The adults and toddlers gathered in the kitchen while tea and cake were produced, the older children larked about in the large living room which ran from the front of the house to the back.
Robin had few worries about his children – they were a happy bunch and remarkably self-sufficient. But sitting at Lilian’s kitchen table he felt relaxed and carefree knowing everyone was happily occupied, and that it wasn’t his responsibility. They came in to collect cake and squash, and Lilian issued no injunctions about taking them into the living room. ‘Let’s face it, we could do with the peace and quiet.’ The two little ones sat at the table for a few minutes and then scrambled down and went to join the others. Outside at the end of September the sun was low and the garden had that poignant, overripe look which marked the change from summer to autumn. Fallen leaves lay thick on the grass and the patio and the tomato plants against the south-facing wall, still with a few tomatoes, were beginning to straggle and droop.
Anton was talking about the residents’ association.
‘… The woman from two houses along is keen for me to be on the committee, but I absolutely do not want to be. The last thing I want to do when I come home is go to some wretched meeting.’
‘I think she fancies you,’ said Lilian. ‘Don’t you reckon, Rob?’
‘How should I know, I’ve never met the woman.’
‘Thank you,’ said Anton.
‘No,’ said Lilian, ‘but you get the idea. Over-excited retiree, elegant Frenchman—’
‘Married Frenchman.’
‘—she’d love to be the one to snare him, if only to ensure a quorum.’
‘Describe this public-spirited temptress,’ said Robin, ‘so I can picture you fending her off on the doorstep.’
‘She’s not bad,’ said Lilian, ‘for her age, which must be over sixty. You know, she dresses well, got that tufty blonde hair, little boots—’
‘Sheep dressed as lamb,’ put in Anton.
‘Mutton,’ corrected Lilian. ‘Though actually that wouldn’t be fair, she’s not.’
‘Whose side are you on?’ asked Robin. He enjoyed the Lachelles’ amiable wrangling. They teased each other a lot, could even get quite heated over small things, but you sensed they did so because they could, because their relationship was sound. He and Fliss rarely if ever argued. Not that he wanted to argue, but – well, it would have been nice to have had the confidence to do so. He sometimes feared that if they did argue over some trivial thing it would quickly turn huge, personal and damaging. He was shocked to realize that he was afraid of what he might say. It was all too big, too fundamental … Who knows what might come out of his mouth if things got heated?
An hour went by and Lilian suggested a glass of wine. Anton didn’t associate himself with the suggestion, he still affected to disapprove of the casual, unthinking imbibing of the Brits. Though tempted, Robin declined.
‘We must head home.’
‘Why not give Fliss a ring,’ said Lilian. ‘She could come over for a cheeky one and run you all home. It’d be nice to see her.’
‘Thanks, but no – she’s busy. I’ll start rounding them up.’
He and Anton spent the obligatory ten minutes calling, threatening and cajoling, and then Lilian came with them as far as the pavement. Cissy was in the buggy, the boys balanced on the low wall.
‘So glad we bumped into you, Rob. You and Fliss must come to supper soon.’
‘We’d like that.’
She folded her arms, cocked her head. ‘You OK?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘You’re strangely subdued.’
‘No, nothing. Got the work-tomorrow blues.’
‘Ah! Tell me about it!’ She held his arms and kissed him on each cheek, firm and friendly. ‘Au revoir. Don’t be a stranger. Bye kids!’
By the time she heard her family return, Felicity had long since finished what she had to do. In the children’s rooms all their stuff was laid out ready for the next day. She had brushed out her hair and done her nails, but she went back to her desk and waited for a moment before answering Robin’s call.
‘We’re back!’
There followed the thumping and pattering of the boys’ feet, followed by the clunk of the fridge door, the rattle of plates.
‘Mummee!’
She met Cissy at the top of the stairs and picked her up. As she carried her back down she inhaled the sweet beauty of her daughter – the sweetness and beauty of the young. A parent wasn’t supposed to have favourites, but having a daughter held a special importance for Felicity. Cissy would grow into an enchanting teenage girl, a lovely young woman, with all the associated pleasure and pride. She often thought about what it would be like to get older, to lose one’s looks, but with a beautiful daughter one’s legacy could continue …
Robin’s breath was caught by the sight of his wife and daughter in the doorway. His earlier thoughts shamed him. He adored Fliss, and Cissy was so like her.
‘Hello my dutiful darling.’ He went over to kiss her. ‘Did you get everything done?’
‘Nearly,’ she said. ‘It’s ongoing.’
Twelve
These days, Marguerite pictured Christmas like a huge lighted ship – an ocean liner or giant cruise vessel – bearing down on her, full of promise, but also slightly threatening. Before the ship hove alongside there were so many decisions to be made! Many of them by oneself, some by other people in order that one’s plans could be put in place, logistics organized and provisions and presents bought before the stampede. When Hugh accused her affectionately of thinking about the festive season far too early, she heard the voice of someone who didn’t have to think about it at all, because all the prompting, shepherding, enquiring and suggesting was done by her.
Also, and she found this to be true of many, that the Good Ship Christmas didn’t have quite the magic as when the children were young. Grown-up life was complicated and emotions not straightforward. There were tides, there were shifts, there were sea changes of which one might be unaware … She never wanted to place a burden of expectation on her offspring, but neither did she want them to feel that Heart’s Ease was anything but home, where they were welcome at any time and at however short notice, with no questions asked. She had heard people speak resentfully of having to put in an appearance with two sets of parents in forty-eight hours, a species of social tyranny which was so pointless and soul-destroying as to have nothing to do with the spirit of Christmas. The family must come of their own free will, but then if they didn’t want to come … It didn’t bear thinking about.
Hugh was altogether more down to earth. Fifty per cent of ‘the squad’ as he called them were now ‘self-starting’ and had their own establishments. Even Honor would move out eventually, and who knew what Bruno would get up to now that he had a pad in London? Hugh could easily imagine the two of them spending Christmas on their own or even going abroad! But Marguerite knew that though she’d put a brave face on it she’d be secretly devastated and probably mope.
Still, she did like to know. This year in particular seemed uncertain. So when Fliss rang, she was caught off balance.
‘… We wondered if you’d like to come here?’ said Fliss almost casually. ‘There’s plenty of room, and the children would love it.’
‘Oh, darling, well, what a lovely thought …’ Marguerite was flustered.
‘Take your time. Discuss it with Dad.’
Marguerite thought she detected the merest glint of impatience. Any invitation from her eldest daughter needed to be welcomed at once and with open arms.
‘Alright, yes, that sounds wonderful though, I’m sure …’
‘You don’t sound all that keen.’
‘I suppose I was just thinking of the others, you know, we’ve always been here to welcome all comers.’
‘All the more reason for the two of you to have a break.’
Marguerite gave a brittle laugh. ‘I suppose! But just the same I’d better check—’
‘B
runo can come here too.’
‘Oh really?’ This came as a surprise. ‘Has he said so?’
‘We haven’t asked him yet, but he’s hardly likely to turn it down. And if he does, you can bet he’ll have good reasons.’
This brisk dismissal of the Bruno problem made Marguerite self-conscious about mentioning the others. She’d have to do some detective work before giving Fliss her final answer. They were adults after all. Or adults when they chose to be, children when they didn’t, but that was how it worked. It seemed to her that she’d been a pretty good mother of babies and small children, but that the role had become more challenging as they got older, requiring a set of skills that she didn’t possess, or which didn’t come naturally to her. Not much more than a decade ago, Heart’s Ease had seemed perfectly named, a kind of domestic Camelot where family life was bathed in a rosy glow. She felt it herself, and saw it reflected in other people’s faces. These days her heart was rarely easy.
An unforeseen difficulty presented itself when she mentioned Felicity’s invitation to Honor.
‘Oh wow, that’s so nice. Did you say yes? I’d love to go there with the children and everything.’
Agonising though it was, Marguerite knew that to leave the situation unclarified for even a single second would be to make things worse.
‘I think she meant just us – me and Dad.’
‘Oh, really? Oh right, sure, of course, I wasn’t thinking.’ Honor, caught out in her false assumption, was equally flustered. ‘Yes, my God, they don’t want everyone descending on them!’
‘I think Bruno may go, he doesn’t live very far away.’
‘Yes, yes, sounds sensible.’
Marguerite wanted to put her arms round her daughter, but stopped herself – that might be making too much of it.
‘What – I mean, if we do decide to go—’
‘Oh but you must!’
‘If we do, what do you think your plans would be?’
‘It depends, I might very well work, make sure some of my old people are having a nice time. I actually like doing shifts on Christmas Day.’
‘You’re so good.’ Marguerite allowed herself a smile. ‘Like Little Women.’
‘Who?’
‘You remember, the March girls?’ Honor’s earnestly enquiring expression remained blank. ‘Never mind. As long as you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Of course I wouldn’t, it’s a great idea. You must go.’ Honor added, as though it were an afterthought, ‘What about Charity, any idea what she’s up to?’
There had to come a time, thought Charity, when one didn’t necessarily spend Christmas with one’s family. She’d always been happy to do so, but these things shouldn’t be cast in stone. Not that the parents had ever applied pressure, quite the opposite – their line was that they would be laying on the festivities at Heart’s Ease for any of the family who wanted to join them. But it was easier to say no if, like Felicity, one had a family and household of one’s own. Once Rollo and then Cissy had come along they’d stayed in London, and arrangements had been made to get together with the parents at New Year. Charity’s pleasantly monastic small flat wasn’t suited to seasonal celebration, and she’d have been perfectly content to let the day pass her by, but she knew that it made her mother happy to have her offspring around her.
Looking at Mac’s postcard, she reflected that this might be the moment to break with tradition. The card was another featuring Brushwood in the old days – he must have had a stash of them – and she realized that as before he’d committed the invitation to writing so as to give her time to think.
I shall be rattling around here over Christmas, and I wondered if you’d like to come over for any part of the holiday to share the contents of my bachelor larder and my Scrabble board. I’d be delighted to see you.
She was amused by his faux self-deprecation. One of the things that drew her to him was his solid, old-school confidence. Besides, it was clear he saw nothing odd in their friendship, and was right in assuming that she didn’t either.
They’d met three more times since that first lunch in London – an RSC production in Stratford, and dinner in a pub not far from the school, one evening when she’d been driving back from a meeting and realized she was going to be close by. At half-term he’d suggested (without irony) ‘a hike’ and they’d met halfway and done fully ten miles, which had felt like more due to the gradient. Charity had been ashamed of her lack of fitness, and commented on it.
‘Your work keeps you pinned to your seat,’ said Mac. ‘Whereas mine requires a surprising amount of hard labour.’
So far there had been nothing of a romantic nature between them. Or at least no physical manifestations. But Charity could feel the thrilling hum of a kiss coming down the line. She couldn’t remember when she had last enjoyed a man’s company so much, in fact she surprised herself. Her reaction to people and situations was always measured. Some found her almost too cool, she knew that. She found incontinent emotion suspect both in herself and others and did all she could to keep it in check. But now, with Mac, she found that it was not possible to calibrate her feelings, and that to be just a little out of control could be pleasant, exhilarating even.
So the news that the parents had been asked to spend Christmas in London was all it took for her to accept.
Thank you for your kind invitation, and the answer is Yes. Shall I show up p.m. on Christmas Eve? And what shall I bring?
As before, once she’d accepted, he rang.
‘I generally make a turkey stew and buy a supermarket pud, but a bottle of something warming is always welcome. May I ask if you’re a whisky drinker?’
‘Given the season I am. It’s on the list.’
‘Some cheese, perhaps?’
‘Stilton and proper cracked and gum-fizzing cheddar?’
‘Gum-fizzing! Exactly. Yes. No more than that please, I shall enjoy prowling the aisles. And in case you’re worried I allow myself to be extravagant with the fuel at the solstice so even the spare room will be decently warm.’
‘I’ll leave my hottie at home then.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far. The boiler’s not much younger than me, it might prove a useful precaution.’
She considered he’d managed the passing of the bedroom information quite gracefully, in a way that was both gentlemanly and practical.
When her mother had asked what she would be doing, and whether she’d be alright, she was able to allay her fears without being specific.
‘Of course! I’m going to spend a couple of days quietly with a friend.’
‘Are you sure? Because you know we always love having you all.’
‘But it’s good to have a change, Ma. I mean good for you two to have a change. Go to London. Have fun. I certainly shall.’
Marguerite mentioned that Honor would be at home on her own.
‘Lucky her,’ replied Charity bracingly, ‘in sole charge of the drinks cupboard and the remote.’
Marguerite made a murmuring sound, somewhere between a demur and a laugh. They both knew that putting pressure, however gentle, on Charity to keep her sister company was futile, but it had been worth a try.
‘Go,’ Charity repeated. ‘Enjoy yourselves, let Fliss and Rob wait on you.’
Marguerite put down the phone and looked at the dog, who was sitting nearby, watching her fixedly to shame her into a walk. He wiggled his whiskery stump of a tail and shifted from foot to foot.
‘And then there’s you, Archie,’ she said. ‘What shall we do with you?’
As a child Bruno’s parents had always bought an advent calendar (not one containing chocolate, which Hugh considered unchristian) and now he almost wished he had one so he could count the days until he could legitimately flee to Fliss and Rob’s. He reflected that it had probably been a mistake to go there in the first place, because it had spoilt him. Freedom, he was discovering, was not all it was cracked up to be. And anyway, he’d been pretty free at the TS’s, they weren’t fussed
what he did, with whom, where or when so long as it didn’t interfere with them, and the result was he’d hung out at the house quite a lot, enjoying the comfort, as well as the contents of the bottomless fridge-freezer. The kids were cool, the nanny was a pretty good sort, and he hadn’t minded being pressed into babysitting once or twice.
At Sean’s place it was different. Grotty didn’t begin to cover it. Rank. Minging. No one could call him fussy, but this was gross. The flat itself wasn’t too bad, in the sense that it didn’t actually have damp or dry rot and the plumbing by and large worked so long as it wasn’t overtaxed (which happened fairly often). The landlord was a smooth Sri Lankan who asked no questions so long as the rent was on time, and who had Dyno-Rod and a fleet of other useful businesses on speed dial. No, the trouble was that Sean simply didn’t care. Worse, he seemed to think that it was rock and roll to let everything reach the status of a health hazard and beyond. Clothes, dishes, surfaces, floors and furniture seemed melded together in a homogenous mass, covered in grease, grit, dust and hair. You could feel the gunk of ages under your feet if you went barefoot to the loo in the night. Every handle and light switch was haloed with grime, the windows were streaky inside and out, and the cords which adjusted the blinds, themselves fluffy with accumulated dust and dead insects, were black with use.
To make matters worse, Bruno hadn’t the tiniest space to call his own, in which to have his own albeit modest level of order. The other sub-letter, Phil from Swansea, had the second bedroom, and worked nights at a furniture warehouse, so his living conditions were a mystery. But Bruno was on the sofa, the sofa was in the living room, and no concessions were made. Thank goodness for his headphones, with which to zone out unwanted music, telly, and conversation, but there was nothing he could do about Sean’s beer-fuelled, single-sex social life. It was weird how one’s capacity for enjoyment was in direct ratio to the availability of an escape route. Once you were trapped, Bruno found, you were sunk. Hell was indeed other people.
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