by Beth Morrey
Back at Finsbury Park, I made my way to the taxi rank and managed to find a black cab with a driver who didn’t mind taking a dog. In fact, he had one of his own, a Giant Schnauzer called Stanley who was scared of Christmas crackers and cringed whenever one was brandished. He showed me a picture on his phone of a handsome black dog, his inscrutable expression shadowed by a fringe of crimped fur. When we arrived home, my dog-loving driver leaped out of his seat to open the door for me, and gave Bobby a good ruffle on the head as she jumped out.
I let myself into the house, still chuckling at the thought of Stanley the Schnauzer quaking at crackers. Cosaques, they were called originally, after the Cossack soldiers who fired their guns in the air—no wonder the dogs got scared. I wondered if Bobby would be. Leo made me a cracker once, in the old bon-bon style, with an almond and a Greek poem in it. It took me a while to translate, because it was unfamiliar to me, but I was glad when it was done. I found the handwritten paper, along with my scribbled notes, up in the attic the other day, tucked in one of the photo albums.
I can only sing because you loved me
all these years.
In the sun, in the sun’s shadow,
in rain, and in snow,
I can only sing because you loved me.
Since you kept your hands on me
that night when you kissed me,
since then, I’m fine as an open lily
And I have a quiver in my heart,
only because you kept your hands on me.
A quiver in his heart. That’s what I was. I kept my hands on him and didn’t let go.
Back home, I picked up the post and went straight to the living room to switch on the tree lights, which cast a warm glow over my various trinkets. Sitting down, I started to weed out the inevitable bills, but among them found a thicker cream envelope with my name and address in beautifully elegant handwriting. Inside was what looked like a Christmas card, a lovely little pen-and-ink drawing of an Islington-ish square with a tree in the middle and a crowd singing round it. But when I opened it, instead of the usual festive greetings, I read:
Ms. S. Riche
Requests the pleasure of
Mrs. M. Carmichael’s company (and Bobby’s)
On Sunday, 25 December 2016
At twelve o’clock
14 Lennox Square
The most fervently worded love poem would not have made a sweeter read. “Bobby!” I gasped. “We’ve had an invitation!” She trotted over to look, sniffing the card warily and wagging her tail. I hugged her in delight, then began to fret. Could I accept? Would it not be a terrible imposition? What would Sylvie do about Aphra, her impossibly bossy cat? I picked up my mobile phone and called Angela. She answered on the first ring.
“Don’t tell me. You’ve had Sylvie’s invite and you’re worrying about whether to say yes.”
“Yes.”
“You almighty eejit. Say yes.”
“But . . . who else will be there?”
“I don’t know. Ask her, she always invites a mixed bunch. You’ll fit right in.”
As usual with Angela, I didn’t know whether to be pleased or offended. “She’s invited Bobby too.”
“Great, it’ll be like one of those old cartoons, all the animals chasing each other.”
“I might say yes,” I said.
“Thank fuck for that. Merry Christmas.”
Chapter 32
I spent the next few days in a glorious frenzy, consulting Sylvie, buying and wrapping presents (thankful for my library salary, tiny as it was), searching in the attic for a dress to wear, and giving Bobby an extra-good brush, despite her protestations. On Christmas Eve, I went to bed feeling the familiar tingle of expectation, soaking up that magical spark in the night air that sends children into raptures. It turned out I could relish it, even on my own.
The following morning, we both set out looking very fine, Bobby’s silky-smooth tail waving. Under my old black coat I was wearing one of my mother’s frocks, made for her by Jette: a scarlet tea dress with a flared skirt and holly leaves embroidered on the hem. She wore it one Christmas up in Yorkshire; the skirt fell over the piano stool as she played “O Come All Ye Faithful” and I sat at her feet and fingered the holly berries. The contents of that case were a sartorial memory stick, each garment unleashing a torrent.
We stopped briefly en route to take flowers to Leo. I tied Bobby outside the gate and she waited patiently, as she always did, while I went in to leave my offerings and sit for a while, contemplating his oak tree and trying to think of something to say. Like Melanie, I felt the urge to speak to him, so occasionally I would tell him what we were doing, or simply reminisce. Today, I told him a story about a Christmas past, when Mel had stopped believing in Father Christmas and fell into a huge sulk, which only lifted when she opened her present. Chosen by Leo, it was a handsome mahogany guitar, and her squeal of glee when she opened the box made Alistair wail. Christmases were very noisy then.
Retrieving a panting Bobby, we continued on our journey and arrived at Sylvie’s little Georgian terrace on the dot of twelve. There was a layer of frost covering her parterre and the eucalyptus wreath on her door, and I could see the warm yellow lights of her tree glinting in the window. Feeling apprehensive, I lifted the knocker, and a moment later Sylvie appeared, wearing a Mrs. Claus apron edged with white fake fur, huge bauble earrings dangling from her ears. Decca and Nancy pranced at her feet, both wearing reindeer antlers. It was so over the top that I burst out laughing. She beamed and held out her arms.
“Darling, do come in, we’re about to open the champagne,” she said, sweeping off down the corridor. “This was a present from Denzil,” she continued, gesturing to her apron. “I love it.”
“Are you sure about Bobby?” I asked. “Where is Aphra?”
“Don’t worry, she’s at my next-door neighbors’, living it up with a Siamese called Tyson. She’ll be having a whale of a time.”
Denzil and Miguel were already in the kitchen, Denzil brandishing a meat thermometer, while Miguel folded a pile of snow-white napkins into swans. When I handed Sylvie a bottle of champagne and my latest and most successful homemade panettone, both were exclaimed over, and my holly dress admired. Then Sylvie’s other guests started to arrive, firstly Desiderata Haber, the historian who’d been at Denzil’s party, and secondly Hanna, the waitress from my favorite café.
“I didn’t know you knew Sylvie,” I said when she came over to say hello.
Sylvie sailed over to fill up our glasses. “I teach a design course in Chelsea and Hanna was one of my star pupils.”
“I study at the Royal College of Art now,” said Hanna. “Sylvie got me the job at the café to help fund my work.”
I looked across at Sylvie, weaving her way through her guests, pouring and pressing her concoctions on everyone, just like she did when we first met. Initially she’d reminded me of Leo, but really it was an unfair comparison. Leo was jovial and kind enough but his interest in other people was fleeting, as mine had been. We existed in our own bubble, floating along without ever really being bothered enough to probe deeper or—heaven forbid—pierce our protective film. But thinking about that made me feel ashamed and sad, so I drank my champagne and smiled at the last guests who’d arrived and were being introduced—Desi’s husband, Simeon, who’d been parking their car, and their teenage son, Sam, who looked utterly horrified to be there, though marginally less appalled when he was handed a glass of champagne.
We milled around Sylvie’s kitchen, munching canapés, drinking and gossiping, as Ella Fitzgerald serenaded us, and Sylvie herself bustled about basting, stirring, keeping up a constant flow of food and chat. The dogs sat drooling under the peninsula, occasionally snapping up a slice of smoked salmon or a morsel of cured meat. At one o’clock, Sylvie clapped her hands and we all filed through to her dining room, papered in a dar
k forest green and lit with dozens of candles, strands of ivy trailing off the mantelpiece. I found myself sitting between Miguel and Simeon, a bespectacled bookish-looking man who stooped slightly and kept looking across at his wife. I thought he might be disappointed to be next to me but gradually realized he was merely very shy and uxorious.
Sylvie and Denzil brought in the first course with much fanfare—a chestnut soup zigzagged with cream and scattered with parsley. We pulled crackers—Cossacks firing—and the dogs immediately retreated to the kitchen while we rustled through the booty. Wearing golden crowns, we feasted, congratulating the chef, who was, as usual, immensely pleased with herself. Sylvie had a wonderful capacity for philautia, that boldest of Greek loves, “the love of the self”—a much finer quality than narcissism, which it’s often mistaken for. The way I saw it, with narcissism, you were just gazing at your reflection in a lake; with philautia, you were frolicking in the lake and inviting people to join you. People who truly liked themselves seemed to have a greater capacity for friendship, for letting people in. Perhaps that’s why I, in the past, was always rather solitary. But I liked to think I was starting to dip a toe in the waters.
It was a noisy, convivial and delicious lunch, punctuated with jokes and compliments, a roar of approval going up when Sylvie brought in two plump chickens from the Hebden Bridge farm, reclining in tawny roast potatoes. When I took my first bite I fancied it brought back those days in the Kirkheaton rectory, Aunt Sibby hovering in her apron as we tucked into Elspeth or Marigold or whichever poor hen had been sacrificed for our festivities.
Simeon had to rebuke Sam, who’d had a little too much of the Pouilly-Fumé, but once he’d dealt with his son I asked him about his job and was delighted to discover he was an archeologist, who knew of Alistair and had even read one of his research papers. My cheeks burned with pride, and I told him all about Ali’s fieldwork. Miguel and Denzil were arguing about Miguel not eating his potatoes, so Desiderata came and sat with us. She was startlingly attractive, with tumbling dark hair, sleepy almond eyes and a beguiling, languorous air; I could see why Simeon was so besotted.
“Sylvie tells me you are the wife of the famous Leonard Carmichael. I’m a great admirer of his work,” she said, sipping her wine.
I felt a flicker of unease. How much did she know about him? If Leo had been here he would have definitely been an admirer of hers. But he wasn’t, so instead I helped myself to more gravy and tried to recall Angela’s gossip at the party.
“Angela Brennan said you’re writing a book about Elizabeth I? It sounds very interesting.”
She laughed and flicked her hair away from her face. “The lesbian thing? My agent told me to write it, might get me a BBC series,” she drawled. “One must make one’s mark.”
“Was Elizabeth a lesbian, then?” asked Sylvie, topping up our wine.
“Maybe. Maybe not. I’m sure we’re all on the spectrum,” replied Desiderata, picking a last roast potato out of the dish with beautifully manicured hands, and eating it like an apple. Her son was scarlet with embarrassment, choking on his water, so I thought I’d better change the subject.
“Did we do the cracker jokes?” I asked, and everyone delved back into the glittery cardboard rolls.
“What does Santa suffer from if he gets stuck in the chimney?” asked Denzil.
“Don’t tell me!” shrieked Sylvie, shoving the wine back in the cooler. “I’ll get there!” She sat down and put her fingers to her temples, eyes closed. After a second’s ruminating, she opened her eyes wide. “Claustrophobia!” she exclaimed triumphantly.
“Correct,” he said, tossing his paper back on the table.
“What do you get if you cross a snowman with a vampire?” asked Simeon.
“Easy. Frostbite,” returned Sylvie. “Next!”
Then it became a game trying to get to the pun before Sylvie could, but such was her capacity for wordplay, she bested us all.
“What do you call Santa’s little helpers?” asked Desiderata.
“Um . . . Elf workers?”
“No. Do you give up?” she teased, waving the paper.
“Yes,” said Sylvie. “I want to go and get the dessert.”
“Subordinate Clauses,” said Desiderata, smirking.
Sylvie stood up. “That’s too sophisticated for a cracker. You damn well made that up, you cheat.” She swept out in mock-anger.
The smirk broadened into a smile. “I might start a career sideline. Erudite cracker jokes.”
“Wisecrackers,” said Simeon, deadpan. Desiderata reached over to cup his cheek with her hand and Sam flushed with mortification again.
Sylvie came back in, buckling under the weight of an enormous dish. “Sufganiyot, in honor of our Jewish friends,” she said, bowing toward the Habers and Hanna, putting down a plate of bronzed and sugared doughnuts. I took one and bit into it; cinnamon-flavored custard oozed down my chin. Reaching for a napkin, I thought better of it, instead scraping up the excess with one finger and licking it off. I noticed Bobby had crept back in now the cracker bangs had subsided and was panting at my feet, so after my second mouthful I offered her a scraping of custard and she lapped at my finger eagerly.
Next we moved on to the cheese, tucking into an oozing Brie and a nutty, salty Comté, along with oatcakes and quince jam. Then we all trooped, groaning-full, into the living room, where the tree lights and flames of the fire glowed brighter against the fading light outside. There we opened presents to the croon of Nat King Cole, while the dogs snuffled around the discarded wrapping.
Sylvie was delighted with her Murano vase and immediately went off to arrange some white chrysanthemums in it. I’d bought Denzil some of his favorite cigars, and Miguel a biography of Ninette de Valois, whom I particularly revered because my mother had seen her dance at the Royal Opera House in the 1920s. I gave Desiderata a signed copy of Leo’s Disraeli biography—one historian to another—and Simeon a bottle of port because Sylvie said he liked it. She said not to bother with Sam because teenagers hated everything, but I didn’t like to leave him out, so with Angela’s help bought him a little gadget that turned his mobile phone into a wall projector. I’d got Hanna a sequined scarf, just a small thing, but she had tears in her eyes when she hugged me. They all seemed so pleased with their presents that I felt the agonizing had been worth it. In return I received a wonderful haul—cashmere gloves from Sylvie, silver earrings from Miguel, a beautiful new leather collar for Bobby from Denzil, a book called Baking for Dogs from the Habers, and a box of almond biscuits from Hanna. Even Bobby got a bag of Bonios.
Sam set up his new phone projector and projected a YouTube video of cats jumping at cucumbers onto Sylvie’s living room wall. Bobby in particular was entranced, cocking her head and growling as she stared at the flickering images. I looked round the room, watching everyone huddled and laughing, enjoying the presents I’d bought, and couldn’t remember a more resplendent Christmas. Last year I was so worried, checking that everything was perfect, constantly panicking about food and whether everyone was having fun and dreading it all being over, washing up and stripping beds in that horrible silence.
Sylvie put on some more music and we danced a little, and drank coffee with homemade truffles and slices of my panettone, which had turned out just right. Then Desiderata and Simeon made their excuses, as Sam was drunk, and Denzil and Miguel said they’d better be going because Miguel had a flight the next morning, and Hanna left because she had an early Boxing Day shift. So in the end it was just Sylvie and me clearing up. I helped her load the dishwasher, and when it was gurgling away with her crystal glasses in it, we sat down for a tot of brandy in the kitchen, surrounded by leftovers in foil.
“How was that, do you think?” asked Sylvie, picking at a bit of chicken.
“It was lovely.” I sighed. “Thank you so much. What a wonderful day.”
“I think Bobby enjoyed herself,”
observed Sylvie, indicating with her foot. All three dogs were piled onto one bed, Nancy’s and Decca’s gray mingling with Bobby’s brindle as they snored and twitched together.
“She wants to stay for a sleepover, but we’d better be going,” I said, getting to my feet. Bobby lurched groggily, opening one eye, then rolled over and up when she saw I was on the move. She came to me, nosing my hand, and I gave her an affectionate pat. Sylvie led me to the door and helped me with my coat and scarf.
“Excellent panettone,” she said. “And thank you again for the Murano. Gorgeous.”
“Thank you,” I said. “For everything.”
“It was my pleasure,” she replied. I turned on the pathway between her parterre and looked back at her, bathed in the light of her hallway.
“What did the sea say to Santa?” I asked.
She grinned. “Nothing; it just waved.”
Back home after another meandering walk through back streets and squares, I switched on my tree lights and sat on the floor next to another little pile of presents I’d accumulated. I gave Bobby hers first—she nibbled off the wrapping to reveal a floppy, enticingly soft stuffed rabbit. After staring at it intently, paws splayed either side, she nosed it and looked at me inquiringly.
“Yes, my darling. Merry Christmas.” I looked around my living room, lights twinkling on the tree Angela bought, illuminating the artful clutter created by Sylvie, the pictures of my family, the gifts under the tree. “You deserve it. You got me the best present of all.” I gazed at her, a haze of browns and golds, with her flash of teeth and whorling nose. My Bobby, who sauntered out into the garden in the mornings, her nose lifted to the breeze to smell what the day might bring. Whose haunches nestled in the small of my back every night, defying the demons. Who listened like no one else ever had. She was vivid, present, warm, vital. The best gift anyone could ever have.
She gazed at the rabbit resting between her paws, then pounced and immediately bore it off to be destroyed. As she lovingly mouthed her new toy on her bed, I attended to the rest of my pile. Mel and Octavia had bought me a pair of Wellington boots and a takeaway coffee mug with a Blackadder quote on it. Alistair had sent me a beautiful dark blue parka with a fake-fur hood. I tried it on and looked at myself in the mirror above the fireplace. As I slipped my hands into the pockets I discovered another wrapped-up present. Pulling it out, a tag read To Grandma, love from Arthur in spiky child’s handwriting. When I opened it, I discovered the long-promised memory stick. Still wearing the coat, I went straight through to the kitchen and plugged it into my laptop.
