by Aimee Horton
“But I have tummy acheeee,” he whines quietly into my hair.
“No you don’t,” Henry whispers over my shoulder, pulling the duvet up to Artie’s neck before making a hasty exit.
Glaring at his departing back, I lean in to give my son one last kiss, and he wiggles his arms out and around my neck. “I can’t get comfortable.” His eyes are wide and innocent—a giveaway that he is totally lying about everything.
He’s excited. I should give him a break.
Sighing, I sit on the edge of the bed and try not to think about my lovely gin and tonic going warm and Henry having full control of what pizza we’re ordering.
“Santa only comes when you’re asleep,” I begin, stroking his hair. “So snuggle down, and think about the lovely songs from the Christmas films you’ve been watching.”
“But I can’t sleeeep.”
“Yes you can. You haven’t even tried.”
“Noooo, I want to see him. Can I just come and kiss Daddy one more time?”
I lose patience. I’m hungry, tired and really want a drink.
“Artie, snuggle down and go to sleep. I don’t want to tell Santa to take your presents off the sleigh.” I play my trump card, even though I’m aware it’s far too early.
“You wouldn’t do that. He’s already in the air. He’s already flying his sleigh. You told me so earlier.”
I knew that bloody follow Santa app would stuff up my evening one way or another.
“Look Artie, this is your last chance,” I say pulling out my phone. I’ve started it so can’t stop now. “Go to sleep, or I’m going to text him.”
I kiss him and turn to leave the room.
“If you message him while he’s flying his sleigh, he might crash and die,” my son says quietly from under his duvet. “Then you’ll have killed Santa.”
Give. Me. Strength.
“Then I’ll call him,” I say, although I know I shouldn’t respond. I should just walk out of the room and down the stairs, but I can’t help myself.
“Does his sleigh have hands-free, then? Because Daddy says if you use the phone while you’re driving you could crash.” I swear there’s a meaningful pause before he says, “Don’t worry though, Mummy. I haven’t told him you text and speak to Auntie Jane while you’re driving.”
The little…
“Yes, it has hands-free,” I say, forcing a smile. “Now go to sleep.” I begin walking towards the door again and as I hear my son start speaking, the sound of the phone ringing downstairs rescues me.
“Mummy has to get the phone. GO. TO. SLEEP and DO NOT wake your sister,” I say, louder than intended. Then I race down the stairs to answer the phone before it rings out. It’s my brother, Oscar.
He speaks first, before I even have a chance to say a word. “Hello, how are you doing?” I realise I don’t have the energy to rant.
“Thanks for rescuing me from bedtime hell,” I begin, before answering his question. “As well as can be expected, I guess.” I slouch down onto the hall floor and lean against the wall. Accepting a gin and tonic from Henry, I wish once again we’d gone for a cordless phone instead of a retro-looking one. I look like a moody teenager on the phone to her boyfriend.
“I mean, what can I do?” I ask. Knowing he has no answer, I go on to list what food I have, and Oscar—who’s a plumber—goes on to explain about the pipe that was under the flooring in Auntie V and Uncle Rob’s kitchen, and how they’d been staying at my mum’s all week.
I’m not really paying attention—too busy seething at my mother’s short notice—when my mobile phone beeps from within my jeans pocket. Pulling it out, I swear without even meaning to.
“FOR FU—”
“What’s the matter?” Oscar asks, stopping mid-flow in his explanation of stock cocks or something similar.
I re-read the text first to myself and then out loud to my brother.
DON’T FORGET MANDA AND JAMES ARE VEGGIES—TOLD THEM YOUD DO THEM NUTROST LOL MUM XX
“She told them I’d do them a nut roast?” I say in disbelief, taking a glug of my gin and wrinkling my nose in disgust. Either the new stuff is horrid or the tonic is different, because my usually favourite drink tastes vile.
Does my mother hate me?
“I can’t actually believe she actually promised them an actual nut roast, and left it until seven-forty-five p.m. on actual Christmas bloody Eve when I haven’t even had a chance to order my bloody pizza yet! Can you believe it?” I squawk down the phone at my brother. He doesn’t say anything.
“Oscar? Are you listening to what our bloody mother has done?” I raise my voice, and Henry races in and points up at the stairs, reminding me we want the children to be asleep, not stay awake. I lower my voice and whisper, “Oscar?”
“Dots, you’re in luck!” My brother is smiling, I can tell by his voice. “Lexi’s boyfriend, you know the one who’s in a blooming band of all things, he’s a veggie. She says she can make something and bring it!”
I hear the voice of my sixteen-year-old niece in the background, and I want to hug her.
I’m just about to shower her with compliments when Oscar continues, “She also says she has some special gravy you can use.” I sigh with relief. I hadn’t even thought about different gravy, and tears of relief prickle in my eyes.
“Tell her she’s amazing, and I love her, and I am just about to pop something extra into her Christmas present.” I sniffle down the phone to my brother as we say our good-byes, confirming they’ll be here for Buck’s Fizz around eleven a.m.
Still feeling emotional, I spend a couple of minutes looking at the dining room to cheer myself up before seeing if Henry has ordered our dinner. All that talk of vegetarians has given me a hankering for a vegetable-topped pizza.
He’s not in the lounge, and as I wander across the hall to the kitchen to see if he’s there, I hear voices upstairs. Peering upwards I see my husband’s long legs stretched across the landing opposite the bathroom door.
Artie is obviously having a delay-sleep toilet-visit.
Going to replace my gin with a glass of red wine, I spot Arthur’s iPad on the counter and realise Henry is only halfway through the pizza order.
Oh my God, I’m starving!
I add a few more bits to the order and then, spotting an offer at the top of the site, I add an extra pizza and garlic bread to get an additional twenty percent off. Now we’ll have enough for leftovers on Boxing Day as well. Turning to my overflowing wine rack, I choose a bottle of my favourite red, two wine glasses, and on a whim, I also grab the half-eaten bag of kettle chips from earlier.
I settle down on the squishy sofa in the lounge and put my feet up on the table, relieved once again that everything that can be done today is done. All that’s left, once Artie is asleep, is to take the presents upstairs and fill the children’s stockings.
I turn on the TV, switch the channel from some high-pitched, brightly coloured kids’ animation to a rerun of Home Alone 2, then set to work on the rest of the crisps. Munching my way through a couple of handfuls, I am thrilled at how festive the room looks. The tree lights are twinkling, the logs are crackling in the fireplace, while the Christmas candles burn next to it. I can’t help but get excited all over again about the thought of tomorrow, with everyone in here opening presents and enjoying themselves. I close my eyes for a minute and imagine if we had a piano how I could play Christmas carols and everyone could sing, like a really old-fashioned Christmas celebration.
Not that I play the piano, but still.
Just as I’m deciding whether I should go help Henry with Artie—who is trying every delay tactic in the book—I hear footsteps on the stairs. When Henry walks into the lounge, the doorbell rings.
“Perfect timing, honey!” I let him answer the door, not intending to move again until the stocking-filling and bedtime.
“How much did you order, Dots?”
I turn to look at my husband. Perhaps I did go a bit overboard. You can only see the top of
his bushy hair over a pile of about eight, maybe nine, boxes.
“I’ve been a busy girl!” I exclaim, rubbing my tummy before clearing a space on the coffee table. Laying out a couple of old magazines to protect the wood, I continue over-justifying. “Plus, I thought leftovers for Boxing Day maybe?”
“My wife, classy as ever.” He smiles, setting down the pile of boxes and ruffling my hair. I dive into the food, opening sauces and grabbing a bit from each box.
Settling back onto the sofa, I bite into my pizza, and as I begin to chew, my throat closes up.
Urgh.
I take a sip of wine and let the liquid soothe my throat and settle my churning stomach.
I’m still sweaty and weak, so after taking another sip, I grab a handful of crisps from the bag on the floor. The sharp flavour does its job and I begin to feel back to normal. Tentatively, I reach for a potato wedge, but can’t quite face a chicken dipper.
It must be those cold fish fingers I’d snaffled from the children.
I look at the slice of pizza on my plate and the nearly full boxes in front of me.
“I’m full,” I say, setting my plate on the floor.
“You shouldn’t have wolfed down an entire bag of crisps.” Henry rolled his eyes good-naturedly. I attempt to look shocked.
As he clears the food away, I head up to check on the children. I’m exhausted, so exhausted I can barely climb the stairs, but as I walk into their bedroom, a rush of energy runs through me. Even though it’s only nine p.m., both of the children are fast asleep. I’m thrilled.
Grabbing their stockings, I whisper down the stairs to Henry, and together we sneak into our bedroom and stuff them. Tiptoeing back into their bedroom, we put the stockings at the end of their bed, not daring to kiss the children in fear of waking them up. Finally, I go back to my bedroom to put my pyjamas on.
Dressing gown wrapped around my still not-totally-settled-stomach, I spot next door’s blooming cat curled up on my pillow. It must have snuck in when Henry answered the door.
Bloody thing, look at the mucky paw prints all over my duvet!
Scooping it up, I lecture it quietly as I trot down the stairs. I open the front door and gently evict it. Feeling slightly guilty, I remind myself of my now dirty bedding. I head back into the lounge to watch the Take That Christmas special and have a last glass of wine before Henry finishes the bottle.
Christmas Day
I can’t believe I’m the first person awake, especially after Mabel woke up at two a.m. and started unwrapping presents. Luckily, I heard her before it was too late and managed to re-wrap them. Hopefully it was too dark for her to see what she’d got.
Now, when she is nearly always up before six a.m., here I am, lying in bed at six-forty-five, and the house is silent. Well, except for Henry’s snoring.
I lie there, straining my ears over the snorting next to me, for sounds of the children waking up. I’m excited to hear the squeals of their voices when they see Santa has visited. In fact, I’m so excited I feel sick.
Unable to keep still, Henry’s snoring irritating me more and more, I go downstairs and pop the oven on. It will be good to get a head start and have it ready for the turkey to go in after breakfast. After flicking on the kettle, I check my colour-coded itinerary. Satisfied I’m on track—five minutes ahead actually—I grab a mug and open the fridge for the milk. I beam with pride at how well stocked it is.
I love a full fridge.
I make my tea and take a sip. It tastes gross. Gagging at the horrid taste, I spit what’s left in my mouth right back into the mug. Eurgh, the milk must be off. Wrinkling my nose, I tip the liquid down the sink, and just as I’m about to wash the mug, something twitches in my brain.
Wait.
Slamming the mug on the counter, I spin around and fling the fridge open again. There’s no turkey.
Bloody Stupid Idiotic Henry. I can’t bloody rely on him for anything.
Racing up the stairs, taking them two at a time, I descend on the still-snoring lump in our bed, shaking his shoulder.
“HOW COULD YOU FORGET THE TURKEY?” I yell, not caring if I wake the children. “How could you be so idiotic to forget the bloody turkey?”
Rolling over, my husband looks at me through half-open eyes.
“What? Huh? What?” He croaks, brushing his slightly wild hair out of his eyes. It takes all my willpower not to pick up a pillow and beat him with it, before having a full blown Mabel-style tantrum on the bedroom floor.
“The. Turkey.” I begin, through gritted teeth. “You were meant to pick up the turkey.”
“I did!” Henry replies, eyes fully open now. And suddenly realisation dawns on him. “I left it in the boot of the car!” He looks relieved that he’s back in control of the situation. “It was so cold last night, and I knew the fridge would be overflowing, so I left it in the boot.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling a bit guilty. “Thanks.”
How was I supposed to know that?
I head quickly down the stairs, grabbing the keys; I’m now desperate to get the turkey inside and safe. I’m hit by the freezing cold morning as soon as I open the door, although I can’t help but enjoy the winter sun on my face. Perfect Christmas weather.
Unlocking the car, I heave the huge bird out of the boot, somehow managing to close it again, before I stagger inside. Dumping the turkey on the kitchen counter, I turn to close the front door, but before I get there, a gust of wind catches it, and it slams shut on its own accord.
The noise wakes the children, and within seconds, shrieks of excitement echo through the house. I make my way upstairs to join in.
~~~~
“No, you can’t have chocolate for breakfast,” I say over my shoulder to a grumbling Artie, as I make my way to the kitchen. I see Henry sneak Artie and Mabel chocolate coins, and I smile to myself.
“How about a mince pie instead?” Mabel instantly claps her chubby, chocolaty hands together in delight, and Artie fist pumps the air in agreement.
Happily, I leave the room, humming my favourite Christmas song—Mariah Carey, if you’re interested—as I go. My stomach is rumbling for a mince pie and a fresh cup of tea. Once I’ve had that, I can really get cracking. We’re still ahead of time.
As I reach the kitchen, I stop and stare at the scene in front of me.
“NOOOOOOOOO!” I try to scream as I stand in the doorway. However, it just comes out as a choked whisper.
On the floor, in front of the fridge, is the turkey. Well, I say turkey, but what I should say is the remains of the turkey. On the windowsill, looking out over the garden is next door’s cat, licking its lips.
I don’t believe this.
“Henry!” I call, in a strangled voice. “HENRY!”
My husband lollops across the hall, and without me having to say anything, the smile falls from his face.
“What the actual…?” he begins, and then stops, turning to look at me. I assume he’s trying to assess how I’m coping with the situation.
“We’re screwed,” I say, the panic setting in. “We are totally and utterly screwed.” I stamp my feet on the spot and let out a frustrated growl. Launching across the room I practically yank the cat off the windowsill, then march to the front door with it held at arm’s length. I’m furious with this animal.
The children have appeared behind me, wondering what the commotion is all about. “Was the cat bad?” Artie asks. “Maybe he should go on the naughty step,” he suggests, ever the helpful one.
My anger subsides—slightly—and I plop the cat onto the ground. “AND STAY OUT!” I shout, slamming the door behind me. Brushing my hands off, I feel marginally better.
The feeling quickly fades as I see Henry picking shreds of raw meat off the floor. Artie and Mabel trail behind me. I grab a packet of mince pies from on top of the breadbin and pass it to Arthur.
“Kids, go into the lounge and watch TV and play with your new toys, will you?” I say, in a high-pitched sing-song voice. I was going fo
r upbeat and in control but failed.
As they scarper across the hall, whispering and giggling at the opportunity to sneak more than one mince pie, I look at the kitchen, nearly clear of the evidence.
“What are we going to do?” I ask, shoulders slumped.
Henry hands me another cup of tea, but the smell of it turns my stomach. I set it on the counter. “The milk’s off,” I say, with a dramatic arm gesture. “Just ANOTHER thing to add to the list.”
“Tastes OK to me,” he says, shrugging before returning to the rather more serious matter in hand. Christmas Dinner.
“We could call everyone,” he says, putting his arm around me. I rest my head against him. “They could all chip in and bring something. I’m sure your mother has a frozen joint in the freezer.”
Urgh. My Mother.
“I can’t think of anything worse than admitting to my mother that I’ve failed.” But I know his suggestion is probably the only option.
“Do we have anything in the freezer?” he asks, and I shake my head. I’d cleaned out our tiny freezer only a week or so before in preparation for the big day.
Opening the fridge, Henry and I stare at its contents, which this morning looked bulging and full, and now look pathetically sparse. The three large pizza boxes containing the remnants of last night’s meal are stuffed above the salad tray—mocking me and taking up valuable space, which could have been filled with extra pigs in blankets and roast potatoes.
“Pizza?” he suggests, half laughing.
“I’m calling Oscar.” I stomp into the hall and pick up the phone, hoping my brother—or at least his daughter—will come up with another magical solution after last night’s nut roast miracle.
~~~~
Unfortunately, this time my brother was unable to work miracles. In fact—once he’s done laughing—it’s clear the only solution was the one Henry had come up with.
