by Sue Townsend
‘Tree decorations in box marked “TD”. Fairy lights for tree in box marked “FLFT”. Fairy lights for sitting room, kitchen, dining room, hall stairs, outdoor porch in box named “FL General”. Do not throw horrible papier-mâché bells or similar cack-handed ornaments away. Brian Junior and Brianne made them in infants school before they fully discovered maths. NB — box of extension leads and multiple plug sockets in box marked “Christmas Electricals”. Note — spare bulbs for FLs in here. All boxes to be found in attic next to wooden giraffe. Stepladder in cellar. Buy firelighters, kindling and logs from Farm Shop in Charnwood Forest. Pick three bags of coal up from BP garage. Buy candles for candlesticks — open bracket, check widths, close bracket.
‘Drive into countryside for mistletoe, ivy, pine cones, branches and seed heads. Dry out on radiators. Buy silver and gold spray paint. Spray dried-out foliage, et cetera. Clear out fridge — use disparate leftovers to make strange little meals, flavours disguised by chilli flakes and garlic. Go to local butcher, order a turkey. Watch him laugh in your face. Go to supermarket, try to order a turkey. Leave to the sound of laughter from the poultry department. Buy ten tins of Quality Street for fifty quid. Queue for an hour and ten minutes to pay for them. Decide how much to spend on distant or near relations, trawl round shops, ignore present list and make ludicrous impulse buys. Arrive home, unload presents, immediately suffer from buyer’s remorse. Take everything back the following day and buy twenty-seven pairs of red fleece socks with reindeer motif. Go online, order latest technical must—have gadget for Brian and twins, find that there are none left in the country, go to Currys and get told by youth that a container ship has just docked at Harwich and lorry is due to deliver on 23rd December. Ask if you can order three of the latest must-haves. Currys youth advises you to join queue at five thirty a.m. as this will be your only chance.’
Brian said, ‘Eva, that was last Christmas! I need to focus on this year! Half of your advice is redundant!’
But Eva was reliving the nightmare of Christmas 2010. ‘Go late-night shopping for Christmas outfit for self, to prevent row like last year’s when Brian said, “Eva, you can’t wear jeans on Christmas day.” Make impulse buy of red sequinned cardigan and black lace skirt. In Marks, buy twins pyjamas and dressing gowns, ditto Brian. In food hall, buy ingredients for Christmas dinner for six, plus cakes, biscuits, flans, mince pies, sliced bread for sandwiches, salmon, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera —Brian interjected, panicking now, ‘How can one person possibly deal with all those different components?’
But Eva couldn’t stop.
‘Poultry supervisor says must queue from four a.m. to guarantee getting a turkey. Stagger outside with bags, cannot find car, ring police to report stolen car, then remember just before police arrive that came by taxi, ring taxi firm for return journey, harassed-sounding man says, “Not a chance, we’re fully booked for office parties.” Ring friends, they have all had a drink, ring relatives, Ruby says, “It’s eleven thirty. How can I help? I haven’t got a car.” Phone runs out of battery, hurl it in temper into prickly car-park bush. Calm down and search for phone. Find phone but scratched and bleeding from search. Eventually husband reports you missing, police say they will keep an eye out, patrol car delivers you home at one thirty a.m. Snatch two hours’ sleep before driving car to Marks & Spencer to join queue. At four a.m. nineteenth in queue. Dressed turkey’s gone, no choice but to buy undressed turkey with head, neck and claws attached. Its eyes stare at you with unbearable sadness, you apologise to it — in your mind, you think. Actually, you have spoken aloud, and people around you think you are a madwoman because you said, “I’m so sorry, turkey, that you had to be murdered for the sake of tradition.”‘
Brian gave a deep sigh and said, ‘Eva, Eva, Eva.’
‘Are about to drive home when remember have to queue for latest device. Drive to Currys to find queue already snaking round car park. To join it or not — that is the question. While try to decide, fall asleep at wheel of car causing very slight damage to Renault in front of you. Renault driver reacts badly, as though you have injured his children and killed his dog Swap insurance details then realise insurance out of date. Decide to join queue and suffer the unbearable tension of wondering if Currys will run out of devices before you reach the front door. Manage to get to counter before must-have gadgets sell out. Try to pay, card rejected by machine, given lecture by twelve-year-old cashier who says, “If you keep it loose in your bag, it’s bound to get scratched. Why didn’t you keep it in the cardholder compartment in your purse?” Tell child that I will be as disorganised as I want to be. She says, “Do you have another card?” Say, ‘Yes,” and forage inside bra cups, searching for other card. Give it to cashier who says card is warm, won’t work until is cold. We wait and wait. People in queue behind protest loudly at delay. Shout at queue, queue shouts back, supervisor brings tray of mini mince pies to placate cold and tired customers. Man chokes on raisin inside mince pie. Eventually, card is cool enough to insert into machine and is declined for purchase of must-have gadgets.’
Eva started to cry.
Brian took her hand and said, ‘Eva, darling, I had no idea. Why didn’t you say? I didn’t want that bloody iPhone 4, it’s been in a drawer since Boxing Day.’
But Eva was inconsolable. ‘Beg cashier to try one more time. She does — but mutters under her breath — think she used the f-word, this against Currys policy. Tell her so, consider making formal complaint, but brain and mouth not working, so let it go. Machine accepts card, weep with relief. Drive home with turkey and must-have gadgets on passenger seat, held secure with seatbelt. Return home and, through fog of anxiety and sleep deprivation, unpack turkey, leave on kitchen table. Drag stepladder up cellar stairs, untangle fairy lights, drape along picture rails, start with artistic plan in head, end with fairy lights thrown over any ledge or surface. Bulbs go, search for replacements. Ask for help to decorate the tree. Twins and Brian traumatised by the sadness in turkey’s eyes and claim to be incapable of movement, swear they will never touch any kind of meat again. Cross pork joint and gammon off Christmas food list. Go into kitchen, find next-door’s cat mauling turkey’s head, turkey’s eyes expressing woes of world. For once don’t hit cat with wooden spoon but usher cat and turkey head outside. There are seventeen carrier bags on kitchen table. Bite into a carrot, pour tiny amount of whisky into small glass, take bite out of mince pie, arrange on a festive plate, bring through to sitting-room fireplace. Will I still be doing this when twins are thirty-five?’
‘Eva, I can see you’re tired. I can google the rest… There must be a Delia’s Christmas app —Eva said, ‘No, let me finish doing Christmas Day.
Cook full English breakfast. Drink toast with Buck’s Fizz. Open presents. Pick up wrapping paper, fold and place in recycling bin. Ring and thank relatives for presents. Change from dressing gown into sequinned cardigan and lace skirt, Brian says look like madam of whorehouse, change into jeans.’
Brian said, ‘Eva, that lace skirt barely covered your bum!’
‘Cook Christmas dinner, almost collapse after assembling food on table. Drink too much, ask Brian to help wash up, he says, “Later.” Twins gone somewhere, make Christmas tea, turkey sandwiches, trifle, Christmas cake. Twins come back, refuse to play games, play maths games with Brian. Refuse to watch Christmas TV, all three watch DVD lecture series on advanced topology from MIT. Eat half tin of Quality Street. Prepare supper. Drink self into stupor. Feel sick from Quality Street and vodka, go to bed.
‘So, that was my Christmas last year. You may find it useful,’ Eva concluded. ‘And, Brian, I am. Never. Doing. Christmas. Again.’
32
It was teatime on Christmas Eve and snow was still falling. Eva liked the snow — the beauty of it, the interruption it made to daily life — and she enjoyed the chaos it caused. She was looking out of the window for Stanley Crossley, who had sent a message that he wanted to talk to her. It was a meeting she dreaded. To divert herself she concentra
ted on the outside window sill, where flakes were settling and intermingling, all the time forming an even, white ledge.
It reminded her of the time she had thrown the ten-year-old twins out into the snow when they carried on bickering after she had asked them to stop. They had knocked on the sitting-room window and pleaded to be let back in while Eva pretended to read Vogue. A few minutes later, Brian had arrived home from work to find his son and daughter shivering, coatless in their school uniforms, while his wife sat by a crackling log fire reading a magazine, apparently oblivious to her children’s misery.
Brian had bellowed, ‘Our children could end up in the care of the local authority! You know how many social workers live around here.’
It was true — there were a disproportionate number of new-model Volkswagen Beetles parked in the surrounding streets.
Eva laughed aloud at the memory.
The twins had been forced to huddle together for warmth before Brian let them back inside the house. She told Brian that it had been a bonding exercise — and since he had only just returned from a team-building trip to the Brecon Beacons, where he had been forced to catch, skin, cook and eat a rabbit, he had believed her.
She saw Stanley approaching the house and watched as he hesitated at the gate. He was entirely coated in snow, from his trilby hat to his black brogues. She came away from the window and heard him stamping his feet in the porch. The doorbell rang as Eva got into bed and readied herself for whatever was coming. She had asked Brian to make sure that Poppy was out of the house.
Brian had said, ‘The only way I can guarantee that is to take her out somewhere myself. It will be a bloody nuisance, but I suppose I’ll have to do it.’
Even though Stanley had been released without charge, Eva didn’t want to risk him bumping into Poppy. There was no guarantee that she would not make the same accusations again. Eva would have to explain that the false stalking was only one of many such painful Poppy dramas. The hypochondria, the deep-black lies, the hysteria if anybody touched ‘her things’, the household items that had gone missing…
Had Stanley come to burden her with an account of his near-death experience inside a burning Spitfire? Would he sob as he recounted how his face had melted and fallen away? Would he try to describe his agony?
It was the details Eva feared.
Brianne led Stanley up the stairs. She was mute with embarrassment and horror. ‘His face is gross,’ she thought. ‘Poor Mr Crossley. If I was him, I’d wear a sort of mask.’ She wanted to tell him that she was not Poppy’s friend, that she hated Poppy, didn’t want her in the house and couldn’t understand why her parents didn’t throw her out. But, as usual, the words wouldn’t come. When they got to the top of the landing, she called, ‘Mum! Mr Crossley is here.’
Stanley stepped into a white space in which the only colour was a yellow embroidered armchair with an orange and red stain that reminded him of a dawn sky. He gave a slight bow and held his hand out. Eva took it and held on to it for a fraction longer than was usual.
Brianne said, ‘Can I take your coat and hat?’
As Stanley struggled out of his coat and handed Brianne his hat, Eva saw from the light above his head that his scalp was a relief map of scars. ‘Do sit down, Mr Crossley.’
He said, ‘Had I known you were indisposed, Mrs Beaver, I would have waited until you were better.’
‘I’m not indisposed,’ said Eva. ‘I’m giving myself a break from the usual routine.’
‘Yes, it’s rather good for one, it shakes one up and invigorates mind and body.’
She told him that Brianne could bring tea, coffee or some of the mulled wine that Brian had simmered overnight.
He waved the suggestion away, saying, ‘You’re too kind. Thank you, but no.’
Eva said, ‘I’m glad you came. I want to apologize to you for what happened the other day.’
‘You mustn’t apologise, Mrs Beaver.’
‘That girl is a guest in my house. I feel responsible.’
‘She’s obviously troubled,’ Stanley said.
Eva agreed. ‘Troubled and dangerous.’
‘It was very good of you to take her in.’
‘Not good… I had no power to stop it. I’ve got nothing but contempt for her.’
Stanley said, ‘We’re all fragile, and that is why I’m here. It’s important to me that you understand, I did nothing at all to frighten the girl. I did glance at her extraordinary clothes, but I did nothing more than that.’
Eva said, ‘You don’t have to tell me this. I know you are a man of honour, and I imagine you live by the strictest of principles.’
‘I have not spoken to a living soul since I returned from the police station. This is a statement, I am not asking you to pity me. I have many friends I can call on, and I’m a member of many clubs and institutions, but as you can clearly see, my face is not my fortune.’ He laughed. ‘I confess to wallowing in self-pity during the early days, after my little accident with my plane — most of us did. There were a few who denied they were in pain — sang, whistled — at least, those with lips. They were the ones who tended to crack. The smell of rotting flesh was indescribable. They tried to disguise it with Izal disinfectant — made from coal, I believe — but… it was always there, in your mouth, on your uniform. But we laughed a lot. We called ourselves Guinea Pigs. Because Sir Archie McIndoe experimented on us, told us he was pushing the parameters of plastic surgery —which he was, of course. For six weeks I had a skin flap from my upper arm attached to where my nose used to be.
‘Archie was very fond of us boys. Actually, I think he did love us like a father. He used to laugh and say, “Marry a girl with terrible eyesight.” A lot of the boys married the nurses, but I followed his advice and married a lovely poor-sighted girl, Peggy. We helped each other. Both of us were normal in the dark.’
Eva said, ‘I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’m going to say it anyway. I think you’re incredibly brave, and I hope we will be friends.’
Stanley looked out of the window and shook his head. ‘The uncomfortable truth is, Mrs Beaver, that I took advantage of my wife’s lack of sight and I…’ He broke off and looked around the room, searching for something for his eyes to settle on. He found it impossible to look Eva in the face. ‘During my marriage, starting when we returned from a fortnight’s honeymoon, I visited a very respectable lady once a week and paid her rather a lot of money to have sex with me.’
Eva’s eyes widened. After a few moments, she said, ‘I have known for some time that my husband has been having an affair with a woman he works with called Dr Titania Noble-Forester.’
Stanley felt sufficiently emboldened by this confidence to tell Eva more. ‘I have been in a rage since 1941. I was irritated beyond telling when my wife dropped something or spilled her tea or knocked over a glass of water. She was always blundering into the furniture and tripping over rugs, and she refused to use any of those gadgets that are designed to help. She knew Braille. God knows why she learned it — I sent for the books but she wouldn’t touch them. But I loved her dearly, and when she died I couldn’t see the point of carrying on. With her by my side in bed, the horrible dreams were almost tolerable. I would cry out and wake and my dear wife would hold my hand and talk to me about the things we had done together, the countries we had visited.’ He gave a tight smile, which he seemed to use as a form of punctuation.
Eva asked, And your lady friend, is she still alive?’
‘Oh yes, I still see her once a month. We do not have a sexual relationship now She’s quite frail. I pay her twenty-five pounds to talk and be held.’
What’s her name?’
‘Celia. I’ve longed to say her name aloud to somebody who would understand. You do understand, don’t you, Mrs Beaver?’
Eva patted the duvet next to her, and Stanley sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand. They both heard Brian and Poppy’s voices as they came through the front door.
Brian was saying, ‘C
ommitting suicide would do you no good. We’re not asking you for the ultimate sacrifice, Poppy.’
Poppy said, ‘But he was looking at me in such a horrible way.’
Brian was on the stairs now, saying, ‘He can’t help but look at you in a horrible way. He’s got a horrible face.’
Brian was disconcerted to see Crossley and his wife holding hands, but nothing would surprise him now. The world seemed to have gone mad.
He said, ‘Poppy is asking for money. She wants to visit her parents over Christmas.’
Eva said, ‘Give her what she’s asking for. I want her out of this house. And Brian, Mr Crossley will be spending Christmas Day and Boxing Day with us.’
Brian thought, Well, I’m not sitting opposite the ugly bastard.’
Mr Crossley said, ‘I’m afraid I’m terribly dull company, Dr Beaver. I wish I was more gregarious. I do not know any jokes, and most of my stories are rather sad. Are you sure you want me as a guest?’
Brian hesitated.
Eva looked at him.
Brian said quickly, ‘No, of course you must come. And don’t worry about the jokes — there will be jokes in the Christmas crackers, and paper hats and little trinkets we can talk about, so there won’t be any of that English awkwardness. We’ll be a jolly crowd. There’ll be two sulky autistic teenagers, my mother — who is the most argumentative woman I know — and my mother-in-law, Ruby, who thinks that Barack Obama is the head of Al Qaeda. And me, of course, who will no doubt be in a filthy temper, having never cooked Christmas dinner before. And then there’s my wife, the issuer of your invitation, who has done bugger all to help this Christmas and who will be stinking in her pit above our heads as we eat.’
Brian’s speech was greeted with silence. He had forgotten what he came in for, so he went out, closing the door with exaggerated care.
Eva swung round in the bed and lay down with her head flat on the mattress. She said, ‘He exhausts me. Poor Titania.’
