Mistletoe and Mayhem

by Catherine Ferguson

  Mum frowns. ‘Very fishy. Because she certainly didn’t mention it.’ She grabs my arm. ‘Shhh!’

  The woman herself marches in and we turn guiltily, like kids caught with our hands in the biscuit tin.

  ‘Any canapés, Lola? I’m absolutely ravenous.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Dinner, when I finally get it to the table, is surprisingly edible and everyone clears their plate. Rob even asks for seconds.

  I’d view this as a compliment if it weren’t for the fact that the meal was a good hour and a half later than planned and Rob was quite clearly ravenous enough to eat the tablecloth.

  After dessert, a surprisingly good chocolate mousse made by my own fair hands, I make coffee and bring out the after-dinner mints.

  The atmosphere hasn’t perked up much.

  Justine keeps making snidey digs at Rob, who quite clearly doesn’t deserve it. I keep glancing at Mum. She’s looking tired now, and Justine’s jibes are not helping.

  Then one of the candles goes out, burned almost to the bottom.

  Rob gets the matches and tries to relight it but after several attempts, he gives up.

  ‘Here, let me,’ barks Justine. ‘I’ll get it to light.’

  We all hold our breath, praying she won’t manage it. But, of course, she does.

  ‘There!’ She looks around, delighted. ‘Told you.’

  Mum and I attempt a smile. But Dad just stares glumly at the Christmas wreath on the wall.

  Justine swivels her eyes to Rob, who’s sitting on her left, and murmurs, ‘See how I don’t give up when the going gets tough? You should try it some time.’

  There’s a brief, shocked silence, while everyone pretends they haven’t heard.

  Then I get to my feet. ‘Right, folks, how about a game? Monopoly, anyone?’

  ‘Oh God, no,’ says Justine at once. ‘I want to use my brain. What about Scrabble?’

  ‘Sorry. Haven’t got Scrabble.’

  ‘Oh darn it, I wish I’d thought to do one of my quizzes!’

  I glance at Dad.

  We both find Justine’s made-up quizzes hilarious. She insists that to score a point, it has to be the answer she has written down. Dad and I go out of our way to find an alternative answer that could be right, arguing until we’re blue in the face that we should be allowed the point.

  Justine never seems to get that we’re having her on.

  I want to share the joke with Dad but he’s just staring into space.

  ‘What about that thing where you get the name of a famous person stuck on your forehead and you have to try and guess who you are,’ says Rob.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I agree. ‘We played that last year. It was hilarious. Let’s have that.’

  As far as I remember, that game was the (only) highlight of the previous Christmas. Adding considerably to the hilarity was the fact that everyone understood the concept of the game except Justine, for some reason.

  Predictably, she groans. ‘Oh God, not that awful game again. I’m not playing.’ She folds her arms like a sulky child.

  ‘Oh, come on, you know you want to,’ Rob says, reaching under the table and tickling her in a sensitive spot that soon has her shrieking with laughter. He carries on, mercilessly, until she agrees to play.

  ‘Actually, if you don’t mind, I think I might go to bed,’ Mum says apologetically, standing up.

  I glance at her worriedly. It’s been a long day for her and she looks very pale. She’s not in the mood, I can tell, and the last thing we need is her getting over-tired.

  It’s always on Mum’s mind that she might have another panic attack, and the anxiety of this – especially at stressful times like Christmas – can leave her totally exhausted. And of course, the more anxious she is, the more likely she is to succumb to the very thing she’s trying to avoid. It’s a horrible vicious circle.

  If only she would agree to get help. But we gave up long ago trying to persuade her. Dad catches her wrist. ‘Stay for one game, Trish? Then I’ll come with you. I’m pretty tired myself.’

  Mum reluctantly agrees and they all wander through to the living room while I flit about, collecting Post-it notes and pens.

  Rob writes my person on a note and sticks it to my forehead so I haven’t a clue who I am. But I can see that Mum has been given ‘Margaret Thatcher’, Dad is ‘Charles Dickens’, Rob is ‘Goldilocks’ and Justine is ‘Harry Potter’.

  It’s a pretty simple game. Everyone takes a turn at asking a question about their mystery person. Only a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ answer is allowed and the first person to guess who’s on their forehead is obviously the winner.

  For some reason, Justine can never quite get her head around it.

  ‘Am I a real person?’ she asks, for her first go, and we duly answer ‘no’.

  Then the next go she asks, ‘Am I dead?’ which doesn’t make sense at all.

  Rob patiently explains that she already knows her person is a fictional character, so the ‘Am I dead?’ question is totally irrelevant, since she’s not a real person. She nods but I don’t think she gets it.

  Rob’s really good at asking the right questions and manages to come up with ‘Goldilocks’ in about five turns.

  Then it’s up to the rest of us.

  Mum’s trawling through all the modern-day politicians she can think of and Dad’s trying to think of male writers. Neither of them has bothered to ask if their characters are alive, which is making for a fairly frustrating game. It’s dragging on and everyone’s weary, especially Justine, who keeps yawning and making derogatory comments about the choice of entertainment.

  She’s about as close to guessing Harry Potter as she is to winning the prize for ‘most diplomatic person in the room’.

  I can’t wait for this game to be over. It would be much more fun if Rosie and Josh were here. But Rosie phoned an hour ago and said they’d only just touched down in Newcastle and she thought they might just crash out at a local B&B then pick up the hire car in the morning.

  It’s Justine’s turn again and we all slump a little lower in our seats.

  ‘Right, here goes,’ she announces in a this-is-so-boring sort of tone. ‘I’m a little boy and I’m dead.’

  My heart jolts.

  I glance at Mum. She’s lying back in the chair with her eyes closed.

  Justine looks up at the ceiling for inspiration. ‘Little boy who’s dead,’ she murmurs. ‘Little boy who’s dead.’

  I stare at her. How can she be so stupid? Apart from anything else, Rob’s already told her it’s a fictional character.

  ‘Shut up, Justine,’ says Rob calmly.

  She rounds on him. ‘What do you mean “Shut up”? Why should I shut up?’

  ‘Because you don’t know what you’re saying,’ he hisses. ‘For all our sakes, shut up!’

  ‘But what am I saying? I’m only playing the game,’ she says, bewildered.

  No one wants to spell it out.

  Now, as always, my little brother, Jack, is the elephant in the room that no one wants to mention.

  ‘I’m a boy, right?’ she demands, ignoring Rob. ‘God, I hate this game. I’m sure when I asked the questions, you told me I was a boy and he was—’

  ‘You’re bloody Harry Potter,’ shouts Rob and Justine flinches.

  I actually feel sorry for her. She seriously has no clue.

  ‘Well, there’s no need to shout at me,’ she tells Rob, looking hurt. ‘I can’t help it if I get confused, can I? It’s a ridiculous game anyway.’

  ‘Okay, that’s enough,’ snaps Dad, leaping to his feet.

  Mum is looking calmly at Justine but her hands are clasped so rigidly, I can see the white of her knuckles.

  Justine’s face is a mixture of bewilderment and annoyance. ‘But what have I done?’

  Mum gets up and quietly leaves the room.

  ‘What?’ Justine looks from me to Rob to Dad. ‘What did I do?’

  Realisation suddenly hits. ‘I’m a boy … oh, bloody
hell. Sorry. Didn’t think.’

  Rob’s expression is thunderous. ‘That’s your big problem these days, Justine. You never do think before you open that monster mouth of yours.’ He drains his glass, gets up and follows Mum out.

  Justine flushes scarlet.

  Angrily, she shouts after him, ‘Well, I’m bloody sure if I ever died, I’d want people to actually talk about me. Remember the good times. Not sit around like they’re off to the gallows any second, not daring to even speak my name out loud. Christ!’

  She looks wretched. Close to tears.

  I go over to the sofa and sit down beside her.

  ‘Hey, it’s okay. You were confused about the game and you didn’t think, that’s all.’

  She folds her arms and presses her lips together to stop them trembling.

  ‘I don’t know why you don’t talk about Jack,’ she says. ‘I mean, it’s all just so weird. He was part of the family, wasn’t he? Your little brother. It can’t be healthy to pretend it never happened.’

  I glance back at Dad. He’s standing stock still, just staring at the Christmas tree, which I notice has been moved back to its original position.

  Despite the warm glow of the Christmas lights, his complexion is chalk-white.

  ‘And that tree should not be there!’ Justine snaps.

  There’s a low rumble of sound, like a strangled groan. It’s several seconds before I realise what it is.

  ‘Dad?’

  His eyes are fixed on the tree. ‘I said, what does it matter where the bloody tree is?’

  My heart leaps uncomfortably.

  Justine’s eyes swivel towards Dad in alarm.

  ‘He’d have been twenty-one today,’ Dad says, in a low monotone. ‘Twenty-one. His whole life ahead of him. He was my son.’

  His voice cracks on the final word.

  An icy hand twists my heart. I’ve never seen my dad cry. But he’s crying now. The tears are rolling down his cheeks and he’s just letting them fall, as if he has no energy left to wipe them away.

  ‘Oh, Dad.’ Horrified, I leap up to comfort him. ‘It’s okay.’

  But he shrugs me off. ‘It’s not okay, Lola. And it never will be. Don’t you see? We should be talking about my son today, not this stupid bloody Christmas tree. But oh no, we can’t mention Jack at all because that might upset your mother!’

  He takes hold of the tree with both hands and turns to Justine. ‘You want it moved? Let’s move it, then.’

  Her eyes widen and she shrinks back into the sofa.

  ‘Dad, don’t,’ I plead.

  ‘Why not, Lola? Justine thinks it’s in the wrong place so let’s put it in the right place.’

  He jerks the tree off the table and tries to haul it away. But the fairy lights, plugged into the wall, snag on it, preventing him.

  We watch, horrified, as he grapples with the tree, pulling and jerking it, until eventually, it’s free of the lights. Then he storms across the room and slams it against the wall in the far corner, amid the sickening tinkle of smashed baubles.

  ‘What about here, Justine?’ he demands. ‘Would here be better?’

  Justine lets out a loud sob and I stand there, staring wide-eyed at Dad, unable to move or do anything to comfort either of them.

  I’m staring wide-eyed at Dad.

  Rob appears in the doorway, taking in the scene of devastation. ‘What the …?’

  Dad’s shoulders drop, his face crumpling. Pushing past Rob, he stumbles out of the room.

  I stare at the shattered remains of my little Christmas tree, too shocked for tears.

  Dad has always been the rock of the family. To see him like this sends a shiver of fear through me.

  Hearing the click of the flat door opening brings me to my senses.

  ‘Dad?’

  I hare out into the hall just as the door closes. I wrench it open and run after him into the street.

  ‘Dad!’ I plead, and he turns, his hand on the car door handle. ‘Don’t go. Let’s talk about it.’

  He laughs scornfully. ‘Talk? It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it? Seventeen years too late to be precise. No, I’m done, Lola. I’m done being your mother’s shield against the world.’ He pauses, wrestling with his emotions. ‘Tell her…’ He shakes his head, gets in the car and drives away.

  Stunned, I watch his tail lights until they disappear around the bend then I trail back into the flat.

  Rob is sitting in a chair, staring out of the window. Justine is still curled on the sofa, her back to her husband.

  They both look up when I enter.

  ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Christ.’ Rob sighs. ‘Could never have predicted Dad kicking off like that.’

  ‘Is he all right?’ asks Justine, her voice thick with tears. ‘I feel terrible. It’s all my fault.’

  She looks genuinely devastated.

  I cross to the sofa and sit down beside her. ‘It wasn’t your fault. Dad … well, he’s obviously had a lot on his mind.’

  I lie back, feeling weary to the bone.

  I can’t believe I hadn’t clocked that it would have been Jack’s twenty-first today. I’d had a vague notion that it was his birthday. But as Mum seemed to be coping okay, I suppose I hadn’t given it much thought …

  Poor Dad.

  Mum appears in her dressing gown, looking old and tired without her make-up. She stares in horror at the broken tree and the mess of crushed baubles. ‘What happened? Where’s your dad?’

  I glance at Rob.

  He sighs, gets up and steers her to a chair. Then he crouches down beside her and takes her hand. ‘He’s gone for a drive. He’ll be back soon.’

  She looks bewildered. ‘Gone for a drive? At this time of night? But why? I heard him shouting but I thought it must be the game. Is he all right?’

  Rob presses her hand. ‘He’ll be fine, Mum.’

  ‘But what was he shouting about?’

  Justine heaves herself upright. ‘He got upset, Trish, thinking of Jack and how it would have been his twenty-first birthday today.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mum stares at the tree. ‘I’d better wait up for him, then.’

  I dig out my phone and try Dad’s number but it goes straight to voicemail.

  I shrug. ‘No reply.’

  Justine yawns loudly.

  ‘Look, we’re all knackered,’ says Rob. ‘Let’s go to bed. Come on, Mum.’ He holds out his hand to her.

  ‘But what about Malcolm?’ she says.

  ‘He’ll be back,’ I tell her soothingly. ‘He just needed to get away for a while. Be on his own for a bit.’

  Mum frowns. ‘But what about me? Didn’t he think I might be upset if he left?’

  When I stand up, my legs feel a little shaky. ‘Come on, Mum. Let’s get you to bed.’

  I shepherd her through to Barb’s room. ‘Get some sleep and Dad will be back by the morning.’

  I make sure Rob and Justine have everything they need, then I wander back to the living room and slump down on the sofa. I haven’t got the energy to clear up the mess. It will just have to wait until the morning.

  What a bloody disastrous start to the holidays. I try Dad’s number again but either the phone’s dead or he’s not picking up.

  Suddenly, I’m scared.

  Dad has always been the cheery voice of reason, keeping everyone on an even keel with his silly jokes and his optimistic view of life. It chills me to the bone imagining how much stress he was bottling up to make him erupt right out of the blue like that.

  The flat buzzer makes me nearly jump out of my skin.

  Dad?

  I rush to press the entry button then fling open the door.

  Rosie and Josh are standing there. They look travel-worn but cheerful.

  ‘Oh!’ For a split second, I’m confused to find them there instead of Dad.

  Then Josh says, ‘Hi, Auntie Lola. We’ve been on four things with wheels today. Taxi, plane, bus, hire car.’ He counts them out on his fingers.


  I catch Rosie’s eye and whisper, ‘Wow. That’s impressive.’

  ‘We decided to drive straight here instead of doing the B&B thing,’ she says. ‘I was praying you’d still be up.’

  I hustle them into the living room as quietly as I can with their bags, then shut the door behind us. ‘They’re all in bed.’ I point over my shoulder. ‘Josh, this must be way past your bedtime.’

  ‘No, not really,’ he says nonchalantly. ‘I’ve stayed up much later than midnight, haven’t I, Mum?’

  She smiles and tousles his hair.

  Josh spots the Christmas tree wreckage and goes over to examine it.

  ‘Watch out, Josh. Some of those broken baubles might be sharp.’ I turn to my sister. ‘Gosh, Rosie, you’re so brown! It’s not fair. And your hair’s gone so blonde!’

  She laughs and we hug. ‘And you, little sis, are very white.’ She leans back, holding my arms, and examines me more closely. ‘Very white, actually. Are you okay?’

  She looks around at the mess in the room. ‘I guess we’ve got some clearing up to do.’

  Josh has a mug of hot chocolate and helps me take the wrecked Christmas tree out into the hall, while Rosie sweeps up the broken baubles. Then we set up the sofa bed.

  ‘I’m too wide awake to go to sleep,’ Josh protests. But once he’s in his pyjamas and tucked up, he’s out like a light.

  In the kitchen, I pour Rosie a glass of wine and slosh some into a glass for myself, even though I’ve already had quite enough tonight.

  We sit down at the table and Rosie says, ‘So come on, then. What happened?’ She sips her wine. ‘Did someone murder Justine?’

  I groan. ‘You jest. But Dad almost did. He wrecked the tree, he was so wound up.’

  ‘Dad did? No!’ Rosie looks aghast.

  With a heavy sigh, I launch into the whole sorry tale, ending with Dad getting in his car and roaring off into the night.

  Rosie hangs on my every word, occasionally running her hands agitatedly through her short blonde hair. ‘God, have you tried to—?’

  ‘Yeah. Loads of times. He’s not answering. I presume he’s gone home.’

  ‘Or checked into a hotel.’

  ‘I just hope he’s back by tomorrow. Oh, Rosie, what if he’s not?’

  There’s a weight inside me, dragging me down, and it scares me.