Chapter 4
4
When Sara and John were children, Christmas Day usually started early. Any time after five o’clock and they would come cannoning into our room, shouting with glee. ‘ He’s been! He’s been!’ That Christmas was different.
I woke just after six thirty and lay for a moment wondering if there was any noise from my family, if I had missed out on any of the fun. It seemed not.
I dressed quickly in jeans and a lurid Christmas sweater that had been a present from the twins last year and went downstairs. The curtains in the sitting room were still closed, the Christmas tree lights were still on and so were the battery-operated candles, which were flickering less brightly than they had been. There were also several dirty glasses, some empty beer bottles, and the remains of a pizza in a battered cardboard box on the coffee table. For a moment I was catapulted back twenty years, to a time when I routinely came down to find similar debris from which my children had simply walked away. There were probably wet towels on the bathroom floor and empty juice cartons in the fridge too.
I wondered what time they had stayed up until, and whether they had been just talking, reminiscing over their marvellous childhood, or arguing. For a moment I was about to be rather annoyed, that even now in their mid-thirties they were capable of reverting to juvenile behaviour the minute they came through the front door.
I bet Vanessa wouldn’t put up with John leaving his shoes under the sofa and Marty would be more likely to eat one of his silk ties than order in a pizza that had probably arrived in a heated bag on the back of a moped.
Anyway. There was a lot to do, even with all the Mary Berry ‘ getting ahead’ business, so I tied on a clean apron and decided to cheer myself up, open the oven and gloat over the brined, juicy bird within. It was then that I realised that the kitchen was not filled with the lovely, Christmas scent of a roasting turkey. In fact, they had ignored my requests to turn off the Christmas lights and candles, but someone had turned the oven off and the blasted thing was still raw.
Instead of the beautifully golden exterior I had been expecting, it was still pink and pallid and really rather distasteful.
Right, I whacked the oven up to full power and consulted Mary Berry for advice. It would take about four hours, so all was not lost, but it was just one more thing to worry about. That’s the thing about Christmas dinner, I knew some people thought it was only a glorified Sunday lunch but there were so many pans and bowls and plates to spin, not to mention limited oven and worktop space. I took a deep, calming breath and made some coffee. It would be fine. Perhaps I should write out a timetable.
Having done that and realising that I would now not have a sacred hour mid-morning when I could join in the seasonal excitement, I decided to abandon breakfast in the kitchen and instead laid the dining table with some festive plates and got out the juices and jams. And yes, there was one empty carton of cranberry juice carefully put back in the fridge door and a seriously depleted bottle of Cointreau on the worktop next to some squished-out limes, so I guessed the late-night shenanigans had included several Cosmopolitan cocktails.
I must have got my daily ten thousand steps in before anyone else came downstairs, and then I did the rest of the vegetable preparation, not sure if anyone other than John liked parsnips, and wondering whether the girls – even if some of them rejected the happy, bronze, organic turkey – would still want to eat pigs in blankets? And if so, how many?
Hunger eventually drove my granddaughters downstairs before their parents, and they bounded into the kitchen where I was wiping down the worktops for the umpteenth time and crossing things off my timetable.
‘Merry Christmas, Grandma,’ they said in unison, all coming over for a group hug, which was wonderful. I felt the brightness of Christmas Day excitement swell up inside me all over again.
‘Merry Christmas, girls,’ I said, looking down at their bright, pretty faces and dropping a kiss on each head. For a moment I almost felt like the sainted Marmee in Little Women . ‘Has Father Christmas been? Did you all sleep well?’
‘I did,’ Jasmine said, ‘even though Mia was snoring.’
‘I’ve had a cold,’ Mia said, ‘everyone snores when they have a blocked nose, don’t they, Grandma?’
‘Of course they do,’ I said, sending a meaningful look at Poppy who was making quiet but unmistakeable pig noises.
Bunny, the youngest tugged at my arm. ‘And I only had two teddies, because Mum said that was all I could bring, and I usually have six.’
‘Never mind, you had Poppy, Mia and Jasmine in the room to make up for it,’ I said, dropping another kiss on the top of her head.
‘S’pose,’ Bunny said, pouting and looking very much like her Aunt Sara the previous evening.
‘Can we open our presents now?’ Poppy asked, standing in the sitting room doorway looking hopefully at the piles of lavishly wrapped gifts under the tree.
‘We should wait for your parents to come down,’ I said. ‘Let’s have breakfast first.’
‘Do we have to?’ Mia moaned, ‘they won’t be up for ages, and I’m not hungry. I ate all the chocolate coins in my stocking.’
‘Ah yes! Did you get lots of exciting things from Father Christmas?’
Jasmine gave me a look. ‘It’s fine, Grandma, we all know it’s mum and dad. Apart from anything else, Father Christmas uses the same wrapping paper that they do, and we all got exactly the same things. Except Bunny who got a gluten free gingerbread man and didn’t get lip gloss because she’s allergic. So how would Father Christmas know that?’
‘How about some hot chocolate and croissants?’ I said brightly.
‘Are they gluten free?’ Bunny asked.
‘Some of them are,’ I said, ‘I got them just for you.’
‘I bet they’re not as good as the real ones,’ Mia said, ‘I bet they taste like cardboard.’
‘Absolutely not,’ I said, as Bunny’s lip started to tremble, ‘and they are much more expensive. Because they are special.’
‘Dad said only people with actual coeliac disease need to avoid gluten. And you haven’t got that,’ Poppy said.
‘I might have,’ Bunny said.
Poppy laughed rather too hard for it to be genuine.
‘No, you haven’t. My dad says your mum is a helicopter.’
‘That’s stupid, how can she be a helicopter? Anyway, where is your dad?’ Jasmine added, springing to her sister’s defence.
‘We’re not allowed to say, stupid,’ Poppy mumbled.
‘Right then, I’m going to put some croissants into the oven, they only take a few minutes. Hands up who wants some Nutella?’ I said, overly cheery.
Four hands were raised, and the sniping stopped long enough for them to settle at the table, which meant when John and Vanessa came down a few minutes later, all was calm, all was bright.
Sara appeared shortly afterwards, still in her Christmas pyjamas and dressing gown. Ignoring everyone she made a beeline for the kitchen, the coffee, and the paracetamol.
They spent the rest of the morning in the sitting room, opening presents and exclaiming with delight. Although there was a bit of a problem when Jasmine and Bunny opened matching iPads.
‘I wish we had those,’ Mia said enviously, the new palette of seven trillion eyeshadows forgotten in her lap.
‘Perhaps when you’re older and less likely to drop them or leave them on the school bus,’ Sara said. She was still sitting slumped in an armchair, nursing her third cup of coffee, and shielding her eyes from the sunlight streaming in through the windows.
‘But they are both younger than us,’ Poppy mumbled.
‘I wish I had that make up,’ Bunny said, looking over.
‘I’ll swap if you like?’ Mia offered.
‘No, no we can’t do that. I’ve already registered them,’ Vanessa said quickly.
‘Yes, of course you have, you’re so efficient,’ Sara replied rather sourly.
‘Well now then, why don’t you give Grandma your special present, girls?’ John suggested, pulling a flat parcel out from under the tree and handing it to Jasmine and Bunny to give to me.
There was a slight tussle then and the paper was torn slightly, but eventually it was handed over.
‘Lovely,’ I said, unwrapping a hideous tartan shawl, ‘just what I needed.’
‘We chose it ourselves. Our headteacher says old people feel the cold more,’ Bunny said, ‘and they can’t afford heating or food.’
‘Well, you don’t need to worry about me just yet,’ I said.
I swung the shawl around my shoulders and instantly felt ten years older.
‘What cheerful colours,’ I said, stroking the wool, ‘red and green and brown; so bright and pretty. They make me feel warmer just looking at them. And so soft too.’
‘It’s cruelty-free cashmere,’ Vanessa said, ‘made from soya beans.’
‘Really? Isn’t that marvellous,’ I said. ‘What will they think of next?’
‘And this is from us,’ Poppy said, pulling out a similar sized parcel.
‘Ah, how absolutely lovely,’ I said unwrapping a similar shawl. ‘What lovely shades of grey.’
‘Eco-unfriendly, and made from petroleum-based polyester,’ Sara murmured.
‘Well, they are both lovely, and thank you all so much, I don’t know which one to wear first,’ I said.
A timer pinged in the kitchen, mercifully releasing me from having to make any choice at all.
‘Twelve thirty, goodness the morning is whizzing past. That’s my cue to do something,’ I said, ‘I’d better go and see.’
‘Need any help, Mum?’ John asked, making no attempt to move.
‘No, I’m fine, all under control,’ I said, ‘perhaps it’s time for a sherry? If you want to sort that out?’
‘I haven’t got a clue where you keep it these days.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Sara sighed, heaving herself out of her chair.
She followed me out to the kitchen and found the sherry in the pantry.
‘Can I have my phone back?’ she said. ‘I feel a bit lost without it. It’s all right, I won’t text Marty.’
I handed it over and she poured herself a sherry and drank it while scrolling through her messages.
‘Nothing,’ she said at last, ‘not even to let me know he got there okay.’
‘Oh, Sara, you poor love, what a horrible thing to happen. I hope you got some sleep?’ I said, putting an arm around her shoulders.
‘A bit,’ she said, sitting down heavily on one of the kitchen chairs. ‘Not much, it’s just the shock.’
She knocked back the rest of her sherry and refilled her glass.
I took the turkey out of the oven and heaved it onto the worktop to baste it while Sara watched me.
‘That’s a big turkey,’ she said.
‘The biggest I could get.’
‘Marty loves turkey,’ she said, her voice cracking with emotion. ‘He always said Christmas dinner was his favourite meal. Even though it’s nothing special. Just a Sunday roast really, isn’t it?’
Well, it’s a bit more than that actually, I thought, looking at all the pans and trays of six different vegetables, two stuffings – one vegetarian, one not – pigs in blankets and the big jug of batter for the Yorkshire puddings everyone expected. And then there was the home-made pudding, steaming away in my biggest saucepan, the dishes of double cream, brandy butter, the jug waiting for the custard. Then the platter of seven different cheeses and assorted biscuits, the bowls of tangerines mixed in with gold-wrapped chocolate coins, the cafetière of coffee and my favourite coffee cups ready on a tray.
‘I suppose so,’ I said, basting the bird with a splattering of hot fat. ‘Now take the sherry into the other two and I’ll be just a few minutes. There are some home-made cheese straws in that box, take those too.’
Sara sighed and did as she was told, the glasses rattling together on the tray as she went.
I returned to my task and gave the turkey a huge, teeth-flashing grin that was more of a grimace.
I conjured up the idyllic scene I had imagined, of all of us gathered round the dining table, like some Norman Rockwell painting. Smiling faces, everyone pulling the expensive dinner crackers I had found, the food appetising and steaming hot as though the food stylists from the Good Food magazine had got hold of it. Although I’d recently read an article about that sort of thing and as is often the case, not everything was what it seemed. Mashed potato used to make milkshakes, strawberries painted with lipstick, shaving foam used instead of cream cheese frosting, brown fence paint over a roasted chicken.
I looked at my turkey more critically, wondering if it might benefit from the same treatment. No, perhaps a layer of creosote was a step too far in my quest for Christmas perfection.