Chapter 25
Boxing Day
‘You’re meant to be resting,’ she says, though she smiles my way.
‘I’ll be wicket-keeper – that’s as good as resting,’ he replies.
‘We can bring out the camp stool, he can sit down between balls,’ I suggest.
‘I can sit down between balls,’ he confirms, as though this all but settles the matter.
Luke is already dressed for sports when he gets up, although the neighbourhood game does not begin for another four hours. Everybody is uncharacteristically well rested, and happy to ignore the events of the day prior in favour of focusing our collective energy on victory.
‘Morning, Nor – ready to smash the Kingstons this year, make up for last year’s disgrace?’
‘What happened last year?’ I ask, not even sure if I was here or not. I must have been.
‘What do you mean, “What happened last year?” You don’t remember our humiliating defeat?’
‘No . . .’
‘Must be nice,’ he replies, shaking his head, but with warmth, as he searches the cupboard for breakfast.
‘Ohhh, was that the match where Mr Kingston split his pants?’
‘That’s the one, but what a catch.’
Of course I remember the split pants, while Luke remembers the catch. Olivia enters the kitchen, signalling for quiet.
‘Maeve is still asleep, it’s a Christmas miracle,’ she says.
‘Did she have a nice day yesterday?’ I ask, with as much recognition of Christmas Day as I’m planning to offer.
‘She loved it. Though she’s most excited about her new toothbrush, so I’m glad I spent a small fortune on that handmade organic natural-dyed ethical vegan doll’s house,’ she says, smiling at the hyperbole in her statement, though I am not sure which of those words is out of place.
‘I’m so glad. She deserves to love Christmas for as long as she can,’ I reply.
‘I think I’ll just try to keep it low-key for her every year, let her enjoy the simple moments. She’s easily overwhelmed and she doesn’t need much to be happy.’
‘I hope that means Australian Christmases for the foreseeable future?’ Mum says.
‘If I can afford it,’ Olivia replies.
‘We can always help you out with that.’
‘Or maybe a more permanent trip is on the cards . . .’ Olivia does not say more, but we all absorb her words with quiet celebration.
‘Be careful or you’ll give me another panic attack,’ Dad pipes up, his first recognition of what actually happened on Christmas Eve-eve.
Olivia laughs, Luke laughs, Mum laughs, I laugh. Dad is laughing. We are laughing together. It might be the very first time in our lives we have aligned on something we find to be humorous.
‘Really, though, I want to let you all know that I am aware I have been holding a lot in, and I am going to try to figure out how I can do better. Talk about my feelings, that kind of nonsense. Within reason, of course.’
Dad is smiling, but he is also emoting, and emoting a tricky, vulnerable emotion, which is another Christmas miracle.
Mum wraps her arms around him from behind and rests her head on his back.
Luke, Olivia, and I exchange glances to confirm we are all seeing this: our parents, showing one another genuine affection, not a hint of passive aggression or bottled-up resentment in sight.
‘Alright, you two, don’t get carried away there. We have a match to prepare for,’ Luke says.
He runs through some pointers on our collective strengths and weaknesses as a team.
We will be joining the Baileys to form one team, and the Kingstons will be playing with the Drews and the leftovers to make up the other.
Apparently, we possess speed and superior skill, but fall short on endurance and perseverance. Ain’t that the truth.
‘So if we can get ahead early, it’ll be much easier to maintain our lead than to try and claw victory back from the jaws of defeat,’ he says.
Maeve calls out from her cot, and I ask Olivia if I can go to her, to which she happily agrees.
‘Morning, possum,’ I say, in the soft voice I reserve for Maeve only.
She is sitting up, rubbing her eyes, stripped down to only her nappy and dummy, the very bare essentials. A night-light is projecting stars onto the still-darkened ceiling, and I pull back the curtains to ease her gently into the day.
‘Let’s get a top on you, it is colder than usual,’ I say, pulling a striped cotton T-shirt from one of her piles.
She holds her arms up for me to pull it over her face, and when she is dressed, I heave her into my arms. Our dear girl, our best hope.
‘See Grandpa?’ she says, spitting her dummy onto the floor.
‘Yes, let’s go see Grandpa and Grandma and Mama and Uncle Lukey,’ I say.
Maeve’s arrival in the living room heralds a queen’s welcome, and it is no less than she expects, beaming around at the faces of those who love her the most. She tries to leap from my arms and I pass her to Dad, who is as quick as always to take his role as preferred adult.
‘We’re going to show you a game of cricket today, darling. Can you say “cricket”?’
‘Cwicket,’ she repeats, as cute as pie.
When Mum has packed the picnic and we are all dressed for the occasion, we make our way to the nature reserve through the laneway at the end of our cul-de-sac.
Neighbours are making their way, carrying rugs and camp chairs and bags of food and drink.
Calls of ‘Merry Christmas!’ ring out across the street.
Maybe there are some good things about living like this; maybe a bubble can be made inhabitable if we commit to the absurdity of it all and do our best to care for one another.
Perhaps the revolution starts with a cricket match.
Fran is trailing behind his parents, deep in conversation with his brother, and I decide not to try and fall into step with him.
I will give him space to figure things out, and to have that time with Martin because it looks as though things are going well there.
I give a small wave and he returns it, a hint of a smile across his face, though he does not break from whatever he is saying.
Mum sets our picnic up a little way back from where the cricket pitch has been marked out around the wickets with the kind of cones that only usually come out in PE class.
This makes sense, as Mr Drew was a PE teacher before he retired.
I suppose it is the kind of thing that never really leaves you, that desire for order, performance excellence, and compliance with the rules.
Mum and Maeve sit the match out, Mum relieved to finally have a valid reason not to join me in the outfield.
It is not something I have ever relished, but today I have enough in my energy reserves to approach it without dread.
And as it so happens, not a single ball comes my way for the entire match.
Luke and Dad make a formidable bowling and wicket-keeping team, Olivia catches out more than one batter, and we take an early lead.
From there, it is all gravy. Our team, the Willie Wagtails, will have its name on the trophy this year.
The post-match picnic gathering threatens to drag into the night, but when Maeve starts to yawn I seize my moment to make a smooth and socially approved exit.
‘I’ll be home soon, I’m keen for an early night,’ Olivia says, clutching a can of Coke in her hand.
Maeve and I enjoy the leisurely stroll home, talking about the stars.
I used to think all the stars we can see are already dead, but I recently learned that is not the case.
That might be the case for stars we can see through a powerful telescope, but the ones visible to our eye, those are likely to still be alive. It thrills me, this prospect.
‘I wish I was a star,’ I say, and Maeve giggles.
‘I’m a star,’ she says, without question, and of course she is right.
Once Maeve is changed, read to, and in her bed, I bring her baby monitor down to my room – for safety, but also for the joy of watching her drift slowly to sleep.
As I am tucked up under my covers, there is a knock at the door, and I know in my bones there is only one person it could really be. I jump up to let him in.
‘Hey,’ I say, holding the door open.
‘Hey,’ Fran says.
I am not really sure what to say next, because this is kind of his thing and I need to give him space to say it, to feel it, so I stay quiet. It is an overlooked option, I think.
‘What if I just . . . stayed?’ he asks.
‘Forever?’
‘For tonight?’
His eyes are so heavy with longing, and I can feel his heart racing, beats carried through the air. I stand back to let him in.
Boxing Day, for real
The thing is, though, Boxing Day is not purely for cricket, or daydreaming, maladaptive or otherwise.
My next instinct is to partake in my much-loved and well-practised hobby – swan-diving into the depths of the internet and busying my mind while the hours drift by.
I could learn the Western Christian and even Middle Ages history of the date, I could pick up my phone before I pick up my body, read and scroll and click until I am so full of facts about the origins of 26 December that I leave not an inch for feeling to seep in.
It is the immediate discomfort of ignoring the impulse that signals I must. Or I have to try, at least. A thud at the window shocks me upright; I see a small grey bird shake itself right and fly off.
It is 6.51 a.m., well past time to forge a new tradition.
My throbbing foot gives me an ache of where to begin.
The kind of bruise that is burgeoning there will turn a galaxy of colours before it goes away.