by Beth Morrey
It was perfect, such a wonderful, thoughtful suggestion, and it made everything so much worse. But Sylvie must not know, so I smiled and nodded and made my excuses, walking away as quickly as possible, worried she would be offended by my hasty exit. They were all so kind, Sylvie and Denzil, and Angela when she wasn’t drunk and ranting, and all the dog walkers who bought me Bobby’s bed. At least my tears weren’t visible in the drizzle.
Back at home I made myself a hot water bottle, ready to huddle on the sofa for the rest of the day, or at least until Bobby’s afternoon walk. I made up a fire while she curled round and down onto her bed, then sat and fretted, thinking about the way things always went wrong.
I spent several days like this, calling in sick to the library and not bothering to go out except for dog walks, which I got over with as quickly as possible, marching briskly, head down, tramping round the park for the requisite hour and returning home to brood and work my way down the Christmas sherry, ignoring the various envelopes that came through the letterbox because they were only the usual bills. Angela texted a few times, but Sylvie didn’t, which I supposed meant she must have been offended by my brusque response to her Yorkshire hens. I worried about that for a while but then thought what did it matter? The outcome was always the same, alone in my barren old house, thinking of the people who’d gone.
Eventually I dragged myself out and ventured to a few shops to stock up, but winced when I saw the tinsel-fringed windows, the looped festive pop songs blaring away inside. So I retreated again into my shell of a house and sat hunched on the sofa, reading Mel’s Nancy Mitfords, surrounded by my old albums, the photos of us all, ‘held like flies, in the amber of that moment’, while I was borne, inexorably, further and further away from those days.
I was sitting like that one Saturday afternoon, in semi-darkness, with the embers of a fire dying in the grate, when there was a loud banging at the door. Knocking back the last of my sherry, I went to open it, Bobby barking at my heels, eager for a distraction – she’d been rather bored by my inertia. I was greeted by a mass of greenery, the fronds of a fir tree pushed up against the doorframe – my very own Birnam Wood. After a great deal of rustling, Angela’s head emerged.
‘Well, don’t just stand there, fecking help me!’ she grunted, hefting the tree through the doorway. Nonplussed, I grabbed one of the larger branches, and hauled it into the hallway, shedding pine needles everywhere. Bobby whined and scuttled back to the living room. Together we manoeuvred the tree into a standing position and Angela held it in place, panting and red-faced with the effort. Otis slid in behind her and immediately headed to the kitchen to look for treats. Angela eyed me triumphantly.
‘What do you think? I did a deal with Mrs Anthony, the grocer! Two for fifty quid! This one’s yours.’
I stared at her, confused and irritable. It was true I’d talked of getting a tree and letting Otis decorate it, but that was when I was expecting guests and now the idea seemed preposterous. A lonely old woman had no need of such frivolities.
‘I don’t want it.’ I slapped at one of the fronds, scowling at the shower of pins that would need clearing up.
Angela stared. ‘What? But I dragged it all the way from Highbury Barn!’
‘Well, you can just take it back again. It’s much too big and besides I can’t afford it.’
She huffed. ‘You don’t have to afford it. It was supposed to be my Christmas present to you.’
Tears prickled. ‘And I suppose Otis can stay to decorate it while you make a deadline?’ It was out of my mouth before I could stop myself.
Otis came out of the kitchen with a biscuit in his hand and loitered in the doorway watching. Angela glared at me as more needles fell to the floor.
‘Fine.’ She hefted the tree onto her shoulder, opening the front door with her free hand. ‘I thought you might like to have a tree for Arthur but if you’re going to be like that …’ She began to lug the tree back out again. ‘Come on, Otis, we’re going.’
‘He’s not coming.’ There it was.
Angela turned and peered at me through the branches but I couldn’t meet her eye. ‘Why not?’
I shrugged, gesturing towards Otis. ‘It’s complicated.’ I brushed away a tear that had made its way down my cheek, but it was too late.
‘Otis, go and play with Bobby,’ said Angela, dropping the tree and shutting the door again. Otis started to protest but she held up a finger and he scampered off. She pushed me into the kitchen and immediately clocked the almost-empty bottle of sherry on the table.
‘What’s going on?’
‘They’re not coming for Christmas after all,’ I muttered, busying myself putting the kettle on the hot plate and hiding the bottle in a cupboard.
‘Why not? You were so looking forward to it.’
‘Emily.’
‘Who?’
‘Alistair’s wife. She had a miscarriage.’
Angela sank down into a chair. ‘Oh my God! How awful. Is she OK?’
‘Um … yes, I think so.’
‘You think so? Have you spoken to her?’
I hesitated. ‘I’m not really that close to Emily. I’m not sure she likes me very much. Anyway, they’re not coming now.’
I wasn’t looking at Angela but could tell she was watching me and could hear her fingers drumming on the table.
‘She’s quite a bit younger than Alistair. They met and married very quickly. We don’t have much in common.’
‘You have Arthur.’
‘Yes.’ She’d given me my adored grandchild.
The kettle boiled and I poured out two mugs, setting one in front of Angela. She cupped her hands around it. I could tell she was building up to a lecture and steeled myself.
‘You never talk about Emily,’ she said, finally. ‘All the time I’ve known you, you talk about Arthur, and Alistair, but you’ve never once mentioned her. At one time I thought that they might be divorced, or even that she might be dead.’
I swallowed. ‘I blame her.’
‘For the miscarriage?’
‘No, of course not. For them moving. She’s Australian. If Alistair had met a British girl, they would be here. I would have Arthur. Instead, he’s thousands of miles away, going to school and growing up and forgetting me. He has an accent now, did you know? He doesn’t even sound like my Arthur any more. I’m seventy-nine years old. How much longer do I have to enjoy him? And that time, that precious time, it’s been taken away, and I’m left with emails and Skype calls. It’s not enough. It’s not enough.’ As I rattled on, my voice broke and I took a deep breath. ‘It’s not enough.’
She put her hand on mine. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I lie awake at night worrying about Otis growing up and leaving home. Leaving me. It’s inevitable. And I can’t bear it. But you know what they say. You have to “Let It Go.”’ She sang the last three words, as we’d been singing to Otis all summer, and I managed a wan smile.
Angela wasn’t finished. ‘I suppose he has grandparents over there, in Oz?’ I nodded. ‘So one of you had to lose out. And it’s you. It’s fucking horrible but there it is. You think of yourself as Arthur’s grandmother, and Alistair’s and Mel’s mother, and, I guess, still Leo’s wife, but you’re much more than that. Own it.’ She stood up. ‘Now, I’m going up to your attic to get those decorations you told me about. And then Otis and I are going to decorate your tree. Because I don’t have a deadline.’
‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what made me say that. You know I love Otis.’
She grinned. ‘I know. You can be a bitch sometimes though. Go and take that dog of yours on a walk, and pick us up something on the way back. None of that sweet sherry shit.’
At the ‘w’ word, Bobby came skidding into the kitchen. I gathered her lead and my purse as Angela collected the attic key and bellowed for Otis to come and help her.
Outside, braced against the December chill, we made our way down the road to Bobby’s little wasteland so she could do her busi
ness. Afterwards I tied her lead to a lamppost and went into the off-licence where I bought a bottle of wine and some chocolate for Otis. As we made our way back, my pace slowed and I looked into the various houses en route. People put up their Christmas trees earlier and earlier every year, but I rather liked it, beckoning in the season and relishing the anticipation a little longer; the sweetest and most rewarding part. Each was a window into a different world and the tree a reflection of it, whether adorned with the most eclectic and clumsily hand-made of baubles, or bedecked in tartan-themed finery. As the lights twinkled at me, I absorbed their glow and felt the faint stirrings of hope.
‘Maybe I’ll be all right on my own after all,’ I said to Bobby, as she sniffed some weeds between the cracks of the pavement. She looked up at me with such affection that I felt quite overwhelmed. ‘You’re right. I was never going to be on my own. I have you.’
Later, watching Angela and Otis unwrap Jette’s darling little decorations, exclaiming and draping, I thought about all the other things I was. A classicist, a librarian, occasionally a witch (and a bitch), a walker and a dancer, and – for now, at least – Bobby’s owner. As I sipped my wine and pointed out empty branches to Otis, Angela turned to me and smiled: perhaps I was a friend too. Or at least I could try to be.
While Otis and his mother hung the last knitted dolls and painted candy canes, I slipped back up to the attic and rummaged around until I found what I was looking for. In the spare room I discovered some leftover paper and quickly wrapped up two presents, then went downstairs again and shyly held out my offerings.
‘You’re in Ireland for Christmas, aren’t you? So you may as well have these now, in case I don’t see you before then.’
Otis darted forward eagerly, Angela following more slowly to receive her parcel. Inside Otis’s box were his beloved Dinky cars, a bit bashed about, but still raring to go. He shouted in delight and was off, roaring and brumming into the hallway. As the bow fell from Angela’s gift, Jette’s green flapper dress was revealed, silken and gorgeous, glittering with tiny beads, delicate feathers fluttering. She stared at it for a second and then looked up at me, her face flushed in the firelight.
‘You shouldn’t. It’s your grandmother’s. And it must be worth a fortune!’ She clasped it to her chest.
I shrugged. ‘Not a fortune. Anyway, this is better than selling it to some faceless collector. Wear it. Dance in it. Get drunk in it. Seduce someone in it.’
She grinned wickedly. ‘Not in Ireland. My mother would go batshit crazy.’ She hugged me. ‘Thank you. I’m sorry I won’t be around at Christmas. But you’ll be fine.’
‘Don’t worry about me. I’ve got Bobby,’ I gestured to her, snuffling by the fire. ‘We’re going to eat pigs in blankets and play Canasta. What happened to your Clark Kent, by the way?
Angela, still stroking the dress, looked up. ‘Who?’
‘The American? At the party? I thought he seemed nice.’
She shrugged and started to pack up her dress in its wrapping. ‘Jack? He had to go back to New York. It was fun while it lasted.’
‘Oh. Well, plenty more fish in the sea. Or superheroes in disguise.’
They left, Otis pushing along one of his cars, Angela clutching her dress, and I closed the door behind them, smiling. My smile faded though, as I turned back to my empty house. There was no denying that the prospect of Christmas alone was daunting. But then I saw the lovely tree in my cosy living room, Bobby sleepily opening one eye and thumping her tail as she saw me return, and I sat on my sofa thinking that together we would make the best of it.
I went through to the kitchen to make some cocoa and saw my laptop on the table. Classicist, librarian, a witch (and a bitch), walker, dancer, dog owner, friend. And mother-in-law. Sitting down, I pulled it towards me, opened it up and logged onto my email.
‘Dear Emily,’ I began.
Chapter 31
With nothing to look forward to, Christmas edged in more slowly than usual. Typically, I would have been swept up in preparations, nights tightening like a drawstring as the big day approached, but this year, the days rolled by idly. I went to visit Mel in Cambridge since she was going to Italy for the holidays, to see Octavia’s parents. She was briskly sympathetic, but she and her new wife were busy buying their new flat, and didn’t really have time for my Yuletide lament. So instead I took myself out and wandered around the city, walking the cobbled streets and admiring shop windows, then venturing into quads to look up at the lights shining from the rooms tucked away behind those Michaelmas creepers, wondering who was reading and talking and falling in love in them.
Boarding the train back, I thought what the hell, and bought one of those dreadful little bottles of wine like some scantily-clad girl off to the races. I must have looked strange, sitting there with my plastic cup, my mongrel beside me, but I’d learned not to care, and sat fondling Bobby and watching the inky landscape flash past.
Back at Finsbury Park, I made my way to the taxi rank and managed to find a black cab with a driver who didn’t mind taking a dog. In fact, he had one of his own, a giant Schnauzer called Stanley who was scared of Christmas crackers and cringed whenever one was brandished. He showed me a picture on his phone of a handsome black dog, his inscrutable expression shadowed by a fringe of crimped fur. When we arrived home, my dog-loving driver leapt out of his seat to open the door for me, and gave Bobby a good ruffle on the head as she jumped out.
I let myself into the house, still chuckling at the thought of Stanley the schnauzer quaking at crackers. Cosaques, they were called originally, after the Cossack soldiers who fired their guns in the air – no wonder the dogs got scared. I wondered if Bobby would be. Leo made me a cracker once, in the old bon-bon style, with an almond and a Greek poem in it. It took me a while to translate, because it was unfamiliar to me, but I was glad when it was done. I found the handwritten paper, along with my scribbled notes, up in the attic the other day, tucked in one of the photo albums.
I can only sing because you loved me
all these years.
in the sun, in the sun’s shadow,
in rain, and in snow,
I can only sing because you loved me.
Since you kept your hands on me
that night when you kissed me,
since then, I’m fine as an open lily
And I have a quiver in my heart,
only because you kept your hands on me.
A quiver in his heart. That’s what I was. I kept my hands on him and didn’t let go.
Back home, I picked up the post and went straight to the living room to switch on the tree lights, which cast a warm glow over my various trinkets. Sitting down, I started to weed out the inevitable bills, but amongst them found a thicker cream envelope with my name and address in beautifully elegant handwriting. Inside was what looked like a Christmas card, a lovely little pen and ink drawing of an Islington-ish square with a tree in the middle and a crowd singing round it. But when I opened it, instead of the usual festive greetings, I read:
Ms S. Riche
Requests the pleasure of
Mrs M. Carmichael’s company (and Bobby’s)
On Sunday, 25 December 2016
At twelve o’clock
14 Lennox Square
The most fervently-worded love poem would not have made a sweeter read. ‘Bobby!’ I gasped. ‘We’ve had an invitation!’ She trotted over to look, sniffing the card warily and wagging her tail. I hugged her in delight, then began to fret. Could I accept? Would it not be a terrible imposition? What would Sylvie do about Aphra, her impossibly bossy cat? I picked up my mobile and called Angela. She answered on the first ring.
‘Don’t tell me. You’ve had Sylvie’s invite and you’re worrying about whether to say yes.’
‘Yes.’
‘You almighty eejit. Say yes.’
‘But … who else will be there?’
‘I don’t know. Ask her, she always invites a mixed bunch. You’ll fit right in.’
As usual with Angela, I didn’t know whether to be pleased or offended. ‘She’s invited Bobby too.’
‘Great, it’ll be like one of those old cartoons, all the animals chasing each other.’
‘I might say yes,’ I said.
‘Thank fuck for that. Merry Christmas.’
Chapter 32
I spent the next few days in a glorious frenzy, consulting Sylvie, buying and wrapping presents (thankful for my library salary, tiny as it was), searching in the attic for a dress to wear, and giving Bobby an extra good brush, despite her protestations. On Christmas Eve, I went to bed feeling the familiar tingle of expectation, soaking up that magical spark in the night air that sends children into raptures. It turned out I could relish it, even on my own.
The following morning, we both set out looking very fine, Bobby’s silky-smooth tail waving. Under my old black coat I was wearing one of my mother’s frocks, made for her by Jette: a scarlet tea dress with a flared skirt and holly leaves embroidered on the hem. She wore it one Christmas up in Yorkshire; the skirt fell over the piano stool as she played ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’, and I sat at her feet and fingered the holly berries. The contents of that case were a sartorial memory stick, each garment unleashing a torrent.
We stopped briefly en route to take flowers to Leo. I tied Bobby outside the gate and she waited patiently, as she always did, while I went in to leave my offerings and sit for a while, contemplating his oak tree and trying to think of something to say. Like Melanie, I felt the urge to speak to him, so occasionally I would tell him what we were doing, or simply reminisce. Today, I told him a story about a Christmas past, when Mel had stopped believing in Father Christmas, and fell into a huge sulk which only lifted when she opened her present. Chosen by Leo, it was a handsome mahogany guitar, and her squeal of glee when she opened the box made Alistair wail. Christmases were very noisy then.
