by Imogen Clark
Michael does not know what ‘petty’ means but it sounds like a nice thing, gentle and playful.
The front door opens. Michael recognises the creak that the hinges make.
‘I’m going out,’ snarls his father. ‘And when I get back I don’t want to hear another word about it.’
Then the door slams.
Michael winces and holds his breath. That will surely have woken Cara. He is right. Her wail starts up like an air-raid siren. His mother will come now to soothe her. For a moment, he thinks he should stay where he is, show solidarity to his mother, but then he remembers her menacing tone and he changes his mind, turning on his heel and scampering back into his room before she can see him. His light is still on. If he turns it off, she will know that he was awake. He decides to leave it. She can think that he awoke earlier in the night, turned it on and then drifted back to sleep.
He hops into his bed and arranges the covers on top of him, closing his eyes and feigning sleep. Seconds later, the bedroom door moves gently over the carpet and he senses rather than hears his mother’s presence. He lies as still as he can. She lingers by the door rather than coming over to him. Cara’s cries are getting louder still so his mother leaves his room and goes to her. Michael hears her gentle shushing and the sound of her footsteps pacing backwards and forwards in Cara’s room. Gradually the screaming diminishes, is replaced by the odd sob, and then nothing. Cara has gone back to sleep.
He hears his mother cross the landing and come into his room to turn off the light. He tries to breathe as evenly as he can. He can sense her standing over him and he squeezes his eyes tightly.
‘Did she wake you up?’ asks his mother gently.
For a second, Michael thinks that he should continue to pretend but there is no point. She can always tell when he is not asleep. He opens his eyes. She is crouching at the bedside, her head level with his.
‘It was Daddy,’ he says. ‘The shouting.’
His mother nods. She understands. She runs the pad of her forefinger down his face, following its contours.
‘You go back to sleep now,’ she says. ‘It’s all finished. There’s nothing to worry about.’
Michael is not sure that she is telling him the truth. It is true that there is often shouting but, as he remembers the calm, controlled anger in his mother’s voice, some level of childhood intuition tells him that this time has been different. He feels that this might be an important moment, one where he and his mother can be drawn closer still by what has just happened, but his eyes will not stay open. He smiles at her although he is almost asleep.
‘Good night, Mummy,’ he manages before the night closes back around him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Cara, 2017
Even though Christmas has always been a low-key affair around here, I still wake up early on Christmas morning, my insides buzzing with anticipation. Years of social conditioning from marketing and television have ingrained themselves into my expectations, despite my lack of personal experience. This initial excitement never materialises into much but why shouldn’t I get a bit of the Christmas buzz just like everyone else?
I have the beginnings of a headache – too much wedding champagne and not enough sleep – but it’s not bad and certainly nothing that a couple of paracetamol and a cup of tea won’t shift. I lie still, listening for sounds of Dad moving about, but the house is quiet. There are no cars on the road outside either. The world is silent as it wakes up to Christmas.
Unbidden, my mind flicks to the complicated time schedule that I have drawn up for today, with the assistance of my Best Christmas Ever magazine. The excitement of a moment ago morphs into a sinking feeling of dread deep in the pit of my stomach. What on earth had I been thinking when I decided to do Christmas from scratch? How did I imagine I could replicate, in the course of one day, what it has taken generations of other women, passing knowledge lovingly from mother to daughter, decades to perfect? It would have been so much less stressful to buy the whole meal ready-prepared and then just heat it up. When I mess this up, as I’m bound to do, I am going to end up looking stupid and feeling worse.
It’s too late now, though. The raw materials are in the fridge and the shops are shut for the duration. I am just going to have to grit my teeth and get on with it. From memory, the first requirement is to turn the oven on at eight forty-five. I turn and look at my alarm clock. It’s eight fifty-seven.
‘Cara! Cara!’
I can hear Dad’s confused cry from across the landing. I leap out of bed, tussling with the duvet as I go. I have to get to him before he realises, a little too late, that he needs the loo. As I burst into his room, he is struggling to stand up. Just pushing himself to a sitting position is beginning to seem too much for him. I wonder if the plateau that we have been teetering along for a while is about to reach a sheer drop.
‘Come on then, Dad,’ I say. ‘Let’s get you to the bathroom, shall we?’
He smiles at me and I can tell that he’s with me, that today I am his daughter and not some stranger who has conned their way into his house to rob him blind.
‘Guess what day it is?’ I say as I guide him across the landing to the bathroom. I don’t give him time to make a guess. His inability to find the words upsets us both. ‘It’s Christmas Day!’ I can’t tell whether this means anything to him or not but I reach over and give him a kiss on his cheek anyway. ‘Merry Christmas, Dad. And guess who’s coming to dinner. Mrs P! So that’ll be fun, won’t it, the three of us. I’m even going to have a bash at doing Christmas dinner with all the trimmings. Can you believe that? Not sure how good it’ll be but I can try, can’t I?’
I work hard at keeping my voice cheerful, my comments positive. It would be so easy to slip into accusation and anger. I remember once watching a dog-training film on television. Apparently, the words you use are unimportant. It is the tone of voice that they respond to. I could try it, I think.
‘Hi, Dad. Season’s greetings to you – and, while we’re bathing in the spirit of goodwill, could you please explain precisely why you told me that my mother was dead when in fact you appear to have driven her away with your extramarital affair?’
I don’t actually voice this out loud. There’s still a chance that he might understand what I’m saying, but he could never respond. Not now. And certainly not with reasoned argument. This frail and vulnerable man who needs so much care and love is not my father. There’s no point hurling accusations at him. Whatever my dad chose to do all those years ago has nothing to do with the man who needs me to help him to the bathroom.
I get him dressed in a jacket and tie in honour of the occasion and when he is downstairs, and mesmerised by the Christmas cartoons on the television, I turn my attention to my schedule. I am almost an hour behind already so I just scribble out all the timings and rewrite them, adding one hour as I go. With renewed, if slightly shaky, confidence, I turn on the oven.
I am feeling kind of in control of the kitchen when the doorbell rings. It’s spot on one o’clock. As soon as I open the door, I see that Mrs P has made an effort with her appearance. She is dressed in a boxy, Chanel-style jacket in a coral pink with smart black trousers and a pair of black patent heels. There is a hint of colour on her eyelids and her lips are skimmed with a delicate shade of peach. I’m aware of the briefest of pauses as I take in her new look and she immediately looks uncomfortable, pulling at the bottom of her jacket and dropping her eyes. Anxious to undo what I have inadvertently done to unbalance her, I overcompensate.
‘Come in! Come in,’ I gush. ‘You look fabulous. I love that jacket.’
I whip off the apron to show her that I too have dressed up, albeit not quite so formally. She gives me a tight little smile and nods a thank you.
‘I’m afraid I’ve got a bit behind with the dinner,’ I say as I show her through to the lounge.
I don’t want her in the kitchen with me, watching me flounder around.
‘We shouldn’t be eating too much lat
er than planned, though. Can I get you a drink?’ I see her struggle with the decision. ‘It’s okay,’ I add, when it dawns on me what’s causing her reluctance. ‘You’re absolutely not here to look after Dad. That’s my job today. You are off duty. Please have a glass of champagne with me. I’ve chilled some specially.’
It comes across like a plea. I’m going to need a drink or two to get through today and I don’t want to go it alone.
‘That would be lovely,’ she says.
In the lounge, Dad is still facing the television screen but his eyes seem to be focused somewhere above it. The tree lights twinkle prettily. I try to ignore the paltry offering of presents beneath. I see Mrs P take it in but she doesn’t comment. After all, what can you expect in a house with no children and only one functioning adult?
‘May I?’ she asks, gesturing towards the tree. She opens her handbag and takes out two presents, each exquisitely wrapped in gold tissue paper with white curled ribbons. She places them gently on top of the others.
‘Oh, there was no need . . .’ I begin but she silences me with a wave of her hand.
‘Can I do anything to help?’ she asks.
‘No. You sit there and relax and I’ll go get you that drink. Dad, Mrs P is here to spend Christmas with us. That’s lovely, isn’t it?’
At the sound of my voice, Dad turns his head. He sees Mrs P and something like recognition skates across his face but then it’s gone and he turns back to the television.
I know I should invite her to come with me to the kitchen but I really can’t face it so I say, ‘I’ll be right back with your drink,’ and I disappear.
I stand in front of the oven and take a couple of deep breaths. There’s so much that can go wrong with this meal, so many component parts that might fail and bring the rest of it crashing down around me. The smidgen of control that I thought I had earlier is slipping away. I take the champagne from the fridge, struggling to prise off the foiled cage and pour it into three flutes. They don’t match; two are what are left of Dad’s lead crystal, which we were forbidden to touch as children. The third is a glass that came free with petrol sometime in the eighties and has proved indestructible over the years. I pour slightly less champagne into this one, earmarking it for Dad. I feel a twinge of guilt that he should have to slum it with pre-pressed glass while Mrs P and I enjoy our drinks from his crystal, but I reconcile this by reminding myself that he’ll never notice.
My hands shake as I transfer the glasses to a tray. It is silly. I’m a grown woman, and this is just one meal, but I want to show that I’m up to the task even though there’s never been anyone there to teach me how. This meal is an elaborate and self-imposed test. What makes my nerves worse is the almost-certain knowledge that Mrs P could knock up a delicious Christmas dinner for ten without even batting an eyelid.
With clammy palms, I check my schedule. The turkey is nestled in its silver-foil cave in the oven. According to my timings, it’ll be ready to come out and rest in just under an hour. The vegetables are peeled and ready to go. Pigs-in-blankets wait snugly in the fridge. Everything appears to be in hand.
I add a bowl of pistachio nuts and some hand-cut crisps to the drinks tray and carry it through to the lounge. Dad hasn’t moved and is still sitting and staring, open-mouthed, at the TV screen. Mrs P’s attention is fixed on the Christmas tree.
‘Here we are,’ I say. ‘Champagne and some nibbly things to keep us going.’
I pass her a flute. ‘Thank you,’ she says. She takes the glass, holding it carefully by the stem. ‘What are we drinking to?’
I think it over for a moment. ‘To getting dinner before Boxing Day?’ I suggest.
She smiles, a broad, open smile that makes her eyes almost disappear in the crinkles of skin.
‘To timely meals,’ she says, raising her glass. ‘The tree looks nice,’ she adds.
‘Thanks.’
I am about to tell her about the missing little blue angel, but that might lead me on to the letters and I don’t want to stray into that minefield. My life is turning into one long secret. Instead I take another sip and soon my champagne is all gone. Mrs P has barely started hers. Dad’s glass remains untouched. It was pointless to pour it for him really. I pick it up from the table and drink that one too and immediately feel the alcohol coursing into my bloodstream. My head feels deliciously light and suddenly the ever-increasing time lag in my schedule seems much less important.
‘I’d better go and check on that turkey,’ I say.
‘Do you need any help?’ Mrs P asks again.
‘No thanks,’ I say brightly and flee to the kitchen.
Things are not really going as well in the food department as I’d hoped. When I open the door, the bird is sizzling nicely. I peep under its silver cloak and see that the bacon cross that I placed there so carefully this morning has slipped to a rakish angle and is starting to blacken. I pinch it between the tips of my finger and thumb and slide it out. The hot fat burns my skin and I drop the burned bacon on the floor and then curse. Quickly I scoop it up and on to the work surface (five-second rule).
Of course, one turkey a Christmas dinner does not make. I’m starting to regret the champagne and I can feel the vestiges of the post-wedding hangover start to creep back. I’ve prepped the vegetables already but I have forgotten the roast potatoes, which are still soaking in a pan of salted water. I also need to cook the pigs-in-blankets and the parsnips, not to mention the gravy and the sauces that I thought I’d do as finishing touches.
My heart starts to race but I tell myself that there’s nothing panic-inducing about a pan of uncooked potatoes. I’ll serve them boiled instead. The parsnips were always an added bonus anyway. I feel better for a moment but as I catch sight of my carefully written schedule, now spattered with bacon fat and hopelessly diverted from, I feel hot, angry tears pricking at my eyes. I so wanted to make everything perfect and now it’s all going wrong. What was I playing at anyway, thinking that I could have a Christmas Day like everyone else?
‘Are you sure you couldn’t use a sous-chef?’
The voice at my shoulder makes me jump. Mrs P is standing in the doorway, empty champagne glass in hand. She goes to wash it up at the sink, reminding me, as if I could forget, that she is more than just a guest.
‘No thank you. It’s all under control,’ I lie, blinking away the tears and hoping that she doesn’t see them. Then something inside me just snaps and I give up the pretence. ‘Actually, yes!’ I say. ‘My timings are miles out. The turkey will be ready and nothing else is. I think I’m going to have to jettison the roasties because they aren’t even parboiled yet and the parsnips are just a step too far!’
Mrs P takes off her little jacket, hanging it on the back of a chair, and rolls up the sleeves of her blouse.
‘There’s no rush,’ she says calmly. ‘Your father is asleep and I’m sure we can find something to nibble on if we get peckish. When the turkey’s done we can just keep it warm under some tea towels while we finish everything else off.’ Her voice is so calm and reassuring. It’s like being wrapped in a warm duvet. She takes an apron from the back of the door and sets to with the goose fat that I was intimidated into buying, cutting off small slices and dotting them around a roasting tin. Relief washes over me.
‘Glass of wine?’ I say, grateful to be back in familiar territory.
She nods and smiles and then suddenly we are a team in the kitchen, two women pulling together Christmas dinner for their men folk just like millions of others around the world.
The meal is a success, when eventually I serve it on the long-forgotten best china. Of course, there’s far too much food for the three of us.
‘I’ll be eating leftovers into January,’ I joke and Dad smiles as if pureed turkey is his absolute favourite.
Mrs P and I chat about this year’s batch of Christmas Day films and tell each other gentle and insignificant anecdotes. We both seem to steer clear of Christmases past, as if those ghosts are as daunting for e
ach of us. Dad, who has at least been trying to follow the conversation, eventually falls asleep at the table and we lift him between us to his chair in the lounge. He barely weighs anything these days, like his bones have been hollowed out. The thinness of his neck is exaggerated by his shirt collar, which stands proud like a tall fence some distance from his flesh.
‘He hasn’t opened his presents,’ I say as we head back to the kitchen to clear up. ‘I’m not sure why I bothered to buy him anything. You definitely shouldn’t have,’ I add.
‘Oh, it’s only a little token,’ she says.
‘Well, you needn’t have worried on his account,’ I say as I run the hot tap to fill a washing-up bowl.
My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to be. Mrs P takes a clean tea towel from the drawer and waits for me to start stacking plates on the draining rack.
‘Say if I’m speaking out of turn,’ she says carefully. ‘But have you and your father had a falling out?’
‘No,’ I reply. ‘What makes you ask that?’
But I know what has made her ask. There’s been a shift. I was trying to ignore it but first the postcards and now the love letters have made the ground between me and my father unstable. I’m struggling to prevent my anger at him seeping out into my feelings for the broken old man who has usurped his place. Part of it is pure frustration because I can’t ask him all the questions that are now flooding my mind. There’s more to it than that, though.
‘I’ve found some things out,’ I say, my tongue loosened by the wine. ‘About Dad. Recently. It’s led to a lot of questions that I can’t find answers for.’
‘Is that why you went to London to see Michael?’ she asks.
We don’t look at each other, both focusing on the job in hand. Not being able to see her expression makes it easier to speak more freely.
‘Partly,’ I say. ‘I suppose I’m just cross because I’m never going to know the answers. And also . . .’
