by Tom Ellen
I have to fight that. Another nugget of Harv-brand wisdom pops into my head: You’re not going to get Daphne back by wallowing in your own misery, are you? You have to believe in yourself a bit more.
He said it off the cuff, I think – out of sheer frustration with my moaning – but for some reason, it gives me strength. I can do this. I can be a better man. I can make Mum proud, make Daphne proud, make myself proud.
I take a deep breath and stand up, and as I pull the curtains open, sunlight floods the room. The sky is a clear blue, and it’s cold, crisp and bright outside: a beautiful Christmas Day.
I seal the lids back on the biscuit tins. Enough digging through the past. It’s the present that matters now. As I take them back up to the attic and tidy up the mess I made, I spot something else: the box of Christmas tree decorations. I did promise Daphne I’d put them up. And even if it’s way too late, it’s about time I started keeping my promises.
Downstairs, in the sun-soaked living room, I open the box and start stringing tinsel and fairy lights around the tree’s branches in much the same haphazard way I remember Mum doing when I was a kid.
I know it’s not much, and there’s no one else here to see it, but still … It feels like the first step on a long road ahead.
Chapter Fifty
London, 25 December 2021
The kettle’s boiling, the bacon’s sizzling and the scrambled eggs have just hit that split-second sweet spot between too runny and too firm.
I dish the food out onto two plates, humming along to ‘Jingle Bell Rock’, which is currently thumping out of the radio on top of the fridge. Moving quickly around the tinsel-lined kitchen, I plunge the cafetière and pour two cups of fresh hot coffee, as well as two glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice. I arrange everything neatly on the trays and stand back to admire my work: perfect.
I flick the radio off, but just as I’m about to head up to the bedroom, I wonder if, actually, I should let her sleep in a bit longer.
I look down at my watch – the watch – which is somehow still ticking faultlessly after all this time. It’s not even eight yet, and we were out late last night. Well, late for us, anyway.
For the first time in ages, I’m hung-over – that eggnog brandy was lethal – but I just can’t sleep in these days. In my freelance years, I’d sometimes stay in bed until mid-morning, trying to summon the resolve to get up and get on with things. Now, though, I have to be up at 6.30 on the dot most days, and the routine has installed a sort of internal alarm clock within me. Not that I need it: starting the day is something I genuinely look forward to now.
These last few months have been maybe the happiest of my whole life, which is crazy, really, when I think back to how this year started. On Christmas Day 2020, I would never have imagined that next Christmas could look like this. Not for the first time this year, I’m struck by how incredibly lucky I am.
I pick up the trays. I’ll just go up and see if she’s awake.
I walk slowly out of the kitchen, trying not to spill anything, and as I pass the living room, I see the Christmas tree. It’s heaving under countless layers of multicoloured ornaments, and I can’t help smiling as I remember the chic, scarcely decorated tree that greeted me in that unfamiliar flat on Christmas Day 2023. If that was the Anna Wintour of Christmas trees, then this one is probably the Dame Edna Everage. And let’s be honest, Dame Edna is the look every decent Christmas tree should aspire to.
I tiptoe up the stairs, balancing the trays precariously as I go. Holly and ivy and tinsel have been draped at random around every photo or painting on the staircase, and right at the top, a combination of all three frames my favourite picture. It’s one I found recently while going through some of Mum’s stuff. It’s of me, Daphne and Mum, huddled up in coats and scarves, in Queen’s Park on Christmas Eve 2011. We’re all mugging cheerfully at the camera, our cheeks pink from the cold, arms flung around each other’s shoulders.
On the wall at the end of the landing, just outside our bedroom, there’s another picture I discovered in the same box. This one’s of Mum and her dad – Grandad Jack – on the beach at Whitley Bay. Mum must be about nineteen. She’s grinning, a towel around her shoulders, while Grandad stands next to her, beaming, his blue eyes twinkling. This photo always makes me smile when I see it.
I nudge the bedroom door open with my shoulder, trying to be as quiet as possible in case she’s still asleep. But she’s not. She’s sitting up in bed, reading a book. Her curly black hair is piled messily on top of her head, and she’s wearing my faded Rick and Morty T-shirt as a pyjama top.
For just a moment, I stand in the doorway looking at her, the heavy trays balanced in my hands.
Daff. Sometimes I still can’t believe that she’s back here with me.
When she walked out of this flat a year ago to the day, I honestly thought I’d lost her. She stayed put at her parents’ house for weeks, and we talked only on the phone: sporadically at first, and then more frequently – long, fraught conversations about things we’d never really spoken about before. I listened as she told me how isolated she’d been feeling over the past few years, how she felt she couldn’t get through to me, and how – even before I told her about Alice – she’d been questioning whether or not we were really meant to be together. It was hard to hear. Horrible, even. But she also told me that despite all this, she’d never stopped loving me, and I saw there was still hope.
At her suggestion, I tried grief counselling – to finally talk properly to a professional about what happened with Mum. I was hesitant at first, but honestly, it’s been one of the best things I’ve ever done. I can feel myself starting to let go of stuff that’s gnawed at me for years – stuff from even before Mum died. I’m learning that it’s OK to miss her so badly that it hurts, but it shouldn’t stop me letting in the people I love.
Gradually, as winter turned into spring and we began to meet up in person again, I think Daff started to see a genuine change in me. A change I was only just beginning to recognise myself. She started to truly believe that I’d never lie to her, or keep anything from her again. She started to forgive me.
And then, a few months ago, just after I started the new job, she moved back in.
I’d be lying if I said it’s been plain sailing from then on. It hasn’t. It’s still tough. In fact, it turned out Harv was right when he said that regaining Daff’s trust would be the hardest thing I’d ever have to do. I still don’t know if I’ve fully achieved it. But we’ve learned to communicate with total honesty now, and because of that, it feels like we’re in a better place than we have ever been.
And today, we’re going to tell everyone the news. The news that we’re still reeling from ourselves …
The floorboards squeak under me suddenly, and I realise I’ve been standing here looking at Daff for a period of time that may have slipped beyond romantic, and into Walking-Dead-guy-in-Love-Actually territory. As I enter the room, she looks up and gives me the full wattage of her incredible smile.
‘There you are. I wondered where you’d …’ And then she spots the trays. ‘Oh my God. No. Way.’
I nod. ‘Way. Oh yes. Surprise Christmas breakfast in bed.’
She puts her book down, shaking her head. ‘I mean … this is next-level. Does this even happen in real life? I thought it was just a sitcoms-and-films thing.’
‘What can I say? I’m just a really, really great guy.’
She nods solemnly. ‘That does appear to be the case.’
I lay the tray down with a flourish across her lap, and she laughs. ‘Thank you.’ She takes my hand and squeezes it. ‘Seriously, this is lovely.’
I squeeze back. ‘No worries. How are you feeling?’
She picks up a rasher of crispy bacon and bites off the end. ‘Mmm. Good.’
‘You, or the bacon?’
She laughs. ‘Both. The bacon and I are both great.’
‘Good.’ I slide into bed next to her, settling my own tray on top of the du
vet.
‘The bigger question,’ Daff says, a smile playing on her lips, ‘is how are you feeling?’
I wince. ‘Was I that bad last night?’
She grins. ‘No, you were great! My colleagues all loved you. I think everyone was a bit weirded out by how great you were, to be honest. After previous work Christmas Eve dos.’
‘I know, I know. Don’t remind me.’
She lays her head on my shoulder. ‘I loved seeing you talking to them all about the teaching stuff.’
‘Ha. I hope I didn’t ramble on too much.’
‘No! I can’t tell you how amazing it is to see you actually being proud of what you’re doing. And you were so funny with Nadia and Sarah.’ She kisses my neck and looks up at me. ‘You weren’t faking, right? You did genuinely enjoy yourself?’
I put my arm around her. ‘Yeah. I genuinely did.’
I mean it, too. Daff’s annual Christmas Eve work do used to instil a pathetic sort of dread in me. I’d worry about it for weeks beforehand, certain that everyone there would be secretly looking down on me, or wondering what Daff was still doing with me. But last night, none of those thoughts even crossed my mind. For the first time, I found I was able to just relax and have fun.
‘I’ll be honest, though, I am a bit hung-over,’ I add, yawning widely. ‘You don’t mind that I ended up having a few, do you?’
‘I was mortified,’ she deadpans. ‘No, of course not. It’s weird, actually: I don’t miss drinking at all. Yet, anyway. And it’s so funny being sober at these things; watching everyone else get progressively more pissed around you.’
I laugh. ‘So what do you remember from last night that I might’ve drunkenly forgotten?’
‘Well …’ She chews a mouthful of scrambled egg thoughtfully. ‘You and Rich doing karaoke together was an obvious highlight.’
‘Well I remember that, yeah.’
‘I don’t think anyone will ever forget it. Nads filmed the whole thing, by the way.’ She taps her phone on the table. ‘It’s already on the work WhatsApp.’
‘Glad to hear it. Who knew Rich knows all the words to “Gettin’ Jiggy wit It”? I swear he didn’t look at the screen once.’
Daff grins as she takes a sip of coffee. ‘Hey – did you talk to his new girlfriend? Miranda?’
‘Yeah, a little bit. She seems nice.’
‘So hot.’ She shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Even hotter than his last one.’
I load my fork up with bacon. ‘The first thing Rich said to me last night, before he even said hello, was that Miranda had once auditioned to be in a Corrs tribute band, but she’d been rejected for being – and this is a direct quote – “too good-looking”.’
Daff splutters into her orange juice. ‘Ah, Rich. His heart’s in the right place, but he really is a ridiculous man.’
A few months ago, a comment like that would probably have had me searching Daff’s expression carefully for any trace of hidden meaning. It would have sent my brain wheeling back to that day in the park at Christmas 2023 – the image of Rich’s arm slinking around her waist. Now, though, it doesn’t even make me flinch.
It doesn’t bother me when Daff and Rich work late together, or go out to plays or screenings, just the two of them. Because I know that I love her and she loves me. I believe in us completely.
I guess Harv was right in the end: all I needed was a little less self-pity and a little more self-belief.
We sit for a few seconds in contented silence, sipping our coffee, watching the sunlight filter in between the curtains.
‘When’s your Christmas thing with the teaching lot again?’ Daff asks.
‘The twenty-ninth,’ I tell her. ‘It’d be great if you wanted to come too.’
‘Yeah. I’m seeing the girls that night, but maybe we can come along for a drink later.’
‘Definitely – anyone’s welcome. I’ve invited Harv, too.’
She nudges me with her elbow. ‘You still trying to set him up with the Iron Woman?’
I laugh. ‘Can you please not call her that? It makes her sound like Margaret Thatcher.’
‘Sorry. I’m only joking – you know I love Isha.’
‘Yeah, well, the feeling’s mutual. She’s always banging on about how great you are. Anyway, I do think she and Harv would be good together.’
She nods. ‘I think you’re right.’
Isha (aka the Iron Woman) is one of many new mates I made on the Those Who Can teacher training course earlier this year. She’s brilliant: smart and funny and – incredibly – perhaps even more fitness-obsessed than Harv. She ticks off a different triathlon pretty much every weekend, and since she’s recently single, I’ve been talking Harv up to her at every given opportunity.
Daff takes a last sip of coffee and plonks her mug on the bedside table. ‘I still can’t believe that by this time next year you’ll be Mr Hazeley.’
I lean into her, kissing her hair. ‘Oi, don’t jinx it. I’ve still got the exams to get through.’
She smiles at me. ‘Come on, Ben … You know you’re good at it.’
I shrug, but I can’t help smiling back. I am good at it, I think.
I’m now four months into my stint as a teaching assistant at a local comprehensive, and the first time I stood up in front of a class, it was like something finally clicked. The lesson was Year 11 English, and I had to suppress my shock when I saw the book we’d be dissecting: The History of Mr Polly by H. G. Wells. A book that contains the line: ‘If you don’t like your life, you can change it.’
Anyway, it’s early days, but I love it. I really do. By next summer – exam results pending – I’ll be a fully qualified teacher. The idea makes me tingle with excitement.
Daff finishes her last bit of bacon and sets her tray aside. ‘Well, that was outrageous. Thanks very much.’
‘No worries,’ I say. ‘Although I am kind of disappointed that you’re still eating normal food. I thought you were supposed to be having weird cravings by now. I’m quite looking forward to knocking you up pilchards with raspberry jam, or whatever.’
She smiles at me, her brown eyes sparkling. ‘You’ve been reading those leaflets the doctor gave us, then?’
‘Erm, to be honest, I think I’m getting this from an episode of Friends where Phoebe was pregnant.’
‘Excellent.’ She nods. ‘Good to know you’re taking this whole experience seriously.’
I lay my tray aside too, and cuddle up to her. ‘So … how are we going to do it today, then?’
Daff shrugs. ‘I think we should just do it when everyone’s arrived. All my lot, and your uncle and aunt and cousins and everyone. Harv and Jamila are coming for drinks at eleven-ish, so they should still be here too. We can tell them all at once.’ She pounds her fist into her palm. ‘Maximum impact.’
I kiss her shoulder. ‘Your mum is going to lose her mind.’
‘I know,’ she laughs. ‘I’m genuinely worried. I think we should hide all breakable objects.’
‘We should do that anyway, with your nephews coming.’
She kisses me on the forehead. ‘I wish your mum was here today,’ she says suddenly. ‘So much.’
‘I know,’ I say quietly. ‘I’ve been thinking about her a lot since we found out.’
We lie there for a minute, forehead to forehead. I wonder if it will ever get easier – missing Mum. Probably not. But at least I’ve let Daff in properly this time. Now at least we can miss her together.
Daff sighs and says, ‘Well. It’s been a pretty weird year, hasn’t it?’
I laugh. ‘It really has.’ I lay a hand gently on her stomach.
‘And next year’s going to be even weirder,’ she says. ‘I mean, there’s a person in there.’ She pokes her belly. ‘An actual person.’
‘Bernard,’ I say.
‘Yep. Little Bernie.’
‘The B Man.’
She nuzzles into my neck. ‘You know we have to think of some proper names soon, right? Bernard’s fine for
a bump, but I’m not sure about it for our actual child.’
‘What, even if it’s a girl?’
‘Even if it’s a girl.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘I’ll brainstorm.’
I’ve been thinking lately about Jack, if it’s a boy. I haven’t told Daff yet. Maybe I’ll pitch it in the new year.
The whole thing still doesn’t seem real, to be honest. When Daff missed her period back in October, we hadn’t even restarted the conversation about having kids. We were still trying to find our way back into married life. But I knew for certain it was what I wanted. A family with Daphne: the thought made me explode with joy. And when she told me it was what she wanted too … Well, put it this way, I was unable to form a coherent sentence for a good few hours.
She places her hand on top of mine, and I hear the soft clink of our wedding rings touching.
‘I love you, Daff,’ I tell her.
‘I love you too. And hey – we haven’t even said it yet.’ She smiles at me: her wide, bright, beautiful smile. ‘Merry Christmas.’
‘Oh yeah. Merry Christmas.’
We kiss for a while, our fingers interlocked on her tummy, and I find myself hard pressed to remember a moment when I have ever felt happier.
Our families and our best mates will all be here in a few hours, and over a glass of champagne, we’re going to let them know we’re expecting.
Today is going to be a very good day.
‘All right,’ I say finally, climbing back out of bed and collecting the trays. ‘You stay put. I’m on turkey duty, gravy duty and trying-to-get-rid-of-this-hangover duty. Do we have any Nurofen?’
‘Under the sink in the bathroom.’ She sits up and wriggles out of the duvet. ‘I’ll come down and give you a hand with everything.’
‘No way,’ I tell her, mock-sternly. ‘You’re not lifting a finger today.’
She laughs. ‘You can save that attitude for the third trimester, when I’m genuinely losing my mind.’ She walks around the bed and takes my hand. ‘Come on, let’s do it together. That’s the best way.’
Down in the kitchen, we switch the radio on to hear Michael Bublé warbling about what he wants for Christmas. We start chatting and laughing as we pull out spices and chopping boards and everything else we need to prepare our slap-up festive lunch.
