by Adam Croft
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your mum decided to fall asleep upstairs, didn’t she. God knows why she didn’t just ask one of us to keep an eye on things for a few minutes. Daft woman. Too bloody proud for her own good.’
Mum enters the living room, Tom walking closely behind her with a hand on each of her shoulders.
‘We’re alright, I think,’ Tom says. ‘It’s salvageable.’
‘Mum, what happened?’ I ask.
‘She had a bit of a funny turn,’ Tom says. ‘She felt like she needed to lie down for a minute, and seems to have dozed off. It’s alright, it happens.’
‘Are you okay now?’ I ask Mum.
Mum nods.
‘She’ll be fine,’ Tom says. ‘I’ll keep an eye on things in the kitchen. Most of it’s nearly ready anyway, so I can finish off the last few bits.’
‘Most of it’s bloody burnt, you mean,’ Dad says.
‘It’ll be fine,’ Tom replies.
True to his word, fifteen or twenty minutes later we’re called through to the dining room and Tom serves up the perfect Christmas Dinner. I look at Mum and smile. She looks embarrassed, ashamed almost.
‘Thank you, Tom,’ she says, eventually. ‘This is lovely.’
‘Nonsense,’ Tom says, pouring out the red wine. ‘You did all the hard work. I just dished it up.’
It’s agreed amongst us that it really doesn’t matter who gets the credit, but that we’re all enjoying the meal.
When dinner’s finished, we’re all suitably stuffed and decide to give it an hour or two before worrying about dessert. The thought of adding more food to my stomach is enough to make me feel ill, and I’m pretty sure I’m not going to want to eat for a week.
Instead, Dad and Tom pick out a board game while Mum and I load the dishwasher and tidy up in the kitchen.
‘I don’t know what happened,’ she says, drinking a pint of water. ‘I just came across all funny and knew I needed to lie down. I could have sworn I turned the hob off and the oven right down.’
‘Honestly, don’t worry about it. Everything was fine in the end. It was probably just the stress of trying to get everything ready, the heat in the kitchen, drinking on an empty stomach, who knows? Doesn’t really matter now. But for Christ’s sake tell us if you feel like that again, alright? There’s no need to go sneaking off upstairs. You’re too proud.’
‘I know, I know. It was only meant to be for a minute or so. I must have just nodded off. I think maybe I had a little too much to drink. I didn’t think I’d had that much, but I must’ve done.’
‘Mum, forget it. Please. It’s Christmas Day, and no-one else is bothered, believe me. We’re all having fun.’
‘Your dad isn’t. He thinks I’m a silly old fool.’
‘No he doesn’t. Dad’s just being Dad. Let’s enjoy the rest of the day. Yes?’
Mum forces a smile and nods. I think she knows she doesn’t really have much choice.
We head through to the living room, and find Dad and Tom sitting in silence. I don’t know what they’ve been talking about, but it certainly seems as if the conversation is very much over now.
‘Thought you were never coming out of there,’ Dad says, nodding his head towards the kitchen.
‘We were sorting out the mess from dinner,’ I say.
‘Well don’t worry about all that. That can be done later.’
‘It’s done now.’
‘Great. Now are we going to play this bloody game or what?’
Tom and I share a look — one that tells me Dad’s been a right bundle of laughs while Mum and I were in the kitchen — and Tom starts to deal out some coloured cards, explaining the rules as he goes. I try to follow what he’s saying, but I get lost a couple of times. I usually tend to work these things out much better by playing a round or two, rather than trying to understand everything that’s being said.
After a few minutes, Dad’s even more frustrated.
‘I can’t get a bloody word of this,’ he says. ‘I need a drink.’
‘Maybe it’s better if you read the rules, Grace,’ Tom says. ‘I’m clearly not doing a great job of it. I’ll help your dad with the drinks.’
As Tom leaves the room, Mum and I try to decipher the rules of the game with no enthusiasm whatsoever.
A minute or so later, we hear raised voices and banging. Mum and I look at each other, then get up and rush into the kitchen, where we find Dad pinning Tom up against the radiator, before he lands a punch on his face.
‘Dad!’ I yell, before a second punch lands. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’
I rush over to Tom, checking his face.
I look at my dad, his eyes full of rage, and in that moment I feel like I don’t know him anymore.
15
I spend the whole journey home mortified. Hurt. Broken. I’ve never seen Dad behave like that before. It was like a switch had flipped. I know he’s been upset over the situation with Nan, and Christmas can often be like a tinderbox at the best of time, but none of that excuses what he did. Not by a long stretch.
‘Are you going to tell me what the hell happened?’ I ask Tom once we’re back in the car.
‘It’s nothing,’ he says. ‘I probably deserved it.’
‘What did you say to him? Why did he hit you?’
‘I don’t know. We were talking about your mum and her funny turn. I was worried about her. I mentioned that she was taking too much on and probably needed to see a doctor. Your dad said not to be so ridiculous and that it was Christmas. I was just concerned about her, that’s all. She wasn’t standing up for herself, and I felt that someone needed to defend her and look out for her. He wasn’t.’
‘Did you tell him that?’
‘Not in so many words. I think he took it as if I was blaming him or something. I don’t think I crossed a line, but maybe he saw it differently. Maybe I didn’t put it across in the best way. He’s obviously really worried about her too.’
‘That’s no excuse for hitting you, Tom,’ I say.
By the time we get home, my jaw aches from how heavily I’ve been grinding my teeth. My chest is tight and all I can think of is how angry and disgusted I am with him. Sure, Tom wasn’t exactly an angel, but he was Mother fucking Teresa compared to the way Dad reacted.
Tom, bless him, jumped straight to Dad’s defence and tried to excuse what had happened. Not in front of him, of course. That would have been too awkward. But in the car on the way back, and now that we’re home, he’s been trying to play it down. It isn’t working.
‘Let’s just try not to let it ruin Christmas, alright?’ he says as I fumble with the key to unlock the front door. I’m still shaking with rage.
‘I think it’s a bit late for that,’ I say, my voice faltering.
‘I’m sure he didn’t mean it. We’d all had a bit to drink, feelings were running high, these things happen. I’m sure he’ll be apologetic in the morning.’
I make a snorting, huffing sound as I finally manage to wrestle the door open. ‘I doubt that very much. You don’t know my dad.’
‘No, but I know that people often calm down overnight and see things differently. And I know that good men know when they’ve done something out of the ordinary and are quick to try to put it right.’
‘You’re assuming he’s a good man,’ I say, throwing my handbag down and closing the door behind us.
‘I’m sure he is,’ Tom says. ‘That’s why I’m certain he’ll phone up tomorrow to apologise. But for now, let’s just sit down and watch whatever shite’s left on telly, shall we?’
I look at him, both in admiration at his nobleness and slightly enamoured by his naïveté. It’s sweet of him, but also foolish to think that Dad’s going to be anything other than the stubborn old bastard he’s always been. Dad’s never changed his mind or apologised for anything, and he’s not about to start now.
‘You should put some ice on that,’ I say, gesturing toward Tom’s lip.
‘Probably a
bit late for that now,’ he says, dabbing at it with the back of his hand. ‘At least it’s stopped bleeding.’
‘It’ll be sore tomorrow.’
He smiles. ‘I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who’ll be waking up with a sore head.’
‘No, but at least you’ll be waking up with a clear conscience.’
‘It’ll all blow over,’ he says, walking through into the living room. ‘He didn’t mean it. It was just an overreaction. He’s obviously just worried seeing you with another guy, after what happened with Matt.’
I shake my head. ‘That was ages ago. It’s no excuse. If I’m over it, he should bloody well be over it.’
Tom shrugs. ‘Maybe it’s just a dad thing. We find it harder to get over stuff.’
This stops me in my tracks momentarily. I keep forgetting Tom’s got a daughter of his own, and that he probably sees things differently because of that. Especially considering he doesn’t get to see her.
‘Maybe,’ I say.
‘He’s probably just worried because things aren’t necessarily going how he expected.’
‘How do you mean?’
Tom sits down on the arm of the sofa, next to me. ‘Well, look at it this way. You’ve always been a pretty close family. He liked Matt, assumed you’d always be together, treated him like part of the family. Then… well, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘Can I ask you something?’
I nod.
‘When you think back now, did you ever have suspicions about Matt? Not suspicions. Worries, perhaps. With the benefit of hindsight, do you think there might have been some signs as to what was to come?’
I think about this for a moment. ‘Honestly?’ I say. ‘Probably. Yes. I think I knew for a long time his heart wasn’t in it, but I didn’t want to admit it to myself. Or to anyone else.’
Tom nods slowly. ‘I thought as much. People do know. Deep down, I mean. You like to please people and keep the peace, and that’s great, but sometimes you’ve got to follow your gut and stand on your own two feet. If you’d listened to yourself about Matt, yeah, things still wouldn’t have ended brilliantly, but you wouldn’t have got so close to the wedding and been so ruined by it all. You probably wouldn’t have wasted all that money either. But you wanted to listen to everyone else instead. You worried about what your parents would think, what other people wanted. You need to stop doing what other people think you should do and stand up for yourself.’
‘Maybe.’
‘There’s no maybe about it. Every time you’ve not followed your gut, something bad has happened and you’ve suffered for it, all because you chose to listen to others over yourself.’
I think about this for a moment, and realise he’s right. I worry too much about what other people think. But I’m not meant to be living my life for them; I’m meant to be living it for me.
‘Yeah. I know,’ I say. ‘You’re right.’
‘I usually am,’ he replies, with a cheeky grin on his face. He always knows just what to say to cheer me up, bring me back round and leave me feeling stronger.
‘Yeah, well you can bask in the glory, mister. I’m going to take this as my opportunity to live life for myself. Well, I’m going to have a bloody good go at it, anyway.’
‘That’s my girl,’ Tom says, winking.
‘And I think I know the perfect way to get that party started.’
They say that blood’s thicker than water, but that’s just not true. Toxic people are toxic people, regardless of who they shagged thirty-odd years earlier.
You can’t choose your family. And that’s why nobody needs them. In fact, they’re the least important people in your life purely because you didn’t choose them. They should have to work extra hard for your affections.
You’re better off without them. I should know — I’m just fine without mine. I never felt I needed them, and I didn’t feel bad once I was finally free of them. Why should I have? They were toxic. No-one regrets getting rid of poison.
I’m just glad you finally got to see what your family are like. A few drinks usually helps. In vino veritas, as the old saying goes. In wine there is truth. And gin. And whisky. Especially when they’re served in double — or even triple — measures.
I’m pleased I did my bit. I’m happy to have helped you see the light. You don’t need them. You never needed them, and you certainly don’t now I’m here.
I’m proud of your decision. I’m proud of you. Proud of us. From now on, it will always be us.
16
Thursday 26 December
Tom’s made me see a lot of things differently. For all his sweet remarks about how Dad probably didn’t mean to hit him, how everyone’s just been stressed recently and he’s sure it’ll all blow over sooner or later, there was one comment that really stood out. It was the mention of standing up on my own two feet and saying ‘sod it’ to everyone else.
Even though it’s the way I’ve always lived, I’m sick of people constantly telling me what I should or shouldn’t be doing. Tom’s right. I’ve always been too slow to stand up to people, and much preferred to keep everybody happy by just going with the flow. And where’s that got me? Thousands of pounds in debt with a fiancé who fucked off and left me two weeks before our wedding, in a house I can barely afford with a job I’m getting sick to death of and a family who can’t accept the one choice I’ve actually made for myself recently.
I look around at everyone else living the life they want and I’m sick of it. My friends all seem to be doing really well. They’re getting married, having kids and I’m left suffering because I’ve spent my whole life listening to them instead of myself. And even though they get to live their perfect little lives, they still whinge about it. Cath can’t help but complain about people wanting to help make her perfect white wedding even better. She’s more than happy to slag off her loved ones, who genuinely want to lend a helping hand, but the second someone calls her out on that they’re the bad guy.
Tom was wrong on one thing, though. There’s no way in hell Dad’s ever going to apologise for what he did, or even be the first one to make contact. Every ounce of his being will expect me to phone up, cap in hand, full of apologies and wanting to put it behind us. And, for a moment or two, I might just let him labour under that misapprehension.
I call the landline number for Mum and Dad’s house, and wait for an answer. After a few seconds, Dad picks up.
‘Hello?’ His voice is clear and jolly.
‘Dad. It’s me,’ I say.
‘Oh. Hello.’ He drops an octave and pushes as much disappointment through the phone line as he possibly can. Just as I expected.
‘I just wanted to give you a call after what happened yesterday,’ I reply. This is where he’s going to expect me to say sorry on behalf of Tom, to tell him I want to forget it all and move forward because it’s so much easier when everything’s nice. ‘It made me think,’ I say. ‘And I’ve come to a decision. Frankly, I’m sick of constantly being pushed around by people trying to tell me what’s best for me. There’s only one person who gets to decide that, and that’s me. I’m in charge of my own life, my own destiny, and if you’re not going to accept that and support me, that’s fine.’
Dad makes a huffing noise at the other end of the phone. ‘Well you won’t be wanting the money we put into your account each month to keep a roof over your head, then, will you?’
‘No. You’re right,’ I say, before I can even think about the words that are coming out of my mouth. ‘If you’re not going to support my decisions and accept that I’m an adult and get to decide my own future, I don’t want your money. I don’t want a penny of it. If that’s your attitude, go ahead and cancel the standing order. I’m not interested.’
Dad’s a stubborn old bastard, but I get the feeling that if the shit were ever to really hit the fan, he might finally relent. Even knowing how obstinate and headstrong he is, I still don’t expect to hear the response that comes out of his mouth.
‘Alright. Fine. I’ll do that now. Was there anything else?’
‘No,’ I say, trying to answer quickly and not leave any form of silence that might indicate the slightest level of doubt or hesitation on my part. ‘No, nothing else.’
‘Bye then,’ he says, and the line goes dead.
I look at Tom, unsure as to what my future holds, but knowing it’s right there in front of me. He steps forward, pulling me into him, and now my future is holding me.
17
It’s a big moment for me. I’ve always been close to my parents, and having a conversation like that is huge. We’ve never really fallen out before, mainly because I’ve always gone along with whatever they’ve wanted and have never really put my head above the parapet and gone my own way.
Tom tells me it’s just the shock of things, and that they’ll come round eventually. At the end of the day, he says, who wants to lose their only daughter over something so silly and trivial? Lots of people get through lots worse.
We sit on the sofa and I lean into him, my head on his shoulder as his hand caresses my hip.
‘You know I’ll do what I can, don’t you?’ Tom says. ‘To support you. I mean, there’s not a whole lot I can do financially, but I’ll do what I can.’
‘I know. But you don’t need to do that,’ I say.
‘No, but I’d like to. I hate seeing you like this. I’m due a pay rise at some point, so I’ll have a word at work. I can probably spare a little bit, but I don’t know if it’ll do much good. It’s paying for that bloody flat every month that’s doing it. You’d think he’d give me mates’ rates or something, but no. It’s sucking me dry.’
Tom puts the TV on and we flick through the channels, trying to find something that isn’t a repeat of a Christmas special from a decade or two earlier.
Boxing Day is usually spent with my parents. We’ll either meet for drinks in a pub somewhere or go for a walk. But this year that isn’t happening. Yesterday’s antics and my conversation with Dad this morning have probably put paid to that little family tradition. Short of a miracle, I can’t see that happening again.
