Ice and a Slice

by Della Galton

  SJ told her parents she was an alcoholic on Christmas Day, just before dinner. She was amazed that the subject hadn’t come up before, but it hadn’t although, in some ways, perhaps this wasn’t so surprising because her parents’ views on alcoholics were the same as SJ’s had once been. They were sad old men in raincoats who sat on park benches swigging bottles of meths.

  SJ’s troubles – while they might have involved alcohol – clearly had more to do with her marriage breaking up than anything else. Her time in hospital hadn’t been talked about since. It was as though her parents wanted to forget it had ever happened. SJ wanted to forget it had ever happened too, but she couldn’t leave them in happy ignorance about her alcoholism because from the moment she’d arrived they’d been trying to press a glass of shandy on her.

  “I can’t have just the one, Dad, I really can’t.”

  “Don’t be so bloodeh ridiculous,” her father responded, with a slightly drunken grin. “We won’t let you near the hard stuff, don’t worry.”

  “But I’m an alcoholic, Dad. That means I can never drink anything safely again.”

  Her mother banged down the Yorkshire pudding tray – they had Yorkshires with every roast, even turkey – tucked a strand of damp hair back off her hot face and also smiled.

  “Pack it in, Sarah-Jane. We had enough of all that nonsense at the party.”

  “It’s not nonsense, it’s true,” SJ said, with a growing sense of unreality. “I’m not drinking because I’m an alcoholic – a recovering one. That’s what we’re called when we stop.”

  “Oh, isn’t she a case, Jim? Listen to her.” Her mother prodded a Yorkshire experimentally and half turned from the stove. Something in SJ’s expression must have alerted her because suddenly she stopped smiling. “I know you had all that trouble before, and I know you get carried away sometimes, but everyone does. Don’t they, Jim? You mustn’t think you’re any different from anyone else.”

  It was echoes of Tom all over again. Feeling a rising sense of panic, SJ went on desperately. “I’m sorry, Mum, I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that, but I am different. I’ve been seeing an addiction counsellor. He even came to visit me in hospital. I’ve been seeing him for the last six months.”

  Now she had their attention. They were both staring at her with varying degrees of shock and she wished she hadn’t said anything, but only fleetingly. If she’d been braver she’d have told them before.

  Dad had been about to take a sip of his pre-dinner pint, but now he put it down so forcefully that froth spilled over the edge of the glass.

  “Is that why Tom threw you out? Because he couldn’t handle living with a drunk?”

  She flinched. “We’ve been through all that, Dad. And no, I didn’t move out because of my drinking. I moved out because we’re not right together. We haven’t been for a while.” ‘Ever’ would have been more truthful, but that was between her and Tom.

  The inquest went on and on. How long had she known? Why hadn’t she said anything before? Who else knew? Was she sure? The latter question was asked with such regularity between the hundreds of others that SJ would have wondered if she really was sure – but for the fact that her last drink had almost ended her life.

  Then again, she only had to look back on how much her thoughts and attitudes had changed since she’d stopped drinking to know the answer to that one.

  The further she got from daily drinking, the clearer her head had become, and the surer she was that she’d had all of the personality traits of an alcoholic for many more years than she’d drunk daily.

  With hindsight, she could see how much of a double life she’d been living. It had been necessary to have two SJs. There was the public one, who’d been a supportive wife, a dutiful daughter, a witty and entertaining tutor, and a sympathetic friend.

  Then there was the private one: the SJ who’d needed to down a bottle of wine and half a dozen gins every night so she could face going to bed; the SJ who’d woken sweating and panicking in the early hours, when the alcohol-induced oblivion had released its grip; the SJ who was crumbling inside and was desperately afraid of what she was becoming.

  She didn’t need to be that person any more. She could be the person she’d always dreamed she could be. The person she’d thought she was until she’d stepped into that dingy little counselling room.

  Ironically, the best thing about telling her parents on Christmas Day was that they told Alison as soon as she arrived with Sophie, Kevin and the long-suffering Clive.

  Alison – to SJ’s shock – was the least surprised of anyone.

  “I thought you had a problem,” she said, fixing SJ with her cool blue gaze as they sat down to eat. “Table looks nice, Mum. Did you get these crackers from Morrison’s? Why have we got two each?”

  “They were buy one, get one free,” their mother said proudly. “But they had a sell by date.”

  Alison shook her head in disbelief. “What on earth have they got in them – food or something?”

  “Luxury items.”

  “Luxury price too,” their father chipped in. “Should have been half the price they were.”

  SJ giggled, but no one else seemed to pick up on the irony of this.

  Alison turned her attention back to SJ, who was sitting beside her at the dining room table, which was covered with a red and green holly patterned tablecloth. “Do you remember that musician I was telling you about at the party? Adam Macclesfield – the one who came in to the salon about Botox?”

  SJ nodded, wondering where her sister was going with this.

  “Well, he’s a recovering alcoholic – I mentioned it to you when we were chatting. Don’t you remember?”

  “No,” SJ said. Mind you, that wasn’t surprising. There was so much she hadn’t remembered about the party.

  “Adam’s been sober a couple of years now, and he’s got a very stressful job – what with all those groupies chasing after him. So if he can do it, I’m sure you can. You haven’t got any stress in your life, have you? Being a waitress is a doddle compared to being a rock star.”

  SJ ignored her sister as she spooned roast potatoes onto her place. Once she’d have fiercely resented this slightly patronising summary of her life – but now she felt secure enough not to react to Alison’s teasing. How things had changed. “This smells delicious, Mum,” she said, breathing in the mix of turkey and cranberry sauce. “Does this sauce have any wine in it?”

  “No, but the gravy does – oh my goodness. Don’t let her have the gravy, Jim. Everybody – keep the gravy away from Sarah-Jane.”

  SJ wondered what they thought she was going to do – grab the jug and pour it down her throat by the spout. No one seemed to have any such compunction about leaving their brimming glasses of Cava in front of her.

  “There’s no shame in being an alcoholic,” Alison went on breezily. “It can happen to anyone. It’s an illness, not a moral failing. I know you said at the party you were drinking because of Tom, but that’s not true. You were probably born an alcoholic. I was talking to Adam about it. It’s exactly the same as being born diabetic – or asthmatic, like Kevin.” She picked up her son’s inhaler from the table as she spoke. “Which is why I get so cross when I catch him smoking.

  “Does anyone want any more sprouts?”

  “Not for me, thanks, Dad – Sophie will have some, she’s hardly got any veggies on her plate.”

  “I hate sprouts.”

  Alison shot her a glare. “Everyone hates sprouts. I expect it’s in your genes, Sarah-Jane. I mean, we all know Aunt Edie’s an old soak. And Grandpa George was an alcoholic too, wasn’t he, Mum?”

  How on earth did she know that? SJ wondered. Grandpa George had died before they were born, and his name was hardly ever mentioned. She glanced at her parents, who were listening to this conversation in open-mouthed amazement. She was pretty amazed herself. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined Alison might understand something that Tom had completely failed to grasp, let alo
ne be prepared to announce it to their parents, thereby painting her in a completely different light in their eyes.

  “Are you a real alky?” Kevin asked, his face alight with a mixture of horror and admiration. He and Sophie hadn’t been told about her stint in hospital. Well, not the reason for it anyway. It had been brushed under the carpet like every other scandal that had ever happened in their family.

  “I mean, have you done stuff like fall over in the gutter and puke all down your front when you’re drunk?” he persisted with barely concealed glee.

  “Kevin, stop that kind of talk right now – people are trying to eat,” Clive said, glaring irritably at his son.

  SJ winked at Kevin and offered him a cracker. “Tell you later,” she mouthed behind her hand.

  Sophie narrowed her eyes in disgust, but SJ could tell she was quite interested in knowing the answer to Kevin’s question, too. Perhaps she could end up being a proper auntie to her sister’s children, after all – the kind of auntie who could be a dire warning of the dangers of getting involved with drink and drugs. Being a dire warning sounded a lot more fun than being a good example.

  After dinner, while their parents gorged themselves still further with nuts and mince pies in front of the telly, Alison ordered Clive and Kevin to do the washing up and steered SJ purposefully into the conservatory.

  “Is it really over with Tom?” she asked, her voice unusually soft. “I thought he was quite a sweetie at the party.”

  “He was – he is,” SJ amended. “But yes, it’s really over. There’s no way back for me and Tom. I think we’ll stay friends. I really like him. But we don’t want to stay married.”

  Alison twirled a lock of blond hair around her index finger. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be. We should never have got married in the first place. I know that now.”

  “It’s a pity, he was much better for you than that prat, Derek,” Alison went on thoughtfully.

  SJ felt her hackles rise, but where once she’d have jumped down her sister’s throat, now she didn’t. She just waited, wondering what was coming next.

  “I’ve never apologised about all that stuff with Derek, have I? I know I probably should have done, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

  SJ wanted to ask why, but it was obvious Alison had something to get off her chest. She’d stopped twiddling her hair, but there was a flush across her collar bones. As usual her sister looked stunning in a pale lemon blouse with tiny pearl buttons and a matching row of pearls at her throat. But SJ didn’t feel inferior any more. The endless sessions with Kit had given her so much more than a way to stop drinking.

  “The reason I didn’t apologise was… well…” Alison hesitated, uncharacteristically vulnerable. “Sarah-Jane, don’t take this the wrong way, but actually I think I did you a huge favour. If he was prepared to drop his trousers for me – and believe me, he didn’t need a lot of persuading – well, he’d probably have done it for any woman. So if it hadn’t been for me, you might not have found out what a total bastard the guy was.”

  SJ snorted in a mixture of amusement and outrage. She was NOT letting that one go by – no matter how much she tried to turn the other cheek these days and see the other person’s point of view.

  “You don’t half talk a load of old bollocks sometimes, Ali.”

  Her sister’s eyes widened in annoyance. Perhaps she should have been more subtle. Now they were finally both under the same roof she didn’t want to start a fight and ruin their parents’ Christmas. She reminded herself she hadn’t started it. Alison had – she was obviously still trying to find a way of justifying her self-seeking behaviour by pretending her motives were altruistic.

  “It is not rubbish. It’s true. Derek was a…”

  SJ put her hands in front of her, palms facing forward. “Enough. You didn’t get off with my ex-husband because you wanted to show me that he wasn’t worthy of me. You just had too much to drink – and you fancied him. And let’s face it, you didn’t think I’d find out.”

  Her voice had been louder than she’d intended and Ali’s face had gone the colour of their parents’ terracotta floor tiles.

  “What’s with all the shouting?” said an interested voice from the door. Kevin was grinning broadly and SJ wondered with a stab of guilt how much he’d heard.

  “By the sound of it, Mum’s rewriting history again.” Sophie stood behind him, her lips set in a disapproving twist. “You said that Auntie SJ didn’t talk to you any more because you didn’t get on with her first husband – and you told her what a dodgy geezer he was. You didn’t say you’d actually…”

  “Shut up, the pair of you. This is a private conversation between me and your aunt. And besides, you’re supposed to be washing up.”

  “You shouldn’t shout, though, if you want things to be private.”

  “Nanna said we were to check for dirty plates,” Kevin added, picking up a coffee mug and a bowl still half full of peanuts from the table.”

  “I said SHUT UP! And put those bloody peanuts back.”

  SJ swallowed a smile as Sophie and Kevin backed out of the room and turned her attention back to her sister.

  “You were lucky Clive didn’t throw you out.” SJ decided to press home her advantage with uncharacteristic ruthlessness.

  “Yes, I know.” To her surprise, Alison’s eyes were suddenly awash with tears. “I am sorry, Sarah-Jane. I know what I did was awful.”

  Some of SJ’s anger melted in the face of her sister’s obvious distress. “Yes, it was,” she said, softer now. “I know you’ve never liked me that much, Ali, but I still didn’t think you’d do something like that.”

  “Why do you think I’ve never liked you?” Alison rummaged around in her bag for her compact. She sounded quite surprised.

  “Cutting the tail off My Little Pony because you wanted to make a wig for your Barbie; swapping my best top for those sparkly jeans you used to wear night and day; pretending to be ill so Mum and Dad couldn’t come to my school play.” SJ counted on her fingers as she went, and noticed her nails were growing back nicely. She couldn’t have bitten them lately. “Not to mention hiding my English assignment on the Brontes – I know that was you. Need I go on?”

  “I was jealous. I did most of those things to get Mum’s attention because I thought she loved you better than me.”

  “What? Now that really is ridiculous.”

  “No, I’m serious. She never stopped going on about you. All I ever heard when I was growing up was, ‘Why can’t you be more like Sarah-Jane? More sensible, more grown up, more responsible’. I was sick to death of you being held up like some paragon of virtue.”

  She sounded quite miffed and it was SJ’s turn to be surprised, although actually several of those phrases rang true. She’d overheard Mum saying them herself. Maybe her childhood hadn’t been as black and white as it seemed either. Maybe all children thought their parents loved their siblings better than them.

  “I’ll get us a nice glass of wine.” Alison couldn’t resist a smirk. “Oh no, you can’t, can you? Never mind, I’ll have yours. I’ll get you an orange juice, shall I?”

  “I’ll get the drinks,” SJ said, not entirely sure her sister wouldn’t be tempted to slip a gin into hers in the misguided belief that what the eye couldn’t see the heart wouldn’t grieve. Although, on second thoughts, perhaps she was misjudging her again – she’d seemed pretty clued up earlier.

  “Cheers,” Alison purred, stretching her hands above her head and arching her back like a contented cat. “While you’re out there, make sure they’re not slacking with the washing up. I don’t want Mum doing anything – she’s done enough slaving in the kitchen today.”

  “Sure.”

  “Oh, and Sarah-Jane…?”

  “Yes,” she said, hesitating in the doorway and glancing back at her sister, who looked nothing like the monster she’d once perceived her to be. It was strange how twisted her thinking had once been.

 
“I’m glad we’re talking again. I’ve really missed having someone to have a good old barney with.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Tanya didn’t respond to the Christmas card SJ had sent. Neither had she responded to the birthday good wishes. But on Dorothy’s advice SJ didn’t try to contact her again.

  “The right time to make amends will come along,” Dorothy told her softly. “But there’s no rush, hen. You just get yourself sorted out for now. Get a bit of sobriety behind you.”

  So SJ spent the first few months of the New Year looking into the possibility of doing more teaching privately. She couldn’t face going back into Adult Education; her heart wasn’t in it any more. She didn’t think she’d get enough students to fill more than one Poetry and a Pint class, but she was contemplating teaching other forms of word craft in a fun environment. Creative Writing appealed, or Making Shakespeare Fun. That would be excellent in her room at the Red Lion. It had just the right atmosphere for studying old plays.

  “I’m also thinking about changing the name from Poetry and a Pint to something more appropriate,” she told Dorothy, one evening after dinner. “Something that’s not quite as alcohol related.”

  “Such as?” Dorothy looked interested.

  “That’s the trouble, I can’t think of anything that’s not alcohol related – Poetry and a Pina Colada keeps buzzing round my mind for some reason. And the only other thing I can think of is Poetry and a Peanut.” She sighed.

  “I think you should probably leave it as it is,” Dorothy said. “Pint doesn’t have to mean alcohol anyway, does it?”

  SJ giggled. “No, you’re right. If it isn’t broke, don’t fix it – and I do like teaching at the Red Lion, even though it’s a bit of a trek now. But I’d quite like to do some other classes that aren’t academic as well.”

  There were a lot of possibilities. Adult Literacy had always appealed, although she planned to do that on a voluntary basis – just for the sheer satisfaction of introducing people to the joy of reading.

  She and Tom had decided to make their separation permanent and she’d agreed to a small settlement, which covered the money she’d put into the house when they bought it. She’d agreed that he could pay it in instalments so he didn’t have to sell the house. It was the least he deserved, she thought idly, when she went over to talk to him about it one bright evening when the air was balmy with summer.