In-Laws and Outlaws

by Kate Fulford

  “It’s being fumigated apparently.” I explained.

  “That figures,” he continued. “Isn’t there somewhere else he could go?”

  “You know there isn’t.” I said.

  “No, I don’t suppose there is,” said Gideon with weary resignation. It was hardly a fulsome invitation and made clear his feelings for Dominic. A few days later however, I realised that I had misjudged him. He’s almost too good a man sometimes.

  “Mum insists that Dominic come with us,” he said, over dinner one evening. “She said that she couldn’t live with herself if she knew your brother was at home alone while we tucked into our Christmas dinner. She is amazing, don’t you think?”

  “Yup, amazing, absolutely amazing.” I concurred, not quite truthfully.

  On reflection I should have gone with my instinct, which was to keep Dominic as far as possible from Gideon’s family, and most definitely at Christmas. I would happily have left him behind with a pizza, a bottle of whiskey, and a box set of Breaking Bad (I think he hopes one day to do for geography teachers what Walter White did for chemistry teachers), but I could hardly refuse the invitation without it looking odd.

  The sad truth is that I don’t really trust Dominic around people, at least not ones that are anything to do with me. All I could do was hope that he would behave well for the few hours we would spend in Marjorie and Malcolm’s home. As it happens my hope was misplaced and the fallout from Christmas was both swift and dramatic. On Boxing Day, around mid-afternoon, Gideon received a phone call from his father. Marjorie, Malcolm said, had been crying pretty much nonstop since we had left the day before. She couldn’t believe that my brother and I had come to her home only to ruin the Christmas she had so lovingly planned. Marjorie, Malcolm went on, had begged him not to say anything as she had no desire to cause any trouble between Gideon and me, but he, Malcolm, couldn’t stay silent. It was possible, Malcolm conceded, that Dominic was not aware of what he was doing, but as for my attempts to make Marjorie look foolish in front of her family, he hoped there would be no repetition of such rudeness. He and Marjorie would, in conclusion, be grateful for an assurance from Gideon that they would never have to meet Dominic again. So that went well then.

  The unfortunate thing was that I had, naively in retrospect, been quite looking forward to Christmas. The Christmases of my childhood had been rather odd affairs. Aunt Audrey had felt, even more strongly than most, that Christmas was a time for giving. On Christmas morning therefore we would go to the children’s ward at the local hospital and give away my meagre stock of presents. Then we would head to a homeless shelter to help serve Christmas dinner before returning home for beans on toast. A full blown, multi-generational family shebang with a huge roast dinner and nary a homeless person or a sick child in sight would make a pleasant change. Not that I have anything against sick children or homeless people, I just got a little tired of seeing them have a better Christmas than me year after year.

  Initially it looked as if everything was going to go with one hell of a swing. The three of us, me, Gideon, and Dominic, arrived to find Marjorie’s normally tidy house a riot of wrapping paper. Judging by the mountain of presents in the lounge the children had been well served by Santa and there were some very appetising smells coming from the kitchen, so it looked as if Marjorie had upped her game for Christmas dinner. If Helen seemed a bit less friendly than at our previous meeting I put it down to the strain of managing her children under her mother’s disapproving eye.

  “Do not take that into the lounge,” Marjorie shouted at Hector, or possibly Jake, as one or other of them made their way across the hall from the dining room holding a fizzy drink of a particularly vivid red hue.

  “Put that down immediately,” she told Ruby (I knew it was Ruby because she has short hair while Martha can sit on hers) as the child reached for a chocolate. “We’ll be eating in less than an hour and I haven’t spent all morning cooking for you to make yourself sick on sweets before you’ve eaten. Helen,” Marjorie, who was standing in the door of the lounge wearing pink rubber gloves with furry tops on them and a reindeer apron, turned her attention to her daughter. “Can you please control your children? One of them has disturbed the fringe on the hall rug, so I’ll have to sort that out on top of everything else.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked, hoping to diffuse what was threatening to become a rather tense situation. I made as if to get up from my seat. “I’m happy to help with anything you need in the kitchen,” I added.

  “No!” Marjorie exclaimed, rather more sharply than was strictly necessary. “You stay just where you are. All of you.” She pointed a rubber glove clad finger at us all in a sinister manner that brooked no opposition, but she did manage to muster a thin smile as she did so. But I was left in no doubt that she didn’t want anyone in her kitchen.

  Marjorie having returned to her labours I turned my attention back to Helen, with whom I had been making desultory conversation. I expected to share a rueful look with her in recognition of Marjorie’s overbearing manner, but she just looked at me blankly. Thankfully Celeste came in at that moment and began to talk animatedly with Helen in French. I had been surprised to see Celeste there as I would have assumed, had I given it any thought at all, that she would have gone home to France for the festivities. It was obviously a good thing she was there though, as her presence seemed to cheer Helen enormously. Not long after this Marjorie announced that lunch was ready and we all trooped into the dining room, skirting round the massive (artificial) tree that dominated the hall.

  Quite how the conversation that Christmas lunchtime made the leap it did in the few minutes that I was in the loo I have no idea. When I left everyone was discussing the merits of TV Christmas specials and whether or not they add any real value (in my view they don’t). When I returned the topic had moved on to the fact that (according to Dominic) pretty much every terrorist outrage or plane crash in recent times has been orchestrated by a global cabal intent on world domination (in my view they haven’t).

  “So because that’s what the media,” here Dominic did that really irritating thing of waggling the first two fingers of each hand to indicate quote marks when he said the word media, “says you believe it?” Dominic was most definitely astride one of his favourite hobby horses and not going to be easily unseated. “Only an idiot would believe that a plane could simply go missing. And the train that brought the so called bombers to London, it was cancelled. A few minutes research on the internet and it would be clear to anyone with half a brain that there was far more to all these events than they want you to know.”

  “And who are ‘they’?” asked Malcolm, waggling his fingers in much the same way that Dominic had just done.

  “The people that really run this place,” my brother replied, waving a roast potato he had just speared on the end of his fork at my future father-in-law. Dominic can become very voluble after a couple of drinks and he had been knocking back some very expensive wine (I know it was expensive not because I am a connoisseur but because Marjorie told everybody it was) with a seemingly unquenchable thirst.

  “I can see no reason whatsoever to doubt the official account of events,” said Malcolm patiently. “You don’t have any evidence to back up any of your so called theories, not that you have shared with us so far anyway.”

  “So you don’t think it’s just a little bit suspicious that there were twenty people from the same company on board the so called ‘missing’ plane?” Dominic had by now taken a big bite out of the potato he had previously been waving around and was now talking with his mouth full, although this was probably the least of his social faux pas at that moment.

  “Why would that be in the least bit suspicious?” Malcolm responded. He clearly wasn’t about to fold in the face of Dominic’s onslaught. “Surely it’s far more likely that it just crashed than that it was part of some plot,” he continued.

  “If that helps you to sleep at night Malc, then believe what you w
ant.” Dominic chose this moment to refill his glass, managing to slop red wine onto the pure white table cloth as he did so. Marjorie tutted loudly but Dominic was not about to let a little tutting stop him.

  “I just have two words to say to you, young man,” said Malcolm. Uh oh, I thought, I can just imagine what those two words will be. Or at least I could imagine which two words I thought Dominic deserved to have said to him at that moment. Malcolm was, however, clearly much more patient, and certainly less potty mouthed, than me. “Occam’s razor” were the two words that he chose.

  “Occam’s what?” replied Dominic.

  “Occam’s razor,” Gideon repeated on his father’s behalf. “It’s the principle that the simplest solution, the one that requires the fewest assumptions, is the one that is most likely.” I was glad of the explanation, having had absolutely no idea why Malcolm had started going on about shaving equipment but, even I have to admit, Gideon did sound a little patronising regardless of the usefulness of his contribution.

  “Huh?” said Dominic.

  “To put it more simply,” Gideon continued, “your suggestion that the plane was somehow spirited away by a shady cabal because of a desire to get hold of, or get rid, of, twenty people, requires a lot more assumptions than the suggestion that the plane simply crashed into the ocean and has yet to be found.” If Gideon had been teetering on the edge of patronising before, he had now dived headlong into it. I knew he was right and I was furious with Dominic, but I couldn’t help feeling just a little protective towards him. He’s an idiot, but he was completely outnumbered and there was no need to make him look anymore foolish than he had already made himself. “And the ocean,” Gideon concluded, “is a very big place.”

  “And surely, mate, there’d be much easier ways to get rid of a few people than to make a whole plane disappear.” Joe, who had been listening intently to the, for want of a better word, arguments had decided it was time to wade in. “If I wanted to get rid of a few people I’d take ’em somewhere out of the way and shoot ’em.” Having seen Joe armed and in his natural habitat I could believe this. “What I wouldn’t do, mate, is get everyone in the world looking my way. Not smart, not smart at all.” Joe tapped the side of his forehead with his fork as if to reinforce the idiocy of Dominic’s suggestion. I could see Dominic shaking his head as if in weary resignation at the gullibility of the masses. I desperately wanted the conversation to move on before he made an even greater fool of himself, especially as it was now three against one.

  “These parsnips are delicious Marjorie.” I piped up. “What did you do to them? You must give me the recipe.”

  “I cooked them,” Marjorie replied, rather sharply I thought, considering I was trying to throw her lifeline out of this conversational morass.

  “Yes,” I persisted, determined to keep off conspiracy theories long enough for the conversation to take a different, less contentious, turn, “but what did you cook them in?”

  “The container they came in,” she replied rather sharply, “from the shop I bought them from.”

  “So that’s why it’s all so tasty!” Joe let out a roar of laughter. “Marjorie, you sly fox. You didn’t make this meal at all did you?” He clearly thought this was hugely funny. Marjorie, equally as clearly, did not. Unfortunately my intervention did nothing to end the conversation (Dominic finally got around to mentioning lizard eyed aliens, another of his favourite subjects, about five minutes later, although it seemed much longer). All I had managed to do was highlight Marjorie’s culinary deception. And now, on Boxing Day, I was paying for it.

  “I personally don’t find anything about this situation funny.” Gideon had, somewhat to my surprise, taken his parents side completely and my attempts to diffuse the situation through humour had been as ineffective as my parsnip gambit. “Whether your brother intended to be rude or not,” he continued, “he has certainly upset my parents, which was uncalled for after they invited him to lunch. I’d better go around and see how Mum is.” Gideon sounded like a complete stuffed shirt and I must admit it got up my nose rather. Having said his piece he got up and headed out of the sitting room, where this conversation was taking place, presumably to get his coat and shoes.

  “So if someone feeds you, you have to agree with everything they say, is that what you believe?” I shouted after him, his attitude having got my goat somewhat.

  “Of course that’s not what I believe.” Gideon replied, having returned wearing a coat and some shoes, two to be exact, thus confirming my earlier suspicions.

  “What’s so wrong with Dominic saying what he thinks anyway?” I was furious with Dominic, but I was also angry with Gideon for taking this all so seriously. Dominic had been an idiot. Couldn’t we all just accept that he was an idiot and move one?

  “It’s not about him saying what he thinks, it’s about him being rude.” Gideon responded.

  “Go round there then,” I said. “To your amazing mother. If she’s so amazing,” I continued, having got the bit between my teeth, “how come she can’t even cook parsnips?”

  “Don’t be childish Eve,” Gideon replied, “It doesn’t suit you.” And with that smugly gittish comment ringing in my ears Gideon swept out of the front door without so much as a goodbye.

  The next four hours were not the most pleasant I have ever spent. I couldn’t settle to anything. I tried reading. I tried watching TV. I even tried meditating for goodness sake, but nothing seemed to soothe my fevered mind. This was our first real argument. I was very aware that I had known Gideon for not much more than a year and so couldn’t really be sure which way this was going play out. It was possible that this could be the end of it all, and I found myself more distressed than I would have imagined, and not just because I would have to find somewhere else to live. The more time I had spent with Gideon the more I had found that I liked him. While I might not have had the purest motives when I moved in to his flat, I was becoming very attached to the great lunk. I didn’t want our relationship to come to a shuddering halt, especially not on account of my brother and some parsnips.

  Having exhausted every possible way of entertaining myself, having got myself into a state of righteous anger and indignation several times, and having run through all the possible scenarios I could think of for what was going on between Gideon and his parents I decided, possibly foolishly, to self-medicate. Gideon returned home just as I was pouring myself a third, very large, glass of red wine.

  “So?” If I had thought that the wine had calmed me down, as soon as I saw Gideon I knew that all was still far from well, and that I was still far from calm.

  “So, she’s very hurt.” Gideon ran his hand through his hair. Anyone would have thought he was talking about something really serious, not his mother getting hysterical because Christmas Day hadn’t followed her script to the letter. “She just wanted our first Christmas together to be a memorable one, which is why she bought the food in. But then you and Dominic made a fool of her and ruined the day for everyone.” You couldn’t say it wasn’t memorable then I thought, but decided it would be impolitic to say. “She doesn’t know what she’s done to make you want to treat her like this,” he concluded.

  “I asked her,” I said through gritted teeth, “how she had cooked some parsnips. How is that treating her like anything?” My speech might, at this point, have been a little slurred.

  “That may be true,” Gideon countered, “but Dominic was certainly very rude. And you asked him for Christmas even though you know what he can be like.”

  “Dominic’s my brother, my only family and . . .” I could feel tears welling up. I hate that. I can’t understand how men don’t cry as it seems to be a reflex action, like getting goosebumps when it’s cold, for many women including, unfortunately, me.

  “Oh, let’s not start with the poor me bit again shall we?” Gideon almost sneered, and for a moment I could see a resemblance between him and his mother I had never noticed before. I couldn’t believe he was being so vile. I was infur
iated by his attitude, which seemed to be that his mother was wholly right and I was wholly wrong, and I fully intended to let him know how I felt by giving him a cold, hard and (assuming I could do all three at once) withering stare. Instead I found that, totally against my will, my bottom lip was beginning to quiver and tears, damn them, were beginning to roll treacherously down my cheeks.

  “I’m not starting anything,” I snuffled, “I just wanted to have a nice family Christmas and I couldn’t leave my brother all alone . . .”

  “And all my mother wanted was to have a nice family Christmas,” Gideon said, with menacing calm, “but your brother had to muscle in on it and be rude to everyone.”

  “He wasn’t rude to everyone,” I replied pedantically. “He was perfectly charming to Celeste.”

  “The blonde, beautiful au pair who’s young enough to be his daughter? Yes he was perfectly charming to her.” Gideon replied. “Unfortunately he found it harder to be perfectly charming to the people who had invited him for lunch. And who were paying for everything.”

  “Oh, here we go again.” My nose was now running quite profusely and I didn’t have a handkerchief so was forced to try to sniff and speak at the same time, which is not conducive to making one’s case coherently. “He who . . . (sniff) . . . pays the . . . (sniff) . . . piper . . . (sniff) . . . calls the . . . (sniff) . . . tune.”

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard!” I bellowed.

  “No I didn’t,” Gideon replied through gritted teeth, “that’s why I asked what you said.”

  “Oh.” I said, rather more quietly.

  “You’re clearly in no state to have a proper discussion so I suggest that we leave things there for now.” Gideon said. “I have had an afternoon dealing with one hysterical woman, I don’t want an evening dealing with another.”

  With this Gideon marched off down the hall and disappeared into the kitchen where I could hear him getting himself something to eat. How he could possibly think of food at a time like this was beyond me. It was almost inhuman. I think that was the last straw. I was now beyond angry. Me, hysterical! How bloody dare he? I thought about following him and shouting very loudly at him, but then I thought better of it. I knew enough of Gideon to know that shouting wouldn’t get me anywhere. So I went to bed, but not to sleep, as it was only just after eight o’clock.