by Kitty Wilson
I didn’t expect to see Rory today and after the sexual tension of yesterday feeding my crush I’m giddy at the thought. I pick up my bags, all nine million of them, and try not to injure too many people as I balance the big box for Rory – it had been such a good idea at the time – and head outside to stand by a parking spot.
In a matter of minutes, he pulls up beside me.
‘Hello, beautiful.’ He winds down the window and speaks with a mock-European accent.
‘They still arrest people for kerb-crawling, you know,’ I say, trying to calm my heart. He called me beautiful. Rory Walters just called me beautiful. To all of us girls with low self-esteem out there, we really need a higher bar, but it feels so good.
‘And how do they feel about full-on kidnap?’ He jumps out of the car and immediately frees me of all packages.
‘Yep, definitely still an offence but if you want to kidnap me, I’m willing,’ I say. Oh God, is that too flirty? Rory doesn’t run up the hill screaming so I figure I’m okay.
‘What on earth is this?’ He mock-topples under the size of the box.
‘That’s yours.’
‘No!’
‘Yeah.’
‘That’s insane. What have you got me, a small army? A baby elephant?’
‘It’s big but it’s not heavy. Do you want it now?’
He moves the weight of the box from one hand to the other and grins. ‘I kind of do, but let’s wait, shall we? Wait until Boxing Day and we can both do gifts then?’
‘Yes. I like that. It will be something to look forward to after tomorrow.’
‘Perfect.’ He slides the box into the boot and then puts all my other bags in too.
‘But you can have this now.’ I slide the fox out of my pocket and hand it to him.
‘You’ve bought me a Belle-fox,’ he exclaims and looks way more joyful than I imagined.
‘It’s a Rory-fox!’ I say.
‘No, it’s definitely a Belle-fox. Thank you. I love it,’ he says and I know I am bright red so try to concentrate instead on the bells of the Abbey, ringing out for the late-night carol service. A siren call for all lovers of Christmas.
‘You know, for all our Christmas activities we haven’t set foot in a church,’ Rory says, changing the subject to spare my blushes. I’m desperate to ask if that’s a proposal but it’s a little too close to the bone to be funny.
‘We did visit the chapel at Tyntesfield and there were carols around the piano. But you’re right, it’s a shame. I love carols. Love, love, love them. I think it’s because we all learn them when we’re so little and they make me feel warm, secure. Like all is right with the world.’
‘Yes, I’ll admit I do like carols.’
I look at him assessingly and say, ‘I would love to go. I haven’t had the chance this year, it’s all been so busy. What do you think? Are you in a hurry?’
‘What, go to the late-night carol service in the Abbey?’ he asks. I nod, trying not to get too excited. This is not how I expected my evening to pan out.
‘My choices are drop you at your parents’ or go to the carol service with you and then drop you back?’
I nod, unsure which way he’s going to land. He locks his car, pops Foxy in his pocket and holds out his hand.
Rory.
Even I have to admit the Abbey looks beautiful all lit up. The huge stone building towers over Bath lending it both gravitas and beauty. It may be late at night and the market is all closed up but people are packed into the Abbey and we are singing our hearts out. Belle is curled under my arm, sharing my carol sheet although she knows all the words. Her head leans against my chest as we stand and sing and I can’t think of a time – for a long, long while – that I have been so content.
After working our way through ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’, ‘We Three Kings’ and ‘Come All Ye Faithful’ we stumble back outside into the square and both of us stand staring up at the Christmas tree, imposing by itself but lending its festive twinkle to the majesty of the scene. We are holding hands and Belle is leaning into me and I am aware that since we left the car we have been touching in one way or another the entire time. I like it, I don’t want it to stop. What I really want to do is make sure this night never ends. I want to turn her around and bend my head down and kiss her, feel her mouth open under mine, feel her hands snake up around my neck and pull me down to her, I want to keep her as close to me as humanly possible and then take her back to my flat where we will undress each other, in the brief gaps our mouths can leave each other alone. And then I want her to spend the night, spend all the nights, and wake up with me, turn to me in the morning and wish me a Happy Christmas.
My tongue will tell the anger of my heart,
Or else my heart concealing it will break.
* * *
December Twenty-fifth.
Belle.
I snuggle into my pillow, then flip over and try to snuggle again. A yawn comes and I try to ride it, remind my body that I’m super tired, that it’s Christmas Day and I can have a lie-in, a little morning nap due.
My body is disobedient. I spend a good ten minutes snuffling and snuggling and trying every sleeping position known to man, but my body clock has well and truly changed into that of a grown-up who wakes with the lark.
Not that there are many larks to sing a greeting to me in late December. I lie in bed listening to the silence. It isn’t often this house is silent, and lying here now as it is, staring up at my pictures of icons of a bygone age, I feel at peace. It feels the way this house used to be many moons ago when it was Nana’s, my mum’s mum.
There is no way I’m going back to sleep now; my parents won’t expect to see me until at least noon but this is going to be the year that I break the pattern of truculent child the minute I’m in their house. This year I’m going to be fully adult, I’m going to try really hard to bond with them, make them see what I’m achieving, what I hope to achieve, that I love them.
But first, tea. I can’t begin such extraordinary tasks without tea, and then a good couple of hours here to lie in bed and catch up on some journals I’ve been looking forward to but which this crazy month has afforded me no time for. There’s one on Patriarchy and The Winter’s Tale – always relevant in this house and at this time of year and of particular interest because it’s my favourite. I think it’s one of the most overlooked plays. I wanted to be Paulina when I was growing up; the woman has no fear. My dad is so Leontes with his bullshit and need for control. Leontes ultimately repents and I’m hoping this stint in rehab is the twenty-first century’s equivalent. I’m very keen on the thought of my dad’s repentance and then remind myself that this is the year I’m letting go of baggage and accepting him as he is, flaws and all. I will only ever have one dad and I should be mature enough to try and make the most of it.
Tea, I need tea.
I go downstairs and patter across the empty kitchen, catching a glimpse of Charlie Brown on my pyjamas. I’m in the same pyjamas I was wearing when I met Rory again, at the start of the month. And what a month it has been. At that moment in time I was in debt to Chardonnay, had just lost my job and was wondering how on earth I would get as far as Christmas. Yet here I am, gainfully employed and with a budding reputation as a Shakespeare educator for local schools with bookings already in my diary for next year. It has flown by and I can’t believe all I have achieved in the space of a mere three weeks.
And even more than that, I have a new friendship, a friendship that has opened my eyes a little bit to my value, I think. Although of course the minute I think it, I doubt it again. I don’t want to be big-headed, but I’m definitely beginning to feel that I do have stuff to give. Rory’s brought an awful lot of positives into my life, and I’m pretty chuffed with myself for not trying to get him into bed, despite being in the midst of a searing crush.
Mind you, after the carol service last night, we had held hands and stumbled out of the Abbey and stood in front of the huge, twinkly tree and for a mo
ment, just a moment, I was convinced he was going to kiss me. I swear I saw a flash of desire in his eyes so strong it nearly knocked me over. I know how much I want that but it came to nothing. We walked back to the car, hand in hand – so cute – but that was it. Friendship. It is apparent that is all he wants. I can live with it; I don’t want to but I can.
I tiptoe up the stairs, huge mug in hand. Right! Back to bed for a good couple of hours and a browse on JSTOR as a special Christmas Day treat.
By ten o’clock, I’ve thoroughly submerged myself in academia for hours, updated a bit of The Winter’s Tale on my project, showered and am now ready to tiptoe down the stairs to surprise my parents.
I haven’t bought their salt-dough snowmen and snowflakes, as I know they don’t really want them, and my school money meant I could buy another Jo Malone goody for Mum, a silk scarf for Rose, a tie for my brother-in-law, and a book on addiction for Dad, alongside his bag of spices. I want to show that I am here for him, that I support him on his journey and that I’m proud of him for this.
‘Hello.’ I wander into the kitchen all bushy-tailed as Mum is plating up pancakes. She always does Christmas breakfast although this is the first one I’ve been awake for in years. The table looks amazing. There’s a huge bowl of berries to go with the pancakes as well as poached eggs, smoked salmon and hollandaise, currently sitting in my nana’s favourite jug and oozing creamy yellow richness. I’ve been a fool missing out on breakfast all these years. My eye catches the champagne coupes.
‘Ooh darling, what a lovely surprise. Merry Christmas. Have you just got in?’
‘No, I came over late after work drinks yesterday and snuck upstairs for a good night’s sleep. I didn’t want to disturb you. Happy Christmas.’ I move towards her and plant a peck on her cheek. Usually I don’t go in for small gestures of familial affection but I’m determined to demonstrate my love for them today.
‘Where’s Dad?’ This is unusual. Dad is usually up, swooping around the kitchen, reprimanding Mum about the angle of her eggs or some utter nonsense whilst scrolling through Instagram looking for likes. His addiction to social media validation is akin to that of a thirteen-year-old.
‘He’ll be down in a minute. He’s been a bit tired the last few days. I think rehab took it out of him.’
‘Yeah probably,’ I agree. I imagine after years of drinking, the body may have the odd twinge or so that without alcohol is no longer being masked.
Dad gets downstairs, he’s a bit breathless and sits rather than stalks around the house looking for faults. I’m worried about him but he still manages to criticise at every turn so that’s a good sign – Mum’s hollandaise is lacking (it’s not), I’m not peeling carrots the correct way (I am) – and starts his ‘you’ve always been a bitter disappointment’ chat even earlier in the day than usual. Happy Christmas.
As the morning progresses I know I’m being irritating, coming across as smug – ‘Perhaps we should have virgin fizzes for breakfast, Mum? Dad?’ – but my intentions are well-meant. There’s something off, he’s not right and I’m not convinced getting plastered before noon is going to help.
I try to talk to Mum about it but her ‘don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud, darling’ combined with ‘you know how hard your dad works, I think he deserves a treat’ defence means she’s chosen her side. But, to be fair, she has been successfully petrified into obedience by my dad over the last two decades – she’s hardly going to change her stance now.
Again, the scene playing out in front of me reminds me of Hermione and The Winter’s Tale, though the hope my mother will also one day turn from stone into a woman with opinions and rights and resolutions is probably never going to materialise, no matter how many times I re-read the play. I know my parents love each other in their own way and just because I struggle to accept the behaviour in their relationship doesn’t necessarily mean that they do.
A couple of hours in and half an hour before lunch is served, Rose arrives with her golden husband in tow. My dad adores Jack and is frolicking about in the hallway like a spring-born lamb, albeit one heavy on his feet and with slightly swollen ankles.
‘Oh Cyndi, look! Our daughter is here, come in, come in. There’s nothing like family to put a smile on your face.’ Our daughter. Our daughter. I mean, I don’t want to be an arse but… Hello, I am right here.
‘Who in their right mind would expect people to be sober on Christmas Day?’ Mum queries as I wave the bottle away at lunch, still trying to keep to my plan, prove sobriety is possible, and bite my tongue from replying, ‘Ones straight out of rehab, I would have thought.’
My intention to be kind, loving and non-judgemental is beginning to wear a little thin. I hold firm but this had better get me a sainthood, or at the very least guaranteed entrance to heaven.
‘So, how’s work?’
Oh my goodness. Dad is looking at me as he says this. Straight at me. Is it really happening? Who needs heaven? This is reward enough. I start to tell him all about my project. ‘Really good. I’m actually quite proud…’
‘I was talking to Jack. The world can’t always revolve around you, you know, Belle. She spent the night last night, isn’t that what you said, Cyndi?’ My mother nods, no attempt from either to engage me, to look at me, instead speaking to Rose. ‘That’s two nights in one month, we’re a bit worried she’s homeless and just not telling us.’
The table explodes with laughter as I look up at the clock.
We make it through lunch, watch the Queen’s speech and are just about to play board games, the final point of the day before visitors can withdraw home – i.e. Rosie and Jack can leg it out of the front door with me not far behind.
I’m proud I’ve bitten back any responses to the constant pitter-patter of put-downs from my father. So far Armageddon has been averted at least fifteen times and Rose has even taken me to one side as we were clearing the dishes to say that she’s impressed with how I’m not biting today. I gloss over the fact she’s eight years younger than me and try to appreciate the sentiment. She’ll no doubt be doing the royal wave as she drives off as well.
As we huddle around the Monopoly board – I had mildly suggested Buckaroo or KerPlunk, both of which seem less likely to result in murder when my father objects to paying rent or going to jail – the atmosphere gets more tense.
‘So Jack, I was wondering if you had any openings for Belle here, you know, just basic entry-level work. I’d give her something myself but don’t want to be accused of nepotism…’ Clearly, he doesn’t understand what that is. ‘Always having to watch the what ya call them, optics these days, or so my reputational management guy would say. Ha.’
‘Dad, I’ve got work.’ I keep my tone peppy.
‘I mean, obviously nothing important, we wouldn’t want Belle involved in government…’ The whole family laugh for a full three minutes at this, stopping then starting again as they catch each other’s eye – my sister actually clutches her sides – as I sit there and try not to roll my eyes at my dad’s humour. ‘But even she can make tea. Anything?’
‘Dad, I’ve got work,’ I repeat. Surely when they hear I have bookings for next year, surely that will shut them up? I just need them to listen. I’ve been meek and mild all day but this is important, all I want from him is some recognition that I have finally managed to make a go of what I love. I can shelve the mild, albeit ever-diminishing, hope that he would be proud.
And if not him, then maybe Mum. Mum’s mum gave me the Shakespeare bug, surely, she can see that my love of the Bard, all of the work I put in, is testament to the love I had for Nana, and the pathway she set me on?
‘Well, you hadn’t when you were here for your mother’s birthday. Rose told us you had been sacked again,’ he shoots back. I look over at Rose. Seriously? She gives a hands-up don’t-blame-me gesture.
‘I’m sure with your watchful eye she won’t be any trouble. After all you have Rose in good shape,’ my mum reassures Jack. Yeah, cos he’s the one sitting her
e desperately seeking reassurance. I swear my parents are somehow completely unaware of anything about the twenty-first century, I’d go as far as to suggest most of the twentieth as well.
What had I been thinking this morning? Leontes. I swear if Dad could order me from his life then he would. He would have loved it if I had sodded off to grow up on a mountainside as an orphaned shepherdess. Quite frankly, even in December, it is pretty appealing right now.
‘I don’t need a watchful eye, Dad.’ I can feel my temper building. Come on, Belle, you’ve done so well. You’ve almost got through the day. It’s early evening. So close.
‘Why don’t I get us a nice cup of tea and a slice of Dad’s amazing Christmas cake,’ Mum trills.
‘I have been working in schools teaching the children about Shakespeare, making him relevant to today’s kids,’ I say as Dad sniggers dismissively, swapping looks with everyone else in the room.
How I wish I could say Jamal is funding me and backing me up. That would shut Dad up – there’s nothing he loves more than a bit of external validation from another man – but really, I should be enough. I am not going to let Dad’s stupid, outdated, overly unfair assessments of me carry on shaping me anymore, shaping the way I view myself, the way I present myself – apologetically and always expecting to be a disappointment. I have done well this month. Alison’s words came back to me. He must be so, so proud to have you as his daughter. You’re just lovely. And maybe, maybe instead of thinking not really, I’m a bit of a disappointment, maybe I should think damn right he should be. Maybe if I had had parents who told me I could do anything if I tried hard enough, who told me I was good enough … maybe I wouldn’t be so permanently bloody lost, always looking to see if I have made anyone cross because that was my default setting growing up.
Today I have had enough. Today I will speak out. I need to, for me.
