In the church hall, there was a table set out with cups and saucers and thermal jugs labelled ‘tea’ and ‘coffee’ and plates of biscuits. There were also jugs of juice: orange and lemon and blackcurrant and bottles of water. A woman with gorgeous dark curly hair was studying them to choose which one she wanted, and apologised for being in Palma’s way.
‘I’d have dived straight into the coffee a couple of months ago but I think I’ll be hitting the juice,’ said Palma, in an effort to break the ice.
‘I’ve lost my taste for it too,’ smiled the woman. ‘This is my second baby so I knew I’d feel like that and it does come back, but I can’t even say that word’ – she pointed to the tea flask – ‘without gagging. I’m Raychel, by the way.’
‘Palma.’ She smiled and wished she could have wild gypsy hair like that.
‘Oh, that’s a pretty name. I might add that to my list of possibles, if it’s a girl.’ Raychel touched her stomach lovingly. ‘I don’t want to find out what sex the baby is until I give birth, though. I like the element of surprise.’
‘Hello,’ said another woman who joined them. ‘I’m Annie. Bit nervous.’
‘I’m Raychel and I’m a bit nervous too.’
‘I’m Palma, and so am I.’
‘Want one of these whilst I’m pouring?’ asked Raychel, tipping the blackcurrant juice into a plastic cup.
‘Thanks, but I’ll have the lemon. Not those.’ She pointed to the flasks, her finger fixing on the one that held the tea. ‘I can’t even say that word without gagging.’
Raychel and Palma both chuckled.
‘Just said exactly the same,’ Raychel explained. ‘That’s why we’re laughing.’
‘Awful, isn’t it. I used to love a cup of tea so I hope I get the taste back.’
‘You will. I know because this is my second baby. But I’ve forgotten so much so I thought I’d come to these classes when they were suggested.’
‘I thought everyone here would be your age,’ said Annie to Palma. ‘I love your pink hair, by the way.’
Palma would rather have had Annie’s colouring any day: olive skin, black hair, pretty brown eyes. She’d dyed her hair black once and it made her look dead.
‘Thanks. You look as if you should have an Italian accent,’ said Palma.
‘I’m a fake Italian,’ said Annie. ‘I look more Italian than my Italian husband. No idea why.’
A few more women had walked in now and were milling around the table.
‘Help yourself to tea, coffee and juice, ladies,’ said a small, rotund midwife in a blue nurse’s top and navy trousers, ‘and then we’ll begin.’ She was standing with the midwife Annie had seen at the surgery – Chloe.
Palma, Raychel and Annie took their places in the circle of chairs. Far more had been set out than there were people and so the two midwives started removing some and closing the gaps. Palma noticed that only one woman was holding a cup and saucer, all the others had glasses of juice.
‘Do take your seats please, girls,’ said Chloe, thinner and much taller than the other midwife and wearing thick-rimmed glasses. Together they looked like the medical version of Morecambe and Wise.
‘Hello, ladies,’ said Morecambe. ‘My name’s Chloe and this is Sharon and we are your Christmas Pudding Club midwives.’ Sharon gave them a wave and a smile. ‘Dr Gilhooley’s idea – the younger, that is – I presume most of you are his patients?’ Her tone somehow intimated that they register an affirmation with a raised hand. ‘By the way, if you’ve brought your notes with you, you don’t need them here.’
‘I take them everywhere,’ said a long-faced woman whose ginger hair was scraped back into a tight ponytail. ‘They’re always in my bag.’
‘Well, better that than forgetting them, but you don’t need them here for future reference. So . . . anyway . . . it’s a new one for us too, so you are the real suck-it-and-see ladies,’ said Sharon, which caused a snort from the ginger woman, ‘but it does seem a really great idea to us to have a longer time of interaction between you new mums-to-be, because you are very likely to build up your closest friendships through your children. In fact Chloe and I had our children at the same time, didn’t we, Chloe?’ Sharon turned to the other midwife, who answered, ‘We did indeed, Sharon.’
‘Twenty-six years ago,’ said Sharon. ‘And I’m still trying to get my baby weight off.’
A ripple of laughter ensued.
‘So we thought we’d start by breaking the ice and you tell us your name and a little bit about yourself. Nothing too scary, just something so we can begin a conversation. Shall we start here?’ She pointed to Palma, who gulped.
‘Come on, first one gets it out of the way fastest,’ Chloe encouraged her.
Palma cleared her throat.
‘Hello, I’m Palma Collins. I’m twenty-two and this is my first baby. I’m single and I was recently made redundant.’ She wasn’t quite sure how much she should say but everyone was staring at her expecting more. ‘I’ve been looking for a job but all I seem to be doing at the moment is being sick so I hope that goes away quick.’ She dried up and her mouth opened and closed without anything more coming out.
‘What would you like from these meetings, Palma?’ asked Chloe, smiling at her.
‘Er . . . a bit of support. Some information. A job,’ she chuckled but no one else did and then she felt stupid. ‘I don’t really know what to expect because I don’t know anyone who’s had a baby and I’m not really in touch with friends I used to have so . . . I suppose . . . not being alone through it all would be . . . would be good.’
‘How many weeks are you, Palma?’ asked Sharon.
‘Nine tomorrow.’
‘Well in a couple of weeks, you should be through that sicky period with any luck and you’ll feel much better. Thank you, Palma. Now you, love.’ Sharon moved her eyes to the next woman on.
‘Hi, I’m Raychel. I’m married to Ben, a builder, and we have a son but I’ve forgotten quite a lot about being pregnant so I thought it would be good to come. I really enjoyed my parentcraft classes the last time but my little boy was born early so I only got the chance to go to two. I thought this was a great idea having meetings much earlier on in the pregnancy.’
There was a chorus of nodding and a stray beat of a clap. Chloe nodded at Annie for her to begin.
‘Hi, everyone.’ There was a tremor in her voice. ‘I’m Annie. Married to Joe and we have a cracker factory, the ones you pull, not the ones you eat. And I’m forty-eight. And I thought I was either going through the menopause or poorly. We’ve been trying for years to have a baby and it didn’t happen. IVF failed – a few times – and we’d resigned ourselves to never being parents. And . . .’ She beamed. ‘Here I am. Better late than never. And . . .’ She froze then. ‘I can’t think of anything else to say, except that it’s nice to meet you all. And I look forward to sharing your journey.’
The next woman said that she’d been trying for a baby with her first partner but they’d split up before they’d actually gone down the IVF route. Now she was married to a policeman and she’d fallen pregnant straightaway. Her name was Cheryl. She said she was part-owner of Lady Muck, the cleaning firm.
Then there was Colleen who admitted that the baby had come as a real blow to her and her husband as both of them were totally focused on their careers and she felt shell-shocked and disorientated. She looked shell-shocked too. And trapped. She had great big brown eyes like a frightened fawn and dark circles around them as if she hadn’t been sleeping properly. There was Di, the tall woman with the ginger hair and wide shoulders, who said that she’d split up with the father of her baby after she found him in bed with her mother (gasps ensued), and she was quite happy raising the baby by herself because she didn’t need a man around – they were all useless tossers. And finally Eve, who told them that she was having her first baby with her husband and they ran the theme park Winterworld. She said that she had only felt sick once so far so considered herself one of the
lucky ones, but she’d been having bad headaches and was so, so tired all the time.
‘What a lovely bunch you all are,’ said Chloe with a wide smile. ‘We thought that for the first session we’d talk to you about eating and drinking. What’s safe, what you should avoid. There are a lot of old wives’ tales circulating, as you’ll have heard. Sharon, have we got those handouts?’
The hour flew. Palma wished it could have gone on for longer because she’d learned lots and had a laugh. She didn’t feel so alone in her predicament now and it was so much better being told things first-hand like what foods were okay to eat, without wading through lots of conflicting information on the internet.
‘Some silly cow told me I couldn’t eat any cheese,’ said Di. ‘And I bloody love cheese. I’m going to go home now to make myself a big plateful of cheddar toasties.’
‘Oh, can I come?’ said Cheryl.
‘You’ll have to bring your own cheese,’ laughed Di. ‘I’m not sharing my Cathedral City with anyone.’
‘See you all next time,’ smiled Eve. It was a bummer to learn that she should stay away from pâté because she and Jacques often had warm crusty bread and pâté for supper. She’d crave it now she wasn’t allowed it. The law according to Sod.
Palma was about to walk out when a hand on her arm arrested her. It was the ‘fake Italian’ Annie.
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, love, but were you serious about wanting a job?’ she said.
‘Yes, I was,’ replied Palma.
‘We’re desperate for a cracker-stuffer in our company,’ said Annie. ‘It’s not hard and you sit down so it would be ideal for you being pregnant. We’ve got a lovely working environment and though it’s minimum wage, there will be overtime, cash in hand. We’re on the industrial estate between Maltstone and Higher Hopp—’
‘I’ll take it,’ said Palma. She knew where it was and that road was on a bus route. She could pick it up on Dodley High Street and be there in ten minutes. ‘Do you need any references or anything? I’ve got one from my last employer. It’s only a takeaway food place but I work hard . . .’ She was gabbling, she knew it, but couldn’t stop.
‘Okay, if you have a reference, that would be good.’ Annie felt as if she’d met a match on a dating site. ‘When can you start? The sooner the better for us. Monday?’
‘Tomorrow? If you don’t mind me throwing up occasionally.’
Annie laughed. ‘We might have to fight for the loo. We’ve only got the one.’
Palma’s smile was radiant. ‘What time?’
‘We start at nine. Finish at five. We break for lunch, there’s a lovely sandwich shop on the same estate. And there’s as much tea and coffee – or juice – as you can drink during the day.’
It sounded perfect. Palma couldn’t believe her luck. ‘I’ll be there,’ she said.
And Annie knew she would be.
Chapter 26
As Joe and Annie’s car pulled into the trading estate the next morning, there was the welcome sight of someone standing outside the factory door.
‘Is that her, with the pink hair?’
‘Yes, Iris, that’s her.’
‘Let’s see how long she lasts,’ said Iris with a sniff. ‘What was her name again?’
‘Palma,’ said Joe.
‘Palma? Well, at least she’s not named after a plank of wood.’
Annie didn’t have Iris’s doubts, for once. She climbed out of the car quickly and greeted Palma with a smile. The girl’s thin coat was wet through with rain.
‘Come on, let’s get you inside, Palma,’ she said, pulling the keys from her handbag. ‘You should have brought your umbrella today. Have you been standing here long?’
‘Not really. I can either get a bus that gets me here at twenty to, or one at ten past and I didn’t want to be late.’
‘Oh, music to my ears,’ said Joe, grabbing her hand and shaking it vigorously. ‘Welcome to The Crackers Yard, Palma. I am Joe, Annie’s slave.’
Annie opened the door and disabled the alarm. ‘Get that wet coat off and let me hang it up for you so it’ll dry.’ Palma gave it to her. She had a smart summer dress on, as opposed to Annie in her jeans.
‘I didn’t know what to wear,’ she explained.
‘Wear what you like,’ said Joe, coming in. ‘As long as you do the work, you can come dressed as Pinocchio. Can I introduce you to Iris, our next-door neighbour and star cracker-stuffer.’
‘Hello,’ said Iris, giving Palma the once-over. ‘Going to stick around, I hope. These good folk are fed up of setting people on and them disappearing into a black hole.’
It appeared as if all the sins of the last would-be employees had been fashioned into a chain for Palma to wear around her neck.
‘I’ll not be going anywhere,’ she replied.
Iris’s head gave a little jerk, a gesture that said, ‘we’ll see.’
Joe rubbed his hands together. ‘We always start off with a nice warm drink, Palma. What can I get you? We have some nice fruity teas now – or a hot chocolate maybe?’
‘Just a glass of hot water please,’ said Palma.
‘Best way to start a morning,’ said Iris, with a nod of agreement. ‘Plus a squirt of lemon juice. Gets your kidneys stimulated. I’ll have an undecaffeinated coffee please, Joseph.’
‘So, you mean an ordinary one,’ tutted Joe.
‘Well, yes, but I’m making the point that I don’t want one of those coffees from the jar with the green stripe on it.’
‘And this is what I have to work with,’ said Joe, with a flat palm extended in Iris’s direction. ‘No wonder no one stays around.’ He walked off to make the beverages, still chuntering to himself.
‘Palerma, come and sit next to me and I’ll show you what to do,’ said Iris.
‘It’s Palma,’ shouted Joe from the kitchen, then he bobbed his head around the door. ‘She called me Joe Pancetta for three whole years before she finally got it right.’
‘For large orders we use those machines, Palma,’ began Iris, ‘but they can only glue in the snap and then roll, they can’t stuff. It’s the hand-rolling no one likes. Watch me. Sellotape the snap in first. Then I’m folding the flaps outside in. Make a nice round tube as you start closing the cracker. Then I push all three flaps into the corresponding slits over the top, middle one first to hold it, then give it a little roll to shape. Now I tie one end with ribbon, can you see? Then in goes my hat, my joke and my novelty. Then we close it by tying the other end with ribbon. And snip off the excess.’
‘Looks straightforward enough,’ said Palma.
‘Make sure your bow is to the front. It’s more of a craft than you might give it credit for. We do them properly in The Crackers Yard.’
Annie gave her new worker a wink. Iris was in her comfort zone being, well . . . Iris.
Before half an hour had passed, Palma was stuffing crackers at the rate of knots and Annie felt a large chunk of weight shift from her shoulders. Palma was going to fit in perfectly with them, she could tell.
*
Effin was going out of his nut, he was sure. He and Thomas the train driver, Huw the engineer and Dylan were standing at the side of the Nutcracker Express train – which was a piece of engineering with a mind of its own – having the sort of conversation which should have been a Monty Python sketch.
‘Pam ddiawl bo’r cyfarwyddiade ma – sy, gyda llaw, yn y Gymraeg i chi bois o Gymru –yn cael eu anwybyddu? Ydw i ’di cal smac yn y chops? Ydw i di mynd yn hollol mental? Ydw i’n jabran yn Japanîs?’ He was gabbling so fast that not even his countrymen could understand him and looked blank. ‘Oh for . . .’ He bit off the expletive and began to talk slowly – in English, so that young Dylan could also enjoy his rhetoric. ‘Why the hell are these instructions – which, by the way, are in Welsh for you Welsh lads – being ignored? Have I had a smack in the chops? Have I gone totally mental? Am I jabbering away in Japanese?’
Huw and Thomas exchanged baffled glances. Effin decided t
hat he might have had more success if he had been jabbering away in Japanese.
‘I told you to sort out the brakes, Huw.’ Effin rustled a wad of paper in his face. ‘I gave you a copy of these plans that should solve every problem this bastard train has.’
‘When?’ asked Huw.
‘Monday. We was standing ’ere and we had a whole conversation about it,’ said Effin, keeping a lid on his temper which was threatening to boil over. Huw, top-class worker as he was, had a brain the size of a wasabi pea. Ordinarily Effin would have had no doubt in his head that the discussion had taken place, but not at the moment. Not with all the lapses of memory he’d been having lately.
‘Did we?’ asked Huw, chewing on his finger as if that would help with his recall. ‘Where did I put them then?’
‘How should I know? And yes, we did. You were telling me you’d won twenty-five quid on the lottery,’ said Effin.
‘I did win it,’ said Huw with a grin. ‘But I can’t remember telling you that.’
‘How the bloody hell else would I know about it?’ asked Effin. ‘I don’t have a crystal bolycs ball, do I?’
‘My Auntie Rhonda had a crystal ball,’ smiled Thomas, warmed by a sudden memory. ‘She forecast the death of John Lennon in it. Only detail she got wrong was the place. She said one of the Beatles would get killed in York but—’
‘Thomas, I couldn’t give a flying fart about your Auntie Rhonda. Huw, I told you to mend the brakes, and because I suspected you were off in fairyland as usual,’ he said as he turned towards Dylan, ‘I asked young Dylan here yesterday to remind you.’
He didn’t like the look that Dylan was giving him. Total confusion. ‘What?’ he barked at him. The first time he had ever raised his voice to the young man.
The Mother of All Christmases Page 13
