The Bottle of Tears

by Nick Alexander

  ‘Did she now?!’

  ‘Yes. She can be quite critical when she gets going. As you know. I’m sure it’s only because she’s a perfectionist. I’m sure she doesn’t mean anything by it.’

  ‘What did she say, Mum?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, really. Martin wasn’t happy, though. He said it will be a while before he sets foot at yours again. But I expect he’ll change his mind the next time there’s a sunny bank holiday. I wouldn’t worry.’

  ‘He said what?’

  ‘You mustn’t say anything,’ Marge says. ‘I promised not to tell you any of this.’

  ‘And Vicky. Did she agree with him?’

  ‘Oh, she didn’t say much. Other than the obvious.’

  ‘What’s the obvious?’

  ‘Oh, I can’t tell you everything everyone said. She’d never forgive me.’

  ‘Mother. You know I never tell Vicky anything you tell me.’

  ‘Look, it was nothing, really. She just said about the mess, you know. And the lack of hygiene, that’s all. But you know what she’s like about germs and things. And I’m sure she only said it because she was angry.’

  ‘God, she’s got a nerve,’ Penny says, starting to feel truly angry herself. ‘I spent the entire bloody week decorating and cleaning for her, and . . .’

  ‘In a way,’ Marge interrupts, ‘she was probably only joking. And I think she was only talking about Max and Chloe, really.’

  ‘Max and Chloe?’ Penny repeats. Beads of sweat are starting to sprout on her forehead. ‘What did she say about Max and Chloe?’

  ‘Oh, not much. And, like I say, I’m sure it was just because she was upset. People say things they don’t mean when they’re upset. You know that.’

  ‘Mum. Tell me what she said.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t do you any good to know. Gossip never helps anyone. And Lord knows, I’m not the gossipy type.’

  ‘Mother,’ Penny says. ‘If you don’t tell me exactly what she said right this minute, I swear I’ll hang up.’

  ‘I can’t, I—’

  ‘I’ll hang up. And you can spend Christmas in their stuffy little well-bleached flat eating M&S ready-meals.’

  ‘I promised I wouldn’t say anything,’ Marge says. ‘You’re putting me in a very difficult position.’

  ‘OK. I’m hanging up. Bye, Mum.’

  ‘Oh, all right! But you won’t say I told you? You promise?’

  ‘No, I won’t say you told me.’

  ‘Well,’ Marge says, sounding almost excited, ‘she said you eat like pigs, actually.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘We were talking about table manners and the like. And she said you eat like pigs.’

  Sander, who has now put down his sponge, is crossing the room towards Penny. He’s repeatedly mouthing the words, ‘What is it?’ at his red-faced, perspiring wife.

  ‘She actually said that?’ Penny says, then for Sander’s benefit, ‘She said we eat like pigs?’

  ‘Now, try not to be too hard on her,’ Marge says. ‘Forgive and forget and all that.’

  ‘Forgive and forget?’ Penny stammers. ‘Are you bloody kidding me?’

  ‘And I think she only meant the kids,’ Marge says. ‘I don’t think she really meant you.’

  ‘How dare she?’ Penny says. ‘How dare she insult my children? I mean, really . . . I . . . I . . . God! How bloody dare she!’

  ‘Look, don’t blow this out of proportion,’ Marge says.

  ‘Out of proportion? Out of bloody proportion?!’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll get over this. You always do. You know what you girls are like.’

  ‘I . . . I have to go now, Mum,’ Penny says, her voice trembling as Sander reaches out to stroke her arm. ‘I . . . yes . . . I have to go. That’s all. I have . . . um . . . a kitchen to clean. There you go. I have a kitchen to clean. No, it’s not a kitchen, it’s actually a bloody pigsty. So there you go. Bye.’

  PART TWO:

  TWO CHRISTMASES

  It is the morning of Christmas Eve – without a doubt the most challenging day in Victoria’s calendar.

  It’s after nine and Martin has just driven off to pick Marge up from her nearby flat in a sheltered housing facility. She’s coming here for lunch before being driven down to Whitstable, where she’ll be spending Christmas with Penny’s family.

  Yes, it’s just Victoria, Martin and Bertie for Christmas this time, and Victoria is feeling scared.

  She glances down the hallway towards Bertie’s bedroom. She knows he’ll sleep for at least another hour.

  She slides the blister pack from the top shelf and strokes it for a moment. She had promised herself that she would wait until at least twelve to pop her second pill, but she’s realising that she’s not going to make it. Perhaps half now, she thinks. Perhaps half now and half later, and a sneaky forbidden cigarette. It is the worst day, after all.

  She crosses to the sink, where she fills a glass of water and swallows the half-tablet before crouching down and pulling the hidden Marlboro packet from behind the cleaning products beneath the sink.

  She lets herself out on to the roof terrace and slides the glass door closed behind her.

  It’s a cold, blustery day, but the sky is blueish and the sun is filtering through, albeit weakly. She walks to the far corner, where she knows she can’t be seen, then crouches down and pulls a cigarette and lighter from the packet.

  ‘Christmas,’ she mutters as she lights the cigarette. ‘Bloody Christmas.’

  The cigarette makes her head spin. She understands most of the things she does, but cigarettes are the exception. They don’t taste nice. They don’t make her feel better. And they’re clearly not good for her either. She drags so deeply on the cigarette that she hears it crackle.

  Martin told her that Sander smokes marijuana, and she wonders if it’s anything like Valium. Perhaps she should have tried it when it was offered to her in the nineties. Perhaps she still should. According to Martin, Sander gets hold of pretty much unlimited quantities of the stuff, and without having to go through all the rigmarole of consulting outrageously expensive Harley Street doctors either.

  Indoors, everything is ready – red tablecloth, gold luxury crackers and the best silverware. The plastic tree is up and sparkling, and Bertie’s gifts – unusually generous this year, in an attempt to compensate for what he keeps calling their ‘broken Christmas’ – are wrapped and piled up beneath the tree.

  Four individual Christmas dinners are waiting in the refrigerator (she only has to heat them up) and the Champagne is nicely chilled.

  Having Christmas dinner on Christmas Eve is Sander’s fault, of course. It’s how they do things in Denmark, apparently, though Sander has always struck Victoria as about as Danish as fish and chips. But what with Christmas Eve being such a problematic day to negotiate, it was a shift in tradition they had all gratefully accepted. At least, this way, everyone is kept busy. At least, this way, they never find themselves alone as the hour hand sweeps on to the dreaded number three.

  The cigarette having now burnt down to the butt, she stubs it out thoroughly on the underside of the windowsill and, sliding the packet into her pocket, crosses to the wall.

  She looks out over the rooftops and thinks of Penny, then Marge and then, finally, Ed.

  I was eight, she thinks. Now I’m forty-eight.

  Forty-eight! At least halfway through my entire life, and still dosed up to my tits on Valium just to get through the day.

  She shakes her head and then thinks again, Halfway through. Is this all there is? Can this really be all there is?

  The sound of a car catches her attention and she looks down to see Martin’s BMW pulling up. Marge must have been waiting, ready for him. Victoria imagines her sitting in the lobby with her handbag on her knees, watching and waiting for another twenty-fourth of December to begin. She sighs deeply and heads indoors.

  ‘Gosh, it’s blowy out there,’ Marge says when she enters the flat. She’s fi
ddling with a stray wisp of hair, trying to push it back into place. She’s clearly been to the hairdresser.

  ‘Your hair looks nice,’ Victoria tells her, even though she thinks her mother’s hairstyle looks more and more like a crash helmet every time she sees her.

  ‘It did before I went out in that,’ Marge says, still pushing at the breakaway lock of hair.

  ‘I’ll get you some hairspray in a minute,’ Victoria tells her. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Marge says, then, turning to Martin who is standing in the doorway behind her, ‘Did you remember the presents?’

  ‘I did,’ he says, raising her Sainsbury’s bag and waving it as proof.

  ‘Careful,’ Marge says. ‘There are breakables in there.’

  Marge unbuttons and hangs up her coat, then follows Victoria to the large kitchen-dining room. ‘Gosh!’ she says. ‘What’s all this, then?’

  Victoria looks at her with an air of surprise. ‘Um, Christmas dinner, maybe?’ she says.

  ‘But it’s only the twenty-fourth, love.’

  ‘Yes. We always have Christmas dinner on Christmas Eve. You know that, Mum.’

  ‘Yes, on Christmas Eve evening,’ Marge says. ‘Not on blooming Christmas Eve morning.’

  ‘It’s for later, for lunchtime,’ Victoria says. ‘I thought it was better that way. Seeing as we won’t be together this evening . . .’

  Marge huffs. ‘I don’t know how I’m supposed to eat two Christmas dinners,’ she says. ‘And I still think you should change your mind about this. You’re being terribly stubborn.’

  Victoria laughs. The Valium is kicking in and she’s starting to feel soft and floaty and vaguely amused. ‘I’m not being stubborn at all,’ she says. ‘We simply haven’t been invited.’

  ‘I’m sure Penny wouldn’t mind,’ Marge says.

  ‘Are you?’ Victoria replies, still managing to smile.

  In search of support, Marge turns to Martin, behind her. ‘Surely you can’t agree with all this silliness?’ she says.

  Martin shrugs. ‘I don’t mind the change, to be honest,’ he says. ‘And pretty much anything’s preferable to what happened the last time we went down.’

  Bertie, in pyjamas, has surfaced. His hair, which he has been growing, has fallen across one eye. The effect somehow reminds Marge of a pirate.

  ‘Oh, please can we go?’ he whines, leaning in to kiss his grandmother on the cheek.

  ‘You see?’ Marge says. ‘The boy sees sense.’

  ‘We’ve been through this a hundred times, Bertie,’ Victoria tells her son. ‘And the answer, this once, is no.’

  ‘Just let me go, then,’ Bertie pleads. ‘I could go down with Gran. There’s room in the car.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Marge says (rather unhelpfully, Victoria thinks). ‘He could.’

  ‘That’s lovely, son,’ Martin says. ‘That’s really flattering.’

  ‘It’s not that—’

  ‘I don’t care what it is,’ Martin interrupts. ‘We’re having Christmas here, all right? End of discussion.’

  ‘God!’ Bertie says, now turning and heading back to his room in exasperation. But as he walks down the hallway he mutters, just loud enough for everyone to hear, ‘It’s so boring here. I feel like my head’s going to explode or something.’

  ‘I’ll personally explode his head if he doesn’t stop complaining,’ Martin tells his wife.

  ‘The poor lad,’ Marge comments. ‘You can’t blame him for not wanting to spend Christmas on his own.’

  ‘Only he’s not on his own, is he, Marge?’ Martin says. ‘He’s with his beloved parents.’

  Victoria squeezes past her husband and calls to Bertie. ‘Bertie, darling! If you want your presents – and believe me, you really do – then you need to get up and get showered and dressed in those clothes I put out.’

  ‘And put a bloody smile on that face!’ Martin shouts.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Victoria says softly. ‘He’ll be fine.’

  ‘So what are you cooking?’ Marge asks Victoria once Martin has moved to the lounge. ‘This all looks very posh.’

  ‘Oh! I got these,’ Victoria says enthusiastically, opening the refrigerator door to reveal the four packaged meals.

  ‘Oh, how funny!’ Marge says. ‘Your sister said you’d be doing M&S ready-meals. I wonder how she guessed.’

  ‘Did she, now?’ Victoria says, both annoyed and bemused at the same time. ‘Well, you can tell Nigella bloody Lawson that she’s wrong.’ She slams the refrigerator shut. ‘Those, Mother, are not from M&S at all. They’re from Harrods, actually.’

  Victoria fills the day as best she can. She serves teas and coffees, then Champagne and snacks.

  She press-gangs her son and husband into playing charades, only to fail, through her veil of Valium, to guess a single one of their clues. But busy as they are, it is not the same as spending the day with her sister. She knew from the start that it couldn’t be.

  She had imagined how slowly these hours would pass, had understood that they would be even more painful than usual. But the reality is worse, even, than anything she had imagined, and she can almost hear the second hand as it creaks from one notch of the kitchen clock to the next.

  Nothing, not the excitement of Bertie’s new iPad, nor the surprise of emerald earrings, can do anything to speed it up. It’s as if the air within the flat has been replaced with something viscous, replaced, perhaps, with that green slime that Bertie used to play with.

  So, despite the meal, which is delicious, and the gifts, which are exaggerated, and in spite of everyone’s efforts to make the most of a bad job (even Bertie tries his best), the simple prospect of surviving the final hour to three o’clock becomes so utterly exhausting that she’s actually relieved when Penny’s friend Will appears early, to whisk Marge off to Whitstable; when Bertie vanishes to his bedroom to set up his new iPad, and when Martin apologetically settles in front of the television to watch a football match he recorded.

  Finally, she’s able to give in to the path of least resistance. Finally, without witnesses, she can cave in to the inevitability of downing her remaining half a tab of Valium and lying on her bed and watching, simply watching, as the hour labours its way towards, then through, then finally past, the dreaded void that is three o’clock.

  It strikes her that it’s actually easier this way, and she wonders if all the keeping busy of these past years hasn’t been counterproductive after all. Perhaps what was always needed was not exhausting resistance but passive, lazy, abandonment to pain, to guilt, to the shame of it all.

  Penny is so busy preparing Christmas dinner that she almost escapes the dreaded three o’clock anniversary. But then a shiver runs down her spine, as if a gust of chilled wind has passed through the room, and she glances at the kitchen clock and sighs. It’s one minute to three. Gotcha!

  She pauses peeling spuds and respectfully waits for the minute hand to move on. She wonders if Victoria and her mother are OK and briefly considers phoning them to check. But they’re together, she reminds herself. They’ll be fine.

  She tries to summon Ed’s face in her mind’s eye, but though she can picture the individual components – his smile, his goofy teeth, his nose, his blue eyes – putting them together seems almost impossible. It’s not that her memories have faded as the years have passed, it’s that they were never very good to start with. She had been too young to understand that brothers weren’t necessarily around for ever. No one had warned her they could disappear. So she failed, it now seems, to stare at Ed sufficiently. She failed to properly record the details of her brother’s face, of his voice, of his essence.

  The kitchen door opens and Sander’s face peeps comically through the gap. ‘Are you OK?’ he asks, and Penny could weep (if she let herself) for the simple fact of Sander’s kindness, for the simple truth of being married to someone who loves her enough to remember the anniversary of something he never personally lived through.

  Instead of weeping, sh
e clears her throat. ‘Fine,’ she says. ‘A bit bored with peeling potatoes, but fine.’ She isn’t really bored with peeling potatoes at all – it was simply the first thing that came to mind, the first conversational theme she could think of which wasn’t to do with Ed.

  ‘Here,’ Sander says, moving to the sink and bumping her hip with his own as he pushes her aside. ‘Let me do that.’

  ‘You’re cute when you want to be,’ Penny says, pecking him on the cheek and trying to think what she should do now she’s been liberated from spud duties.

  ‘That sounds like a superpower,’ Sander replies, taking the peeler from her hand and picking up where she left off.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Penny says. Her mind’s still partly on the clock – the minute hand has just moved on a notch.

  ‘Being cute whenever you want to be,’ Sander says. ‘It sounds like some brilliant superpower.’

  ‘Oh,’ Penny says. ‘Yes, I suppose it does.’ Sander, she realises, is already stoned; he’s already on a different wavelength.

  Penny is taking a break, sipping from a mug of too-hot tea and staring out at the white-capped waves when a pale blue Beetle chugs into view outside.

  She glances at the time. It’s just after four thirty and they’re way in advance of the agreed schedule. ‘What the hell are they doing here?’ she says, watching Will – for it is indeed Will – as he climbs out, stretches his back and, grinning broadly, waves up at her.

  ‘Really?’ Sander says, leaving his armchair to join her at the window. With a snigger, he adds, ‘Maybe they got bored at Vicky’s.’

  Ben, Will’s boyfriend-of-the-moment, appears from the passenger seat. He waves as well, and then both men begin the delicate process of extricating Marge from the back seat of the car.

  ‘I’d better go and help them,’ Penny says. ‘Poor Mum.’ But by the time she reaches the car Marge has been freed.

  ‘I’ve just been telling this friend of yours he needs a new car,’ she announces. ‘A car with proper doors at the back.’