by Judi Curtin
His father’s breathing didn’t change. Luke sat back in the chair and watched, and pretended.
When his father was asleep, pretending was easier. Pretending that the birthday party hadn’t even happened on that horrible day, or that Luke had got sick and couldn’t go. Or that Mam had a day off from work and came to bring him home instead of Dad, and stopped at all the red lights on the way home.
Pretending that when Dad woke up, he’d look at Luke and ruffle his hair and say, ‘How’s my son and heir?’ just like he used to.
Just like nothing had ever happened to him.
After a few minutes, Luke tiptoed from the room and went upstairs to bed.
He was waiting outside Brady’s Electrical when it opened at half past nine the next morning. The woman who unlocked the door looked at him.
‘Hello there.’ She glanced up the street behind him. ‘Are you all on your own?’
‘I want to buy a washing machine,’ Luke said. ‘That one.’ He pointed to the window.
She followed his finger, then looked back at him doubtfully. ‘You know how much it costs?’
‘Four hundred and nine euro,’ Luke told her, wondering why she couldn’t see the price written clearly on the top. ‘Can you deliver it today?’
She smiled. ‘First things first,’ she said. ‘Come on in.’ As Luke followed her into the shop, she asked, ‘Is it a present?’
‘Yeah,’ Luke said. ‘A surprise, for my mother.’
She stopped and looked back at him. ‘Did you save all the money yourself?’
Luke nodded. Then he thought maybe she didn’t believe him, so he pulled the bulky brown envelope out of his pocket and held it out to her.
She didn’t take it, just looked at it in his hand for a few seconds. Then she gave a quick look around the shop and said, more softly, ‘You know, this isn’t a good time to buy a washing machine.’
It wasn’t what Luke was expecting to hear. He lowered the envelope slowly. ‘Why not?’
He had no idea that it mattered when you bought a washing machine. Didn’t people wash clothes all year round?
‘Because our sale is starting on Friday,’ the woman explained. ‘And that washing machine will be reduced by fifteen percent.’ She turned towards a nearby desk. ‘Here – I’ll tell you how much you’ll save if you can wait till then.’
Luke watched as she tapped numbers into a calculator. Then she turned back to him.
‘Sixty-one euro and thirty-five cents,’ she said. ‘That’s how much cheaper it’ll be on Friday.’
Luke thought quickly. He could buy pretty good presents for everyone with sixty euro – and Mam would still have her machine, just a few days later. Then he thought of something.
‘What if someone else comes in today and buys it?’ he asked. It wouldn’t be much good reducing the price of a machine that wasn’t there any more.
‘You can pay me a deposit,’ the woman explained. ‘And I’ll hold it for you.’ She winked at Luke. ‘Just don’t tell anyone, because we’re not supposed to do that for the sales. Make sure you look for me when you come back on Friday to pay the balance, OK?’ She pointed to the nametag pinned to her blouse. ‘Look for Jenny.’
Ten minutes later, Luke left the shop with three hundred and sixty euro in his envelope, and a receipt for the fifty euro he’d given Jenny to make sure the washing machine would still be there on Friday.
He bought an annual for Anne, a HMV voucher for Helen, a pair of slippers for Dad, a box of perfumed drawer liners for Granny and a gift set of hand cream and body lotion for Mam. He wouldn’t mention the washing machine until Friday.
On the way home he went into the newsagents and bought a Happy New Year card and a stamp. He felt a bit guilty that he hadn’t sent a Christmas card to his penfriend – even though the one she sent him was no great shakes, all crinkled and messy looking when he pulled it out of the envelope, and loads of little sparkly bits falling off it onto his jeans. She must have used too much glue or something. But at least she’d made the effort.
After tea he wrapped all his presents with the roll of shiny red paper he’d bought. Then he hid them under his bed and took out the card. It had a bunch of flowers on the front – she’d probably like that.
For the first time, he wondered what she looked like. She’d never said anything about that. He tried to remember how he’d described himself in his first letter. Black hair with blue tips, wasn’t it? Something about tattoos – and didn’t he say he had something pierced, his nose or eyebrow or something?
Just as well his penfriend hadn’t asked for his photo, because absolutely none of that was true. His hair was muddy brown, not black at all, with no coloured tips, and he definitely had no tattoos or earrings – Mam would go mad if he tried anything like that.
And all the stuff about Dad being an astronaut, and Helen a model, and the rubbish about the racehorses – and didn’t he tell her they lived in a big fancy house with a lake out the back? He wondered what she’d say if she ever found out the truth.
He wished he knew for sure if she made anything up when she wrote to him – how would he ever know? Her life could be totally different, like his was.
He licked the stamp and stuck it the right way up on the envelope – just for fun, just to see if she’d notice. Then he opened the card and began to write.
Dear Penfriend,
I hope you had a good Christmas. I haven’t had any Christmas yet – it’s still Christmas Eve. Today I went shopping and bought presents for all the family. I don’t like shopping too much, so I got them all in about half an hour, but I think they’ll like them.
Do they have the same Christmas dinner in England as we have here? We always have a turkey and two kinds of potatoes, mashed and roast, and Brussels sprouts, which I’m not mad about, and my granny makes mince pies for dessert, and we put custard on them. Most people have plum pudding for dessert on Christmas Day, but nobody in the family likes that.
Oh, and we just make gravy out of stuff in a big tub that you mix with boiling water.
Well, I better go to sleep – I’m wrecked.
Luke
PS Thanks for your card. Hope you like this one – all my own work, ha ha.
ELMA
On Christmas Day Elma woke early, and called Zac and Dylan, and they all ran downstairs together to open their presents. It didn’t take long. She got a book and a crinkly red top. She’d already read the book about two years earlier, and when she tried on the top, it was so small that one of the seams ripped. Their mother came in as Zac and Dylan opened a big pile of packages that turned out to contain Pokemon figures. Dylan looked kind of sulky, and Zac started to cry. He looked at his mother. ‘Why didn’t Santa know that Dylan and me don’t play with Pokemon any more?’ he wailed.
Elma thought her mum was going to cry, too, but she turned away quickly, and went into the kitchen.
Elma hugged her brothers and gave them each a small chocolate reindeer she’d bought for them the day before. ‘Happy Christmas, guys,’ she said, as she wondered if there was any hope of Christmas actually turning out to be anything other than totally horrible.
After breakfast their dad came down. He’d made a kind of an effort, and had actually got dressed, but his trousers were all creased, and his jumper looked like someone had slept in it.
‘What did Santa bring you boys?’ he asked.
Dylan turned away, almost as if he hadn’t heard the question. Zac went to find the biggest of his new Pokemon. By then, though, their dad had walked into the TV room, and was already engrossed in a programme about baby turtles.
Elma helped her mum to tidy up the kitchen, and then everyone went to sit in the TV room. The first row was because Dad refused to allow the TV to be switched to anything besides the National Geographic Channel.
The second row was because Zac, who didn’t really understand what was wrong, was trying to make things better by loudly and enthusiastically playing with his unwanted toys. This was fine
for about a minute and a half, until Dad started shouting at Zac for being so noisy, and Mum started shouting at Dad for being so mean, and Zac cried softly, and Dylan sat in a corner with a white face and said nothing at all.
The third row was over a box of chocolates, and after that, Elma stopped counting. The day dragged slowly on, with short periods of calm divided up by bouts of loud shouting.
Dinner was OK – if you just ate the slices of turkey that didn’t have any of Mum’s lumpy gravy on them. While the rest of the family was fighting over the last soggy potato, Elma sneaked her plate into the back yard and fed the brown-covered bits to Snowball. Snowball didn’t seem to mind and even wagged his tail a bit. Elma was glad that at least someone was happy. She patted him and was rewarded with a big puff of gravy-breath.
Even though she was allowed to stay up as late as she liked, Elma went to bed at ten. Bed was less scary than listening to all those fights. As she lay there with her eyes closed, she realised why the day had been so bad – it was the first day in a very long time that her mum had spent at home. For the first day in ages and ages, her mum had no work to go to, and with a jolt of sadness, Elma understood that the biggest problem of all was that her parents could no longer bear to be together.
Boxing Day was nearly as bad as the day before, and after that things began to get a bit better, as Elma’s mum left the house more and more to go to work. Elma wondered what kind of offices needed cleaning two days after Christmas. Was her mum like the woman she’d seen on TV once, who left her house every morning pretending to go to work, but really spent her time hanging around parks and shopping centres?
One morning, about four days after Christmas, when her mum was gone out, and the boys were playing in their bedroom, Elma decided it was time to talk to her dad. She waited for an ad-break, and then pounced. Before he could react, she switched off the television and ran to sit beside her dad.
‘Dad,’ she said in her gentlest voice. ‘Why don’t you go back to work?’
He looked at her, and she tried to ignore his wrinkled top and his unshaven chin. He gave a big sigh. ‘You know I can’t work, love. I’ll never work again.’
Elma took a deep breath. ‘The doctor said you’ll never work as a plumber again. But you could do something else.’
‘Like what?’
Elma sighed. How was she supposed to know stuff like that? ‘I don’t know, Dad. But you could find out. Why don’t you get dressed, and we could go and look in the window of the job centre?’
‘But–’
Elma ignored him. ‘We could bring Snowball. He’d love the walk.’
Elma thought she’d die if anyone saw her in public with Snowball, but it would be worth it if it got Dad out of the house.
For a moment she thought she could see a flicker of life in her father’s eyes, then it faded as quickly as it had come. He reached for the remote control. ‘Thanks, love,’ he said. ‘I’m a bit tired today. Maybe we’ll do it next week. Now turn the TV back on, there’s a good girl.’
Elma stamped out of the room, slamming the door behind her. She felt like crying, or screaming, or something, but what was the point? It wouldn’t change anything. Then she punched the wall anyway, just because she couldn’t think of anything else to do.
The bruise lasted for eight days.
Elma trudged into school after the holidays, with Zac and Dylan trailing behind her. She felt sorry for them, of course she did, but she felt sorry for herself, too, and what good did that do her?
As soon as she walked into the classroom, Evil Josh came over. ‘Did you have a nice Christmas?’ he asked. ‘Did you get lots of lovely lumpy gravy every day? Did your dad have any more stupid accidents?’
Elma felt like hitting him, but she didn’t fancy a day sitting in the headmaster’s office, so she resisted, and walked away, biting her tongue.
Just then Tara came in. She raced over to Elma and hugged her. ‘Elma, great to see you,’ she said. ‘Did you have the best Christmas ever? I so did. I got the best presents. I got an Ipod with the coolest skin ever, and a big box of make-up, and a whole new outfit, oh and loads of other stuff. And me and my family went ice-skating, and bowling, and we went to the panto, and …’
She kept talking, but Elma stopped listening. She didn’t want to be mean to her friend, but it was just too awful. Why couldn’t she have a nice life like Tara?
Just then Mrs Lawrence came in, clutching a bundle of envelopes.
‘Settle down, children,’ she said. ‘Now, here are your letters from Ireland, and since it’s the first day back, I am going to allow you to read them, and reply at once.’
Elma took her envelope and examined it. For once Luke Mitchell had managed to stick his stamp the right way up. In a way she was disappointed. She opened the envelope and pulled out a Happy New Year card. It didn’t seem like the kind of card Luke would buy. Maybe his mum had bought it for him? She sighed as she read what he’d written inside. His Christmas dinner sounded really good.
But she wished he wouldn’t keep going on about gravy. What had she been thinking of, telling him her mum was writing a book about gravy? The book her mum should have written was How to Turn your Back on your Family and Pretend not to Notice that it was Falling Apart.
Elma struggled to read a bit that for some reason Luke had crossed out. Something about a surprise for his mum. She wondered why he’d crossed it out. Then she looked around and noticed that everyone else had already started their letters, so she pulled out a sheet of paper and began to write.
Dear Luke,
I had a really awful Christmas. My mum and dad were fighting all the time, and my brothers spent most of the time hiding in their bedroom. My mum is the worst cook in the world, and I was glad when she went back to work so we didn’t have to eat lumpy gravy any more. Snowball is really a–
Just then Elma heard Mrs Lawrence coming up behind her desk. She jumped up, ran to the waste paper basket, and shredded her letter into tiny, fluttery little pieces. She smiled at Mrs Lawrence as she went back to her seat. ‘I made a spelling mistake,’ she said. Then she got a new piece of paper, and began again.
Dear Luke,
I had the best Christmas ever. I got an Ipod with a cool pink skin, and a big box of make-up, and great new jeans and a jumper and loads of other things. Me and my family did the coolest stuff. We went ice-skating and bowling, and to a panto. (That was a bit boring but Jessica seemed to love it – she kept clapping even when she was meant to be quiet, and the woman in front of us was very cross.)
Snowball loves her new bed, and she spends most of her day lying in it, purring.
In our house we have plum pudding on Christmas Day. Dad pours brandy on it, and sets it on fire, and then we all sing ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’ until the flames go out. It’s great fun. (But not as much fun as eating the pudding. It’s always totally yummy.)
I hope you got nice presents. Did you get a new horse to replace Rocket yet? I suppose Santa would find it hard to get a horse down the chimney (ha ha).
Why didn’t you put your stamp on upside down this time?
Bye and Happy New Year,
Elma
LUKE
One bit of sky was still missing. Luke pointed to the gap.
‘Look, Dad, we need a blue piece here, OK?’
His father looked down at the half-finished scene on the table. ‘We need a blue piece here, OK,’ he said. He scanned the scattered jigsaw pieces. ‘We need a blue piece here, OK.’ He picked up a piece that was mostly green with a tiny bit of blue in one corner and held it out to Luke. ‘OK?’
It was clearly not the bit they needed, but Luke took it and tried to fit it in. ‘No, that’s not it. We need another one.’ But just then a dog began to bark outside, and his father’s head swung towards the window.
Luke found another three pieces and fitted them into their places, and then he pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Let’s do some more later, OK?’ As if the two of them were doin
g it together.
His father nodded, still turned towards the window. ‘Do some more later, OK?’
In the kitchen Luke’s mother finished loading the two-week-old washing machine and straightened up. ‘OK, love?’
‘Yeah.’ Luke watched her pressing the buttons, twirling the temperature knob. A second later he heard the gush of water as the cycle began. Funny how he thought something like a new washing machine could make anyone happy. It hadn’t changed things at all, this shiny new thing in the corner of the kitchen. His mother still looked tired and sad most of the time. Helen still went around with what Granny called a face as long as a wet week. His father – well, of course his father hadn’t changed. And Anne was still bringing her bundled-up sheets downstairs at least twice a week.
And the worst thing of all was that they didn’t even own the washing machine, not properly. They wouldn’t own it for another six months, because of what happened to Luke the day he went to buy it.
Christmas had gone pretty well, considering. There hadn’t been any rows between Helen and Mam, and everyone had actually got a present for everyone else, even if Helen only managed a chocolate bar each – Luke got an Aero – and Anne’s presents were poems for everyone. This was what she wrote about Luke:
My big brother is cool
He goes to my school
His hair is dark, he’s like a shark,
He likes playing in the park.
Luke thought it was actually pretty good for a seven-year-old. Anne had written the poem out carefully in purple ink and stuck different coloured stars all around it.
This year, Granny had given each of the three children a ten-euro book token. Mam got clothes for everyone – a sweatshirt for Luke, a skirt for Anne and a top for Helen.
Luke’s father, of course, didn’t give out any presents. He watched as the others were being distributed, a half smile on his face. When he was handed something he took it with a look of faint surprise and held it in his lap until Mam or Granny opened it for him, and then put it somewhere else.
