by Liz Davies
With a glance around the messy kitchen, Kate pushed herself away from the counter, feeling the stickiness of spilt orange juice under one hand and crumbs stuck to the other, and sloped off upstairs to get ready for work.
Brett laughingly referred to it as her “little shop job”, but Kate didn’t find it at all funny. She took her job very seriously indeed. So what, if it was part-time? So what, if she wasn’t paid as much as Brett? So what, if there was little or no prospect for advancement? She loved her work and not just because it gave her a little financial independence. It also gave her companionship, a structure to her day, and a reason to ignore the housework. That it also fitted in extremely well around the children was an added bonus.
Whenever Brett hinted that perhaps it was about time she got a “proper job” (he meant one that would mean she was out of the house from seven in the morning until six at night, the way his did) she felt like taking him up on his suggestion, if only so he’d appreciate how much she truly did around the house. It was OK for him – he didn’t have to wash and iron three lots of school uniform. He didn’t have to supervise breakfasts, ensure there was an assortment of stuff for lunches (although she’d fallen down dismally on that particular chore this morning), or feed three hungry mouths, none of whom wanted to eat the same thing at the same time. He didn’t have to ferry the kids to drama and band practice (Ellis), piano and horse-riding (Portia), or football, cricket, and swimming (Sam). And that was without the constant demands to be driven here, there, and everywhere to meet friends in town, or to go to someone’s house for a sleepover/barbeque/trying-clothes-on-session/playing on the Xbox/party, or whatever social event her children simply couldn’t survive without attending.
And don’t get her started on the homework nagging, the piano-practice nagging, the nagging to put clothes/shoes/bags/equipment away, or the daily (sometimes thrice-daily when it came to Portia) dramas about lost phones, iPads, keys, favourite tops, the only pair of trainers to be seen in (Sam), or the thousand-and-one other things that her children seemed able to lose and then expect her to drop anything and everything to help them look for.
In reality they didn’t do much looking – they just stood around helplessly while Kate felt down the back of the sofa (not recommended without wearing protective gear) or under beds (ditto), while asking where her children had last seen the item in question, and receiving a sarcastic “I don’t know, do I?” in return.
She shouldn’t omit the cleaning, shopping, lawn mowing, car servicing (she didn’t do the servicing herself – she paid a garage to do it – but it was up to her to do the booking in, the dropping off, and the picking up), the visits to dentists, doctors, hairdressers (barber’s in Sam’s case), the attendance at various school concerts and parents’ evenings, and—
She picked up two wet towels from the floor of the en-suite and wondered where she’d gone wrong.
Not been firm enough, maybe? Not laid out her expectations in words of one syllable? Not made her displeasure clear?
She wasn’t just referring to the children, either. This time, her ire was aimed at her husband, who’d left the wet towels on the floor (why he needed to use two of them when he showered, she had no idea), toothpaste spit on the basin, the toilet seat lid up, and he hadn’t noticed the empty loo-roll holder. And this was just the bathroom. The bedroom fared no better – unmade bed, scatter cushions scattered, wardrobe and drawer doors left open, yesterday’s boxer shorts, socks, and shirt on the floor, a half-drunk glass of water on the bedside table (Brett’s side), and shoes left right where she’d trip over them.
If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought they’d been burgled.
The kids’ rooms would be equally as bad, she knew.
Maybe it was her fault her family were slobs. She should have trained them better, like recalcitrant puppies. But it had been so much easier and quicker, and far less stressful to do things herself. There were enough arguments in this house as it was, without hourly tantrums over who’d left the milk out, or whose turn it was to vacuum the stairs.
She’d made a rod for her own back, and she suspected it was far, far too late to do anything about it now.
Chapter 3
Brett wasn’t having a good day. He normally liked to be out of the house before the morning mayhem began, but he’d been running late this morning and had therefore been in the firing line between his wife and children, and between the kids themselves. Why did they have to be so stroppy and argumentative all the time? Before they were born, he used to imagine fun-filled picnics with his future family; evening meals where everyone sat around the table sharing news about their day; lazy Sunday afternoons building forts in the garden out of chairs and draped sheets.
The reality had been somewhat of a shock.
It hadn’t been so bad when Ellis arrived, but the cracks began to show when Portia got to about three-years-old. By the time Sam appeared on the scene, the two girls had declared all-out war on each other, and now that all the children had reached their teens (more or less – at eleven, going on twelve, Sam was nearly there), they appeared to hate the very sight of each other.
Family time together was either non-existent, or it was spent wearing a hard hat and bullet-proof vest. There seemed to be no in between.
And now with Christmas bearing down on them at a rate of knots, he not only had his mother to contend with, but Kate’s was threatening to show up, too. He just hoped that mangy pooch of hers would be put in kennels for the duration. The dog was a menace. Beverley treated it like a baby, and the damned thing ruled the roost. It had even growled and snapped at him the last time she’d come for one of her infrequent visits, and all because he’d tried to shoo it off the sofa. Dogs belonged on the floor, not on the furniture, in his opinion. He’d been picking canine hairs off his trousers for weeks afterwards, despite his mother-in-law’s insistence that poodles didn’t shed or moult.
He glanced out of the partition window and into the open-plan office beyond to see his staff with their heads down, beavering away on the new project. He should be doing the same, but all he could think about was his mother’s inevitable reaction when he plucked up the courage to tell her that Beverley would also be joining them for Christmas.
The two women had never got on, and he had no idea why – so the best thing to do, in his opinion, was to keep them apart, and it had worked quite well so far. His mum stayed with them every Christmas, even though she only lived a few miles away, because he hated to think of her waking up to a quiet and empty house on Christmas morning, and because she insisted on visiting. Her friend, Rosemary, spent the festive season with her son and his family, so Helen didn’t see why she couldn’t spend it with her son. Brett made a point of fussing over his mother and making sure she had a good time, so that she could report back to Rosemary that she’d been treated like a queen and hadn’t had to lift a finger.
The arrival of Kate’s mother this year would change the whole dynamics.
He’d better warn his mother that Beverley intended to join them. It would give her time to get used to the idea; besides, she’d probably enjoy complaining about it to her cronies beforehand.
He checked the time, wanting to make sure it wasn’t so early that she still might be in bed, but not so late that she’d gone out for one of her manicures, or hair appointments, or for coffee and cake with Rosemary and the rest of the elderly ladies in her friendship group.
Ten-thirty. Perfect, he should be able to catch her on her landline, when she was more likely to be on her own. She did have a mobile but he didn’t want to risk calling her when she had an audience to play up to.
‘Mum? It’s Brett,’ he announced.
‘I know who you are,’ she said. ‘I gave birth to you.’
‘Right, yes, OK...’ Why did she always manage to put him on the back foot? She had this uncanny knack of making him feel twelve-years-old again. How did she do that?
‘What do you want, Brett? I’m just about to leav
e for choir practice.’
Oh yes, he’d forgotten she’d recently developed an interest in singing. From what he could recall though, he hadn’t considered his mum to have a particularly tuneful voice, but if it made her happy...
‘I just wanted to let you know that Beverley will be joining us for Christmas this year,’ he said, then waited for the explosion.
‘Beverley, who?’
‘Kate’s mother.’
‘Oh. Her.’ The “her” was said with a sneer. ‘What on earth for? It’s a long way to travel for a bit of dry turkey and a spot of overdone Christmas pudding.’
Brett wondered if it was worth his while to take his mother to task for her disparaging remarks regarding Kate’s cooking, but he decided against it. He’d not change her mind, and besides, he had bigger fish to fry this morning.
‘Her sister is going out to Australia to visit her daughter, so Beverley would be all on her own over Christmas, if she doesn’t come to us. We wouldn’t want that, would we?’ he said.
The silence on the other end told him that Helen didn’t give two hoots whether Beverley was on her own or not, as long as she wasn’t anywhere near Helen.
‘Mum? Are you still there?’
She gave a deep sigh. ‘I suppose I can put up with her for one day. I’ll have to, won’t I?’
Oh, hell. His mother thought Beverley was only coming to them for Christmas lunch itself. Although why she’d assume such a thing when Beverley lived a four-hour drive away, was anyone’s guess.
‘Er, Mum, she’s staying for a couple of days, not just for lunch.’
‘She’s what?’
Brett could almost hear his mother bristling on the other end of the phone. He could picture her drawing herself up to her full height and pursing her lips. Her indignation might have made him laugh, if it wasn’t so heartfelt.
‘When is she arriving?’
‘Christmas Eve, I think.’ That’s when she always went to her sister’s, so he felt it safe to assume that’s when she’d turn up on his doorstep.
‘I do hope you don’t expect me to share a bedroom,’ his mother said. ‘I like to have my room to myself.’
Brett didn’t bother pointing out that “her room” was, in fact, the spare room, and it was also the one Beverley stayed in on the rare occasions she came to visit. She didn’t like travelling much, did his mother-in-law, expecting Kate and the rest of the family to visit her instead, even though she had a car and was perfectly capable of driving.
‘I’m sure Kate will sort something out,’ Brett murmured, although what the sleeping arrangements would be exactly, he had no idea. He’d leave that for his wife to deal with. If this morning’s squabbling was anything to go by, she’d have a fight on her hands.
‘Brett?’ Brett looked up to see his boss’s head poking around the door. ‘All set for the meeting?’
What meeting? ‘Oh, uh, yeah. I’ll be right there.’
He waited until Clara, aka The Abyss, had left – he referred to her in his head that way because when he looked at her, Brett imagined he was staring into an abyss; the woman had no soul; she was a workaholic who couldn’t understand that people had lives outside of the damned company – then said, ‘Look, Mum, I’ve got to go, I’m in work. We’ll speak later, yeah?’
‘We most certainly will. I’m not at all happy about the situation, Brett, but if Beverley does have to be there, I’ll simply have to make the best of it, won’t I?’
As will we all, Brett thought. Then his mother said something that made his blood run cold and his heart sink to his boots.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ she said. ‘Instead of coming to yours on Christmas Eve like I normally do, I’ll arrive on Wednesday and get myself settled in. I expect Kate will welcome having another pair of hands, now that her mother is coming, too.’
I bet she won’t, Brett thought.
Oh, lord, his wife was going to go ballistic when he told her.
Merry bloody Christmas, everyone.
Chapter 4
Doris had a cup of tea waiting for Kate when she walked in the door of the charity shop where she worked.
‘I’ll just take my coat off,’ Kate said, as she did every morning, and went out the back to hang up her coat, scarf, and hat, and put her bag under the chair.
One of the volunteers was already there, sorting through some plastic bags of donations, and he sent her a small, hesitant smile. He was probably in his late seventies (Kate had never asked) and lived alone. He was shy, kept himself to himself, preferring to root through other people’s cast-offs rather than interacting with the customers, but turned up unfailingly three times a week, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. What he did on the other two days, Kate had no idea. She’d asked him once, but he’d just coughed, and carried on steam-cleaning a pair of trousers.
He was one of a handful of volunteers. Doris was the shop manager and Kate was the only other paid employee, because she stood in for Doris on her boss’s days off or when she had a holiday.
Kate walked back into the shop, casting an experienced eye around as she headed for the counter and her mug of tea. After she’d drunk it and had a quick chat with Doris, she intended to change the window display this morning. Keeping it fresh was what brought the customers in and, despite it being a charity, the shop had to make money.
The Christmas decorations could do with a bit of tweaking, too. The tree next to the window leant drunkenly to one side, and the angel on the top had fallen off.
Still, the shop did look festive, and carols were playing quietly in the background, loud enough to be heard, but not too loud so as to annoy their (mostly) elderly customers. Someone, probably Doris, had plugged in a Christmassy air freshener, and the scent of berries and cinnamon filled the air.
‘What’s up?’ Doris asked her, handing her a mug of hot, sweet, steaming tea.
‘Mothers.’ She said it in an apologetic tone, knowing Doris had lost hers a while back, but also knowing the older woman would understand.
‘Which one – yours or his?’ Doris knew all about Kate’s fraught and delicate relationship with both women.
‘Both. Mine has decided she’s coming to us for Christmas.’
‘She invited herself?’
Kate nodded, sipping her drink and wishing she had a packet of biscuits to go with it. With all the chaos of this morning, she’d forgotten to have breakfast. She’d nip out to the baker’s shop across the road later and get some mince pies to share, along with some fresh bread to replace the mouldy loaf she’d absentmindedly put back in the bread bin.
Doris said, ‘She’s never come to you for Christmas before, has she?’
‘No, and that’s her argument. That and the fact that we always have Brett’s mother to stay. I can hardly say no to having mine.’
‘She is your mother,’ Doris pointed out, gently. ‘No offence, but why would you want to say no?’
‘You haven’t met my mother.’ Kate’s reply was accompanied by a grimace. ‘His mother constantly nit-picks, but I can ignore that, most of the time – I’ve had lots of practice. But my mother is just so joyless. She’s constantly miserable, and her biggest gripe around this time of year is that she hates Christmas. She doesn’t see the point in it, can’t wait for it to be over, and tells everyone in earshot over and over again. She just brings the whole atmosphere down.’
‘Has she always been like that?’
Kate put her mug down and stared into space, thinking. ‘When I was growing up, I think she quite liked Christmas. I can’t remember her being miserable about it.’
‘What changed?’
‘I’m not sure. I can’t say it was because she and my father split up at Christmas, or anyone died around then. Dad left in March and my gran, Mum’s mother, died in early summer. Not the same year, thankfully!’ Kate gave a nervous laugh. ‘Grandad passed away in September, so I’ve no idea why Christmas is such a horrible time for her.’
‘What about when the children wer
e small?’ Doris wanted to know. ‘I can understand how some people can lose the magic of Christmas or become disillusioned by the materialistic side of things – it happens to a lot of people as they grow older and their kids have lives of their own. But usually, the arrival of grandchildren brings Christmas back to life for most people.’
‘Not for my mum. It just made her grizzle and whinge even more, usually about the number of presents they’ve been given.’
‘What does she normally do at Christmas?’
‘She spends it with her sister, my aunt. They take it in turns to stay in each other’s house, but this year my cousin, Aunt May’s daughter, moved to Australia, so Aunt May is spending Christmas and the New Year down under. I would have invited Mum to come to us for Christmas, of course, I would have – I wouldn’t want her to spend it on her own – but before I had the chance, she told me she was coming to stay with us and that I was to buy a bottle of gin. A large one. I’m not sure if it’s meant for her or for me.’
Doris chuckled. ‘Drink it anyway. The drunken haze might help to take the edge off.’
‘In that case, I think I’ll start now. Brett isn’t exactly over the moon at the thought of having both our mothers under the same roof. The last time that happened was at our wedding, and I don’t think he’s looking forward to repeating the experience. The kids are squabbling already – mainly about who’s going to sleep where. The most logical thing would be for both grannies to share the spare room because it’s got a double bed in it, then no one is put out. But I can’t see that working out. They can’t stand the sight of each other. So...’ Kate heaved a sigh – that was all she seemed to be doing lately – and said, ‘one of the children will have to share and it’s not going to be Sam, because he’s a boy and, in his words, he can’t share his bed or his room with a girl. Ellis and Portia didn’t like that idea either, although they hate their brother for being allowed to stay in his room on his own.’
Doris was trying not to laugh, and Kate nudged her with an elbow.
