by Andy Jones
The traffic doesn’t move and the rain does not relent, but I’m okay. I’m happy.
I pick up my phone from the passenger seat and text Ivy.
Xx
I put the phone back on the seat and wait for it to ping Ivy’s love straight back to me.
It doesn’t ping.
It takes seven hours and forty-five minutes to cover the two hundred miles from Ivy’s flat to Dad’s house and my phone doesn’t ping one single time. By the time I arrive it’s close to ten o’clock at night. Dad must have heard the car approaching because he opens the front door as I pull up to the kerb in front of his house. I kill the headlights and he waves from the doorway before stepping out into the December night in his socks and a short-sleeved shirt. Not long after bonfire night I told Dad that Ivy and I would visit for Christmas and, optimist, idiot, mule-headed fool that I am, I haven’t once suggested otherwise.
Dad frowns and looks past my shoulder as I walk up the driveway to meet him. He whispers, ‘Sleeping?’
I shake my head and let my expression do the talking.
‘Not here?’
‘At her folks’.’
Dad hugs me. ‘Son,’ he says. ‘What went wrong?’
Dad turns up the flame on the gas fire, refills my whisky and lowers himself into the sofa. It would be a perfect scene if the mother of my unborn children were sitting between us. On the other hand, it’s nice to have room to spread out for a change.
‘Did you call her?’ he says.
After arriving, I gave Dad the abridged version of the last couple of months, culminating with me sleeping on the sofa last night. And while I confessed, Dad tutted, shook his head, made tea and told me I should talk to Ivy. He handled it, in other words, perfectly.
‘Texted,’ I say.
Dad rolls his eyes as if this – texting – is simultaneously baffling and risible, like dyeing your hair green, or listening to minimal techno.
‘Did she text back?’
I shake my head again.
‘Maybe you should call?’
‘She’ll be in bed by now. I’ll call tomorrow.’
‘So, what’s the plan?’
‘The usual: grovel and apologize.’
Dad laughs. ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself.’ He takes a sip of his drink.
‘I love her,’ I say, and I don’t know why I say it. Maybe to remind myself.
Dad nods. ‘I know.’
And I nearly choke on my whisky, laughing.
‘What?’
‘You reminded me of someone.’
‘Who?’
‘Han Solo.’ Dad frowns. ‘From Star Wars. He . . . he’s a cool guy,’ I say, and this seems to satisfy my old man.
‘What do you love most about her?’ Dad asks.
I shrug. ‘No one thing, you know . . . just lots of silly things.’
Dad smiles. ‘Best that way,’ he says.
‘I take it back, you remind me of Yoda.’
Dad swats at my leg. ‘Cheek.’
We sit for a while, not talking, just listening to the hiss and flicker of the fire.
‘Your mum and I . . .’ Dad begins ‘. . . it wasn’t all plain sailing.’
‘No?’
‘She threatened to leave me once, you know?’
‘No.’
Dad nods. ‘After you came along.’
‘Sorry,’ I say.
Dad smiles at me with love. ‘It wasn’t your fault. It’s just . . . life, you know.’
‘What happened?’
Dad shakes his head. ‘I was being selfish, is all. It was all the rage in those days. Your lot are better, I think.’
‘And . . .’
Dad smiles at the memory. ‘I bought flowers, washed the dishes, learnt to change a nappy.’
‘Sounds like a big sacrifice.’
Dad drains his glass, picks up the bottle from the side table and points it in my direction.
I shake my head. ‘I’m shattered.’
Dad looks disappointed; he hesitates, unsure whether to pour himself another drink.
‘You go ahead,’ I say. ‘I’m good for another twenty minutes.’
Dad doesn’t need asking twice. ‘Your mother used to say I looked like Robert Redford,’ he says. He raises his eyebrows, as if daring me to contradict him.
I indulge him with a look.
‘A woman like that,’ he says, ‘she’s worth all the sacrifice in the world.’
Before I go to sleep, I text Ivy one last time.
I love you.
Chapter 22
I hate Christmas.
The first thing I do when I wake up is check my phone, but there are no messages.
I can’t have grown since last year, but my old single bed feels smaller than I remember it. Last year I’d just ruined my relationship with Kate. This year I’ve ruined my relationship with Ivy. It’s becoming something of a tradition.
Traditionally I lie in bed until I hear Dad leave the house for Mass, then I go for a long run. But fuck tradition and fuck it hard, I’m going to church. I even shower first. When I wake Dad with a mug of tea and the news that I’m forgoing my festive run to accompany him to mass, his face lights up like it’s, well, Christmas.
I honestly don’t know why I’ve decided to do this – whether it’s my first step towards becoming a less selfish man, or if it’s an act of abject desperation. I don’t believe in God, and the only thing we have in common is that me and his boy share a birthday, but when the rest of the congregation kneels for silent prayer, I screw my eyes tight and offer up my missive with all the others. I pray that Ivy still loves me. But it’s impossible to stop at just one: I pray that my babies will be born healthy, I pray they will grow up happy. I pray for Dad, Maria, my nieces, Hector, Frank, Esther, Nino, El, Phil, Joe and Joe’s family – because to leave anyone out feels equivalent to asking God not to look out for them. I’m just starting in on a petition for crispy roast potatoes and a good movie this afternoon when the priest stands us all up. And this must be how they get you – this prayer lark is addictive, you can’t fit it all in in one session so you come back the week after. Very crafty.
Despite my devout atheism, I enjoy the service. The hymns are rousing, the priest (possibly drunk) is surprisingly entertaining, and the sherry and mince pies in the Church Hall don’t make a half-bad breakfast.
When we get back to Dad’s, though, Ivy still hasn’t returned my text. I call, but her phone goes straight to voicemail. And so much for the power of prayer.
I’m thirty-two today, although no one has said happy birthday to me yet. It is traditional in the Fisher household to wait until three fifty-five in the afternoon, the exact time of my birth, before acknowledging my birthday. It started as a way of giving me a piece of the day that was all my own, and evolved over the years into a piece of pantomime at my expense; everyone pointedly not wishing me happy birthday, or discussing plans for their own, months hence, celebrations. And in the last thirty-two years, I’ve only spent one away from this house – the year I went travelling, which seemed to provide a valid form of exemption.
Maria and her family descend on Dad’s a little after midday, and after they have made a point of wishing me Happy Christmas and nothing more, Maria and I take three glasses of wine into the garden – another tradition. The summer after Mum died we placed a stone birdbath in the garden as a memorial, and every year for the last ten, Maria and I have come out here on Christmas Day to spend five minutes with her. Some years Maria gets teary, others she almost seems embarrassed by the mawkishness of it. But as long as we’re here, this is what we do.
We sip our wine in silence, and in my peripheral vision I watch my sister brush at a tear. I go to hold her hand but she pulls away from me.
‘You okay?’
‘No,’ she says.
I turn to face her, and rather than looking sad, Maria is visibly angry.
‘What’s up?’
‘So how did you fuck it up this time?’
I gesture towards Mum’s birdbath, frown. ‘Do you have to?’
Maria shakes her head, irritated. ‘You’re having twins!’
‘I know.’
‘Do you know how hard that is?’
‘I know what a fuss you made.’
Maria punches me on the arm, hard enough to slosh half the wine out of my glass. ‘So?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Dad said you’ve been sleeping on the sofa.’
‘Oh, did he? Well, why don’t you go and ask him all about it?’
‘You’re such a dickhead.’
‘I slept on the sofa once. One time.’
‘You said you loved her, she was the one, your soul mate and all that blah.’ Maria affects a simpering playground sing-song as she says this.
‘I remember.’
‘And . . .?’
‘And what?’
‘And grow the fuck up, William. Happy Christmas, Mum,’ and Maria downs her wine and walks back into the kitchen, leaving me out in the cold with my glass half empty.
‘So,’ says Hector. ‘Sleeping on the sofa?’
‘Once. I slept on the sofa once.’
Hector reaches across the table with a bottle of wine. ‘Top up?’
I place my hand over my glass. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Ahem,’ says Maria, tilting her own glass towards her husband.
‘Why did you sleep on the sofa?’ asks Rosalind.
‘Because he’s a wally,’ says Maria.
Rosalind giggles and whispers something into her twin sister’s ear. ‘Why is he a wally?’ asks Imogen.
‘Because he’s a man,’ says Hermione, and she and her mother clink glasses.
I scowl an ironic thank you at Dad and the old bugger just laughs. Then Hector laughs, then Hermione, then everyone else joins in.
We’re most of the way through a family-sized tub of Celebrations and halfway through Back to the Future Part II when my mobile rings. Someone pauses the TV while I squirm out of the armchair and take my phone from my back pocket. I don’t recognize the number.
‘Who is it?’ asks Hermione.
‘That’s for me to know.’
‘If it’s Ivy I want to talk to her.’
‘And say what?’
‘That’s for me to know,’ my niece parrots, then pokes her tongue at me for emphasis.
It’s unlikely that Hermione is any more difficult or wayward than any other very-nearly-18-year-old girl. But she and her mother have a thorough falling out at least a few times a year. And when they stop talking to each other, they get on the phone to me – blowing off steam, making threats and, more often than not, crying. Although in the last few months (and I’m not sure how the transition occurred) Ivy has become Hermione’s preferred confidante. And far from feeling usurped, it’s just another item on the list of things I love about the woman I was mean to on Christmas Eve.
‘Watch your film,’ I say to everyone, and I go through to the hallway to answer the call.
‘Hello?’
‘Happy Christmas, babes.’
‘Ivy?’
‘You don’t recognize me?’
‘Yes, of course, absolutely. Just didn’t recognize the number.’
‘Who were you expecting?’ There’s an edge on Ivy’s voice, but I’m not falling for it. Not today.
‘Happy Christmas, gorgeous. I take it this is your mum and dad’s phone?’
‘Yes, I fo—’
‘Hold on a moment.’ Hermione’s head pops around the doorway and I shoe her away and trot up the stairs to my room. ‘I texted,’ I say to Ivy. ‘You didn’t reply.’
‘Phone ran out of charge. And I left my plug in London. I left in a . . . in a bit of a muddle, I suppose. I’m sorry.’
‘No,’ I say, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah, well, so you should be.’
‘I miss you.’
‘Don’t be soppy, you’ll start me . . . ’
But whatever Ivy says next I don’t catch because Hermione, Imogen and Rosalind come barrelling into the room. Hermione tries to take the phone from my hand, but I palm her off as Imogen and Rosalind circle around me reaching for the device.
‘Give it,’ says Hermione, making another grab. I stand up on the bed to keep the phone from my nieces’ evil clutches. ‘Ivy, I’ll have to be qu––’
‘What’s going on? What’s that noise?’
‘Goblins,’ I say, kicking Rosalind a little harder than intended and knocking her from the bed.
‘Goblins?’
‘Nieces.’
Imogen bites my ankle and Hermione clambers onto the bed and starts jumping for the phone.
‘I love you,’ I say, a second before Hermione grabs my wrist.
And like lions on a giraffe, they take me down.
Lord only knows what the mother of my children and my nieces have to talk about, but whatever it is takes approximately thirty minutes.
‘Ivy says Happy Christmas,’ says Rosalind, returning my phone.
‘That it?’
‘She said to give you a big kiss, too,’ says Imogen, wrinkling up her nose.
‘Well? Who’s giving me my kiss?’ I half rise from the sofa and my three nieces scatter.
‘So,’ says Dad to Hermione, ‘it’ll be your birthday soon?’
‘Eighteen,’ says Hector.
‘God help us,’ says Maria.
I check the time on my phone and see that is now ten minutes until my birthday.
The twins laugh behind their hands. ‘I like birthdays,’ says Imogen.
And this is my cue to affect disgruntlement and leave the room. I sigh heavily as I traipse up the stairs. When I come back at three fifty-four, I’m carrying a packed bag. If the roads are clear and if I leave soon, I might just make it to Ivy’s parents’ house in time for turkey sandwiches. But first I have to get through a birthday cake.
It’s an almighty effort not to bolt my slice of Victoria sponge and tear at my presents like a 2-year-old. But I take my time, chew with my mouth closed, and make a fuss over every gift. I even stick around for the end of the movie because, who knows, this may be the last year I get to go through this ridiculous, awful, wonderful charade.
Dad doesn’t appear surprised when I tell him I’m about to get in the car and drive nearly two hundred miles to Bristol. And in a way, I think I’ve been planning on doing this since I opened my eyes this morning.
‘Surprised you stayed as long as you did,’ he says, kissing my cheek and hugging me tightly.
The whole family have come to the front door to wave goodbye. Hector takes my bag and places it in the boot of the Fiat.
‘Drive safe,’ says Maria. Then she punches me on the arm again, hard. ‘Dickhead.’
‘Love you, too,’ I say, climbing into the car.
On the apocalyptically empty roads, with my foot hard to the floor, leaning forward in the driver’s seat, the Fiat has a top speed of eighty-two m.p.h. Two police cars pass me as I head south, exceeding the speed limit by a full twelve m.p.h., but all they do is wave and grin and honk their horns. ‘Honk if you’re horny’, says one of the bumper stickers on El’s ‘battymobile’; and though I can’t say that I am – I am happy and frantic and eager, which, perhaps, amounts to the same thing – I honk and grin and wave back to the speeding coppers.
Door-to-door, the trip takes two hours and fifty-seven minutes. I ring the Lees’ doorbell at four minutes past eight on Christmas evening, and my heart is banging as if I’ve run the entire journey.
Frank answers the door. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
‘Happy Christmas, and right back at you, shit-bag.’
Frank puts a hand to his temple as if he’s just been struck with a migraine. He shakes his head. ‘For fuck’s sake.’ And then he laughs.
‘Is everything okay?’
Ivy’s mother shouts from inside: ‘You’re letting the cold in. Who is it?’
Frank shouts back into the
house: ‘Fisher!’
‘Arseholes!’ This bellowed welcome from Ivy’s dad, followed by an explosion of booming laughter.
‘Frank, are you going to ask me in, or what? What’s going on? Where’s Ivy?’
Frank looks at his bare wrist as if checking a watch. ‘Somewhere on the M6, I imagine. My guess is she’ll be arriving at your dad’s gaff in about . . . twenty minutes.’
As I travel towards London on the M4 on Christmas evening, attempting to push the accelerator through the footwell, El’s Fiat reaches a terrifying, teeth-rattling eighty-six m.p.h. The wind must be blowing east. Or maybe it’s the force of my will.
Frank was ten minutes out and it wasn’t until after eight thirty that Ivy called her parents’ house from my dad’s. Thirty not unpleasant minutes in the company of Ivy’s mum, dad and Frank, me drinking tea and eating a turkey sandwich, them drinking wine, whisky and advocaat respectively. Frank, it transpires, managed less than twenty-four hours of festive solitude before deciding he was in danger of going mad or drinking himself into oblivion. Following a Christmas breakfast of burnt bacon sandwiches, he spent an hour watching kids’ TV, agonizing over whether or not to open the Cointreau. Halfway through The Muppet Christmas Carol, he threw a bag into the boot of his Audi and set off for Bristol. He arrived at his folks’ in time for Christmas dinner. He revealed all this while we were in the kitchen, making another round of drinks. I asked whether he’d told his parents about the Lois situation, but before Frank could answer Eva came into the room to fetch the Quality Street.
Despite vocal protestations from her son and her husband, Mrs Lee insisted on a round of charades (It’s a Wonderful Life; You Only Live Twice, Bridge Over the River . . . sounds like mince pie). Ken wanted me to have a drink and Eva wanted me to stay the night, but I resisted both offers because I was still holding out hope.
The motorway is quiet, but there is still more traffic at ten thirty in the evening than I would have guessed, and it makes me sad. Many of the cars contain single drivers – people who should be with other people. Maybe they are returning from days well spent with friends and family, but in my imagination they are alone and adrift. Perhaps they’re thinking the same thing about me. No one honks on the motorway at ten thirty on Christmas Night.
