by Woolf, Emma
On Christmas morning she woke early, enjoying her solitude in the huge new bed, went for a run on Primrose Hill, and was showered, ready, and waiting for Cassie and Charlie to collect her by ten a.m. Arriving at Celia’s house they were greeted with large glasses of white wine from James who had stayed at his mother’s the night before. Then Celia appeared, wearing one of her extraordinary velvet gowns, and ushered them into the kitchen. “What can I do, Mum?” Lily said, hugging her mother, noticing how tired she looked.
“I think everything’s under control. Although,” Celia looked at the overflowing fruit bowl, “maybe you could make a lovely fruit salad, you know, the one you always make? I’m not sure if there’s going to be enough Christmas pudding to go round. I’ve made an apple pie and a rather alcoholic trifle, although I don’t know if it’s set . . .” She trailed off, opening the fridge.
Lily felt a flash of irritation. For goodness’ sake, she’d made a fruit salad once or twice and forever afterwards her mother referred to those fruit salads you make, as if Lily had a master’s degree in it. But then she caught herself: it was unfair to blame Celia for being vague, today of all days. Hosting Christmas wasn’t easy, and their mother did this for all of them, year after year. She had probably been up since dawn defrosting the turkey; the house was warm and welcoming; there were piles of presents under the tree. Festive decorations had been woven haphazardly around doorframes and along bannisters, a string of Christmas cards adorned the mantelpiece, and carol music played in the background. The fridge was groaning with food (far too much, of course) and the bedrooms were made up for any of the children who wanted to stay the night. Celia had a houseful of people and was as welcoming as ever; Lily knew it wasn’t fair to get exasperated about fruit salads.
Anyway, her task could have been worse. Cassie was on vegetable duty, peeling mounds of potatoes at the sink, her hands submerged in muddy water and brown peelings. James and his girlfriend drifted into the kitchen to refill their wineglasses, then, seeing there was work to be done, they drifted out again to smoke in the garden.
“How did Mum get hold of kiwis at this time of year?” Lily said, placing an empty glass bowl beside the full fruit bowl and spreading a cloth on the table. She chose the sharpest knife from the drawer. “I thought it was all satsumas and Cox’s apples in December.” She and Cassie chatted casually as they worked. Cassie was telling her about the service for midnight mass which Charlie had taken her to the night before in St. Paul’s Cathedral, and how they’d walked home afterwards. Lily listened, picturing the moonlight on the River Thames.
“It sounds lovely, Cass, really romantic. Do you think Mum will notice if I don’t peel the apples?” Lily chopped and diced the fruit, trying to vary the layers of colour in the glass bowl: apples and pears, kiwis and strawberries. She took gulps of wine as she worked, her hands slippery with the different juices on the stem of her glass.
Celia floated back into the kitchen and pronounced Lily’s salad a “work of art.” They emptied a carton of orange juice over the fruit and covered the bowl with cling film. Then Cassie said that fruit salads had to be lightly chilled so they had to move everything around in the over-stocked fridge to make room for it.
Peeling duties over, Lily and Cassie sat at the kitchen table with mugs of peppermint tea, while Celia darted around the kitchen. She looked sublime—“a sublime fire risk,” James said—in her trailing feather boa. She basted the turkey which was roasting in the oven, wedged in three baking trays of potatoes, and organised the different pans of vegetables on the top of the stove, ready to be quickly steamed before lunch: Brussels sprouts, peas, carrots, and red cabbage.
By midday everyone had arrived, and once they had replenished pots of tea, cups of coffee, and glasses of wine, they gathered in the living room for the main event.
In the dark red armchair was Celia, resplendent in her velvet and feathers. Cassie and Charlie were squashed together on the small sofa by the fireplace, celebrating their first Christmas as a married couple. Next was James and his girlfriend, Su-Ki, then Olivia and her boyfriend, Giovanni, over from Rome for the holidays. As well as the siblings and partners, there was Aunt Marie, now in her eighties and quite hard of hearing, and Celia’s best friend, Carolyn, who was visiting from France. Ten in all, although the conversation levels sounded like twenty.
Lily’s phone rang, and she went into the hallway to take it. Harry of course. “Happy Christmas, darling,” he whispered.
She smiled. “Sounds like you’re hiding in a hedge! Happy Christmas to you too. How’s it going?”
“Oh, gruesome, you know. House full of my wife’s relatives, the boys have disappeared to play computer games, I’m hiding in the garden with a bottle of whisky.”
“Whisky, at this time?” Lily tried to sound shocked. “You’re going to make yourself sick.”
“I’m already sick with missing you.”
“Stop it. Plenty of relatives here too, no whisky as yet.” She wanted to say she missed him too, that she loved him, but something held her back. “We’re about to start presents, I’ve got to go.”
“OK. And Lil, are you around when I get back, just at the start of January? I’ll come into London, I’ve got a few things for the new place.”
She felt a twinge of anxiety at his reference to “the new place,” as if it were theirs together, as if they were setting up a love nest. The familiar guilt flooded through her. She wished again that she’d been able to buy it on her own, just so she didn’t have to keep thinking about the other woman. “That would be great, text me when you’re heading back. Bye, Harry.”
“Bye, Lily. Love you.”
In the living room, they had started unwrapping one another’s presents: books, box sets, clothes, and cosmetics, boxes of chocolate and bottles of wine. Each present was greeted with an exclamation of thanks and hugs. There was a slight hiccup when Olivia received three copies of the same book, and Giovanni’s broken English caused a few misunderstandings, but mostly it was high-spirited and happy.
They knew one another’s tastes and they maintained certain family traditions: Celia always gave them a box of her home-made chocolate truffles; James always bought five bottles of champagne, one for each member of the family, and simply handed them round from a Marks & Spencer carton. At one point before lunch, the noise reached such a pitch that Lily gave up trying to follow the conversations criss-crossing the room, and lay back on the couch. She rested her head against the faded corduroy; suddenly, she felt wiped out. Moving house had been more tiring than she’d expected, and she’d been anxious about Harry and the flat for quite a while now. In the weeks leading up to Christmas, she’d wanted to avoid all this: the chaos and intimacy of a family celebration, the happy couples, and her being alone in contrast. Anyway, she was glad she’d come. She missed Harry, but she also missed celebrating Christmas like the others, as part of a couple. Being someone’s mistress—Lily shuddered at the word—meant a lot of time alone.
By the time all the presents were opened, the living room was a blizzard of torn wrapping paper, ribbons, and packaging. After a feast of a meal, they sang carols around the piano—another family tradition which had lasted from their childhood. Celia played “Once in Royal David’s City” and “Silent Night,” and they all joined in. There was more wine, then cognac and Baileys. There was no Queen’s speech, for Celia had never owned a television, but in the early evening, Giovanni took over the kitchen and made proper Italian espressos to sober them up. When they started getting peckish again, Lily’s fruit salad was a triumph, along with cheese, crackers, and after-dinner mints.
When everyone began to scatter, some to ring friends and settle into their bedrooms, others to smoke cigarettes in the garden, Lily slipped back into the empty living room. The room was dark but still warm, the only light coming from the tiny white bulbs on the Christmas tree. She lay down on the old corduroy couch again, closing her eyes, letting the silence wash over her.
She lay there for a minute until she heard a step and saw Celia standing in the doorway. “Are you OK, darling?” she said, and came to sit by her daughter. She stroked her hair as if she were a child. “Christmas can be a difficult time, can’t it?”
Lily nodded and reached up to clasp her mother’s hand.
“I remember Christmas Day thirty-one years ago,” Celia said. “I had just found out I was pregnant with Cassie. I remember.” She smiled down at Lily. “It wasn’t planned or anything, we weren’t married, but I was rather excited. It didn’t occur to me that Claude wouldn’t feel the same way.”
It was rare to hear her mother say Claude’s name. Lily held her breath, willing her to go on.
“Anyway, it went a bit wrong. Your father panicked and drove off to see his family in Paris, even though we’d planned to spend Christmas together. I was left to go back to my parents’ house in Liverpool alone. Goodness, it was a miserable Christmas! I sat in that sitting room in the middle of Crosby not knowing what to do. My dad watched television all day, and my mum fussed around in the kitchen, and the neighbours came in with gossip and news and idle chit-chat. I was missing your father and sick as a dog with the pregnancy.”
“But what happened? Did he come back? What did you tell your mum?” Obviously Claude had come back, since they’d gone on to have three more children, but Lily was intrigued. She’d never heard any of this before.
“Well, I couldn’t tell my parents—Liverpool was still a very conventional place back then. My mum and dad were good working-class people and the scandal would have killed them. They hadn’t been happy about my moving to London anyway; I could hardly come back a year later and announce that I was pregnant and unwed. I was terribly sick and couldn’t stop weeping, with the hormones and missing Claude and all that. I’m sure my mum must have suspected, but she never said a thing.” Celia smiled at Lily. “Oh, at times I really wondered what would become of me!”
Lily was fascinated. “But what about Dad—how did you sort things out? And when did you tell your parents?”
“In the end, it was fine. A few days after Boxing Day, we were coming back from church and there was Claude, in his funny old Triumph Herald, parked outside the house. He brought a bottle of whisky for my dad and a Harrods hamper for my mum—a real luxury in those days—and flowers for me.”
Lily’s eyes widened as she listened; she’d assumed her parents had been a fairly normal couple, but this seemed unimaginably romantic. “Go on, Mum, what then?”
“Well, he just kind of swept in and announced to my parents that we were getting married and having a baby. They were so impressed with him and his car that they didn’t stop to tell me off. And I don’t think we ever discussed why he’d gone either.” Celia stopped abruptly. She seemed lost in the past.
“Actually, Mum, I wanted to ask you something.” Lily was hesitant, but the darkness of the living room somehow made it easier to talk. “I wondered if—if you don’t mind, that is, I wanted to . . .”
“I know, darling,” Celia said. “You want to contact your father, don’t you? I’ve been thinking about this since the wedding—longer, in fact. I think it might be time for us all to try and mend some fences.”
“Really, Mum, is that OK with you? I think Cassie, Liv, and James would like to meet him too, maybe. I mean, we’ve all wondered about him—we sometimes talk about him. But we don’t want to hurt you.”
“Of course I understand.” Celia smiled. “Whatever happened in the past, you should have a chance to know your father. And he should have a chance to know his children too.” She leaned down and kissed Lily on the forehead. “Let’s talk about it in the morning with the others. Come on, it’s late and we’re both tired. Time for bed.”
Curled up under the duvet in her old bedroom, Lily thought about what her mother had said. She tried to imagine her parents before any of them were born, so young and stubborn and in love, so far apart on Christmas Day. She imagined Celia in Liverpool with her beehive hairdo and mini-skirt, sobbing into the Brussels sprouts, trying to hide her broken heart and her pregnancy sickness. What had Lily’s father been thinking of?
From the corridor, she heard her brother’s and his girlfriend’s murmured voices as they passed, then Cassie and Charlie as they came upstairs to bed. Drifting into sleep, Lily remembered that she wasn’t the only one lying there alone. Nearly twenty-five years since their father had left, Celia was still on her own.
* * *
Another evening on my own. I feel like a single mother these days, with the added stress of Harry’s lies or evasions or avoidance or whatever it is. Is that it—is he just trying to avoid me? Is this home, this family I’ve worked so hard to nurture, is it really such an awful place to be? I was angry when he rang from London to say he was having dinner with friends and would be back late. That was five hours ago. It’s the last few days of the holidays before the boys go back to school and he goes back to work; I thought we’d be spending this time together. Now I wish I’d taken the kids to Cornwall with my sister after all. A whole bunch of them were renting a big house there, at least I’d have had company.
He came away over Christmas, of course, we always go back to my parents for the Christmas and New Year break, but my God he seemed unwilling. The day we were packing to leave for Mum and Dad’s, I felt like I was dragging a reluctant child to the dentist. It was clear he’d rather have stayed home alone, or more likely stayed in London with that woman. He seems to think it’s enough just to turn up, to come on these family visits, but then he makes no effort to join in. If only he knew how depressing his presence can be—and embarrassing too. Mum asked me several times why Harry was so withdrawn this year, why he was drinking so much, and Dad commented that he was worse than the kids, “glued to that mobile phone of his.” He took endless long walks to pubs in local villages and didn’t want company, not even the boys. A few days he was sociable and lively, but others I could barely get a word out of him. On Christmas Day, he stood in the garden in the pouring rain trying to get a signal—and you can’t tell me that’s an urgent work call.
God, what a mess. Harry just rang again and you know what? The anger’s gone. I’m tired of it all. Apparently he’s missed his stop or his train or something—he sounded so drunk and confused. I feel tired and sad, sad for him, for me, for Dan and Joe, for the whole damn thing. I’m not perfect, I know that. I’m not ageing well, I moan and I nag, I can be demanding and dissatisfied, I expect too much, I care too much what others think . . . But I don’t lie to Harry and I don’t cheat. I try to make this house a good place to be, when he is here. I just want him to want to come home.
Shit, shit, shit. Harry stood in the dark car park, waiting for the minicab to arrive. It was raining and the station was deserted, all the other commuters having long since departed. He’d fallen asleep on the last train home, missed his stop, and woken with a jolt twenty minutes later, miles from home. Wiping the rain from his face, Harry checked his watch. It was nearly midnight. Pippa was going to be furious.
He took out his phone and dialled Lily’s number. After three rings, she answered: “Harry? Is everything OK?”
“Sorry to ring so late. Did I wake you up?”
“No, it’s fine, I’m still up.” Lily sounded distracted. “Where are you—did you get home?”
“You won’t believe this, but I’ve done it again. Fell asleep as the train left Marylebone and missed my stop. I’m at Beaconsfield now, waiting for the cab.”
“But I don’t understand, we left the restaurant before nine, you should have been back hours ago.”
“I didn’t get the train. I ended up walking around town, found a bar, had a few more drinks. I don’t know how it got this late.” Harry’s voice was slurred. “You know she’s going to bloody murder me.”
“Hmm. What a nightmare.” Lily wasn’t sure what to say.
“It’ll be fine. The cab driver knows me, he came out last time, charges me a doubl
e fare at this time of night . . . But I’m not looking forward to getting home. Anyway, I’ll let you go—to bed or whatever. Just wanted to hear your voice. I enjoyed dinner. And we should definitely book that holiday.” He waited, but Lily said nothing.
“Holiday?” Lily knew she sounded cold, but she couldn’t help it. A year earlier she’d have commiserated with him over the missed train, but now she just felt depressed. Was this how it was going to be, her coming home alone from dinner, him falling asleep on the train back to his wife? They loved each other and the situation was hopeless.
“You know, I mentioned the family’s going away? I thought we could plan something for the half-term.”
“Oh, yes.” Lily shook her head. “Well, February’s a long way off.”
Harry swallowed. “I’ll let you go. And Lil—I love you, remember that.”
“Sure,” Lily said. “Thanks for dinner. I hope it’s not too bad at home. I hope, y’know, it works out.”
Harry hung up, feeling confused and vaguely sick. What was the matter, why did she sound so distant? They’d had a lovely evening at one of their favourite restaurants, she’d been relaxed and affectionate at dinner. So why was she being so cold? His dread of returning home to an angry Pippa was replaced by anxiety over Lily. He felt a sudden flash of rage. What a mess everything was. He felt angry and powerless, as if he wanted to punch something.
“Calm the fuck down,” he muttered to himself. He heard his cab drive up and took a final pull on his cigarette before getting in.
The sick feeling in Harry’s stomach spread on the drive home to Gerrards Cross. He felt tense and weary beyond belief. The pain at the base of his spine was unbearable. It was the to-ing and fro-ing, the long days in London, evenings with Lily, then coming back to these bitter scenes with Pippa. He was falling asleep on the train into work, on the last train too, but when he got home and went to bed, he couldn’t sleep a wink. Just lay there beside his wife, wondering what the hell to do.
