‘Well, if you fancy joining us at Chez Antoine, you’re welcome. We booked the table ages ago, but I’m sure they can squeeze one more in. We’re quite a crowd already, but – hell, the more the merrier.’
‘Thanks, Brigit, it sounds great. But, actually, I’m … thinking of going abroad – you know, for a bit of winter sun, or—’
‘Haven’t you left it rather late to book?’ Karen interrupted.
‘Yes, deliberately,’ she lied. ‘More chance of bargains then. And what about you?’ she asked Karen, keen to shift the emphasis from her own Christmas plans – or lack of them.
‘Oh, I’m going to my sister’s, although I can’t say I’m looking forward to it. You see, I’m allergic to my brother-in-law. He invariably gets pissed at Christmas and starts some frightful row.’
‘We’ll get pissed,’ said Brigit, taking a swig of her spritzer, as if to undermine the point. ‘You can bet your life on it.’
‘Yeah, but only nicely pissed. You won’t shout abuse, or throw up over the Brussels sprouts. One year, dear precious Philip even wrecked the bloody Christmas cake.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘I’m not. He smashed a bottle down on top of it and reduced it to a mass of crumbs.’
‘Shit! What a brute. Why doesn’t your sister leave him, for God’s sake?’
‘Not easy with four kids. Anyway, she says he’s great in bed, and I suppose that compensates.’
‘It wouldn’t for me,’ Ruth shuddered. ‘Anyway, talking of getting pissed, let’s have another round. Hannah, same for you again?’
‘No, better not. I’m driving. In fact, I ought to get off pretty sharp, so, if you’ll all excuse me—’
‘Where you going?’ Brigit asked, always the nosy-parker.
‘Just … visiting relatives.’ That was true in one sense – dead relatives, at least.
‘Well, Happy Christmas, whatever you decide to do!’
‘Yes, Happy Christmas!’ the others chorused. ‘See you on the 2nd.’
‘Don’t remind me!’ Hannah grimaced, although, in truth, she was already counting the days until she was safely back at work. By January 2, the twin obstacles of Christmas and New Year would be over and done with, thank God.
Having collected up her coat and bag, she picked her way between the crowded tables; one group sporting paper hats; another, rather the worse for wear, singing along to the music. ‘Jingle Bells’, ‘Rudolf, the Red-Nosed Reindeer’ – the old favourites had been playing in succession. And no corner of the pub was free of its Christmas overlay: garlands, decorations, fairy-lights, holly wreaths, menus boasting turkey dinners, bar staff wearing Santa caps….
She paused at the door to button up her coat, glancing back at her workmates. They’d probably stay here the whole afternoon, getting happily plastered, and normally she, too, would stay – if only not to seem a spoilsport. But for the last two months, she had felt distanced from them all, as if inhabiting a different world – a funereal and grey world, totally out of tune with this gold-and-scarlet junketing. Admittedly, they were all younger than her – mostly in their twenties still, while she had reached that stage when hours of drunken partying seemed hardly worth the hangover – but it wasn’t just a matter of age. There seemed to be a high brick wall between her and other people, cutting her off in a dark, solitary cell.
It was barely half-past-three as she drove away, yet the street-lamps were already on, and the natural light was waning to a leaden, murky blur. It had been overcast all day, as if the sun had felt too weary to drag itself out of bed, or make the slightest effort to show its face and shine. She nosed along the High Street, turning on the radio, to try to lift her mood, only to switch it off again in the middle of ‘White Christmas’. Never before had Christmas seemed so … so relentless. Every bar and shop and restaurant, every radio and TV programme, newspaper and magazine, was celebrating the Holy Day of Hype. Which, in the circumstances, seemed almost an affront.
She turned left at the Crown and Anchor (festooned with a couple of reindeer pulling a silver sleigh), then drove the now familiar route: past the common, past the school, then five miles tedious motorway, until the turn-off for the cemetery. Having parked outside the sombre wrought-iron gates, she picked up the bouquet from the back seat of the car, and, cradling it like a baby, trudged along the path towards the grave. She had chosen flowers in preference to a wreath, and tulips rather than lilies, since wreaths and lilies were symbolical of death, whereas tulips suggested spring, new life. She was kidding herself, of course. Her parents were hardly likely to thrust up out of the earth again, like a couple of hardy perennials. The cruellest thing had been losing them both within six months of each other. Yet typical of her mother to follow her husband’s lead, as she had done in all their sixty years of marriage. Or perhaps she had simply died of grief, unable to cope without him.
She laid the flowers down on the uneven grassy knoll. The absence of the tombstone made the grave look achingly forlorn, as if it were just some makeshift thing, lacking in formality. The stone had barely had time to settle after her father’s death in April, before it was yanked up in October, to allow her mother access. Now, it was at the stonemason’s, awaiting its second inscription; delayed, they said, by a glut of winter deaths. The word ‘glut’ had stung, as if her parents were just part of a production line – or a destruction line, more like.
As she squatted down on her haunches to remove an insolent weed, she seemed to hear her mother ask: ‘So what are you doing for Christmas?’ – that dreaded question she had fended off at least a dozen times already – in fact, been fending off, in some ways, all her life. She had never told a soul that she had spent every single Christmas cocooned and safe in her parents’ house – yes, even as an adult – since it made her sound wimpish and pathetic. Usually, she muttered something about being ‘with the family’, hoping the phrase implied a whole huge tribe. Her family, in point of fact, were extremely thin on the ground: no siblings – and thus no nieces and nephews – no uncles, aunts or cousins, and no grandparents on either side – or none that she had ever seen except in photographs.
Not that she’d been lonely, with just her parents for company. And a threesome, for them, had been something of a miracle, since they’d long given up all hope of a child when her mother conceived at the age of forty-five. And, once they had a daughter to spoil, after twenty childless years, they had invariably gone overboard at Christmas, to make up for lost time: storms of cooking, yards of tinsel, miles of paper chains, whole shrubberies of holly and ivy, and enough presents to make Santa jealous. Her mother had even made a brand-new outfit for the Christmas fairy every year, happily sewing tiny taffeta dresses, organza underskirts and stiffened, gauzy wings, while her patient dad glued sequins on to wands.
She freed the flowers from their confining sheath of cellophane. It seemed important they should breathe and blossom, not lie coffined in a shroud. ‘Well, Mum,’ she whispered, ‘whatever I do for Christmas, it won’t be a patch on yours.’
She picked her way towards the ramshackle structure where garden tools were kept: spades and forks and rakes and suchlike, along with old tin buckets and various odds and ends. Having eventually succeeded in tracking down a vase, she filled it from the watering-can. The cobwebbed corners and musty smell reminded her of her father’s garden shed, which, as a child, she had transformed into a wigwam, or an igloo, a castle, or a palace, even Noah’s Ark. She had probably never been that happy since, she realized, with a pang.
The whole graveyard seemed deserted – no sign of even the surly guy who normally appeared about this time, to round up any stragglers and herd them towards the exit, so that he could lock up and go home. There were no stragglers today; no visitors save her; only the shadowy presences of rows and rows of tombstones. Most people, presumably, would either be at work, or struggling to finish their Christmas shopping before tomorrow’s general exodus. She envied all those lucky enough soon to be en route to some plann
ed and solid Christmas destination. Only failures were alone at Christmas; people on the shelf, like her. She had friends, of course, but most of them were busy with their own families and plans, and although Judith had invited her for both Christmas Day and Boxing Day, she had turned the offer down, suspecting it might have been prompted by an element of pity.
Self-pity was still worse, though, and, as she carried back the vase, she made a conscious effort to reflect on her good fortune, compared with the suffering world. She wouldn’t be sleeping rough on Christmas Day, or battling cancer, or being tortured in some foreign gaol, or trying to beg a crust – or even stuck, like Karen’s sister, with some violent pig of a husband. In fact, instead of feeling sorry for herself, she ought to volunteer to man a helpline over Christmas, or serve turkey to the down-and-outs. The only problem was, if she broke down and cried in the middle of a call, or the middle of the lunch, it wouldn’t be much actual help. Next year, perhaps, when – if – she felt less raw.
Having arranged the flowers as best she could, she stood a moment by the grave, saying a silent farewell to her parents. Thank God there was no one around to see her tears, which continued in the car, making dark stains on her shirt, as she drove back up the hill, then manoeuvred her way through the jammed and busy town, before heading out to Westfield, to deliver Judith’s presents. Some of her fellow motorists were visibly frustrated by the traffic jams, blaring their horns, or cutting in on each other, or even winding down their windows and yelling foul abuse. But aggression was just part of Christmas – as was loneliness.
Judith’s house blazed with light, outside as well as in. Strings of fairy lights were looped around the doors and windows, and a brilliantly lit Christmas tree stood inside the porch. She glanced up at the sky, so dark and drear in contrast; no stars, no glint of moonlight; only a thick bank of lowering cloud. She shivered suddenly, imagining the zillions of galaxies that dwarfed their own Milky Way to puny insignificance. And those baffling things she’d read about, like Dark Matter and Dark Energy, which not even cosmologists appeared to understand. In fact, as far as she could gather, the greater part of the universe was unseeable, unknowable, immeasurable and inexplicable, so was it any wonder she sometimes felt like an ant confronting Everest?
The chimes of the doorbell brought her back to earth, followed by the sound of footsteps pounding down the hall, as Judith’s eldest, Patrick, raced to let her in. ‘We’re just decorating the tree,’ he announced, in a tone of breathless self-importance.
‘It looks as if it’s done already.’ She gestured to the shimmering tree, resplendent in the porch.
‘No, that one only has lights on. The second tree has loads of things. Want to come and see?’
‘Just give me a minute to say hello to your mum.’ She stepped into the warm, cluttered hall; found Judith at the kitchen table, feeding Alexander.
‘Sorry, almost finished. Great to see you – take a pew. Patrick, can you get our guest some fruit juice from the fridge.’
‘She’s not a guest; she’s Hannah.’
‘Well, all the more reason to make a fuss of her.’ Judith switched the baby to her other breast, mopping up a drool of milk. ‘When Ben gets in,’ she added, ‘we’ll have something a bit stronger.’
‘Thanks,’ said Hannah, as Patrick passed her a stained plastic beaker full of lurid scarlet liquid.
‘Patrick, grown-ups get proper glasses – I’ve told you that already – and give Hannah decent juice, not that ghastly pop stuff.’
‘It’s not ghastly – it’s my favourite.’
‘Don’t worry, it’ll do fine.’ Hannah’s smile felt forced and false. Watching Judith breastfeed was always an ordeal – the sheer longing for a baby of her own, followed by the surge of panic that it would probably never happen. Her mother had achieved it very late, of course, but her mother had been married then for more than twenty years, whereas she had yet to find her man – or at least one who wanted children. Her first boyfriend, Geoff, adored kids, but he’d gone off to be a monk, of all things. And Mark’s own unhappy childhood had made him wary of fatherhood, while Andrew had a problem with commitment. And that had been the sum total of her love-life, apart from a few sporadic flings.
‘Want to help with the tree?’ Patrick asked, jigging up and down impatiently. ‘I’m in charge, but I’ll let you put a few things on.’
‘Yes, love to. In a minute, though.’
‘Grown-ups always say “in a minute”. But it never is a minute, more like half-an-hour.’
‘Right, ten minutes, I promise – not a second longer.’
‘OK,’ he agreed grudgingly, before rushing off at his usual frenzied pace. Patrick seemed to explode with energy; even spoke like a radio commercial, trying to pack a spate of words into a quick-fire thirty seconds.
‘Where are the girls?’ she asked, once he’d thundered along the passage into the lounge.
‘Oh, driving Patrick mad, and breaking half the ornaments, no doubt. I know I should be supervising, but it’s been a total madhouse here today. My parents came round earlier and stayed the entire morning, then Ben’s sister popped in, and—’
‘Gosh, d’you want me to shove off? It sounds as if you could do with a bit of peace.’
‘Don’t you dare go! Friends are different. I just hope you’ll excuse the mess. I haven’t had a moment to clear up.’
Hannah glanced around at the so-called mess – a source of envy, actually: kids’ drawings pinned up on the wall; abandoned toys littered underfoot; children’s gloves and woolly hats flung down on the dresser, and a pile of home-made Christmas stockings sharing the table with lengths of felt, pots of glitter and fuzzy stick-on letters. ‘Who made these?’ she asked.
‘Oh, they’re all Tara’s handiwork. She’s made one for each of the family, and an extra one for you.’
‘For me?’
‘Mm. With your name on. But I mustn’t spoil the surprise. She’ll give it to you herself, once I can drag her away from the tree.’ Judith put the baby over her shoulder and gently rubbed his back. ‘So, Hannah,’ she asked, looking her friend directly in the eye, ‘have you decided yet what you’re going to do for Christmas?’
The pause seemed endless; finally broken by a loud burp from Alexander.
Judith laughed. ‘That’s his way of saying “please come here”. We’d love to have you – I’ve told you enough times. And you can stay as long as you like – right on to New Year, if you want.’
‘It’s sweet of you, but—’ She broke off in mid-sentence, unable to explain her deep unease about carrying off the role of Auntie Hannah, when she wasn’t a genuine aunt, in fact, and didn’t really belong. Judith always had a crowd for Christmas, all bona-fide relatives, and most of them in couples. She knew she’d feel an interloper, with all that reminiscing about treasured family memories; all those family traditions she wouldn’t understand; all those little in-jokes baffling to outsiders, and – hardest to endure – all that kissing under the mistletoe. Even the word ‘Mum’ could bring a pang of grief, now she had no mother herself, nor child to say it to her. She cleared her throat; sat stroking one of the red-felt Christmas stockings. ‘Maybe next year, Judith, but this year I’m going abroad.’
It wasn’t a lie. She was going; had made the decision just now. And she would opt for a destination where Christmas wasn’t celebrated in any shape or form, and ensure it was a holiday for singles, so she would be spared the sight of happy, cosy families, at least in the hotel. In fact, once she had done her bit here – helped Patrick decorate the tree, read Milly-Molly-Mandy to the girls, said a quick hello to Ben – she would go straight home and make a packing-list, and be waiting outside the travel agent’s the minute it opened in the morning.
She shifted from foot to foot as the woman in front of her – a tall, supercilious blonde, too thin for her own good – changed her mind for at least the seventh time.
‘No, hold on – I’m not sure I like the sound of that hotel. I do particularly
want a sea view, and you told me they’d all gone at the Vittoria. In fact, I’m going off the whole idea of Sorrento. Would there be a sea view somewhere else – say, Amalfi or Capri?’
The poor chap behind the desk clearly possessed heroic fortitude. Having duly found a sea view in both Amalfi and Capri, the wretched woman suddenly took agin Italy in general (having already turned down Portugal and Spain), and now switched her attention to Greece.
Hannah listened with increasing impatience as every suggestion made – Santorini, Ithaca, Athens, Skyros, Crete – was tetchily dismissed.
‘The problem is,’ the clerk explained, ‘if you opt for a singles holiday, you’re much more limited for choice, especially in the age-band thirty-five to forty-five. They’re the most popular, you see, and get booked up months in advance.’
Oh my God, thought Hannah, ears twitching at the phrases ‘Singles … thirty-five to forty-five’. This spoilt, skinny bitch might be just the sort of person she’d find herself beside on a coach tour or excursion; even forced to bunk up with, if all the single rooms had gone. And there might be other people every bit as odious: unhappy spinsters bewailing their lack of partners or their benighted, lonely futures; self-righteous divorcees bitter about their ex’s, comparing bloody battles over custody or maintenance, even damning the entire male sex. She had never been bitter about any of her men – still loved Geoff, the monk; respected Mark for his honesty, at least, and harboured cherished memories of Andrew, despite his lack of commitment. Did she really want to spend her time with a bunch of miseries, especially when she felt so low herself?
Edging out of the queue, on the pretext of needing more brochures, she picked up ‘SINGULAR’ from the rack again, and reread the fulsome promises inside: Seek adventures in paradise with a group of like-minded singles, who’ll soon become firm friends … Although travelling on your own, never, with us, will you feel alone, or lonely, but move effortlessly beyond yourself into a new, exciting world … We strive to treat each individual guest as a member of our own family….
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