I’d kind of like to see Chris again. And Bumble, of course – he’ll probably be at Nosh too. I’m sorry I missed him after the show. Must phone him later to tell him how great it was.
Five past three, Saturday, a week before Christmas.
Today is not turning out too well.
At breakfast this morning Dad asked me how I’d feel about going to Marjorie Maloney’s house for Christmas dinner. I suppose I should have seen that coming really, but I didn’t. It had never once occurred to me that of all the people we could spend Christmas Day with, we might end up with her.
I felt like telling him I’d rather drink sour milk out of a mucky boot, but … well, it’s kind of hard to explain, but the way he asked me, as if he really cared about what I wanted, as if he’d understand if I said I didn’t fancy it … I mean, he could have just told me we were going, couldn’t he? What could I have done? Stayed at home by myself and had beans on toast?
So anyway, it felt like he was treating me like a grown-up, which made me feel that I should act like a grown-up, so I couldn’t stamp my foot and throw something. I was tempted to do that a bit – and there was a jug of milk on the table that would have been perfect – but instead I managed to say, ‘I suppose it’s OK, if that’s what you want.’
It’s Christmas for him too – I had to remember that. And Marjorie is his friend, after all. I mean, it would be almost like me asking him if Chloe could come around here and have dinner with us. Almost, but not quite.
Anyway, I have to say it felt good when he smiled and said, ‘Thanks Liz.’
And it’s better that we’re going over to her house, instead of the other way around, so it won’t feel like she’s taking Mam’s place at all. And there are going to be other people there too: Marjorie’s brother and his wife and their two kids, who all live in Cork, and Marjorie’s father who lives with them. So there’ll be quite a crowd, which actually might be a lot better than just Dad and me here, all by ourselves.
For one thing, we won’t really be able to think about Mam too much, with all the other people around. And for another, you can be sure Marjorie’s turkey will be a lot better than anything that Dad and I could manage.
Bet it won’t be half as nice as Mam’s though.
Right, I’m off now to revise for our Christmas tests. History and maths tomorrow, and I’m afraid I haven’t improved much in history since the parent-teacher meeting. Today Mr O’Connor said he hoped I wasn’t considering a career in anything that involved history. I promised him that it had never occurred to me.
Holidays in three more days, hurrah – and I’ve managed to persuade Chloe to come to Nosh. Wonder if Chris will sit beside me.
Ten to seven, Monday before Christmas.
She’s not coming home.
A parcel arrived from San Francisco today. Dad happened to be in the house, waiting for a chimney sweep, so he took in the parcel and left it in my room.
Here’s what was inside:
A red sweatshirt with a cat on the front of it
A Hershey’s selection box
A silver bangle
A Wallace & Gromit watch
A letter wishing me a very Happy Christmas and saying that she was so sorry that we wouldn’t be together, but that she hoped that Dad and I would have a great time, and she’d be thinking of me.
As soon as I had taken everything out of the box, I went downstairs and told Dad that I didn’t want to talk to Mam when she rang.
He didn’t ask me why, just nodded and said we’d take the phone off the hook after dinner. He’s great sometimes.
I’ll talk to her tomorrow, but I can’t today. I can’t go on the phone and say thanks for the presents, when what I really want to say is how could you do this to your only child, and don’t you care about me any more? And I miss you so much and I feel so sad and I haven’t seen you in a whole year and you’re not even coming home for Christmas. And you’re a rotten mother.
I was so sure she was coming that I never sent her anything. I’ll have to find something tomorrow and post it, and it’ll be dead late.
And it serves her right.
Ten to nine, Wednesday before Christmas.
We got holidays today. I wish I could feel happier about that, but I’m still mad about Mam not coming home. I’m trying to be sensible and grown up about it, telling myself that she has to be home soon, that she can’t stay away forever, but it’s not helping much.
Chloe was really nice about it. She said it must be awful for me, and she invited me around to her house the day after Christmas, when they always have curry. I told her I’d love to. I don’t think curries have too much garlic in them.
We went to meet the others for lunch at Nosh today, even though I didn’t really feel like it, because I thought it might cheer me up to meet Chris and Bumble. Little did I know.
Chloe and I were the first to arrive, so we sat at a table and I picked up a crayon and drew a picture of Bart Simpson that Chloe said was exactly like him. She tried to draw Sylvester, the cat who chases Tweetie Bird, but I have to say it could have been any cat.
After about ten minutes the others started coming in, and soon there were nearly ten of us, including Terry McNamara, who didn’t look as if he was missing Catherine Eggleston at all. In fact, I think he’s already forgotten about her, because a few of the others were slagging him about some other girl, someone Chloe and I didn’t know, and he was blushing and pretending not to know what they were on about.
Some boys are so fickle.
I was beginning to wonder if Chris was ever going to show up, when in walked Bumble. And you’ll never in a million years guess who walked in with him.
Well, maybe you will. Maybe I’m the only one who didn’t see it coming. It was Catherine Eggleston, and they were holding hands. And Bumble was smiling as if he’d just won the lotto.
Well, I can tell you it nearly knocked my socks off when I saw them together. Bumble and I used to laugh about Catherine Eggleston all the time in primary school – how daft she was, with her fancy schoolbags and her silly giggles. How she always sucked up to Santa, answering questions in a little girl voice that made me want to throw something at her.
We used to wonder what Terry could possibly see in her.
And now here was Bumble, obviously going out with her, holding hands with her, sitting beside her and looking at her as if she was Cleopatra, and barely saying hello to his oldest friend. (That’s me, in case you’re wondering.)
I hardly noticed when Chris Thompson arrived and pulled a chair in between Chloe and me. I had to drag my eyes away from the other two when Chris started talking to me. And in case you’re thinking now that I was jealous of Catherine, let me tell you here and now that whatever else I felt, it wasn’t jealousy – no way.
I mean, going out with Bumble would be like going out with my brother.
I just couldn’t believe it, that was all. Bumble and Catherine Eggleston – it was the last thing I thought I’d ever see.
Poor Bumble couldn’t help it, of course – she’s obviously got some kind of power over boys. It’s probably connected to the blonde hair (although I can NOT understand what all the fuss is about there. I think red is a much more attractive and interesting hair colour), and I suppose the boobs must have something to do with it too (although I can’t understand what that’s all about either).
But anyone can see it’s only a matter of time before Bumble’s heart gets broken too, and I just can’t bear the thought of that. Hopefully he’ll recover as quickly as Terry did. Terry hardly looked at the two of them, and didn’t seem a bit bothered.
So anyway, there we all were:
Me trying not to stare at Bumble,
Chris trying to talk to me,
Bumble trying not to drool at Catherine,
Terry trying to pretend he wasn’t mad about someone else,
and Chloe trying to draw Road Runner.
It sure was a long lunch.
I wonder when th
ey started going out, and how it happened. Had Bumble secretly fancied her for ages, even when he was still my best friend? I thought we told each other everything. I know I told him everything – except for the shoplifting.
I wonder what he got her for Christmas. He sent me a card with a reindeer on it. Just a card, no present. Last year we went shopping together before Christmas, and bought each other scarves. He got me a lovely lilac one – of course I picked it out – and I got him a blue and red check one that I chose too.
Luckily, I hadn’t posted the DVD I’d bought for him by the time his card arrived, so it’s still sitting on a chair in my room. Maybe I’ll watch it some time, although ninety minutes of ‘Chelsea’s Greatest Goals’ isn’t exactly my idea of excitement.
So when lunch finished after about a hundred years, we all went our separate ways.
I bought Mam a book of dessert recipes and posted it off in a padded envelope, along with the card I wrote last night, that just said ‘Happy Christmas from Liz’ on the inside.
I bought Dad a bottle of aftershave. Well, he’s almost out of it, and if I don’t buy it for him, he’ll buy it himself. He might as well smell nice for Marjorie on Christmas Day.
I’m beginning to think that Scrooge had the right idea about Christmas. I mean, what’s the big deal?
Eight o’clock, Sunday, the day after Christmas.
OK, I have to say that Christmas Day in Marjorie Maloney’s house went a lot better than I’d been expecting.
The day started off well. Dad and I made smoothies for breakfast, with bananas and honey and yoghurt. I added a teaspoon of Nutella to mine, which made it a weird muddy colour, but it tasted pretty good. Then after breakfast I gave Dad his aftershave and he gave me the new mobile phone I’d been begging him for forever. He said he only got it so he’d have a bit of peace. I said he’ll have plenty of peace as long as he keeps me in credit, and he groaned and asked how many more years before I could leave school and get a job.
He’s good fun sometimes.
I tried not to think too much about Mam not being there, and he probably did too. When she was around we always had omelettes for breakfast on Christmas morning.
I think that’s why we did smoothies this time instead.
Mam phoned around two, earlier than usual, because I’d told her that Dad and I were going out for Christmas dinner. She probably thought I meant to a restaurant, and I didn’t mention Marjorie. It’s got nothing to do with Mam who Dad and I celebrate Christmas with any more. I listened to her wishing me Happy Christmas and telling me how much she missed me, and after a while, I told her that Dad was waiting, and hung up.
I told her about my new mobile, and she took the number. Big deal.
At about half two, Dad and I went across the road to Marjorie’s, and I must say the dinner was excellent. This was the menu:
***
Turkey with absolutely no burnt bits Roast potatoes scattered with rosemary Carrot fingers, all buttery Roast parsnips with a yummy parmesan coating Little balls of really good stuffing made with chestnuts Gravy that made me want to lick my plate at the end
For dessert, which I barely had room for, we didn’t have plum pudding, which was a big relief because it’s my least favourite dessert ever. We had a kind of rolled-up chocolate cake, which Marjorie said is called a roulade, filled with whipped cream and topped with some kind of roasted nuts. I’m not sure, but I think it might just be the best dessert I ever tasted.
One thing about Marjorie Maloney, she sure can cook. No wonder her bum is quite big.
Her brother Kevin was great fun, organising loads of games and stuff. And her dad was a bit drunk, I think, because he kept falling asleep in an armchair, and even during dinner he nodded off for a few minutes. Nobody noticed until all the talking stopped for a second, and then we heard him snoring. I don’t know how he didn’t fall off his chair – I’m sure I would have.
I must practise sleeping in a chair and not falling off. You never know when it might come in handy.
The two kids were OK too, a five-year-old girl called Sarah and a three-year-old boy called Luke. I painted Sarah’s nails and dressed her up in an old evening dress and high heels that Marjorie gave us, and then Luke began to cry because he wanted to be dressed up too, so I put his grandad’s hat on him, and an old green raincoat I found in Marjorie’s utility room.
Their mother said I’d make a good big sister, and for some reason Marjorie went scarlet.
I found out a lot about Marjorie over dinner, actually. It turns out she was an au pair in France for two years, and now she works from home as a translator. She speaks Spanish too, but she likes French better. I almost told her that French is one of my worst subjects in school, next to history, but I stopped myself just in time. She might have offered to give me a grind, which of course Dad would have jumped at.
But even though she’s a lot nicer than I thought, I still don’t want Dad to get too friendly with her. We don’t need anyone getting too close – we’re managing fine on our own, Dad and me.
Anyway, we stayed until about nine o’clock, when Luke and Sarah were put to bed in Marjorie’s smallest bedroom. Then Dad and I walked back across the road, and when we got inside, Dad said, ‘Will we sit in the garden for a little while?’
We used to do that all the time when I was small, me and Mam and Dad, just wrap ourselves up in rugs or blankets and sit outside at night, after the dinner stuff was cleared away. I’d be tucked in between them, leaning against Dad’s shoulder or pressed up to Mam’s arm, sniffing her almondy smell.
They’d usually do most of the talking, grown-up stuff that would float away into the dark, and sometimes one of them would laugh, and I’d tilt my head up and try to count the stars, and it would feel so safe and cosy.
I can’t remember when we stopped doing that.
The weather was nice last night – cold, but very starry and still. So we took two blankets out of the airing cupboard and we went to sit out on the garden seat to look at the stars, which were all out by then.
We could see our breath in front of us. It looked like we were smoking. I thought about saying that to Dad, but then decided not to. (And just in case you’re wondering, I only had a few puffs once, and it made me feel like throwing up – yeuk. Smoking’s for idiots.)
So there the two of us were, wrapped in our blankets looking up at the zillions of stars, and remembering when it used to be three of us. At least, I was remembering, and Dad probably was too.
And because it was dark all around, I asked Dad if he missed Mam at all. I didn’t look at his face, just up at the sky. And I had time to count seven stars before he said yes, sometimes.
And then, maybe because it was dark all around, Dad asked me if I was OK about it being just the two of us now, and it took me a lot longer than seven stars before I said that sometimes I was still lonely, but mostly I was OK.
It was sad, on the garden seat. I told him about Bumble and Catherine, and he teased me about always wanting to be the one to open the door when Henry the pizza delivery boy came, and I said that we must try and make Marjorie’s chestnut stuffing some time, and we found the Plough and the North Star in the sky.
But it was still sad.
After a while we went in, and I said goodnight to Dad. And as I was undressing, my new phone started to beep, and I opened my very first text message, which was from San Francisco and which said:
Happy Christmas my darling girl xxx.
I didn’t answer it.
Now it’s the day after Christmas, and I’ve just got back from Chloe’s house. Her Dad made the curry, and they had all the proper Indian stuff like poppadums and naan and everything. Her little brother was a bit of a nuisance, though. He’s seven, and a real baby. He kept banging on Chloe’s bedroom door when we were trying to listen to her new Norah Jones CD after dinner.
Maybe it’s just as well I don’t have a little brother or sister.
Five past ten, Friday, 31st December, the wors
t day in the world.
I did a terrible thing today.
You remember Ruth Wallace, my neighbour in the wheelchair? You know how nasty she is to me, and how I try to ignore her when she says or does all those mean things?
Well, today I failed. Today I finally lost my temper with her, and I think I may be in very big trouble now, even bigger than the shoplifting.
Here’s what happened. When I got up this morning, I discovered we were out of milk, so I shouted up to Dad that I was going to the shop, which is just two blocks away. As soon as I came out I saw her, just sitting by her gate, all muffled up because it was pretty cold, with a furry black hat on her head and a brown and orange check blanket over her legs.
When she saw me coming she actually smiled, and I automatically smiled back – well, half-smiled. I didn’t feel like giving her a proper smile.
As I walked past, she stuck out her hand and grabbed my wrist, and boy, were her fingers freezing – like ice. I opened my mouth to tell her to let me go, but before I had a chance, she said, kind of softly, ‘I’m just wondering what it feels like.’
I thought she meant my hand. I tried to pull away, but she held on tight. And do you know what she said then?
She said, ‘What does it feel like when your mother leaves you?’
And the awful thing is that she was smiling all the time, this horrible fake smile, and she had a bit of a Cornflake or something caught between her teeth, and I pulled my arm away and walked as quickly as I could down the road, and I could hear her laughing, and then these tears just came out of nowhere, and I had to keep wiping them away, because I couldn’t see where I was going.
And all the way to the shop, I could feel the tingle that I always feel when my temper is just about ready to be lost. I kept hearing her laughing, sitting there in her horrible wheelchair and laughing at me. I bought the milk, in one of those plastic litre containers with a handle, and a pack of tissues so I could dry my face up. No way was I going to let her see that she’d made me cry.
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