The Mother of All Christmases

by Milly Johnson

  ‘Oh, that’ll be Astrid,’ said Iris, when Joe came out to report the conversation to them: ‘Iz ziz Mr Pandoro.’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Eyup, have you any of ze jobs left stuffing crrrackers.’ ‘She works with my cleaner Hilda. She’s had . . .’ she left a dramatic pause and whispered the tail end of the sentence as if she was scared of being overheard ‘. . . the op.’ She made a snipping scissor gesture with two fingers, blades pointed downwards to the groin area.

  ‘What op?’ asked Joe. ‘Honestly. Everyone thinks Italians are a little crazy . . .’ he rotated his hand at the side of his head ‘. . . but people from Yorkshire are totally pazzo.’

  ‘Her bits have changed sex. But . . . oh, she’s lovely. Very tall, very amazonian. You’d never tell she used to play rugby for Frankfurt. She’s getting married to an antiques dealer called Cutthroat Kevin. He’s an expert in old barber’s shop memorabilia. I bet she’ll want some extra work for money to put towards her wedding.’

  Joe’s jaw dropped. ‘Pazzo’ he said again.

  ‘Don’t employ anyone called Clamp,’ said Palma. ‘Especially Alaska and Nepal.’

  ‘Oh yes, we know that,’ said Iris, pushing up her bosom.

  ‘Nepal Clamp,’ repeated Joe, shaking his head. He still hadn’t got his head around that one. ‘Pazzo, absolutely pazzo.’

  The phone started ringing and Palma picked it up and began speaking into the receiver. ‘Yes, that’s right, we are looking for outworkers . . . can I take your name, please?’

  The exhibition currently at the Town Hall does not feature a painting by Dick Van Dyke as reported in the recent Daily Trumpte Arts supplement but a painting by Jan Van Eyck. We offer apologies for the misleading information.

  Chapter 37

  By the third meeting of the Christmas Pudding Club, Annie and Joe had set on four outworkers but it still wasn’t enough. Annie picked up Palma early so she could have a conversation with the midwives Chloe and Sharon to ask if they knew of any pregnant ladies who might want to do some cracker stuffing in between bouts of morning sickness. They said they’d ask around but two names instantly came to mind, because the two women in question had recently asked the midwives if they knew of anyone who employed home-workers. Annie was now nineteen weeks pregnant. Her baby was the size of a mango, so the internet told her. She hadn’t experienced any of the leg cramps or abdominal pains that her book said she might at this stage, but her bladder had shrunk to the size of an ant’s head and she wished she had a fiver for every time she needed the loo during the day and annoyingly, through the night.

  She knew it would pass but she’d been feeling ultra sensitive and moved easily to tears. She’d dreamt about her mum sitting on her bed, holding a tiny baby and saying that she didn’t ever think she’d see this day and was so glad she had. It had felt so real and Annie woke up disorientated, sure that her mum had followed her out of the dream and would be there, even for a second, an imprint in the dark, a faint echo of her voice, the briefest trace of her Blue Grass perfume . . . but nothing. She broke down in tears and hadn’t wanted Joe to know she was so upset so she sneaked off into the bathroom and sat on the toilet seat where she sobbed freely. Annie had never known her dad but her mum was parent enough. They’d been friends as well as mother and daughter and Joe had adored her too. She’d died suddenly not long after their last round of IVF had failed and Annie missed her so much. She would have made the best grandparent.

  Annie knew what Iris meant when she said that the feeling of a baby moving around within her had scared her to death because the first time it happened, last week, it had felt like insect wings vibrating softly inside her, or – less romantically – trapped wind. But she had known immediately what it was and she’d shrieked with delight. Joe had leapt from his chair and put his hand on her stomach, but the fluttering was too gentle for him to experience from the outside. He’d feel it soon, he said. He could wait.

  Palma was fifteen weeks pregnant. Her baby was the size of an apple and she was still able to wear the same clothes that hung in her wardrobe but she wished she couldn’t. She wanted to be like everyone else in the group who were proudly showing off their baby mounds; gobby Di was swelling up like an inflatable dinghy. She looked cheerful, partly because she’d found herself a man. Not just any man but her ‘lying, cheating bastard of a husband’s half-brother who’d always fancied her’, she said.

  ‘Talk about keeping it in the family,’ said Eve under her breath to Palma and Annie and they’d had to fight to keep the giggles in.

  ‘Arseface was livid when he found out,’ Di was broadcasting to everyone. ‘It’s caused a right old falling out. I’m not talking to my family and now he’s not talking to his. But Daniel and I are happy as pigs in shite.’

  ‘And long may it last,’ said Annie to her new friends. ‘Why shouldn’t she have a bit of happiness?’

  ‘I’m lucky,’ said Eve, peeling back the top from a packet of Polos and handing them around. ‘Once upon a time I didn’t think I’d find anyone to love.’

  ‘I’ve been with Joe since I was twenty,’ said Annie. ‘We saw each other across a crowded Valentine’s night disco floor. Whitesnake was playing “Is This Love” and it was, from that first moment.’

  Awws ensued. ‘And our Palma is courting now, aren’t you?’ Annie went on.

  ‘I am,’ Palma said proudly with a smile the size of a giant croissant. ‘Three weeks on Friday.’

  ‘It’s obviously going great guns, judging by that sparkle in your eyes,’ said Eve and gave her an affectionate nudge.

  ‘Ladies, can you bring your drinks and biscuits over and we’ll get started,’ said Sharon, clapping her hands. ‘We’re going to talk about exercise today because it’s important that you do some. It’ll help combat stress and any backaches and tiredness and build your stamina for the big day. Obviously we aren’t talking abseiling or water skiing. We’ve got a film to show you and then we thought we’d do a practical session of yoga on the mats. Okay?’

  Palma liked the look of the aqua-natal classes that were held at a private pool on the outskirts of Higher Hoppleton. She’d always liked to swim. She and her school friends used to go often, although Nicole soon lost interest because she preferred to stay dry and hang around with older lads. She’d lost touch with her swimming buddies since they’d left the gutter of Ketherwood: Libby had gone travelling after college and settled in New Zealand and Sam had gone down to study in a London uni and never came back. They’d emailed and texted for a while but it had lessened off until it stopped completely. Sam and Libby didn’t even keep in contact with each other. It was a friendship which had served them well through school but was never meant to stretch further than that.

  They practised some yoga stretches on the mats although they had trouble keeping the giggles in after Di dropped a very loud fart.

  ‘I shouldn’t have had that cauliflower for me tea,’ Di said, dispersing the air around her with windmill-like arms. Raychel was laughing so hard she ended up trumping too.

  ‘I go to Pilates regularly and a lot of wind-breaking goes on there,’ said Fil. ‘It’s almost compulsory to fart.’

  It came as no surprise to anyone that the gorgeous Fil exercised. Annie wished she’d taken it up years ago if it would have made her look like Fil.

  Chloe distributed some leaflets. ‘There are some links to YouTube sites on here as well as a recap of all the stuff we have done– or at least tried to cover in between all the laughing – today. Preggers Yoga is my particular favourite because the woman on the videos does exercises suitable for every stage of pregnancy in fifteen-minute bites. And if anyone wants to book one of the private Aqua Mama classes, then the telephone and email contacts are on there. Don’t forget the next Pudding Club meeting will be a fortnight today, not three weeks. Has anyone got any questions before we finish?’

  ‘I have,’ said Di, sticking her hand straight up like a keen kid in a classroom. ‘Can we have sex?’

  ‘I’m very flattered, Di, but
I have a husband,’ said Chloe, much to everyone’s amusement.

  ‘I mean can I personally?’ Di went on, when the laughter had died down. ‘You know, whilst I’m pregnant, only me and Daniel are gagging for it and I thought I’d check.’

  ‘Yes, you can have sex, Di. The gentleman’s . . . er, penis, doesn’t go beyond the vagina so it won’t touch the baby.’

  ‘You haven’t seen him,’ said Di with a smirk. ‘He could brush my teeth from the inside up.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ chuckled Fil.

  ‘I’d advise not swinging from the chandeliers though,’ put in Sharon. ‘But yes, sex is fine. Not Red Room of Pain stuff though.’

  ‘Smashing,’ said Di, marching to the exit as if she were on a mission.

  ‘Do you fancy going to those aqua classes in the private pool?’ Eve asked Palma and Annie as they were walking out with the info sheets. ‘I want to but I don’t fancy going on my own.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ said Annie. ‘I can give you a lift, Palma.’

  ‘Then count me in,’ said Palma.

  *

  Tommy was waiting for Palma when she got back from the club. He was leaning on his car, wearing a T-shirt that showed the profile of his toned body underneath. Something fizzed inside her with happiness at the sight of him, as if someone had poured a glass of champagne into her heart.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ he said, tapping at his watch. ‘Thought you’d have come back by now.’

  ‘We went on a detour to find out where a swimming pool was,’ said Palma. ‘I didn’t know you’d be over tonight.’ She took her key out of her handbag to unlock the door.

  ‘Before you go in, I want you to come with me,’ said Tommy. ‘Hurry up, get in the car. That’s a good girl.’ He took her arm and guided her gently to the passenger door.

  ‘Where am I going?’

  ‘Hungry?’ he asked, not directly answering the question.

  ‘I’m starving.’

  He let out a sigh of relief. ‘Good, get in.’

  Palma did as he asked.

  ‘I’ve cooked you a meal, I hope it’s not flipping burnt,’ said Tommy, sliding the gearstick into first.

  ‘You should have rung me, then.’

  ‘It was supposed to be a surpriiiise,’ he chuckled.

  ‘What if I hadn’t been hungry?’

  ‘You’re always bloody hungry. Fasten your seat belt.’

  She hadn’t visited his house yet. They’d been taking it slowly. He hadn’t even touched her below the neck and that suited her fine. She didn’t take it as a sign that he didn’t fancy her because she knew he did. Their first proper kiss had happened exactly a week to the day after her birthday. It had been tentative and gentle and so very, very sweet.

  Tommy’s house was situated at the top of Dodley in a select new estate: ‘The Bluebells’.

  ‘Bit girly,’ scoffed Palma.

  ‘Shut up, you,’ Tommy threw back.

  He pulled up the drive of a small, neat detached house and parked in front of a garage door. The front lawn had been freshly mowed and there were flowering plants in the borders.

  ‘Who does your garden?’ she asked.

  ‘Me. Why?’

  ‘I just wondered. I didn’t think you’d be the gardening type.’

  ‘I like it to look nice,’ he said. ‘What did you expect – a Ketherwood rockery?’

  He meant one with a sofa, broken TVs and old bikes in it.

  ‘Looks lovely,’ she said.

  ‘I know. Come on in,’ he said and she thought he looked slightly nervous as he got out of the car, as if he might be worried what she’d think about his home.

  Palma walked into his hallway and detected the smell of polish in the air and she tried not to let him see her smile. He’d obviously been giving it a clean and a dust before inviting her up. She felt touched by that. She kicked off her shoes and left them by the door.

  ‘You don’t have to do that,’ he said.

  ‘Yes I do,’ she returned. The carpet was bouncy-new and pale mouse-brown. It felt luxurious underneath her bare feet.

  ‘There’s a downstairs loo there if you need it,’ he said, pointing at a door to his left before opening the other one straight ahead. A lovely rich casserole smell greeted her as she walked into his light and surprisingly spacious kitchen. There was a dining area to the right and a glass table set for two there.

  ‘It’s fab, Tommy,’ she said, doing a full circle. The kitchen units were top notch: glossy and ice-white.

  ‘I’ve not got a bad eye for décor, have I?’ he replied, the cockiness in his tone belied by a nervous scratch to the back of his head. He took a couple of long strides to the table and pulled out the chair from underneath it.

  ‘Sit down and I’ll dish up before it’s cremated.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘No, you’re my guest.’

  Palma sat down and he tucked her under the table and then started darting around almost manically as if he didn’t know what to do first. As he opened the oven door, he made a noise of pain and started waving his hand around before running cold water on it.

  ‘Burnt yourself?’ asked Palma.

  ‘I’ll live,’ came the reply.

  She turned away from him, suspecting that her scrutiny was making him jittery, and settled her attention on the room instead. The lounge led off from the dining room, the whole downstairs, apart from the hallway and stairs, was open plan. Large blue-grey tiles covered the floor and walls of the kitchen and dining area and this colour carried through to the walls of the lounge. Framed and mounted monochrome pictures of boxers hung everywhere – his heroes, she guessed – Muhammad Ali, Joe Frazier, George Foreman, Lennox Lewis and Tommy himself, the Lonsdale belt slung across his shoulder, hand held high in victory. A single shot that captured the uncontainable feeling in his heart.

  Her attention snapped back to the immediate area when he put down a plate in front of her. Chicken and tiny mushrooms and onions in a reddish-brown thick sauce, mangetout, miniature whole carrots and an ice-cream scoop of mash with green bits in it.

  ‘It’s colcannon, before you say your mash is mouldy,’ he said.

  ‘I wouldn’t have said anything of the sort,’ Palma protested. ‘It looks delicious.’ And it did.

  ‘Can I get you a drink? I’ve got that pink lemonade that you like.’

  ‘That’d be smashing, thank you.’

  Tommy opened up a fridge, a huge American-style one. Palma had always wanted one of those. He poured the bottle into a tumbler for her and brought it to the table along with a glass of milk for himself.

  ‘I like milk when I’m eating mash, is that daft?’ he asked, sitting down opposite to her.

  ‘No, why should it be? This is great, by the way.’ No man had ever cooked her a meal before, but she didn’t say that because it might sound a bit pathetic. Apart from school dinners, she couldn’t even remember having any ‘proper food’ when she lived at home; it all came out of a can, a packet or a Pot Noodle carton. Grace Beresford had been totally different, everything fresh: meat and fish from the market, lots of vegetables from her own garden or neighbours’ allotments. She made her own custard and jam roly-polys from scratch, which warmed up the cold winter evenings, and lots of one-pot stews with rich, hearty sauces.

  ‘Potatoes went a bit dry, so I added extra butter to soften them up,’ said Tommy.

  ‘It’s perfect, will you stop worrying.’

  He took a sip of milk, missed his mouth and it went all over the table. He jumped up to fetch some kitchen roll.

  ‘Tommy, relax. It’s only me, not Nigella Lawson,’ Palma called to him.

  ‘I’d be less nervous in front of her.’

  ‘Yeah, ’course you would.’

  ‘I don’t fancy her.’

  A warm feeling pinged inside Palma’s breast. ‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘I fancy you too.’

  ‘Do you? Do you really, Palma?’

  She pulled a face. ’Course
I do, dummy. I wouldn’t be here otherwise, eating your Coq au Vin.’

  ‘Actually, Miss Know-it-all, it’s Chicken Chasseur.’

  ‘Who taught you to cook, then?’ asked Palma.

  ‘I learned most of it at Forestgate. Somebody who was there when he was a kid became a chef at the Ritz in London and he used to come back and run a course. I learned all sorts. I can make my own bread. I don’t, but I could. I cheat, Jackie bought me a breadmaker a couple of Christmases ago.’ He cut a piece of chicken and after he’d finished eating it said, ‘I’d like you to meet Neil and Jax. I’ve told them all about you.’

  Palma huffed. ‘I bet they were thrilled. You copping off with a pregnant woman taking your focus away from your boxing.’

  Tommy dived straight in to protest. ‘You don’t. In fact if anything it’s given me more focus. Because I’m not only doing it for me, I’m doing it for you and the baby. I want you all to be proud of me.’

  Palma felt a lump spring to her throat. She was gobsmacked that he felt so deeply and strongly. They were only at the beginning of their relationship, but they fitted together so well. She felt it too. But she also didn’t want him to feel burdened, so she was giving him plenty of space to change his mind and get out. She was holding back from running down the relationship path at the speed her heart was urging her to, just in case he did.

  ‘I am proud of you already, Tommy. You’re the British welterweight champ, for God’s sake. That’s a massive achievement. And look at the lovely home you have and the car – at your age.’

  Tommy grinned. ‘Aw, shuttup and eat your tea,’ he commanded.

  *

  Davy and Jacques were having a beer at the Crown, the nearest pub to Davy’s lodgings. It was an ‘old man’s pub’ but served a good pint and every day was pie day on the menu. It refused to kowtow to trendy cocktails and sizzling platters and did what it did best: provide a quiet, restful respite for workers after their day’s toil without any of the fancy stuff.