The Mother of All Christmases

by Milly Johnson

  *

  It wasn’t dark until ten thirty that night. Palma wasn’t tired and had spent the evening listening to music through her headphones. She felt the tunes soak inside her that way and was sure the baby responded to them too, settled, drifted off to sleep to the songs that made her mother the happiest – music from shows: Joseph, Sunset Boulevard, Evita. Not Blood Brothers tonight. ‘Tell Me It’s Not True’ – she couldn’t listen to that one. She was about to turn in for bed when there was a quiet knock on her door, so quiet that she thought she’d imagined it until it happened again. She remembered to slip the chain on too late and tried to shut the door again and do it, but it was pushed forwards at speed from the other side and she was thrown back.

  ‘Let me in quick for fuck’s sake.’

  Clint O’Gowan was closing her door from the inside.

  ‘What the . . . ?’

  ‘Well I can’t fucking ring you, can I, because your old number’s dead.’

  Her heart was beating fast. She crossed her hands in front of her pyjama top, held it closed at the neck, aware that she had nothing on underneath it.

  ‘Why would you need to get in touch? We’ve no connection anymore.’

  ‘But we do, don’t we?’ he said, flicking a finger out towards her stomach. ‘I thought you were getting rid.’

  It wasn’t hard to guess how he knew she was still pregnant, or where she lived. As if she could have trusted Nicole. She’d wasted her money there.

  ‘You can hardly tell,’ he added, studying her form.

  ‘What do you want, Clint?’

  ‘Don’t use that fucking tone of voice with me,’ he said, taking a step forwards; she took one back. She dropped her eye contact, didn’t challenge him.

  ‘I’ve found a buyer for you,’ he said, jiggling on the spot in that irritating way he had.

  She had no idea at all what he meant. ‘A buyer for what?’

  ‘I know a couple who can’t have kids.’

  That’s what he’d said last time, when she should have recognised that nice couples didn’t use people like Clint O’Gowan to help them.

  His words tried to sink in but couldn’t. He had to be joking, even though Clint didn’t joke. He didn’t do small talk. He traded and he cheated and he took from people.

  She couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her. It had nothing to do with humour and everything to do with incredulity. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘There’s three grand in it for you,’ he said.

  Of course he was serious and she didn’t want to know any more. She wouldn’t even let her brain entertain a single detail.

  ‘No, Clint. No.’

  ‘I hear you’re seeing Tommy Tanner. Is that right? Is that why you’re suddenly playing happy families?’

  She didn’t say anything, she let her silence answer for her.

  ‘Think about it, Palma. Three grand and that’s not counting everything you’d save over the years. No point in getting all above yourself now. You were quite happy to sell it to Christian bastard Stephenson.’

  Now she did answer; it spiralled out of her like a fired bullet and she couldn’t have stopped its passage if she’d tried. ‘Fuck off, Clint.’

  Clint moved towards her so fast he was a blur: he pressed his face up to hers, his hand, a bony clamp, on her throat. She could smell his foul breath, feel his spittle land in her eye as he spoke.

  ‘Who the fuck are you talking to? I don’t care what state you’re in, I’ll kick your fucking twat in.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ said Palma, pins and needles prickling her hands, her arms, her scalp.

  Then the front door opened again and in walked Tommy and Clint sprung away from Palma. His nerves were already on edge from the crap in his system before you could even throw in his being in the Webb stronghold of Dodley.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Tommy said, his neck blotching before her eyes. Palma knew how it must have appeared to him.

  Clint made for the door, Tommy caught his arm, Clint shrugged him off. ‘You’re a fucking mug,’ he said to him and attempted to leave but Tommy grabbed him again and pulled back his fist. Palma screamed and threw herself in between them.

  ‘Don’t hit him, Tom.’ Her body was protecting Clint only because Joe Pandoro’s fists had made contact and look what had happened to him. Tommy Tanner would be even richer pickings.

  Clint took advantage of the moment to slip outside like the greased rat he was. Tommy followed but Palma clamped her hands onto his arm to anchor him and even in his enraged state, he was aware enough of her not to push her off.

  ‘Come around here again and I’ll kill you, you piece of shit,’ Tommy shouted down the road, but Clint had disappeared into the shadows.

  ‘He’s not worth it, Tommy,’ Palma said, releasing her hold.

  Tommy rounded on her then, hurt, confused. ‘What was he doing here, Palma?’

  ‘Nothing, Tommy. Less than nothing.’

  How could she tell him? Tommy would kill him and she couldn’t think of a lie that would appease him. Her heart was beating like a bass drum, her whole body shaking with adrenaline. Tommy’s mood was reflected in the way he barged back into the house and she followed, not knowing how to mend this.

  ‘I thought you were going to bed?’

  ‘I was, I was. But I stayed up listening to some music.’

  ‘I was going to post this through the door for you and saw the light on.’ From his jacket pocket he pulled a photo of himself and the boxer Mikey Hyde. Big love to Palma and baby – Mikey x had been scrawled on it in black Sharpie. Palma opened her mouth and nothing came out. His thoughtfulness never failed to stagger her, humble her. He would have been so excited, imagining her finding it on her doormat in the morning, she knew that, because she knew him. He deserved so much better than what little she had to give him in return.

  ‘What did he want? What did he mean by “I’m a mug”?’ Tommy was agitated, upset.

  ‘I don’t know what he meant,’ Palma yelled back. ‘He was just spitting words.’

  Tommy’s head was spinning. He was pacing up and down her small room like Clint would, but it was pain powering his steps, not drugs.

  ‘He meant that I was a mug for taking you on, didn’t he? Why would he think that?’

  ‘Because I’m nothing, Tommy,’ she shouted back at him. ‘You’re going places and I’m just me and he thinks I’m still one of his . . . someone who . . .’

  ‘What’re you saying? “He thinks I’m still one of his”? One of his what?’ The whites of Tommy’s eyes were standing out against the red of his face.

  ‘He brokered the surrogacy deal,’ said Palma, crying now. ‘That’s all the connection I have with him. Had.’

  ‘He did? Clint O’Gowan? Palma, what the hell were you thinking?’

  ‘Because that’s how desperate I was,’ she yelled back at him.

  ‘Why was he here tonight? It must have been something important for him to come all this way. Is that why you didn’t want to go out?’

  ‘I didn’t know he was coming. Honest, Tom.’

  ‘What did he want, Palma?’

  ‘Don’t ask, Tom. Please. Let it go. I haven’t seen him since I left Beckett Street.’

  ‘And I just happened to turn up on the one night he’s here?’

  ‘Yes. Yes yes yes,’ said Palma.

  Tommy fell into the armchair. He nipped the top of his nose as if he were trying to numb his tear ducts.

  He wanted to believe her and he didn’t and she couldn’t blame him because it didn’t sound like the truth. Sometimes lies were swallowed whole and sometimes the truth was too convenient to be believed.

  ‘You’ve been funny with me recently. Distant,’ he said, the fire leaving his voice, anger giving way to reason. ‘You haven’t wanted to see me, I can tell. Holding me off.’

  It was true. She bent her head and didn’t even try to deny it.

  ‘There was nothing up with you tonight, was there? You j
ust didn’t want to go, did you?’

  She hadn’t wanted it to happen like this. She shook her head, small movements but enough for there to be no doubt.

  Tommy sniffed. ‘Why, though? What have I done?’ His bewilderment was palpable; it was agony for her to witness.

  ‘Nothing, you haven’t done anything,’ said Palma. ‘Timing, I think.’

  ‘Timing? What does that mean?’ he yelled, getting up. She couldn’t look at him, she couldn’t bear that tremor in his voice. As he rose, she sank onto the sofa as if they were at either end of a see-saw.

  ‘Tommy . . . I just . . . I just don’t feel that it’s right, that we are right.’ Now, do it now, said a voice inside. ‘I think we should . . . I think we want different things.’

  ‘Like what?’ There was pleading in his voice, in the way he stood, in his grey eyes that weren’t sparkling with amusement now but with tears.

  ‘I don’t know what I want. I don’t . . .’

  He broke in again. ‘Am I moving too fast, Palma? I’ll back off . . .’

  ‘Break off, Tommy, not back off. It’s too much. You’ve found where you need to be, I haven’t. I feel caught up in something that isn’t what I want.’

  Silence followed her words. It felt louder than the words she’d thrown at him.

  ‘Break up. Is that what you want, Palma?’ Tommy said eventually, breathlessly, as if he’d been physically winded.

  Palma sighed. ‘I’m sorry. It’s for the best, trust me.’

  Tommy walked to her door. Palma waited for it to open but he simply stood there.

  ‘I can be a bit full-on, I know. I’m sorry.’

  Palma didn’t look up. She didn’t want to see his face. She kept her head bowed and felt her tears sliding down her cheeks, watching them as they landed on her pyjamas.

  ‘I wish I hadn’t come round to drop this off. I wish I hadn’t seen him leaving. We wouldn’t be here if I’d gone straight home instead, would we?’

  ‘Yes we would, Tom,’ she replied quietly. ‘It just brought it all to a head.’ She heard a small noise come from him, a small sad noise of pain in his throat as if it was echoing the sound of his heart cracking. She lifted her head, opened her mouth to say his name, but the door was closing behind him. He was gone.

  THE THIRD

  TRIMESTER

  The Daily Trumpet would like to offer its most sincerest apologies to Beautician Sarah Mills of Glam beauty salon in Dodley for an unfortunate mistake in last week’s Saturday review of ‘We Recommend’. The wording should have read that Sarah attributes her complexion to using Oil of Olay for over thirty years and not Oil of Ugly. Ms Mills would like to remind customers that this weekend all products in her salon are 2 for the price of 3.

  Chapter 48

  Annie was early when she called for Palma to take her to their tenth Christmas Pudding Club meeting. She knocked, but there was no response. She tried the door and it opened as far as the chain would allow it to.

  ‘Palma? It’s Annie.’

  ‘Coming. Hang on. Not quite ready.’

  Annie waited, expecting Palma to let her in but she didn’t. A couple of minutes later she appeared with her bag, only opening the door wide enough to let her exit.

  ‘Got a man in there?’ Annie chuckled.

  ‘It’s a mess,’ replied Palma, locking up.

  Annie doubted that. Or at least she would have done once, but since she and Tommy had split up a couple of months ago, Palma wasn’t the same girl. Though she smiled as usual on the outside, Annie knew she wasn’t smiling on the inside. Little tell-tale signs gave the game away: she’d stopped going to the Aqua Mama classes, saying she didn’t really like them; and her hair, that was always so perfectly ruffled, looked unbothered with. She walked, talked and acted like herself, but she wasn’t herself. Almost as if a pod had grown in her bedroom and taken her over, as happened in The Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

  Palma hadn’t given them any more detail than she and Tommy had decided to call it a day and that was that. Annie had hoped that Palma might have confided in her but she hadn’t. Even Iris had been upset for her.

  ‘It can’t be because it’s someone else’s baby, can it, because he was all right with that,’ she’d asked Annie, when Palma was out of the way at her last ante-natal. ‘Do you think it finally dawned on him that he couldn’t handle it?’

  Possibly, but Annie knew there had to be more to it. A man who went to the trouble of putting an iced bucket of pressé on Palma’s doorstep wasn’t someone who was flippant with his emotions, she was sure of it.

  ‘That’s a nice dress,’ said Annie as Palma got into the car. It was a grey pinafore, fully let out at the sides, although it was very loose and her belly wasn’t pushing at the material the way her own dresses had started to.

  Annie was thirty-three weeks pregnant now and glad that the summer had segued into a much cooler autumn. Baby Pandoro was punching and kicking her from the inside so much that Joe had made a joke one day that she must be carrying a boxer inside her, then winced and wished he could have recalled his words back into his mouth. Palma hadn’t reacted, but carried on hand-rolling the last of the special Christmas crackers order for a hotel in Sheffield. Annie hadn’t told her that they would grace the dining tables of those who had purchased the VIP package for the fight card on which Tommy Tanner was the main event.

  Di was gargantuan now. She had stretchmarks on her stretchmarks and they could all see them as she had switched from big dresses to crop tops and leggings. She’d also been to a professional photographer to have the ‘Demi Moore’ naked pregnancy shot done and she pulled out her phone to show them the four-foot-square canvas of it gracing her living room wall. The first ten minutes of their meetings had officially become The Diane Ogden Love-Life Show, in which she regaled them with the latest news. This week it was a shocker.

  ‘I’m back with Lee, my husband,’ she said, to a sea of open mouths. ‘It’s better for the kids. I’ve patched it up with my mum. She swears blind that they only did heavy petting and not shagging.’

  ‘What about Daniel?’ asked Cheryl with a touch of disappointment, equally felt by the others. They’d all liked the sound of him.

  ‘He served his purpose,’ sighed Di, inspecting her nails. ‘It was nice whilst it lasted but I didn’t really want the lads being brought up asking why their uncle was sharing Mummy’s bed, or why their grandad was constantly trying to duff up their father, so we agreed to start again on a new footing. Blood is thicker than sperm, as they say.’

  No one corrected her.

  ‘I’m so glad that it worked out for you,’ said Fil, which summed up the feelings of them all. From dreading Di trapping them in a corner to deliver her woes at first, they had started trapping her in corners to force her to spill the beans.

  ‘Aye. Lee’s got a smaller willy but he can keep it up for longer than Dan.’

  No one could say that she spared them the detail.

  ‘Looking swell, ladies,’ said Chloe.

  ‘Feeling fucked,’ said Di.

  ‘Well, that’s how you all got here,’ Sharon winked and made a clicky sound. ‘As some of you might give birth early, we thought we’d have a general chat this week, talk through anything that’s been bothering you. I know we said we would revisit that old chestnut, pain relief. Have any of you changed your minds over what you originally said you’d have?’

  ‘I’m not having a water birth,’ said Cheryl.

  ‘And I now would like one,’ said Fil.

  ‘Are you sure, Fil?’ Raychel turned fully to her. ‘You aren’t good in water. You’re like a mermaid would be on land.’

  ‘Water is definitely not your medium, Fil,’ Cheryl agreed. ‘Please rethink.’

  ‘I’ll settle for a tin opener,’ said Di. ‘Has anyone ever burst open because their skin’s split? That’s what I feel like is going to happen to me.’

  ‘When you think you can’t stretch anymore, trust me, you will,’ said Sharon. ‘
The human body is an amazing thing.’

  ‘What’s going to happen to all the excess skin, is what I want to know,’ said Di, rolling up her sleeves as if she were complaining at a customer service desk and holding Sharon directly responsible for the problem.

  ‘All mine shrunk back the first time,’ said Raychel, ‘though I’m not sure the same thing is going to happen again. That’s the worst thing I found: the day after you give birth, your stomach is like a massive collapsed balloon. And you feel cold, as if you were carrying a radiator around with you and it’s been whisked away.’

  ‘I wish I’d stayed in my lesbian phase,’ tutted Di. ‘I could have been settled now with a pretty woman and a chocolate Labrador.’

  Just when you thought there was nothing more to learn about Di, she came up trumps with yet another revelation.

  ‘I’m worried about dying in childbirth,’ said Cheryl. ‘I have terrible dreams about it.’

  ‘You’ll be in the best possible hands,’ said Sharon. ‘All those hormones racing around your body make you anxious, so try and offset that with the breathing exercises we practised a few sessions ago. The calmer you are, the more you’ll enjoy the birth experience. It’s natural to be scared when you don’t feel in control.’

  Raychel didn’t want to frighten the others by questioning that word ‘enjoy’. But she’d enjoyed looking back on the memories of it, more than she had ‘enjoyed’ going through it at the time.

  It was a good session, full of warm camaraderie, laughs and more of Di’s disclosures. She’d had a threesome with two rugby players once, she told them and highly recommended it. Cheryl said she should write a book and Di had replied that she wouldn’t want her sons knowing about all her exploits. She’d got all her wild ways out of her system and simply wanted to be a normal boring mam now.

  ‘We thought next session might be a good time to bring your other halves or your birthing partner,’ said Chloe as the meeting came to a close. ‘We will go over the breathing and teach them how to help you,’ added Sharon. Eve wasn’t alone in thinking that she could have sat there talking with the group for another half hour at least. She took a lot from the club, friendship and support and comfort. Dr Gilhooley had proved he was every bit as wise and intuitive as his father by setting it up.