brought him home to meet them. It’s not that my parents are racist exactly, but I guess when imagining a much longed-for son-in-law, a black one hadn’t really featured, and Dad was quite sniffy at first. I can remember an excruciating occasion when he’d quizzed Daniel endlessly about his prospects. I wouldn’t have blamed Daniel for not giving my parents a second chance, especially as his own mum, in the short time I knew her, proved to be much less intolerant. But after she died, Mum forgot all about any prejudices she had and said, ‘That poor boy needs a mother.’ After that she really took him under her wing, and Dad quickly followed suit. Now they’re the best of friends, and you’d never know there had been a problem. Daniel is a forgiving sort, so he saw the best in them, and I have always loved him for it.
I wander into the kitchen to see if Mum needs any help. I always offer, even though I know her response will be to shoo me away, but to my surprise she’s barely made a start on the vegetables. She looks a bit pale and wan, and I feel guilty. I’ve barely seen her in the last month as I’ve been so wrapped up in my book. I have a sudden stab of worry that she might be ill.
‘Is everything OK, Mum?’ I ask.
‘Of course it is, why shouldn’t it be?’ she says, picking up a carrot ready to chop. ‘If you’re going to stand around in here, you may as well be useful.’ She hands me a knife.
