I tried to be encouraged. But to be honest, I felt slightly patronised.
There was an odd feeling in the pit of my stomach. I had the sneakiest feeling I may have broken up something significant when I walked in on them.
After a few seconds of awkward silence, Seb leaped up. ‘Right. Gotta go. Later.’ He pointed at Barb and I wondered if he really did mean he’d see her later. Or was that just a figure of speech?
He launched into an old Beatles classic on his way out, which Barb seemed to find hysterical. Some private joke, obviously. The door slammed shut and, as he took the stairs to his own place, we could still hear him crooning the words: ‘I’ll get by with a little help from my friends. Oh yes, I’m gonna try with a little help …’
Barb and I exchanged a slightly bemused look.
I pointed upwards with my thumb. ‘What was he—?’
‘Oh, er, he volunteered to fix that leaky tap.’
‘That was nice of him. Did he manage it?’ I glanced at the tap. It was still dripping.
‘No.’ She turned to fill the kettle. ‘He’s coming back another time with the proper tools.’
‘Ah.’
I smelled something fishy but I decided to let it go.
Then the other night, when Jasper and I arrived back from our drink with Trudy in the pub, we had our lovely, relaxed chat in the car interrupted by some very odd sounds.
They seemed to be coming from the front garden and at first I thought it was kids larking about.
Then Jasper craned his neck and said, ‘What are those idiots doing?’
That’s when I saw Barb running away from the garden shed, shrieking with laughter, Seb in hot pursuit. Even though Jasper had forgotten to turn off the headlights (he’s forever running the car battery down), they mustn’t have noticed the car with us inside it, because they both dived into the building and the door clunked shut behind them.
When we went in, I was expecting to find them chatting outside our door.
But the hall was mysteriously empty.
When I went into the flat, Barb, under questioning, said she’d bumped into Seb when she was putting out the rubbish.
I wandered into the kitchen.
The bin was over-flowing in that way where everything is pushed down so hard, you just know it will be horribly messy trying to extract the bag.
So that was a fib, then.
I went to my room and sat down on the bed, feeling strangely out of sorts.
Barb shouted that she’d bought double chocolate doughnuts. But even that didn’t make me feel better.
I couldn’t understand why a lead weight had suddenly landed inside me.
Was I jealous of the way Seb was getting on with Barb?
But that was silly schoolgirl stuff. As in: Barb’s my friend, not yours, so how dare you have a laugh with her without checking with me first!
I shook my head.
Of course I wasn’t jealous.
But I felt weird nonetheless.
Then I remembered how my nice, cosy chat in the car with Jasper was cut off in its prime by Seb larking around with Barb.
That was enough to make anyone feel out of sorts …
I’ve made some delicious Rocky Road for Christmas out of my bargain marshmallows! Although since it’s still ten days until the family arrives, I’ll have to store it in a tin well out of Barb’s reach, otherwise there’ll be none left.
I’ve also baked my Christmas cake and stirred up a very festive pudding. All this activity took most of the day but I’m rather proud of the results. The cake and pudding smell gloriously boozy.
Buying my pud and cake from the local discount store simply wasn’t an option. The one time Mum dared to serve up a shop-bought Christmas pudding, Justine turned up her nose and picked self-righteously at a bowl of dried fruit instead. (With a face on her as sour as the cranberries.) So the pressure was definitely on. Especially since I’ve never attempted baking on this scale before.
But they look great. Well, quite normal, anyway. (I had to taste the cake, obviously, to make sure it was edible, so it’s a bit lopsided but I’ll just pile more icing on that corner.)
I was surprised how cheaply I managed to make them.
Normally, with Christmas cake and pudding recipes, the list of ingredients is as long as both your arms. And you have to splash out on loads of exotic ingredients, like glacé cherries, varieties of nuts you’ve never even heard of, and dried berries from the very rare Extortionately Expensive Madagascan Tree and such like.
Then the left-over ingredients sit in your cupboard for years and even move house with you.
But … I’d found recipes online that were far less complicated, with cheaper ingredients, and I have to say, the pudding especially smells deliciously Christmassy. Dad gave me the remains of a bottle of brandy to bring back for this very purpose and I have a feeling I might have been a touch heavy-handed on the old ‘feeding the cake’ ruse, which is clearly an excuse to get the alcohol out again and have another tipple while you’re at it.
But hell, it’s Christmas! And the more relaxed I can make my guests, the better.
So anyway, I can now tick cake and pudding off my list (if I can remember which list they are on).
I have many lists, you see.
There’s a ‘to do’ list stuck to my bedroom mirror, including things like:
Get large dining table (second hand)
Haggle for Christmas tree at garden centre?
Find holly???
Wash bed linens using nice, scenty fabric softener. NO biological powder (Justine’s skin erupts)
There’s also a list on the fridge, detailing the approximate food I need to buy.
And a list in the back of my diary with suggestions on how to keep the troops entertained.
They’re arriving on the 21 December and my biggest headache is working out where to sit everyone at mealtimes.
The tiny round table in the kitchen is woefully inadequate, so Barb suggested we trawl the second-hand shops to find an old table. As she pointed out, it wouldn’t matter how scabby it was because we could cover it with a pretty cloth and a home-made Christmassy runner.
It’s a good idea, but the problem is, the kitchen is on the small side and a larger table will dominate the room. We’d be eating our meals squashed up between the oven on one side, the fridge freezer on the other and a sink piled with dirty pots and pans. Plus I’d be squeezing round chairs trying to serve everyone.
It would be awful if we ended up eating our turkey dinner on trays in front of the telly. I’m having palpitations at the very thought.
I keep waking during the night with palpitations at the very thought.
Barb has offered to bring the car into town and help me find a second-hand table. But, so far, we haven’t managed to find a time when we’re both free, what with me doing the occasional extra shift at the garden centre.
I also need to get my hands on some holly as a matter of urgency.
Christmas is not Christmas, according to Justine, without fresh holly and berries.
She has hers delivered, of course, along with the tree, which is ridiculous when you can find holly – free of charge – adorning just about every country lane in Britain.
Mind you, I’ve braved the arctic weather over the past week and skidded down a fair few country lanes searching for some of the prickly stuff – and so far, I’ve drawn a total blank.
It’s not that I’m desperate to pander to Justine’s idea of the perfect Christmas.
Well, I am – but only because I want Christmas to run smoothly for Mum’s sake …
When I was ten, Mum had a breakdown.
She’d always been one of life’s worriers. As kids we were used to that. But this was different.
When Dad brought her back from the hospital, everything changed.
Mum kept to her room and we had to be quiet as mice and tiptoe past her door on our way to the bathroom. It was hard for us children to understand her
illness because there were no scars to see. When we had chicken pox, we got spots and felt bad, but then, eventually, the spots went away and we were fine again. Mum didn’t have spots or any other physical symptoms, and she didn’t seem to be getting better.
Even though she was in bed most of the time, she still looked exhausted when she came out, her eyes bruised as if she’d been in a fight, her speech peculiarly lifeless. She’d slump on the sofa and stare at the TV for a bit, then go back to her room.
It was scary for us kids. The mum we knew had completely disappeared, to be replaced by someone who barely seemed to know we existed.
She didn’t laugh like she used to when we told her jokes. Suddenly it was Dad who got our breakfast, made sure our schoolbags were packed and helped us with our homework at night.
I felt hurt that she didn’t want to go shopping with me any more on a Saturday, like she used to. I remember asking Dad why she never wanted to go out but he couldn’t really answer me. Looking back, it must have been terrible for him. He tried his best to shelter us from the worst of it, but we were all affected in different ways.
It’s clear to all of us that she needs proper medical help if she is ever going to regain any quality of life. The trouble is, after being hospitalised following her breakdown, Mum is now so scared of doctors and drugs that she refuses to have anything to do with them. And as for counsellors and psychiatrists – well, they’re obviously for people who are completely unbalanced and that’s definitely not her!
I long for the day when she and Dad can have a ‘normal’ married life together.
But I’m starting to wonder if that day will ever come …
Chapter Sixteen
The day all my bedding matches, I’ll know I’m a grown-up.
The old ottoman in the hall holds spare bedding of all colours, sizes and historic importance. I’ve even found a sad little patchwork quilt I made to celebrate moving into my very first flat over a decade ago. All of it has that musty whiff from being closeted away for ages.
Finding three reasonably attractive co-ordinating sets for my looming Christmas gathering is proving more tricky than I’d thought.
The phone goes, just as I’m counting pillowcases.
It’s Dad.
‘Great news, love,’ he says. ‘Rosie and Josh will be joining us for Christmas.’
‘Oh.’ I drop the pillowcases.
‘I’m just off the phone to Rosie,’ Dad’s saying. ‘She’s decided to close the café for the holiday week and come over to England. Isn’t that amazing?’
‘Wow. Yes. Fantastic,’ I say faintly, closing the ottoman lid and sitting down on it.
‘The whole family together for Christmas. Your mum’s over the moon.’ He talks on about their flight arrangements.
My head is swimming with contradictory thoughts.
On the one hand I’m thinking how lovely it will be to see my big sis and my gorgeous nephew. But on the other hand, I’m thinking, Shit!
I was never great at maths division at school, but even I know that seven into one tiny flat simply doesn’t go.
The room feels stiflingly hot.
‘Are you still there, love?’
‘Yes, Dad,’ I say weakly. ‘Yes, I’m here. Marvellous news. I can’t wait to see them.’
‘I’ve got a feeling in my water about this Christmas,’ Dad says happily. ‘It’s going to be a good ’un, Lola.’
The hope in his voice brings a lump to my throat.
He has no idea we’ll already be full to overflowing without adding Rosie and Josh to the mix. And I’m not about to tell him. We’ll just have to manage somehow.
‘Any luck on the jobs front, love?’
‘Nothing yet, Dad, apart from my Sundays at the garden centre.’ I force a breezy tone. ‘But I’ve got loads of applications in, so something’s bound to turn up soon.’ I bite my lip. ‘You haven’t told Mum, have you?’
‘No, no. But listen,’ Dad says, ‘are you sure you don’t mind having us all for Christmas? I mean, can you afford it, love? Because if not, your mum and I will help out.’
‘No, Dad, honestly, it’s fine. As long as you’re not expecting anything grand …’
He chuckles. ‘Like Justine’s Christmases? I think you know my feelings on that score. But remember, we’re always here if you need us.’
I end the call and slump down on the sofa.
A feeling of being totally overwhelmed engulfs me and, for a while, immigrating to Australia on the next available plane seems like the only possible course of action.
But eventually, after an emergency intake of doughnuts, I get my brain in gear and start thinking logically again.
They’ll be here in seven days’ time.
I need a dining table. Holly. A bed for everyone.
And there’s another problem.
What if Justine goes to the bathroom in the night and comes face to face with Art the Arachnid? (He’s lived in a corner of our bathroom ceiling for ages and we haven’t the heart to evict him. But Justine is terrified of spiders and night-times do tend to be when Art gets active and goes wandering.)
Rosie and little Josh will obviously have to share the sofa bed in the living room and I … I will have to sleep in the bath. With Art. I’m pretty sure he won’t mind.
That’s when I start to laugh (hysterically) because it’s the only thing I can do apart from tearing out handfuls of hair.
It will be great to see Rosie and Josh, though.
I really looked up to Rosie when I was a kid. She was my big sister, a year older, and I’d have given anything to be more like her.
Rosie was always so much braver than me. Once, when we’d locked ourselves out of the house, Rosie levered herself onto the porch roof and fearlessly bridged the gap to the open bedroom window. She squeezed through, giggling, while I watched from down below, hands clamped over my mouth.
I was devastated when Rosie went to live in Spain with Romeo. Mum and Dad weren’t thrilled, either, but they supported her all the way, once they realised they weren’t going to be able to talk her out of it.
When they broke up, I flew over to help Rosie through the first horrible week, and I’ve been back for holidays. But mostly Rosie and Josh come home to us when they can because Mum can’t get on a plane.
I return to the ottoman and search out the disgusting, aeroplane-patterned bed set that was foisted on me years ago as a ‘spare’. (It must have been Rob’s originally.) Ten-year-old Josh will probably see its merits but Rosie will just have to lump it.
I drag the entire heap of bed linen into the kitchen, prepared – with the help of my brand new extra-fragrant fabric softener – to banish the mustiness forever.
Machine is loaded. Push button.
Nothing.
I open the door then close it more firmly.
Still nothing.
A good slam has worked in the past. But not this time, apparently.
I slide to the floor, prop my face in my hands and glare at the machine through tears of frustration, as if I can shame the damn thing into starting.
But it is clearly a machine without a conscience.
So I now have six guests due, a pile of musty bed linen and a washing machine that doesn’t work.
It’s Sod’s law.
Why, whenever I find myself in need of a doctor, is it invariably Sunday?
And why, when I need an urgent washing machine repair, does it bloody have to be the week before Christmas?
I grab the Yellow Pages from the depths of the Crap Closet and start feverishly working my way through the numbers. Most are answering machines.
The one human being I speak to actually laughs when I say I need a repair this side of Christmas and offers to book me in for 2 January. I phone Barb at work but all she can suggest is that I try changing the fuse in the plug. Living in hope, I dash down to the shops to replenish our supply of fuses (ha-ha! Joke. We’ve never had fuses) and I actually manage to do the job.
&nbs
p; Feeling rather proud of myself, I plug in again and switch on.
Nothing.
I want to scream.
There must be something else I can do. Wash everything by hand? By the time it all dried, it would smell musty again. Go to the launderette? The nearest is twenty miles away and, anyway, I’d resent the expense.
Don’t I know any electricians who would do me a favour?
I rack my brains but the only possible candidate is a friend of Nathan’s.
And I am not going begging to that bastard.
No way on earth …
But that pile of laundry is an impossibly big, smelly mountain. I need to conquer it somehow.
Ten minutes later, having swallowed my pride along with a third doughnut, I’m dialling Nathan’s number.
My heart pounds as I wait. Then it does a giant leap when I hear his familiar voice.
‘Good afternoon. Fitness 4 U?’
It takes me a few seconds to process that this must be the (decidedly dodgy) name of Nathan’s new personal trainer business.
‘Nathan?’
‘Yes. Can I help you?’ he asks, obviously hoping I’m a potential new client.
Ha! Well, sorry to disappoint you, Nathan …
‘It’s Lola. I need a favour.’
There’s a brief silence. Then, ‘Lola? Wow, great to hear from you. How are you?’
He sounds all warm and welcoming. Just like he always did.
As if nothing has changed.
As if he never actually dumped me, horribly, in a supermarket, and insulted my rear end in public.
‘I’m fine, Nathan. It’s just my washing machine’s on the blink—’
‘Recovered from that nasty fall off your bike?’
‘Yes, yes.’ God, I do not want to make polite conversation with this man!
‘I wish you’d let me help you that day. I was worried about you, Lola.’
‘Really? Well, that’s nice. But anyway—’
‘Oh, don’t be like that,’ he berates me. ‘Look, how do you fancy getting together for a juice some time? And we can talk about your – er – fridge.’
‘Washing machine,’ I snap.
Mistletoe and Mayhem Page 15
