by Liz Davies
Decision made, he headed towards the city, then skirted around the ring road until he came to a truckers’ café. The tea would be so strong and dark you could stand a spoon up in it, the eggs would be swimming in grease, and tomato ketchup would be served with everything, but Brett didn’t care. He felt like a ton weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Admittedly, it hadn’t been lifted far, and he could sense it still hovering, waiting for him to return to work, when it would thump back down like a coffin lid; but for now, he felt lighter than he’d done in ages.
He needed this little break, a chance to regroup and rethink. He considered confiding in Kate, but she was so exhausted all the time, so stressed with the kids, that he didn’t want to add to her worries. Besides, he did feel like he was the last on the list when it came to his wife’s priorities. She always put the kids first, was a bit of a martyr to them, if he was honest.
Brett, waiting for his greasy, salty, fat-laden, mouth-wateringly delicious fried breakfast had to admit that he sometimes felt left out, ignored, overlooked. He was sick of her running around after the kids when they were mostly old enough to sort themselves out. Sam needed a bit of help now and again, but he was nearly twelve, almost a teenager. It was about time the three of them learned to stand on their own feet a little more, especially the girls, take a bit more responsibility, and stop expecting their mother to fetch, carry, and pick up after them.
Then there was the problem of his sex life. He didn’t exactly have much of one. He and Kate couldn’t seem to coordinate their sex drives – if one of them was up for it, the other couldn’t be bothered. To be honest, he was the one who was usually up for it, and Kate was the one who couldn’t be bothered. His wife seemed to say yes to everything and everyone, except him.
And now that her mother was here, he was last in line after the blasted dog, who by the way, also seemed to have more of Kate’s attention than he did. Even a sharp telling off (like she’d given the dog last night after it had tried to take a chunk out of her ankle) was better than being ignored.
He knew she was tired and doing too much, but some of it was her own fault. The kids were perfectly capable of tidying up their own things, finding their own lost phones, doing their own homework without supervision. He supposed he could help a bit more, but he worked such long hours and the job was so stressful and demanding, and took so much out of him, that all he wanted to do when he got home was to collapse in front of the TV and let his brain wallow in a couple of hours of mindless drivel until bedtime.
Chapter 20
Doris felt better, so her text to Kate said that she’d be in work today as normal – which was a good thing, considering Kate wasn’t. Kate was sitting in the coffee shop opposite, eating a fried breakfast and wondering how much she had in her bank account and how far it would take her.
She was so tired and fed up, she could cry – and it was only Wednesday!
As she shovelled bacon and egg into her mouth, she hated to admit it, but most of the events over the past few days (and the previous few years, if she was being totally honest) was all her own fault. It was a hard thing to accept, but it was true. She’d let her family get away with murder (not literally, of course), and now she was harvesting the results.
The kids, the girls especially, were nightmares – spoilt, entitled, selfish brats. They expected, no demanded, that she drop everything to see to their immediate needs; and while this had been essential when they were babies, she’d carried on the practice for far too long and was still doing it now, as last night sleeping on the air bed showed. Although all three of them were well-behaved, polite, accommodating children outside the family home (thank God for that; even Portia, the more challenging of the three, was often called “delightful” and “a sweetheart” by teachers and other parents alike) they slipped into their alter-ego of stroppy, opinionated (none of them had enough life experiences to be so opinionated in Kate’s eyes), dramatic, stubborn (the list could go on...) horrors once they were at home.
Her husband took her for granted and regarded her as part of the fixtures and fittings – he probably wouldn’t even notice if she wasn’t there, except to wonder why there were no clean shirts in his wardrobe and why the fridge was empty.
Her mother...? Hmmm, that particular relationship was rather more difficult to quantify. Mothers and daughters didn’t always hit it off (she should know – her own daughters had turned into unrecognisable strangers), and she wondered if Beverley felt the same way about her. Guilt-tripping was what her mother was especially good at – she could go on Mastermind, with her specialist subject being “How to make daughters feel guilty”. Her mother would more than likely win that damned contest, too.
Kate mopped up some egg yolk with a piece of toast and chewed thoughtfully, and slightly guiltily, too. It wasn’t like her to pull a sickie. She was hardly ever ill, and on the rare occasions she did feel under the weather, she’d always make an effort to go into work. After all, she reasoned, if she was well enough to deal with three children, then she must be well enough to go into work.
She didn’t only feel guilty about taking an unwarranted sick day, she also felt guilty she wasn’t using it to remain at home and keep the peace between the various factions. At least they hadn’t coalesced into two warring groups – in Kate’s house it seemed it was every man for himself, and every other family member was viewed as the enemy. No one got on. Her kids hated the sight of each other, her mother and his mother played a subtle game of one-upmanship and putting each other down. They also tried to play Kate and Brett off each other, but the children had been doing that for years, so it was a bit like water off a duck’s back. The children didn’t particularly enjoy having either of their grandmothers to stay; Kate didn’t see eye to eye with Helen, and Brett barely tolerated Beverley.
As for her and Brett themselves, the least said about that the better, she decided.
Peace, that’s what she craved. Solitude. The word almost made her feel faint with wanting. Imagine not having to answer to anyone, having nothing to do all day but please herself?
The thought was so decadent, it was practically obscene.
Kate wondered if it was normal to feel like this – if her family was normal. Despite many of the school’s mums posting Facebook images of familial bliss she wondered if, underneath the surface of those seemingly happy, perfect lives, all those other families were equally as disjointed and miserable. Because if her situation wasn’t typical and wasn’t being reflected in families all across the country, then she had an awful feeling she wanted to opt-out of Christmas altogether. Which was why she was speculating on how much she had in her bank account. She hadn’t checked it recently, having used it to purchase most of the Christmas presents for the children, and a few things for Brett, too, of course.
If she left it up to her husband to ensure there were presents under the tree, the kids would be lucky if they got a bag of nuts each, and an orange to share – and those would only be given because there were several bags of assorted nuts and raisins in the cupboard and the fruit bowl was full.
Kate logged onto internet banking and winced. She didn’t have enough to fly to the Caribbean for a fortnight, but she might be able to manage a few days in a guest house somewhere and the odd meal out.
She put her knife and fork neatly on her plate, pushed it to the side, and picked up her coffee. Taking a sip, she leant back and narrowed her eyes, staring unseeingly into the distance.
It would be so lovely to have some peace and quiet; no screaming, yelling, shouting; no stamping upstairs, no slamming of doors, no music turned up loud enough to burst eardrums. No arguments, no drama. No crises over mislaid phones, keys, earbuds, homework. No accusations of stolen hairbrushes, borrowed favourite eyeliner, or the top left off someone’s mascara so that the contents had gone all gloopy.
Then there would also be the wonderful relief at not finding empty orange juice cartons placed back in the fridge; of not discovering that the last loo r
oll had only a few sheets left on it, and no one thought to mention it to her. She’d particularly enjoy not falling over shoes abandoned in the middle of a room, discovering plates with unidentifiable messes on them left in bedrooms, not having to drive three children to three separate places at three different times when, with a little bit of cooperation and consideration from her offspring, she might have only had to make the one journey.
As for Brett, while she was on a roll he might as well get it with both barrels, too. It would make a nice change not to have to wrestle the duvet from him in the middle of the night because he’d wrapped himself up in it like a snoring burrito. It would be strangely liberating not to have to wonder whether he was too tired for sex and would therefore rebuff her advances (not that she made many herself these days, because she was always so dammed knackered), or would be hoping for a quick fumble and would sulk if she didn’t make the first move. It would also be wonderfully nice to be free of the low-grade resentment she felt towards him because he hadn’t given her enough help or support. She wasn’t sure whether she believed in “absence makes the heart grow fonder” but right now she was more than willing to give it a go.
Daydreaming about escaping was wonderful and had provided her with a tiny respite, but her conscience (the annoying little nag) kept prodding at her, telling her to go back home immediately and make sure no one had hit anyone else with a shovel and was burying the body in the garden.
In her present frame of mind, the prospect of a corpse under the patio didn’t bother her unduly – it was just one less person she’d have to deal with; although she did pray that if anyone was going to be planted six feet under, it would be Helen.
Cheered slightly by the thought, Kate gathered her hat, coat, and scarf and sidled out of the café door with as much nonchalance as she could muster and scuttled around the corner praying Doris hadn’t spotted her through the shop window.
It might be mid-morning, but everyone had their Christmas lights on, probably more out of necessity than festive cheer because the day was a dank, dreary one, with an overcast sky and a grim chill in the air.
The café had had Christmas songs playing just that smidgeon too loud, and an under-decorated tree in front of the customer loo, partially obscuring it from view. Still, they were trying, which was more than could be said for Kate. She asked herself if she truly hadn’t had time to pop to the garden centre to buy a tree, or if she’d had an attack of the “bah humbugs”. She suspected the latter.
Convinced that this year (like previous years, but worse) would be a total wash-out, she’d not made the slightest effort on the Christmas front, apart from buying and wrapping presents and sending the odd card. Of course, she’d ordered the turkey and had stocked the fridge, freezer, and cupboards with the usual Yuletide treats, but what had she actually done?
When Beverley and Helen had arrived there wasn’t a sprig of holly or a berry-scented candle in the house. Which was probably why Helen had taken it upon herself to go out and buy that hideous tree.
Determined to rectify the situation (although she didn’t intend to take Helen’s tree down and put another in its place), she decided to dig the strands of twinkling lights out of the garage and drape them artfully over the small fir tree at the side of the drive, as she’d done in other years. She could always weave more lights up the bannister, and yet more along the shelves in the kitchen. There was a wreath still to buy and crackers to purchase, and she should think about buying a little something for Pepe to open on Christmas morning so he didn’t feel left out.
Keeping her hat pulled down over her ears and her scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face, Kate slinked into the little general shop and spent a good few minutes weighing up the pros and cons of the assorted boxes of crackers on display, before choosing ones with jokey “gifts” inside. No doubt Helen would turn her nose up at the crassness of it, but the kids would have a few minutes (seconds?) of amusement, and Brett might even crack a smile. Her mother would complain about crackers being a waste of money, but then, she complained about most things, so it wouldn’t matter which ones Kate bought.
After that, she popped into the little florist for a wreath, and followed it up with a visit to the pet shop. Not knowing what Pepe liked apart from stolen lamb and ankles, she bought him his own doggy stocking with a selection of canine treats inside.
She then darted into a lovely little shop which sold home-made soaps, shampoo bars, silky moisturisers, and the most gloriously scented candles and fragrant oils. Kate chose a diffuser, inhaling the aromas of cinnamon, clove, frankincense, and orange with delight. With the scents of the festive season in her nose, she finally began to feel more in the Christmas mood. Splashing out a little, she bought another diffuser for the hall and several candles which she intended to dot along the mantelpiece; they’d look lovely when they were lit, the large mirror behind reflecting the flickering light back into the room. If she had to cut the plug off the TV so everyone would be forced to enjoy the candle and twinkly light atmosphere, then she bloody well would. It wouldn’t hurt her family to take a moment to reflect in peace without the TV blaring. Maybe she’d try to find some Christmas carols on her phone and play those at the same time. They could all enjoy a glass of something alcoholic, even the kids (just a small one and definitely not to be repeated) and stand around the tree in harmony.
At last! She was finally beginning to feel the spirit of Christmas flowing through her, and her feelings of angst and irritation flowing out.
Her family was no different from anyone else’s. They had their ups and their downs, their squabbles and their good times. It was inevitable that with three generations in the house, and seven lots of opinions, likes, and dislikes, there were going to be clashes. The only thing that mattered was that they were all together, celebrating the most magical time of the year. Kate was surrounded by the people who meant the most to her (she struggled manfully to include Brett’s mother in that); she was loved and cherished, and she loved and cherished them in return.
Not quite ready to leave the giddy sights and sounds of Pershore behind, Kate decided to consolidate her rediscovered love of Christmas by doing something she’d not done for years – she paid a visit to Pershore Abbey.
It was a magnificent building, not far from the High Street, but set in extensive gardens and open lawns with tall, old trees dotted around. Square-towered, built of buttery yellow stone, the abbey had been constructed in Anglo-Saxon times and was over a thousand years old. Now a parish church, it hadn’t lost any of its grandeur by being relegated. The high vaulted ceiling and huge arched windows behind the altar were truly breath-taking, and at this time of year, the abbey was alive with light and song, and the smell of... coffee?
‘Hello, and welcome to our Yuletide coffee morning,’ a lady said with a smile, gesturing towards a row of trestle tables groaning with cakes, cups, and a large silver urn. Individual tables were laid out with chairs, most of them occupied, and behind those, a group of children were singing carols in sweet, high voices.
Oh, how lovely! This was just what she needed to bolster her before she returned home. She was under no illusion that her Christmas spirit would be sorely tested in the days to come, but if she could remember this feeling, then she stood a chance of hanging onto that Christmas spirit without resorting to several large glasses of grapefruit gin.
Grabbing a hot chocolate and a slice of rich fruit cake topped with marzipan and gleaming white royal icing, she took a seat and let the singing flow over her. It reminded her so much of when the children were younger and took part in the school’s carol service; although as Kate went down the ranks from Ellis, through Portia, and finally to Sam, so the carol service became less about carols and the Christmas story, and more about popular Disney songs and whatever happened to be in the charts at the time.
Ooh, this cake is delicious, she thought, taking a large bite and letting the explosion of flavours flood her mouth. Soft, rich fruit, combined with the slight
ly harder bits of chopped nuts, had been given added warmth by being soaked in a liberal amount of alcohol – brandy, if she wasn’t mistaken.
This was what Christmas was all about – a visit to a church, beautiful singing, and mouth-watering food, with a wonderful family at home waiting for her return.
Buoyed up by her illicit morning, and feeling calmer and less stressed than she had for days (although she still felt awfully guilty about letting Doris down, but she realised she’d desperately needed the little break) Kate set off for home with a lightness in her step and good-cheer-to-all-men in her heart.
Chapter 21
Brett had to wait outside the garden centre for a few minutes until it opened, and he spent the time in his car listening to Radio 2. It felt awfully strange to just sit there, with nothing to do; no emails to open, no meetings to attend, no phone calls to make.
Of course, he did have all those things to do – he just wasn’t in work to do them. He felt an odd mixture of naughty relief and guilt, and an uplifting sense of freedom, and he wished every day could be like this, with nothing much to do, except potter about. He was realistic enough to realise that if he didn’t work, the opportunity for “pottering” would be considerably less because he wouldn’t have the money to do much pottering with, and certainly not any spare cash to spend on expensive slices of cake in garden centre cafes. It was ironic, he mused – if one had the time, one didn’t necessarily have the money, but if one had the money then one didn’t have the time, because one spent all their sodding time trying to earn the sodding money in the first place. There must be a happy medium, and he didn’t mean when he retired, either. He didn’t want to have to wait another fifteen years or so; he might be able to afford to retire before then if he accessed his private pension early, but the state said his official retirement date was over a decade and a half in the future, when he might be too old and decrepit to enjoy it. He wanted to enjoy it now, while he was young enough to appreciate it.
