I Won't Be Home For Christmas

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Do you like my Christmas decorations?’ Fatima stood back and proudly pointed at the twisted loops of crêpe paper that crisscrossed the ceiling and framed a gold foil star that hung from a length of cotton in the middle.

  ‘Not really, love. You need to either go for it or not. These are a bit half-hearted.’ Ellen spoke directly.

  ‘Say what you mean, why don’t you!’ Vivienne shook her head. ‘Ignore her, Fatima, they look lovely.’

  ‘Maybe she’s right. Shall I get a tree?’ Fatima looked concerned.

  ‘Yes! A big tree with all the trimmings – now you’re talking.’ Ellen smiled. ‘I haven’t even thought about decorations yet. Viv and me are going away.’

  ‘Away? At this time of year? Where are you two going?’

  ‘Hong Kong then New Zealand.’ The novelty of saying this clearly hadn’t worn off, as Ellen beamed and then winked at Vivienne. ‘Hard to imagine that in only a couple of weeks we will be wandering around in our string bikinis on a sun-soaked beach. Can you believe it?’

  ‘How wonderful.’ Fatima clapped.

  ‘My daughter’s getting married. Do you remember Emma?’

  ‘Emma, yes of course I do! Congratulations, Viv, that’s quite something.’

  Vivienne nodded. It was.

  ‘Well in that case, when I’ve finished your cut and blow dry, we shall pop you both upstairs to the beauty rooms. You’ll be wanting to get your legs waxed and all your bits and pieces done before you go, especially as the mother of the bride.’

  ‘Don’t think anyone will be looking at her bits and pieces – they haven’t for the last thirty years, have they, Viv?’ Ellen chuckled.

  Vivienne ignored her. ‘I suppose it might be nice to get all summer-ready. Feels weird, though, when there’s still leftover snow on the ground and I’m wearing my thermal underwear.’ She felt the burst of excitement in her stomach, and then it spread, warming her limbs. She still couldn’t quite believe she was going to travel to the other side of the world.

  With their hair neatly coiffed, they trod the stairs to the rooms above the hairdresser’s where Fatima’s daughter Irena ran her beauty concession.

  ‘Hello, ladies, what can I do for you both today?’ Irena greeted them from behind the reception desk, looking as beautiful as ever, with her finely arched brows, perfect skin and blue/white teeth.

  ‘Leg wax definitely for me and I’d like my tash bleached,’ Ellen requested, running her fingertip over her top lip.

  ‘Yes, leg wax would be great,’ Vivienne agreed.

  ‘Bikini wax too?’ Irena suggested.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s necessary for me.’ Ellen pulled a face. ‘I can’t see me parading around in anything shorter than a maxi dress.’

  ‘I might wear shorts.’ Vivienne thought aloud. ‘But I haven’t had it done in an age – does it hurt?’ She grimaced, as if even enquiring caused her physical pain.

  ‘Not really. It’s very quick and so by the time any discomfort registers, it’s over. And it lasts for weeks, nice for your holidays. I could do you a Brazilian?’ she suggested.

  ‘What is a Brazilian, exactly?’ Vivienne asked.

  ‘We basically wax the entire area apart from a central strip.’ Irena was most matter-of-fact; it was routine for her, after all.

  ‘Ooh no, don’t think I need a Brazilian.’ Vivienne squirmed at the thought. ‘I need something that, err, leaves a bigger area and is less painful, but just as quick.’

  ‘Russia’s bigger than Brazil,’ Ellen piped up. ‘Can she have a Russian instead? But not too Russian, not Cossack hat, maybe more Siberian hamster.’

  Vivienne couldn’t help the snort of laughter. ‘For goodness’ sake, Elle!’ she managed, as they fell against each other and dissolved into giggles like the schoolgirls they had been a mere blink ago. Irena widened her eyes at the middle-aged ladies who were cluttering up her reception.

  *

  It was late afternoon when Trev pulled up to the kerb in his work van and leant across to open the passenger door. ‘All right, Viv?’ he said, shouting to be heard.

  ‘Yep, good, Trev. You?’

  ‘Can’t complain.’ He nodded.

  Even after all these years there was a slight awkwardness between them. She had never been able to shake the feeling that he might have known more about Ray’s whereabouts all those years ago than he claimed, that out of misguided loyalty to his friend he’d chosen to say nothing. And on Trev’s part, Ellen had told her that for quite a while afterwards he blamed Viv for chasing his best mate away. These two mindsets made for uneasy bedfellows.

  ‘And I hear you’re dragging my missus to bloody New Zealand!’ he joked.

  ‘More like she’s dragging me.’ She pulled her scarf around her neck. ‘I never thought for a minute we’d actually go. But I mention Emma’s getting married and the next thing I know she’s got Robbie looking up flights and is planning to hire a car in Hong Kong.’

  ‘Viv, you promise me you won’t let her drive anywhere, let alone Hong bloody Kong. I’ve seen her trying to get the car in and out of our drive and that’s hit and miss.’ He laughed. ‘And make sure she’s back in time for Christmas. I don’t fancy beans on toast for my Christmas dinner.’

  ‘That and you’d miss her of course.’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’ He grimaced.

  ‘I am here, you know.’ Ellen elbowed past her friend and lowered herself into the passenger seat. ‘You sure you don’t want a lift, Viv?’

  ‘No, I like to walk.’

  ‘See you in a bit.’ Ellen placed her bag on her lap.

  ‘Yep.’ She closed the van door and stood back on the kerb.

  Ellen wound down the window as Trev pulled out. ‘Keep your Siberian hamster warm!’

  Vivienne looked up and down the street, thankful that no one seemed to be paying her friend any attention. Pulling her coat around her body and heading in the direction of Mendip Road, she decided she would go and grab Bob and give him a quick once around the block.

  ‘Only me!’ she called to the dog, as she pushed open the front door. There on the mat was a thin, square, white envelope with a post-it note stuck to the front.

  ‘What on earth?’ Having retrieved it, she pulled it to her face and read the messaged gummed to the side.

  Mrs Lane – could you give this to Emma for me, cheers, Shaun.

  Vivienne smiled at the black, greasy thumbprint on the top right corner where a stamp would normally lurk. ‘Don’t you worry, Shaun, I’ll make sure she gets it.’ She then popped the envelope on the sideboard, next to her sunglasses so she wouldn’t forget it.

  4

  She had finished the very early shift in Asda and was now back home, still in her uniform while most people were still in their pyjamas. The radio in the kitchen seemed to be playing Christmas carols on a loop and Vivienne hummed along, hardly noticing the interlude of chatter before another jaunty favourite blasted out. She pulled opened the curtains to let in the morning sun. It was a rare bright day among the winter gloom.

  She was in the room that had been her parents’ and then Aaron’s and was now termed ‘spare’. Her eyes drifted to the open suitcase that lay on the double bed. She had folded into it vest tops, shorts, summer sandals and a floaty floral frock that she’d worn only a handful of times. She had taken Emma’s advice, going for something that was comfortable and not too grand. Ellen had insisted she buy two large orange flowers that she might or might not wear in her hair, depending on her confidence level; she would see how she felt on the day.

  Balancing on an old dining chair that lived in the corner of the room, she reached around on top of the wardrobe for the shoebox where adaptors and electrical bits and bobs were kept. As she did so, her hand happened upon a flat wooden shape. The moment she pulled it into view, she remembered lobbing it there an age ago. It was the framed photo of her and Ray as they left St Aldhelm’s Church, pausing in the arched doorway to pose for the snap. Their wide grins, eyes that sparkled w
ith anticipation, and tightly clasped hands betrayed no sign that for one of them the vows they had just exchanged were not in fact as solemn or binding as intended, but had instead been spoken casually, to be discarded when a blonde bombshell called Suzanne wiped them from his mind.

  Her tears were unexpected and unwelcome, building until they formed a sob that filled her nose and throat. Stepping down from the chair, she sat on the edge of the bed and held the picture to her chest. Oh, how she had loved him! Even during the bad times, before he went, there had been a glimmer of hope that he might come back to her, reformed. And just the sight of this image was enough to remind her of those emotions on that happy, happy day.

  She remembered the afternoon she’d introduced Ray to her mum and dad. They had been excited, keen to meet the man who’d put a spring in their daughter’s step and a smile on her face. They’d been quizzing her for weeks. ‘So who are his people? Where did he go to school? Who does he support?’ It was the usual interrogation. She had laughed, dizzy at the possibilities of this relationship and proud of the catch she had made. She couldn’t wait to see her man sitting on their sofa, chewing the fat with her dad. She loved him and wanted her mum and dad to love him too.

  ‘What does he do?’ her dad had asked.

  ‘This and that.’ She’d been evasive, giving the answer Ray had given when she’d asked him the same question.

  ‘It don’t matter what he does, love, as long as he makes Vivienne happy. That’s all I ask,’ her sweet mum had said, believing this to be true. It wasn’t until the coming months and years, when she got to know her son-in-law better, that she found herself asking for a whole lot more.

  ‘I can see where she gets her looks from!’ Ray had smiled, filling their narrow hallway and flashing those teeth.

  Her mum had twisted coyly. ‘Oh, behave!’ She giggled, batting away the compliment with her tea towel.

  He had then presented her with a boxed gift, the sort of present that might be given on a landmark occasion. From the scarlet tissue paper she lifted a garish glass creation edged in gold. It was a swan with its head turned backwards and its wings mid stretch. ‘Oh my!’ her mum had gasped. ‘It’s… it’s beautiful!’ She had been quite overcome by the gift and by Ray’s generosity.

  Everyone had loved him, or at least the image that he presented.

  Vivienne let her head hang forward, remembering the night he went, the way she had paced the hall, staring out of the window, squinting at the street below, holding back the curtain, as she knelt on the sofa, trying to spot him in the encroaching darkness while Aaron and Emma, oblivious to what was happening, slept in the little room they shared down the hallway. And the next morning, arriving at Mendip Road with the kids and one crappy suitcase, on autopilot, numb and petrified in equal amounts. The way her mum had dusted down her pinny and turned to her. ‘Go hang your stuff up and wash your face while me and Emma put the kettle on and make Aaron some breakfast.’

  That day had felt endless; the kids seemed extra noisy, extra clingy and her nerves had hung by a thread. Her parents tiptoed around with fixed, insincere smiles that did little to reassure. Not even Ellen’s gentle coaxing or humour could shake the black cloud of melancholy that enveloped her. It had felt hopeless.

  Night after night, she lay on the bed and thought about the phrase that got bandied about so casually, in the supermarket, on the bus, after a disturbed night of tossing and turning and waiting for the alarm – ‘I didn’t sleep a wink!’ – and she wondered if any of those people truly knew what it felt like to lie there wide awake, listening to the deafening tick as every second seemed to pass more slowly than the last.

  Before Ray left, she used to quite like the still of the night, the quiet solitude that gave her the chance to think, to plan. But that was before. Now the quiet pained her, taunted her, gave her too much time to think and to worry about what might happen to her fatherless children. Her brain whirred relentlessly and it was exhausting. She longed to escape into oblivion.

  As the days turned to weeks and then months, there was a depressing sense of finality about her circumstances. She knew that this was it: she would live in her parents’ house until the day she died, a rejected wife, caring for her kids and her parents as the years rolled into each other, and then one day she would look into the mirror and see that her life had slipped by. When she voiced these fears, Ellen had cuffed her about the head and then hugged her. ‘Don’t talk rubbish! You’ll be swept off your feet by someone gorgeous, just you wait and see, and that’ll teach Ray. And when he comes snivelling back, begging for forgiveness, you kick him up the arse and send him packing!’ But that hadn’t happened and even all these years later, she took no joy in having been proved right.

  Vivienne placed the picture back on the wardrobe, then sniffed and wiped her tears on her sleeve. She stared at the old pine chest of drawers in the corner of the room, remembering how one rainy day, Emma had removed a drawer and made it into a bed for several of her dolls and teddies. ‘My babies, Mummy,’ she had lisped, while rocking them and placing them like sardines in the drawer, before covering them over with a baby blanket Vivienne had knitted for Aaron’s pram. It had made her smile, the idea that one day, Emma would have her own children. And now, with her wedding day in the calendar, maybe that dream was getting closer to becoming a reality. What she hadn’t banked on was how it might feel if those much longed-for grandchildren grew up on the other side of the world.

  Bob loped up the stairs and sat on the floor next to her leg; just his presence gave her comfort. ‘Look at me, eh? Sitting here all on my own having a good old cry.’ She patted him. It occurred to her then that the reason for her tears might be that, in those early years, she’d always pictured Emma being walked up the aisle by Ray. Silly, really.

  The front doorbell roused her. Blowing her nose, she scurried down the stairs and opened the door to a boy from D. R. Butt, the master butcher’s on North Street. His wasn’t a face she recognised. He looked very young in the white coat that was a little too big for him and with the D. R. Butt logo embroidered on the left breast. He had a clipboard resting on his crooked forearm and a pen in his other hand, which he flourished as he spoke.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Lane. I’ve come about your Christmas meat order. What shall we put you down for – the usual? Turkey, fresh sausage meat and a pound of streaky? We’re doing a special on ham, lovely on Boxing Day with a bit of pickle and a lump of crusty bread…’ Despite his youth and small stature, his confident tone and well-rehearsed patter soon eradicated any thoughts that he might be out of his comfort zone.

  ‘Ah, it’s lovely that you thought of me. Thing is, this year I don’t have the family here…’ She cursed the tears that gathered at the back of her throat. ‘So I don’t think I want a big turkey. Can I have a think about it?’ She had more or less decided to buy something from work, ready to pop in the oven as and when she needed it, in the hope that Aaron and Lizzie might visit at some point on her return.

  ‘Course.’ He beamed at her, skilled at hiding any irritation or disappointment. ‘You know where we are, Mrs Lane, and I hope you have a very merry Christmas.’

  ‘Oh, you’re the first one to say that to me this year.’ She smiled. It wasn’t even December, not quite. ‘Bit early, though, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s D. R. Butt – always one step ahead!’ He walked down the street with a wave of his clipboard.

  Vivienne turned to Bob, who had followed her down the stairs. ‘He’s good.’ She laughed and went into the kitchen.

  *

  It felt strange walking past the familiar café to the door alongside it and waiting there on the pavement with Bob. He whined. She suspected he could sense her apprehension.

  ‘It’s okay, mate, I’ve got you.’ She patted his flank. ‘If you don’t feel comfy, you can go and stay with Uncle Trev, this is just a try-out. You know I wouldn’t leave you anywhere you weren’t happy, even if it is only for ten days.’

  ‘Ah!
There he is!’ Pedro opened the door and greeted them. Dropping instantly to his knees, he took Bob’s head in his hands and smoothed his fur, looking into his eyes and talking excitedly. ‘Are you going to come and stay with me then, Bob? We will have a great time! I shall give you steak, but don’t tell your mum, and we can walk all over town, a couple of bachelors together. What do you say?’

  Bob wagged his tail and pushed his nose against Pedro’s cheek.

  ‘You are lovely, you are so lovely. Who’s a handsome boy?’ Pedro continued to address her dog, as though she wasn’t standing on the pavement, attached to his lead. She felt like a spare part.

  ‘Oh hello, Viv.’ He finally looked up, seeming to notice her for the first time. ‘Come in, please, and let’s see how we all get on.’ He held open the door.

  Vivienne watched as Bob raced up the staircase with Pedro following and laughing. It seemed this was going to work out very well indeed.

  *

  ‘Cold, innit?’ Ellen tutted, as she closed the front door, then headed straight to the sink to pop the kettle on. Vivienne followed her into the kitchen.

  The home she and Trevor shared was very similar to Vivienne’s in size and shape but entirely different inside. Where Vivienne’s looked much as it had in the 1960s and was still cluttered with her mother’s memorabilia, Ellen’s was light and modern. She’d ripped the guts out of the building, tearing down walls to create space and choosing furnishings that were neutral and contemporary. It made the place feel very modern, the polar opposite of Mendip Road. One thing both homes had in common though: no sooner had a guest stepped over the threshold than they were always greeted with a cup of tea.

  ‘Yep, it is a bit chilly.’ Vivienne kicked off her walking boots and smiled. Her friend did this, commented on the weather all year round. As if, despite having lived on the planet for more than five decades, the seasons continually surprised her; as though she expected something other than a little bit of sunshine in July and a whole lot of cold in February. Vivienne had once seen a documentary about a group of explorers climbing Mount Everest in which, every so often, the heavily bearded, ice-studded, snow-spattered men would look into the camera and murmur, ‘It’s so c… cold!’ As if they had been miss-sold the adventure and the weather wasn’t what they had expected at all. They reminded her of Ellen.