Every Day in December

by Kitty Wilson

  ‘Nick, I can understand why you are feeling like this…’ I understand that your ability to believe you have never ever done any wrong is akin to a superpower. The man truly and utterly believes the world repeatedly deals him an unfair hand. ‘And if you want us to cancel our current contract then of course that’s fine. But if you undertake this detox, my contact has offered you a double spread in next week’s Sunday paper alongside the photos of you going into The Priory tomorrow. They’ll then do lots of promo in the run-up to the weekend, for a piece where you to talk directly to your fanbase about your new clean living, how you are very grateful to be married to Cyndi and your determination to prioritise your family above all. They’ll also promote your latest cookbook with a money-off coupon.’

  ‘Make it look like I’m being repentant and proactive and put my side across, you mean? The media have been very reluctant to engage since that slapper—’

  ‘I think the focus is very much on reflection, what you’ve learnt—’

  ‘Yes, yes. And I could talk about consent, now there’s a topic of the day.’

  ‘Okay, good.’

  ‘About how fucking blurry it is and how I feel for the young men of today. How exactly are they supposed to function sexually in this world gone mad, huh? Are they supposed to wrap themselves in goddam clingfilm, ask for consent before they make a move? Hardly the stuff of great romance…’

  I know I’ve already mentioned it but children and animals would feel like a gift today, a gift.

  ‘It’s getting late so I’ll send you a plan of the sort of thing they’d like to write. If you’re happy to comply, The Priory are expecting you tomorrow Nick, and I do think it would be good for you to give it a shot. That’s my professional advice. If you can send back the plan with suitable quotes and the understanding that I will take a large red pen to anything I feel may hamper your optics then that would be great. Doing it this way means you have more control of the narrative than if you aren’t participating. Then you could monetise it when you come out, make a big thing of it. Have Cyndi do your social media whilst you’re in there, make sure you show you’re aware Christmas is a flashpoint, push a whole book on mocktails next year. You’d have a whole new market there, lots of young people are increasingly not drinking. I really think you should do this, but we’ll talk again when you’ve had a chance to think it over. Thanks, Nick, bye.’

  In my business you learn when to listen and when to get the hell away. Had it not been for Belle I would have ended my connection with this poisonous oaf ages ago.

  I pop some food in the microwave and wait for the ping. I’m ready for my bed. Today may have been crazy but this weekend was good.

  Really good.

  I surprised myself and I can’t remember the last time I did that.

  I hurtled down a hill on a tin tray. Multiple times. And laughed as I did it. If you had told me this was how my UK trip would turn out I would have dismissed you as a lunatic. Yet somehow a little bit of lunacy is creeping into my life and I quite like it.

  Bing.

  Belle has psychic bloody intuition, she always seems to know when she’s on my mind. At least I hope that’s her, it better not be Nick again! I try to stop the grin that wants to break out all over my face as I pick up my phone and see it is Belle.

  Hey, how’s your day been? I swear I’m too tired to even speak but thought I’d check in.

  * * *

  That’s cute. My day has been hectic too. You may have to bail me out on a murder charge at some point this week. How? How? How did I get into this as an industry?

  I thought it best not to name names. Professional confidentiality and all. Although let’s face it, her dad has been the biggest of my problems today.

  Desperate need to control?

  Ouch. But before I can respond—

  Sorry didn’t mean that. Don’t know why I typed it. Forgive me.

  She typed it because it’s true. She does that. Speaks before she thinks. She will say you cannot rely on Belle Wilde for much, but that’s not right. You can rely on Belle Wilde for so many things that she doesn’t seem aware of. To have your back when it’s needed. To make each day fun. To make the most miserable bugger – and yes, I include myself in this – laugh in the depths of winter. And she’ll always tell the truth even though sometimes it pinches. Sometimes it pinches a whole damn lot but with my line of work, Belle and her unflinching need for truth is refreshing. However, I’m not telling her any of that.

  Forgive you? Hmmmmm, I’ll have to think about it. Go on then, best bit of your day?

  * * *

  The kids. I see why teachers get into teaching. Kids are so rewarding, engaging. They make everything fun.

  * * *

  Okay and worst bit.

  * * *

  The kids! They may be the best bit but my God they’re exhausting. I can cope with Marsha, but thirty of them in each class, the younger ones always seem to need the toilet and are just one big mess of snot in winter and all of them are so jacked up simply because they’re not doing maths or whatever they would normally. They’re insane.

  * * *

  Hahaha. Was is just school you were in today?

  * * *

  I wish. Nope, cleaning job first thing, then school and then an evening shift at the shop. Hence nearly dead, and possibly currently asleep.

  * * *

  I wouldn’t be surprised if you were texting and sleeping at the same time. You’re a powerhouse. But more importantly, you were in Bath? When are you next in the shop?

  * * *

  Thursday. Why?

  * * *

  Let me feed you and look after you when you’ve finished. If you’re getting the train I’ll drive you back afterwards.

  The fact that she does this is also testament to who she is. Belle will always walk or get public transport if she can. She only drives with Marsha or to places too out of the way to practically get to any other way. I know she’ll get the train to Bath after her school workshop and then have the hassle of getting home on public transport too.

  By Thursday I’ll be too whacked to talk.

  * * *

  Which is why I’ll feed you, not literally but with some of the best food Bath can provide. I’ll even watch Christmas movies with you. No talking required. In fact no talking preferred.

  * * *

  Sounds good.

  * * *

  And you know how much you love free food.

  * * *

  I do love free food.

  * * *

  Brilliant. Go to sleep. ‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.’

  * * *

  Did you just quote Shakespeare at me?

  * * *

  Yup.

  * * *

  Do you know that one by heart?

  * * *

  I know it by google. Go to sleep.

  * * *

  Google, pah! And I don’t know about the stuff dreams are made on. Feels more like ‘Weary with toil I haste me to my bed.’

  * * *

  Well then, stop sleep texting, haste ye to bed and I’ll see you Thursday.

  I am going to cook her the best dinner known to man.

  The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.

  * * *

  December Fifteenth.

  Rory.

  I’m sitting by the pop-up ice rink at Cribbs Causeway and the grin widens across my face as I see Mum approach. She sees me and her face does the same. Both of us have always been like this whenever we see each other, even when I was a teen. Although in the past I would fight really hard to stop my face giving my affection away, casting my eyes at the ground immediately and trying to think of something to make me cross so I didn’t look like a complete twat.

  She is laden down with bags and I jump up to take them. Both of us have come to do our Christmas shopping but we split up because she’s terrified I might see what she is buying m
e and thus ruin Christmas for ever. Because obviously I will never be older than seven in her head.

  I’ve managed to pick up some terribly swish-looking food processor for her. Hers is about thirty years old and when I was making the pastry for the mince pies it looked like it was trying to hurl itself off the worktop, pleading with me to allow it to die peacefully. The one I bought looks as if it could land a probe on Mars if you press the buttons in the right order. I’ve also found a signed copy of the latest book from her favourite author. I suspect she has already read it on her Kindle but still, I know it will make her smile. I’ve ordered a new shed heater for Dave online so he is taken care of but I did buy him a bottle of specialist whisky as well. You can’t ever be too warm when dealing with important shed-based matters. But the hardest thing is not picking up anything for Belle. I have already seen something online that I feel compelled to buy for her but still, every shop I went in I saw something that I thought would be perfect for her. I can’t get it all, it would scare the bejesus out of her. She’d think I was some crazy stalker type. But I did pick up a Victorian-themed snow globe for Marsha which I thought was a nice reminder of the weekend.

  ‘Don’t look! Don’t look!’ Mum fusses at me as I reach for her bags to carry them over to the car.

  ‘I won’t, honestly! Have you got everything you wanted to?’

  ‘Yes, but … um … how much of a hurry are you in?’

  ‘No hurry.’ Any work I can more or less deal with from my phone. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well…’ She casts a look back at the ice rink. ‘I’ve always wanted to try ice skating. I mean I don’t think I’d be any good at it. But I’d love to give it a try.’

  ‘I’ve never skated before either.’ I look at the ice rink and can imagine ambulances, me and Mum encased in plaster for Christmas.

  ‘And as you know, I’m all about embracing new things these days. So let’s do it. Let’s both go learn how to ice skate.’

  Ahh! This is not what I pictured happening today. But the eagerness on Mum’s face, and the memory of how much good her latest, more criminal, new thing has brought her, means there is no way in the world I can say no.

  ‘I’ll sling these in the car and then you’d best lead the way.’

  We lace up our boots and take to the ice, clinging onto each other like wartime orphans. Luckily it is pretty empty bar one overly loved-up couple and a gaggle of teenagers. When we let go of each other, I fall twice, and she falls once but goes down with such a squeal of joy it’s clear she hasn’t done herself any harm. Then, before I know it, we’re swooping around the rink getting bolder, eventually doing all sorts of fancy things like skating backwards, attempting figure of eights and dancing to the Christmas music that is playing. Or at least Mum is. I’m just grateful to stay upright and keep throwing longing glances at the exit.

  Mum whizzes up alongside me, cutting in front of me with some highfalutin zig-zag skating.

  ‘Rory, this is so much fun, I’m loving this. Why have I never tried it before? Thank you so much for today and for coming home. Honestly, I’ve been beside myself with worry and seeing you is really helping.’

  ‘Mum, I think that’s understandable,’ I say, trying to match her pace as she continues skating backwards so she can face me.

  ‘I’m not scared of dying for death’s sake. Cancer certainly heightens your awareness of your own mortality and I veer between sheer panic some days and resignation on others, but my biggest fear, my biggest fear is leaving you.’ She stops and reaches across to touch my cheek. I grab her hand and hold it there for a minute. ‘Now, I know you’re an adult but still … you’ll always be my baby and I need to be here for as long as possible to see you grow up.’ We’re both static on the ice now, the teens whizzing by, and it seems an odd place to have this conversation.

  ‘I’m grown up.’ I laugh. ‘Even got chest hair.’ I quirk my brow at her and we both giggle, remembering the time I so despaired of ever having any that I drew some on with Biro. ‘But I am all in with that plan. I’m a big fan of you sticking around for as long as possible.’

  ‘Right,’ she agrees, nodding enthusiastically. ‘It’s been a bit of a wake-up call, made me determined to do things I have always wanted to but never had the confidence to.’

  ‘Like shoplifting.’

  ‘Yes, and ice skating.’ She waves her hand at the rink we’re on. ‘And when I get this operation out of the way and when everything goes well … which it will … then next year I am going to fill it full of doing things.’

  ‘I am very glad to hear it.’

  ‘I am also going to be more blunt.’

  ‘God help us.’ I mock groan.

  ‘I mean it and I’m going to start right now. It is so good to see you doing so well. You even have a flash watch.’ I do, it’s true. ‘When Jessica died I was worried about you, knew you needed time, but I never doubted you. And look at you, the perfect picture of the successful, loving son. But…’

  ‘I’m okay, Mum. I am,’ I lie through my teeth. I don’t tell her that it’s all carefully constructed. That I know people see me as polished. I have all the external trappings but it’s a deliberate mask, a mask to hide that beneath the surface I’m still struggling with the guilt. They don’t see me staring up at the ceiling at 4 a.m., they don’t know that every single call I take I expect someone to say this man doesn’t know what he’s doing, why are you listening to him? He is nothing but an imposter, he couldn’t even keep the woman he loved safe and you’re asking him for advice?

  ‘So you say, but the truth is I know you. I. Know. You. And I think your feet are paddling quickly under the surface and it worries me. I don’t know who you have to talk to, to confide in. I hope to God there’s someone but I suspect you keep everything all tightly bottled up, under control. I know you’re here to support me but stupid cancer or not I am your mother, I will always be your mother, and if you need someone to talk to, then I am here for you.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum, I know and I’m so grateful for it.’ I squeeze her hand. The trouble is Mum’s not objective; I could tell her I’d just set a dozen kittens on fire and she’d still find a way to tell me that I had good reason. I wonder if now is the time to broach why I want to remain single, that she needs to stop looking for romance for me, that it hurts me to my very core every time she brings it up. Jess is no longer here to speak up for herself, she only has me to do it for her, and Mum needs to respect the decisions I have made, the decisions I will continue to make for a good long time and with very good reason.

  ‘Okay but I haven’t finished. People say time heals all, and it’s true, but grief doesn’t always behave the way you think it should. It’s not linear, it can come and hit when you least expect it. Neither is it always quiet, slow, depressed, sometimes it’s angry and raging and directionless and that’s alright too. The one thing that is true is that in order to heal you have to face your emotions, and if I can help in any part of that then please let me. One day, I promise you, the memories will bring you peace not pain.’ She is so genuine and I am tempted to open up, I am. I want to tell her I am still pulled apart, torn in two with grief and disappointment in myself every single day. But to do so, at this time, would be selfish.

  ‘You’ve always been a boy with so much heart, so much love to give, so listen to me now and then I’ll leave you be.’ Her voice takes on her stern tone. ‘This is guesswork but you need to stop blaming yourself for something that was not your fault, was beyond your control. You did not make the decision to get behind the wheel that night, no matter what you think about how you shaped things, and you are not in charge of the weather. It was an accident, love, an accident, and you need to stop looking to the past, you need to look to the future. Both of us do. I am, will you?’ The sincerity is cracking her voice and I nod my head, grip her hand, look her in the eye and agree. I wish it were that easy.

  Mum takes a deep breath, puts on her brave face, grins, does a massive figure of eight, shrieks with la
ughter, and says, ‘Right, well, let’s get skating, race you to that side.’

  That I know I can do.

  ‘You’re on!’

  And we’re off.

  We reach the other side, her leading a little – she’s so much better on the ice than me, a natural – and as she turns the joy beams from her face. Her cheeks are rosy red from the cold, her ears also scarlet. She has a bobble hat perched atop her head, her hair sticks out from underneath it and her eyes are alive, bright. She has aged since I left for Australia, and these last couple of weeks she has been looking tired from the worry of it all but in this instant, she is vibrant, vivacious, joyful, and I make a conscious decision to snapshot this moment and keep it in my memory for ever.

  But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,

  All losses are restored, and sorrows end

  * * *

  December Sixteenth.

  Rory.

  I stand at the fridge door, double-checking. I’m fairly sure I have everything I can possibly need for tomorrow. Okay, I’m beyond fairly sure, I’m certain that unless I actually have some real-life turkeys wandering the flat and Father Christmas and Mrs Claus sat on the sofa drinking Gluhwein and gently reprimanding wayward elves, I cannot make this place any more Christmassy.