by Kitty Wilson
I stand.
‘You may be disappointed in me because I am not like you, not a tiny bit, but you know what, what you fail to see is how much that is a good thing. You think if it’s not made in your image then it has no merit. Rose looks like you and also fulfils the role you think suits a female best – sorry, Rose – and I don’t. She is quite literally the golden child and I have never had a chance in hell. You see no good in me at all, you’re genuinely disappointed in the person I am.’
‘Yes, I’m disappointed. You are nothing like me,’ he fires back. ‘You don’t have a practical useful bone in your body. Shakespeare, for fuck’s sake, that’s about as much fucking use to the world today as, I don’t know…’ he looks around the room to find something worthy of his insult and lets out a laugh, ‘…as your mother is to brain surgery.’
‘How dare you? What on earth has Mum done to be brought into this? I’m so done with your stupid worldview on what has merit and what doesn’t. You should idolise Mum, have her on a pedestal so high she towers over you. Because that’s what she does, she towers over you. She is still here, decades on, opportunities no doubt missed, and still by your side. I don’t know why, I don’t know if it’s because she loves you that much or if she’s here because she’s scared of anything different. But she’s still here, and quite frankly after just this last year alone you owe her for that. You owe her for a lot and—’
‘Belle!’
‘Well, he does. And I don’t ever think I’ve heard him say thank you.’
‘Jack, Rose, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s got into her,’ my mother says.
‘Stop apologising for me. I do plenty of things wrong, but I can apologise for myself because I am not Dad. I can accept that I fuck up, that when I do it’s my fault, not the fault of every single person around me so yes, Jack, Rose, I am sorry I am making you uncomfortable, and on Christmas Day, but seriously, Dad…’ I turn to face him again and see that something isn’t right. I should have known something isn’t right by the very silence of him. The power of my words isn’t what is keeping him quiet. Somehow, when all eyes were on me, no one had noticed him sitting back down on his chair, a stream of sweat upon his brow, his skin greyish. He isn’t dripping wet or anything, but he isn’t right.
I cross over to the chair and sink to my knees; he feels clammy to the touch.
‘Dad, Dad. Are you okay?’
‘Yes.’ The word comes out, but it’s slow and breathless.
‘Are you in any pain? Your chest? Your arm?’
‘I have had a bit of a sore throat all day, that’s it though.’
‘I’ll get him some honey and lemon. Nip of brandy, that should do it,’ Mum suggests.
‘No, Mum, get him an aspirin, and hurry. Do it now.’
‘But he says he’s not—’
‘Please, Mum, now.’ There’s a firmness to my tone and she turns on the spot to do as I ask. ‘Rose, call an ambulance. We’re probably okay but let’s err on the side of caution.’
‘I say, I’m sure we don’t need to—’ Jack starts to bumble.
‘We do!’ I snap back. ‘Rose, please.’
‘I’ve nev … never heard anything…’ Dad’s words are slow, laboured.
‘Here.’ Mum is back and passes me the small pot, the childproof lid already undone and balanced on the top.
‘Dad, I want you to chew this. Just humour me, okay.’
‘I don’t need…’ he starts to quarrel. Of course he does.
‘Oh, you bad-tempered bastard, just do as you’re told!’ I don’t want to scare him but I do need him to chew on the aspirin. I’d had first-aid training earlier in the year when one of my colleagues had a silent heart attack at work. This looks suspiciously similar.
‘How long are they going to be?’ I call over my shoulder to my sister.
‘I’m doing the whole name and address thing. What am I to say is wrong, sore throat, slightly slurry speech? Over-dramatic daughter?’ She laughs at her own humour.
‘My speech is not sl-slurry.’
‘No, suspected heart attack.’ The room erupts.
‘But he hasn’t, he isn’t…’
‘He doesn’t need to have chest pain or arm pain. Yes, it’s the most common symptom but not there in a quarter of all heart attacks. For once just trust me, huh?’ I shoot over my shoulder. ‘Now Dad, crunch down on that aspirin. I know it tastes foul and I’m sure it’s not needed but humour me, huh? Just today. You can tell me what a waste of time and space I am again tomorrow.’ I smile at him as I finish undoing the top button of his shirt. I hope to hell he can tell me off tomorrow.
Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
For that deep wound it gives my friend and me
* * *
December Twenty-sixth.
Belle.
‘Hey.’ Rory gives me a big smile as I open the door of his car and I slide in, as well as I can with his present in my hands. ‘I half expected you to cancel today.’
‘Yeah, I nearly did but I went down to the hospital earlier and he’s doing okay. Told me to sod off again so he could enjoy Mum and all the nurses flapping around him. He’s loving being on all the front pages with a “nearly died on Christmas Day” headline. It was only a mild heart attack, if there is such a thing. A wake-up call. Turns out it’s pretty common amongst diabetics and when they ran the tests in hospital they discovered that’s exactly what he is, so that’s a lucky catch. They’re keeping him in to observe today and he’s talking about starting a new healthy eating trend, seems to think he’s invented it and has come up with the idea of a Nick Wilde mocktail book.’
‘He came up with it?’ Rory arches his brows and I giggle.
‘Right? Anyway, he’s very happy to be trending on Twitter and in the most read section of BBC News. Best Christmas present ever and apparently, he never needed to spend a penny on you because this was all he needed to win back the public’s heart.’
Rory arches his brow. ‘Near death is the preferred option to working hard to become a better person?’
‘You have met my dad, haven’t you?’
Rory laughs. ‘No killing the fatted calf for you? The papers say that it was the love and attention of his eldest daughter that saved his life, Paramedics claiming it was your quick thinking that stopped the situation being a tragic one.’
‘Pah. Not exactly, but, get this … Mum told me today I had done well and told Dad he should thank me.’
‘Wow.’
‘Right! He didn’t and she pushed him a second time. That is such a win. Mum took my side over his. I can’t think of a time that has ever happened. And eventually he did do as he was told, like a truculent schoolboy, but he did it. We might not suddenly become the closest family in the world but to have her stand up for me, twice, and make him acknowledge that I did something good yesterday is huge. Huge! As dysfunctional as I think they are she does love him and the way he’s been with her this morning reminds me that he loves her too. I mean, he keeps making stomach-curdling jokes about her being his favourite nurse and sponge baths but I guess they’re cute in their own way. Plus, it means I don’t feel at all bad about coming out with you today as promised and leaving the patient to the tender ministrations of his wife. Here.’ I pass him the huge box I am carrying.
‘Ah, my ginormous gift,’ he says and I nod excitedly. I’ve been very careful with the wrapping of this gift. I didn’t want to give it away so it is currently sat inside several boxes, like pass the parcel, and wrapped in brown paper that I had printed myself with Marsha – reindeer-face potato prints – with a giant bow that Temperance had given me when she gave me the boxes earlier. She has taken a shine to Rory, it seems, and declared that he was here to do God’s work and then kept giving me meaningful stares that left me no clearer about what she was talking about.
He leans over and takes the big box. ‘Shall I open it now?’ he asks.
‘You can try.’ I smile back.
He sits and
unwraps it, taking care to preserve the paper. In days gone by this would have irritated me – just tear the paper off and do it I would have wanted to scream. Now I see a man who is careful, shows respect for the gift and the work that has gone into the paper. He isn’t dull, it isn’t boring or lacking in verve for not ripping it off, he is just more measured than me, careful, and that is a good thing.
‘Eh? Why have I got a giant box of frozen pizzas? I mean thank you, I love pizza.’
‘Ha! You haven’t, you have a letter attached though. Look.’ I gesture to the envelope that is attached to the top of the box, sealed with brown tape.
‘Hmmm.’ He holds my gaze as he takes the envelope from the top, building into the mystery and I feel a shiver run down my spine. Just under a week and he’ll be gone. I’d best bank these looks. I’d thought he may stay a bit longer, especially when he told me Alison would need more surgery, but so far he hasn’t said anything.
‘Rory,’ he reads out loud. ‘Okay, definitely for me then.’
‘Yep.’ He turns it around and opens it carefully.
‘Happy Christmas to you, here’s a Christmassy clue… What is one of the best things about Christmas and rhymes with the arachnid family?’
‘Arachnid, nothing rhymes with arachnid. Pan lid … um … stranded … um … kid … um…’ He scrunches his face up in panic.
‘No, you need to think a bit harder. It’ll come to you and when you’ve answered the clue you can open the box.’
‘Or I could just cheat and open it now.’
‘But you won’t.’
‘No, probably not. Arachnid…? Argggh. I wish I had made your present more complicated now.’
‘I’m glad you didn’t. What is it?’
‘It is a magical mystery tour. Today, Belle Wilde, it is your turn to be whisked away to somewhere special, or so I hope.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Well, why are we still here then?’ And I wink at him cos I like his face when I do so.
Rory.
It has taken a while to get to where we are going, Belle asking every fifteen minutes or so if we are nearly there. Her face as she started to see the signs for Stratford-on-Avon was super cute. That is the best Christmas present I could have asked for, regardless of what lies deep within the pizza box.
‘Are we going to Stratford-on-Avon?’
‘Are we going somewhere close to Stratford-on-Avon?’
‘Oh my God, we are, we are!’
‘You’re turning! You’re turning! Rory, what have you done? My favourite place.’
I smile and remain non-committal until we have driven through the town, past the turning for Anne Hathaway’s cottage, past Shakespeare’s place of birth.
‘Oh my goodness, we’re not?’ As we pull up in the small road beside the theatre she starts to wriggle her fingers in her lap, such is her excitement, and it makes me feel like Father Christmas ‘We’re not? Wow! I’ve always wanted to come but have never been able to afford the tickets. Are we really here for…’
‘Yup and it’s The Winter’s Tale this season; how could I not buy you tickets to see this?’
‘Oh my God, Rory.’ She has the beginnings of a tear in her eye as she looks at me, the whole of her shining, and I fill up with pride. I made this happen. Belle Wilde sitting in front of me looking like she is about to burst. I lean over and wipe the tear from her eye and she stays still, staring at me as I do so. I feel prickles all up my neck and remind myself of all the reasons I can’t spoil this by leaning in for a kiss. How Belle deserves me respecting her desire to be man-free.
‘The Winter’s Tale. In Stratford-upon-Avon. On Boxing Day. I swear I have never believed in fairy godmothers before but something special has brought you into my life, Rory Walters, I swear it has.’
‘It certainly has,’ I say, holding in the thought that it is her, Belle Wilde herself, who is the special thing that has brought me into her life and kept me there. I’m a confident man in many ways but saying that is too cheesy for words and I can’t bring myself to do it. Apart from embarrassing her, it would embarrass me as well. This evening is meant to be a treat, not me pushing things past the friendzone and making her feel awkward. I have a feeling I may have to remind myself of this frequently today. ‘I’m glad you’re pleased. I hoped you would be.’
‘Pleased!’ She flings her arms around my neck and holds me, her head close to my head. Close enough to hear her breath. I breathe in. She gives me a strength I didn’t realise I had before. She makes me feel like I can do anything, be anyone.
A thought pops into my head but I don’t want to speak, or pull away. I just want to enjoy this moment a little longer and we sit there for a little while. Arched over the handbrake, our heads resting against each other’s. I give it a couple more minutes and then I move my head just a little to whisper in her ear.
‘Spider.’
‘Finally,’ she whispers, neither of us moving just yet.
‘What rhymes with spider, and what did I learn to love this Christmas? That must be…’ I pause for effect and move away. She moves backwards too and we exchange a smile that is so intimate it makes me dizzy.
‘Yes…’ She draws out the word, anticipation in her voice. She looks more excited than me about opening the box. I can’t think for a minute what could be in it.
‘Luisa’s cider!’ I say triumphantly.
‘Aha. Yep, open the box, open the box.’
I use my nail to cut the tape, carefully lift the flap and find there is another box with another envelope.
‘You’re joking me,’ I say and she claps her hands with excitement.
‘It’s pass the parcel for grown-ups. Next clue.’
Again, I carefully open the envelope. ‘The very next day…’ I read aloud. ‘She gave it away,’ I say without thinking
‘That’s not fair, you’re supposed to take longer.’
‘How could I? That song is now etched into my brain.’ I push my hands in the air and start to act out the rave version of ‘Last Christmas’, complete with chugga chugga beat box noises.
‘You’re a fool. Okay, go on then, next clue.’
‘There’s another bloody layer, how many boxes are there? Am I going to go through all this and find something tiny like a pea or something?’
‘Maybe, maybe. But what time is the show starting? Shouldn’t we get in there?’
We wander around the theatre, Belle oohing and ahhing and looking at all the pictures of performances past, chattering about things that are way over my head with a couple of members of staff and occasionally turning around and patting me with a mix of excitement and gratitude. Her happiness bounces from her. Finally, we take to our seats.
‘How well do you know the play?’ she asks.
‘I was going to ask you for a quick précis. I’m a bit rusty and you’re my walking Wikipedia. It’s not one of the more well-known ones.’
‘No, but it’s an absolute beaut.’ She gives me a quick rundown of the plot but refuses to give the end away, smiling enigmatically. ‘The great thing is this play is so full of themes, about recognition, about inequality, country versus city, jealousy, all sorts of things, and I just love it. It’s one of his later plays and is hard to be categorised as anything other than late romance—’
The woman in front turns around to shush her, cutting her off. We have both been so caught up we haven’t noticed the curtain coming up.
‘Oops, sorry,’ Belle says and lowers her head. I scowl. There was no need to be arsey; no one is even on stage yet although there is a huge Christmas tree in the corner.
‘Look.’ I point it out to her. ‘You didn’t mention Christmas in your précis.’
‘Because it’s got bugger all to do with Christmas, that’s just stagecraft and a director trying to find a link to help ticket sales.’
‘But it’s The Winter’s Tale, I thought it was partly your favourite because of Christmas.’
‘You k
now Shakespeare wrote very little about Christmas!’ She gives me her cross face as if I am a naughty pupil who hasn’t paid attention to his lessons. Far too cute and I bow my head in acceptance of the telling off. She’s right, I do know that, she told me back when she was preparing to go into the schools. ‘It’s a winter’s tale because it is a good old tale with lots of morals which is perfect for drawing up around the fire and telling on a winter’s eve, or at least I think that’s why…’
‘Shhhhhh.’ The woman in front turns and hisses at us again, whilst rustling so many sweet wrappers she could be a one-woman orchestra. Belle grimaces an apology, settles back, ready to get caught up in this retelling and I sit back to watch Belle.
Belle.
The time whooshes by and I am so happy. It was magnificent, such a good production, and I can’t believe that Rory has thought of this as a gift. In the first half I had found myself leaning into him over the seat arm as the play began and couldn’t help but notice how a tear welled up in his eye at the courtroom scene as Leontes’ fury rolled out across his life and caused him to lose everything he had previously held dear. After the interval, I reclaimed my position, as close as can be, and in the final scene – the unveiling of the statue of Hermione as the father is reunited with his daughter – I felt him sit straight, caught up in the anticipation and emotion of the moment. But then as the statue moves and Hermione reveals herself as alive all along he stiffens. Shit!
Shit!
Shit!
Shit!
Of course, it had never occurred to me that Rory would buy me tickets for this play, let alone sit and watch it with me. And then once he had my joy took over and I forgot to factor this in. I forgot that for a man carrying the burden he does – the loss that is etched into the brow of his face – witnessing a play where a lost love is revealed as living, back from presumed death, would be hard.
The audience stand and clap and clap; the cheering is thunderous as the actors stand and take their bows, blowing kisses to their audience. I stand and clap as Rory does too but the cheers I want to hurl are silenced as I watch another tear trickle down the face of the man I know I have fallen in love with.
