Mistletoe and Mayhem

by Catherine Ferguson

  I’m not worried. She’s so pissed, she won’t even be able to work the bloody phone.

  But I’ve clearly underestimated her because a minute later, she walks back in and announces a taxi is on its way.

  I decide just to go with it, as long as Mum’s okay. To be truthful, a tiny part of me thinks Justine might be right and getting Mum out there could be a positive thing to do.

  But as soon as Mum sees the taxi, her physical reaction is instant and shocking. She clutches at my arm and I can feel her whole body trembling.

  ‘It’s okay, Mum.’ I put my arm around her and she starts murmuring over and over, ‘I can’t do it, Lola. I can’t do it.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Trish. Of course you can.’ Justine takes Mum’s other arm and tries to steer her towards the taxi. ‘Lola and I will look after you. Nothing bad is going to happen.’

  ‘No, it won’t,’ Mum whispers. ‘Because I’m not going.’ She wrenches her arm out of Justine’s grasp with surprising strength and stumbles back indoors.

  I apologise to the taxi driver who luckily is fairly understanding.

  Justine is standing defensively by the door. ‘I was only trying to help,’ she says, in a petulant tone.

  ‘Yes, well you didn’t, Justine,’ I snap ‘You didn’t help at all.’

  The whole incident has left me quite shaken. Goodness only knows how Mum feels.

  I go in and find her lying on her bed. She’s turned on her side with the coverlet pulled over her. I sit beside her and gently stroke her shoulder.

  ‘Can you tell your dad I need some more of my herbal sleeping pills from the chemist?’ she murmurs.

  I go to the window and look out. Dad’s holding a ladder against an apple tree while Rob does the pruning. They’re chatting away as they work and I’m reluctant to interrupt their father–son bonding time.

  ‘Dad’s busy,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll get your pills.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Your dad knows which ones to get. He’ll do it.’

  When I hesitate, she looks obstinate. ‘I won’t be able to sleep without them.’

  So I go out into the garden and tell them what happened.

  Rob’s face hardens when I explain how Justine was trying to get Mum to go to the spa. ‘Where is she?’ he demands.

  ‘Lying down in the guest room, I think.’

  ‘Right.’ He marches inside.

  When I mention Mum’s pills, Dad pats my shoulder and goes indoors to fetch his car keys.

  Much later, when everything has calmed down and Mum and Justine are both flaked out in their rooms, Dad disappears ups to his ‘shed’ and Rob joins me in the kitchen to make dinner.

  It’s my chance to chat to him properly and find out what the hell’s going on.

  ‘How are things?’ I ask carefully. ‘Justine seems a bit – tense.’

  Rob carries on splashing white wine over the salmon and spring onions in foil parcels, and at first I think he’s not going to answer. He adds some chopped chilli peppers to each parcel, then carefully twists the foil over each one.

  ‘Things have been … tough,’ he says eventually. ‘Especially for Justine.’

  ‘Oh. There’s no one else involved, is there?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ He looks horrified that I should even imagine that.

  ‘So what…?’

  He looks at me intently for a moment. Then he shakes his head. ‘Look, forget I said that. Things are getting better. We’ll be fine.’

  I look at him sadly. ‘Relationships.’

  ‘Yeah. Relationships. At least she hasn’t got to do Christmas for everyone this year. That always sends her stress levels right through the roof.’ He grins wearily. ‘And mine, too.’

  I open my mouth, about to say that actually, Christmas at mine is no longer an option. But I stop myself. It’s probably best to break the news when we’re all together at dinner.

  While the salmon is cooking, I slip upstairs to see Dad.

  He’s commandeered this room for his projects and Mum is quite happy with the arrangement as it means his never-ending supplies of matchsticks, glue and other weird and very tiny implements aren’t scattered around the house.

  When I go in he’s at his workbench by the window, bending over what looks like the hull of a ship. It’s on a larger scale than the boats he usually crafts.

  He looks up in surprise when I walk in. ‘Hello, love. How’s your mum?’

  ‘Sleeping soundly.’

  ‘Good. And what can I do for you?’

  I flop down into an easy chair and say, straight-faced, ‘Just wondered if you had any matches.’

  He laughs. ‘Not that old chestnut.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, the old ones are not necessarily the best.’ I spring up and wander over to look at the shelves containing all his projects. Dad’s been constructing models of boats and planes from matchsticks for as long as I can remember. And now that he’s retired, he seems to spend most of his spare time up here.

  ‘So how’s it going?’ I peer over his shoulder. ‘What are you working on?’

  ‘A ship. But it’ll be a bit different to the stuff I’ve done in the past.’

  I nod. ‘I can see that. It’s much bigger, for a start.’

  He smiles. ‘We’ll have the big unveiling at Christmas. And that’s all I’m saying.’

  I glance around the room at all the painstakingly accurate, to-scale models of ships and planes and old-fashioned automobiles adorning the window sills and sitting in a long, glass-fronted display case.

  ‘Where do you get the inspiration for all this? And how come I haven’t got a single creative bone in my body?’ I grin at him. ‘I suspect you’re not my real dad.’

  He chuckles. ‘Don’t let your Mum hear you say that.’

  My smile slips. ‘Do you think she’ll ever beat the agoraphobia?’

  He looks up at me, startled. We hardly ever mention the name of Mum’s condition. Then he sighs. ‘Honestly? I doubt it.’ He sighs. ‘She still won’t agree to get help. Won’t even talk to the GP. And, until she does, things are never going to improve.’

  ‘Oh, Dad, it must be so hard for you.’

  ‘Hey, don’t worry about me,’ he murmurs. ‘I’ll keep nagging her gently about seeing a doctor and one day, you never know…’

  I nod, tears flooding my eyes, hoping with every fibre of my being that he’s right. Mum is so lucky to have my lovely, kind, patient dad. Another man might have thrown in the towel by now.

  ‘How’s work?’ he asks casually. ‘You haven’t mentioned it this weekend.’

  I turn and give a non-committal shrug.

  ‘Lola?’ Dad can always see right through me.

  ‘I was made redundant a few weeks ago,’ I confess. ‘But don’t tell Mum. I don’t want her worrying – you know …’

  He nods. ‘Are you all right for money?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I got a redundancy package. And I’m job-hunting.’

  ‘Something else will turn up. It always does,’ says Dad. ‘And they’ll be very lucky to have you.’

  I know he means every word.

  And when he murmurs, ‘Come here, love’ and enfolds me in one of his big bear hugs, I finally let go, allowing the tears to seep unchecked into his shirt.

  When Rob shouts up the stairs that dinner is ready, I quickly dab at my face and go down to see if Mum’s getting up to eat. Still looking very pale, she’s complaining of a headache so I bring her some painkillers, along with her dinner on a tray.

  ‘Sorry, love,’ she says, reaching for my hand. ‘I can’t face Justine right now.’

  ‘Don’t blame you. I can’t believe her sometimes. She’s so bloody bossy. And convinced she’s right and everyone else is wrong.’

  Mum takes my hand. ‘Lola, listen, I can’t tell you how relieved I am that we’re coming to yours for Christmas this year. You’re a real life-saver, love.’ She’s gripping my hand so tightly, it hurts. Going to Justine’s would send me off the rails.
And I’m not joking. It is still all right, isn’t it?’

  The intensity in her look scares me.

  I force a smile and pull her into a hug. ‘Of course it is. Don’t worry about it, Mum. We’ll have a great time.’

  I feel slightly sick but what else can I do? Both my parents are depending on me.

  So it’s official.

  The family Christmas will be at Rustic Place this year.

  And already, I’m dreading it …

  Chapter Eleven

  Never mind the hills.

  The whole flat is alive to the sound of music.

  Barb’s passion for Rodgers and Hammerstein and Cole Porter knows no bounds. She’s currently singing a rather jazzy version of ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’, with lots of delicious swoops and slides.

  Normally I quite like to hear her vocalising about the place.

  But tonight it’s just an unsettling reminder that the closest I could ever get to debuting in a stage musical would be as a scene-shifter.

  And I’ve got to tell Jasper this.

  I’m sitting at the kitchen table, trying to get in touch with my creativity. There must be some, surely? I’ve inherited Dad’s blue eyes and love of all things nutty (as in chocolate, not deranged persons). So please God let the (clearly dormant) creative gene pop to the surface so I can make Christmas go with a swing …

  It’s mid-November and the local town of Pottersdale is already embracing the festive season wholeheartedly. Christmas trees glow in the windows, hinting at the lovely festive family warmth within, and the trees lining the High Street wink with white lights, tempting afternoon shoppers to linger long after darkness falls. The huge town Christmas tree went up last week, a sign that yuletide really had begun. Decked with hundreds of twinkling coloured lights and topped with a star, it stands in its usual place at the foot of the town hall steps.

  I glance down at my sheet of paper, which is headed, Operation Christmas.

  So far it reads:

  Book tickets for local amateur dramatics panto – cheap and Christmassy

  Outdoor skating rink???

  Save supermarket loyalty points to buy turkey

  Rent Christmassy DVDs

  Make own Christmas pudding and Christmas cake (although might be cheaper to buy – do costings)

  Get happy on lots of Irish hot chocolate (using up the Irish cream liqueur from last year)

  Sing carols around the piano

  It’s not very inspiring.

  And one-seventh of it is ironic anyway. We don’t even have a piano.

  Sighing, I drop my pen and rake my hands through my hair. If I don’t tell Jasper the ridiculous truth before tomorrow night, he’ll be expecting to collect me for bloody choir practice at seven-thirty.

  Every time I think of that drive to the village hall last Thursday night, I cringe with embarrassment. Especially the thought of Seb – filling up the front passenger seat with his manly bulk – enjoying my sad attempt at pretending to be a classical music buff.

  In a moment, I will go up there, knock on Jasper’s door and confess all.

  Once I’ve done my ironing.

  I really like Jasper but once he knows there are actually Dalmatians that sing better than me, he’s going to think I’m a right weirdo for attempting to join his choir. I mean, you wouldn’t set yourself up as a driving instructor if you couldn’t figure out how roundabouts work, would you?

  That pile of ironing does looks mighty big, though.

  ‘When are you going to tell him, then?’ asks Barb, coming in and peering over my shoulder.

  ‘Soon. Very soon.’

  I cross to the window to look for Jasper’s blue Golf.

  Depressingly, it’s right there.

  ‘By the way,’ she says, ‘about your list here…?’

  ‘Yes?’ I turn, hopeful of some fabulous golden nugget that will truly transform my festive experience.

  ‘I hate to break it to you. But we don’t actually have a piano.’

  I knock on Jasper’s door, give it about eight seconds and turn to scurry back down the stairs.

  No point lingering if he’s not in.

  Behind me, the door opens and I turn back with a bright smile. ‘Sorry, I thought you weren’t—’

  It’s Man Mountain himself.

  My face falls. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  He’s wearing faded jeans and an old green T-shirt. And he’s barefoot.

  ‘Were you hoping for Jasper, then?’

  ‘Yes, actually.’

  He shakes his head regretfully. ‘I get that all the time. Women climbing over me to get to Jas.’

  I flush. ‘No! I didn’t mean …’

  His green eyes fill with amusement. ‘Jas has just nipped out. Won’t be long. Do you want to come in and wait for him?’

  He runs both hands through his tawny hair, giving me a flash of impressive upper arm muscle definition.

  I shake my head, feeling unaccountably flustered. The man’s so bloody big!

  ‘No, it’s fine, really. It’s – um – about tomorrow night.’

  ‘Choir practice?’ The corner of his mouth lifts.

  ‘Yes. I – er – can’t make it. I’ve got things to do.’

  He folds his arms and leans against the doorjamb, studying me with amused interest.

  I’m wearing tight jeans and a stupid hot pink top that, if I’m honest, were sort of meant for Jasper’s benefit. And it irritates me intensely that it’s Jasper’s ‘hilarious’ mate who’s enjoying the view instead.

  I’m the first to glance away. My eyes land on his feet.

  Some men have horrible feet with sprouty hairs in odd places. But his look smooth and clean and manicured.

  And big.

  ‘Very important things,’ I add, since he’s clearly not taking me seriously.

  ‘Singing lessons?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I just wondered if the very important thing was singing lessons.’

  Flushing even more hotly, I start to back away. ‘Look, if you could just tell Jasper I’m sorry about tomorrow.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be the first girl to feign an interest in Jasper’s passion, you know.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Well, there was one girl – rather attractive, actually – who insisted she was related to Chopin on her mother’s side and that she played a mean piano herself.’

  ‘And was she? Did she?’

  He chuckles. ‘Turns out she could just about manage “Chopsticks”.’

  ‘And?’ I’m not at all sure I like what he’s implying here.

  He shrugs. ‘Since singing is possibly not your finest talent, it leads me to believe that the reason for your sudden interest in joining a choir is because you want to spend time with Jas.’

  I stare at him in horror. ‘That is so not true.’

  (It’s so absolutely true.)

  ‘Hey, nothing to be ashamed of. Jasper’s a great guy. I’m sure he’d consider it a huge compliment, you striking out into – erm – unknown territory, all to get closer to him.’

  A feeling of panic sweeps over me. I can’t believe he’s rumbled me. What if he tells Jasper this? That I’m only joining the choir because I fancy him?

  I press a hand to my cheek. My face is so hot, if I lie down I could probably scramble eggs on it.

  ‘Now look, I don’t know where you got this idea from but I can assure you – absolutely categorically – that I do not fancy Jasper. For your information, it’s been my – um – life-long ambition to join a choir. So when Jasper presented me with the opportunity, naturally I naturally jumped at it.’

  He nods. ‘Categorically, eh?’

  ‘Yes. And by the way, when you heard me singing that time, you didn’t actually think I was practising or something, did you?’ I laugh and shake my head to suggest he has no idea at all about the habits of us experienced vocalists.

  ‘You weren’t?’

  ‘No, no,
no. I was simply exercising my vocal cords. We do that occasionally. It’s a brand new technique. It – er – stretches the voice to sometimes veer deliberately off key. All very edgy and experimental.’

  His broad grin is sceptical, to say the least.

  ‘Experimental? More “mental” if you ask me.’

  ‘Look, just tell Jasper I’ll explain later,’ I snap and start backing away again. ‘And just in case you didn’t catch on the first time, let me emphasise that I joined the choir because I’m passionate about music. Not because I fancy Jasper. Because I absolutely don’t. Not even a little bit. Okay?’

  His gaze slides over my left shoulder and a flicker of alarm passes over his face.

  Good!

  That’s told him!

  I turn to make a dignified exit – and barge headlong into a surprised-looking Jasper.

  Next night, when Barb gets back from work, I’m slouched on the sofa doing my online banking. Which is a fancy term for stewing over how precious little money there actually is in my account.

  It’s amazing how scared you can get looking at a financial spreadsheet. Queasy stomach. Dry mouth. Wondering how comfortable park benches actually are.

  ‘You all right, Lol?’ she asks.

  I force a smile. ‘Yeah, great.’

  Barb comes and parks her bum next to me. Her bum, by the way, which is sporting a pair of very skinny, very new jeans. They’re a bit of a change from her usual funereal robes. They’ve even got a bit of glitter on the pockets.

  ‘Listen, it’s me you’re talking to,’ she says gravely, taking my hand and stroking it. ‘You don’t have to pretend to me that everything’s fine when it so obviously isn’t.’

  I heave a gigantic sigh.

  She’s right.

  I tend not to broadcast my worries. Mainly because past experience has taught me that talking about problems and feelings generally leads to even more hurt and emotional chaos.

  Even Barb doesn’t know the murkiest secrets of my past.

  And she isn’t going to, either.

  I give a gloomy shrug. ‘I need a Christmas tree and decorations and lights and all the food. I’ve been adding it up and I never realised how costly it can be if you’ve got people staying. Have you seen the price of mixed peel? I’ll need to take out a second mortgage just to buy the ingredients for a cake and a pudding!’