The Mother of All Christmases

by Milly Johnson

‘Is it your birthday?’

  ‘Yes. Today.’ He hadn’t known. So what were the flowers for? ‘Would you like a cup of coffee or something?’

  ‘Tea, please. And Happy Birthday.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Tommy sat down on her sofa and his hands reached for each other as if he were nervous about something.

  ‘I’ll go and get you one.’ She remembered how he took it. Whilst the kettle was boiling she put the flowers in the vase he’d brought full of freesias the last time he was here. She’d arrange them properly later and snip off the bottoms, but they’d do for now. She set them down in the middle of her small dining table then went back into the kitchen to brew the tea, all the time wondering why he’d come because he was sitting in silence and she wasn’t going to prompt him.

  ‘Thank you, they’re lovely,’ she said, delivering a mug to his waiting hands, hoping he wouldn’t notice how shaky her own hands were. Then she sat on the other side of the sofa, with a good space between them, and waited for him to explain what he was doing here because he seemed to be in no hurry to. He took a sip before putting his drink down on a coaster on the coffee table slowly, as if stalling for time. Or building up courage.

  ‘How’s things with you?’ she asked eventually before the tumbleweed starting blowing across the room.

  ‘Palma, I’m really sorry,’ Tommy said, looking down rather than at her. ‘I haven’t really known what to say to you.’

  ‘About what?’ she asked.

  ‘You, your . . . situation . . .’

  ‘It’s okay,’ she replied, impressed at her own coolness. ‘It must have come as a bit of a shock. I didn’t know how to tell you.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I shouldn’t have walked out on you like that.’

  ‘Really, I understand.’

  ‘You helping someone out like that. It’s massive.’

  Ah. She gave it thirty seconds before he walked out again.

  ‘My situation, as you put it, has changed,’ she said.

  Tommy’s head snapped up. ‘You haven’t . . . you know, got rid of it, have you?’

  ‘No,’ said Palma quickly. ‘I mean, it all fell through. The couple split up. They don’t want the baby anymore. So I’m keeping it.’

  ‘What? Really?’ He seemed shocked.

  ‘Yes, Tommy, I am.’ She felt slightly annoyed by his tone. What business of his was it anyway? He’d made his feelings clear the last time he was here, so what did he want? Why the flowers? Why the questions? She could start asking him a few of her own. Did ‘Katie’ with the knocker-showing dress know he was here, for a start?

  ‘That’s a shame,’ he said, reaching for the mug, lifting it to his lips again, putting it back down. ‘For the baby I mean. Not being wanted.’

  ‘The baby is wanted,’ said Palma, her jaw tightening. ‘I want her. She’s mine. She doesn’t need a feckless knobhead of a father who only agreed to it all for a quiet life. And no, I didn’t know that before I entered into the arrangement, before you ask. I thought I was giving a childless couple something they were desperate for and couldn’t have themselves, not saving a woman’s bloody figure and—’

  ‘Whoa . . . whoa.’ Tommy held his hands up to stem the flow of her ever-increasing agitation. ‘You don’t need to defend yourself to me.’

  ‘Why are you here, Tommy?’ Palma demanded.

  ‘Because I haven’t been able to get you out of my head, Palma, that’s why.’

  Well that shut her up.

  ‘Since that night in the park, you remember?’

  ‘Of course I remember. I’ve got the scars to prove it.’

  She saw a smile quirk his lips and it spread to her own, annoyingly, even though she fought it.

  ‘I even switched supermarkets so I wouldn’t bump into you and I still did and I knew you’d switched supermarkets so you wouldn’t bump into me.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Palma. ‘I told you, I needed oranges.’

  He wiggled his finger at her. ‘You big liar.’ His smile closed down. ‘I hurt you, I must have done and I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ she said. But he knew by the defensive snap in her voice that he’d called it right.

  ‘You and me, Palma, we’re from the same garden,’ Tommy said. His hand twitched as if it wanted to reach for hers but wasn’t quite brave enough. ‘Shit soil, rocks, no water, no sunshine, but somehow we managed to grow into strong plants. I’m doing okay, but I’ve had help, breaks. You haven’t, have you?’

  ‘I have recently,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a great job, lovely people around me, I’m doing all right actually. And I love this little house, so don’t you feel sorry for me, Tommy Tanner.’

  Now his hand did reach for hers and take it and hold it between both of his.

  ‘I don’t feel sorry for you, you daft bint, I like you. I really like you. I couldn’t believe that I’d bumped into you again, you know. I’ve never forgotten about you from school and then that night in the park it was like . . . like fate. The best kind.’

  ‘But that was before you knew I was having a baby. A baby that I’m now keeping,’ she said quietly, expecting him to pull away from her, but he didn’t, his hold tightened.

  ‘Don’t you think I’ve thought about it all, Palma?’

  ‘You don’t want complication in your life, Tommy. You made it clear and of course I respect you. I didn’t blame you at—’

  ‘Shut up, Palma and let me speak. I don’t want complication,’ he said. ‘But I want you, and if you come with complication then I’ll take it. I weighed everything up after I left here last time: what I’d feel like if I was with you and you had to give the baby up to those people, or you deciding you didn’t want to hand it over and keeping it, or them running out on you. I went through every possible scenario, and I kept coming to the same conclusion . . . that it didn’t matter, because if you and me were together we could sort it. Somehow. I want you, I really do. Give me a chance, Palma.’

  He was caressing her fingers. She couldn’t remember anyone ever touching her so tenderly before. It flooded her brain with such an alien sensation, she couldn’t work out if it was pleasurable or painful. What was he asking? Give him a chance to what?

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘Give me a chance to be with you,’ he said. ‘Just, see what happens, see where it goes. Honest, Palma, you’re stuck in my brain. I nearly dropped my shopping basket when I saw you in the Co-op. I didn’t want cheese. I wanted to get away from you.’

  ‘Charming,’ said Palma, deadpan.

  ‘I wanted to get away from you because I wanted to be with you. I’ve never felt anything as strong. It was like being in the ring, a massive wave of emotion. I was standing there looking at cheese and shaking.’

  Palma half-wanted to laugh but he was deadly serious, his eyes were glassy as if he were on the verge of tears.

  ‘You and me, Palms, we don’t get things the easy way, not like other people. And that little baby, I thought, it’s going to be hard for Palma giving it up. I wanted to be there for you. But now . . .’

  ‘Yeah, now, it’s—’

  ‘Palma, will you let me finish. Now, more than ever that little baby deserves to have someone who loves him from the off and is on his side.’

  ‘The baby has – me,’ said Palma.

  ‘He can have me as well. I’ll take him on. I’ll be there for him an’ all.’

  His words weakened her and so her defences came up. She pulled her hand away from his.

  ‘I saw you in the paper with a woman. Your girlfriend, it said.’

  Tommy tutted and then gave an impatient huff. ‘She’s one of the ring girls. She asked me to pose for a photo with her, that was all, I didn’t even know her name. She must have spoken to the press, because I certainly didn’t. Ask my bruvver when you see him, I went with him and Jackie to the fight. She’s not my type for a start. More plastic than Barbie. I like my women more natural.
But with pink hair.’

  He was smiling now. She stole a look at his face and saw the splash of freckles over his nose, his warm grey eyes taking her in.

  ‘So, do you fancy being my girl, Palma Collins? We’ll work everything out that needs to be worked out as we go along.’

  ‘I don’t want to get in the way of anything for you,’ said Palma. ‘I’d never forgive myself. It wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘You didn’t answer the question: will you be my girl, Palma Collins?’

  His arm reached around her shoulder, he shuffled towards her on the sofa. She felt him turn into her and the press of his chest against her own and she didn’t resist and that seemed to answer his question for both of them without the need for spoken words.

  *

  When they got into the car, Dylan had suggested they go on for a drink after the film.

  ‘I’m a bit tired, thanks, and I’ve got an early start in the morning,’ Cariad replied. It was a lie but delivered convincingly, she thought.

  ‘Just one,’ said Dylan. ‘I know a lovely place.’ And he had swung out of the car park and driven them off to a pub in the middle of nowhere, despite what she’d said. ‘We should come here for something to eat sometime,’ he said as he opened the door for her and offered his arm because the ground was full of potholes.

  He’d bought a glass of wine for her – large, even though she’d asked for a small one – and a pint of cola for himself. ‘I don’t drink and drive, you’ll be safe with me,’ he said, sitting down opposite her and reaching for her hand across the table. It wasn’t the drinking and the driving that she was worrying about.

  Cariad was withering inside herself. Dylan was looking at her like a love-sick pup, asking her what she liked to do on her days off and she was politely fobbing him off at every pass – too politely because he wasn’t taking the hint. And he was taking one sip of his pint every five minutes.

  In the loo, Cariad gave herself a talking to in the mirror above the sink. She had to stop trying not to hurt his feelings because she’d hurt them a lot more by making him believe this was the first of many dates. If she had to knock the point home with a sledgehammer, well then she’d just have to. When she came out again, it was to find that he was buying another round in, even though he hadn’t even shifted a quarter of his drink. It was then that Cariad grew really cross because this was definite manipulation. It galvanised her into saying what she really felt.

  ‘Don’t get me another drink, Dylan. I haven’t finished the last one and I want to be at home by . . .’ she swept her eyes down to her watch and did a quick calculation ‘. . . ten thirty at the latest. As I told you, I’ve got an early start.’

  ‘Oh one more won’t kill—’

  ‘I said no, Dylan. No.’ Cariad cut him off with a tone in her voice that brooked no misinterpretation and the smile dropped from his face. ‘I’ve had enough, thank you. So when you’re ready, we’ll go. I’ve had a lovely evening but I’m tired now.’

  She sat down at the table to give him a chance to finish his drink but she didn’t want any more of hers. He followed her over, his movements slow. If it was an attempt to infuriate her, it was working.

  Dylan lifted the glass to his lips and took the tiniest sip before replacing it on the coaster. ‘You might have to wait for me, Cariad, if you want a lift,’ he said, sounding like a very different Dylan to the one she’d been sitting with before she went to the ladies.

  Cariad sat stiffly in her chair holding her handbag in her lap, her body language making it plainer than plain that, as far as she was concerned, the evening was at an end. She looked anywhere and everywhere but at Dylan, making her displeasure blatant. He didn’t speak either and at the periphery of her eye corner she occasionally saw him lift his glass, take a sip, set it down again.

  At ten to eleven, Cariad took her phone out of her bag. ‘I’m going to ring for a taxi, Dylan, so you can stay here as long as you want,’ she said.

  Dylan stood, scraping his chair back on the rustic floor. ‘All right, I’ll take you home now. I thought we’d have had a nice drink and a talk but obviously it wasn’t to be.’

  She didn’t like his tone or the way he marched towards the door, leaving her in his wake. If he lets it swing back in my face, I’m ringing that taxi, she said to herself, but he didn’t. He held it open for her, but he didn’t open the car door for her as he had done before.

  She thought he’d set off like a maniac, but he didn’t do that either, although he was driving at speed on those winding country roads and she tried not to react because she thought that might further fuel his annoyance with her. The silence that filled the car had a thick, heavy, unpleasant weight and Cariad turned her head so she was looking out of the window the whole time. That she couldn’t wait to get home to a house she shared with the biggest pair of bitches on the planet said it all. The relief that she felt when they reached it was ridiculously intense.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me home, Dylan,’ Cariad said, her tone polite but tight. She pulled the handle to open the door, but it was firmly locked. She snapped her head around to Dylan, totally out of patience now.

  ‘Can you open it, please?’

  Dylan didn’t move for a long few seconds and then he said in a measured, even voice, ‘You know what the trouble with girls like you is, Cariad? You don’t give anyone the chance.’

  ‘What do you mean, the trouble . . . ?’

  ‘I haven’t finished. You women all want a gentleman and then when you get one, you turn all feminist, moving goalposts, leading them on . . .’

  Cariad opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it.

  ‘You want the bits of rough, the ones that don’t respect you, then you get them and start bleating when they hurt you. You want to turn them into the nice guys, which is ironic because there are nice guys out there already but you lot don’t want them ready-made.’

  Cariad remained silent. It sounded as if he was mixing her up with someone else.

  ‘Maybe it’s catching because your uncle is out of his head too.’ Dylan tapped his temple slowly.

  Now Cariad did react.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s losing it. Everyone’s talking about it.’

  Cariad felt pressure hot and fierce building quickly inside her. She needed to get away from him before she cried or screamed or flew at him because she had no idea which would happen if she blew.

  Then Dylan suddenly reached forward and pressed a button releasing the lock on the door and Cariad snatched the handle and threw herself out of the car. She heard the word at the moment that she slammed the door shut: hwren. He spat it out, then crunched into first gear and took off down the road as if he were in the Batmobile chasing the Joker.

  Hwren. He’d just called her a whore.

  Apologies for the article that appeared in last week’s Daily Trumpet Arts supplement. The exhibition at the Town Hall features a painting by Dick Van Dyke, not David Icke as reported.

  Chapter 34

  ‘You okay, ma cherie?’ asked Jacques, heavy on the French accent as Eve stretched out to ease the ache in her back. She was standing in the corner of the office leaning on Gabriel the elk, who seemed happy enough to be of assistance.

  ‘I’m starting to feel some extra weight dragging me forwards now,’ Eve explained.

  ‘I’ll give you a nice massage later tonight,’ Jacques offered.

  ‘Don’t expect me to lie flat on my front though,’ said Eve. ‘Look at me.’ She framed the mound of her stomach with her hands. ‘I think I’m putting on half a stone per day.’

  ‘You sit down and I’ll put the coffee through,’ said Jacques. Their machine was ancient and spat aggressively through the filtering process as if it resented its purpose but it delivered a superb offering. When he had poured the jug of water into the machine he crossed to the window, hearing the chug of the Nutcracker Express behaving itself for once. It was rolling down the track as obediently as if it were o
n a choke chain. He could see Thomas smiling as he drove it and behind him, Joe and Annie looking from one side to the other, taking in as much of Winterworld as they could during the journey from the front gate to the office. They’d been scheduled in for a meeting at eleven that morning.

  Then Jacques looked beyond the train because something had caught his eye: the unmistakable figure of big Davy MacDuff with his arms around someone. A female with long black hair. And there was only one uniformed female with long black hair on the payroll – Cariad Williams. He hoped that Effin wasn’t in the vicinity because he didn’t even like Davy breathing the same air as his niece. Davy was a good bloke but he didn’t always think as logically in the civilian world as he had in the military one. He was much more suited to the latter and it had taken him a long time to adjust back into the former. He was an attractive man, Cariad was a pretty woman and he had no right to tell either of them how to conduct their business but he was very fond of Cariad and he didn’t want to see her consumed alive. She was certainly flavour of the month, what with Franco Mezzaluna’s pupils the size of black holes in space when he’d seen her, young Dylan Evans throwing his cap at her and now Davy MacDuff getting physically close. The charm of Cariad was that she thought of herself as a Ford Fiesta whereas men thought of her as a Ferrari Fiorano.

  He snapped off his thoughts about them to answer the door and invite Annie and Joe into the cabin. Eve bounced over, shook Joe’s hand and gave Annie a hug, trading info on how the other was.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ said Jacques, taking another crafty peek through the window to find Davy slowly walking off with Cariad, his arm hanging loosely around her shoulder in a friendly rather than an intimate fashion, not that Effin would see it like that if he spotted them. He turned his attention back to the room and offered everyone a drink. Then, after some general chit-chat, Joe opened the sample case he had brought with him which was full of different crackers from the large luxury ones to the cheapest. He handed over a catalogue of their goods and a price list, which he explained gave a ballpark figure but no order was standard. He worked best when people gave him their budget, he said, and he’d tell them what he could give them for that. A technique that had always served him reliably. Eve picked up the sheet of numbers, Jacques picked up one of the crackers and asked if he could test it. Joe offered to take the other side and they pulled, resulting in a beautifully crisp bang. Jacques won the main body of the cracker and poked inside with his finger, pulling out a black and silver folded crown, a small round tin of moustache wax and a joke that made Jacques snort with laughter.