by Meg Bignell
‘Don’t forget my mail next time,’ Valda said once we’d settled her back in her room and made her tea.
‘Old mole,’ I said to Hugh on the way out. He kissed my head and we went home to where the children were brushing their teeth without being asked.
It’s one step forward, two steps back at the moment.
Before bed I made a half-hearted attempt at turning my shirty into flirty, but was relieved when Hugh didn’t seem to notice. He ran me a bath and closed me in the bathroom, which is probably the ultimate act of love anyway.
SUNDAY 24th DECEMBER
CHRISTMAS EVE! No time for much other than preparations. Hugh’s been making breadcrumbs for stuffing while I’m decorating the gingerbread house (possibly too ambitious but oh, well) and we are SO TEAM.
MONDAY 25th DECEMBER
We’re about to leave for Mum and Dad’s but I just want to have a little lament about Christmas presents. Remember when they were The Most Exciting Thing of the Year? That excitement the night before Christmas was so palpable it could be bottled and doled out on a Monday morning with the school lunches. I remember it well, but I no longer feel it. I’m sad about that. More untimely nostos algos. This morning, the children’s presents for Hugh and me included: a pine cone with googly eyes, a clay snowman that looks like a poo, a laminated haiku about beards and some blue coconut ice. I know I should be more grateful.
I gave Hugh the photo albums, which he loves, but of course there’s not a single one of anything to do with Antarctica and this is quite a stark omission when you view the albums all together. Oh, dear.
On a positive note, the children got electric toothbrushes from Father Christmas so their teeth might sparkle. And an enormous new spring-free trampoline from Hugh and me. Jimmy and Mary-Lou will be able to do their acrobatics, Eloise can sit on it with her friends and Raff can lie on it. And, mostly, I won’t have to think up as many activities. Or worry about spring-related injuries. Everyone’s happy … The trampoline is clearly not a selfless offering but I’m a bit over the quest for inner glow and am fast-tracking outer sparkle. I have six days left. I’d better get on …
LATER:
Oh … This morning (aeons ago) I was at Mum and Dad’s looking proudly over the beautiful tinselly dining table and thinking how so much Christmas sparkle surely contributes to overall sparkle (despite trampoline selfishness). And now? Now I’m hiding in the wardrobe again and everything is ruined and ruined and ruined. The girders have corroded, the noggins are lousy with rot and everything, everything is falling down.
And though a full report is a terrible blight in these Sparkle Pages and its mostly hopeful notes, a full report is what I will give. Because I must face up to the music. All the hideous, horrible music.
While I was gazing upon the resplendent table setting, Hugh came into the dining room, saw that we had both extensions on the dining room table and had set up another smaller table and said, ‘Jesus, how many people are coming?’
‘Eighteen, including us but not including Jesus,’ I said proudly, because it all looked so nice.
‘Who?’ he asked, so I reeled off everyone. When I got to April, he looked aghast.
‘No, no, no. We’re not having April,’ he said. ‘Are you sure she said yes?’
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ I said. ‘She doesn’t have family here, Hugh. Of course she’s coming. She sounded really pleased to be asked.’
Then he went a bit pale and said, ‘Can you come outside, Zannah? I have to talk to you.’ And for a wavery moment I thought, Oh, God. He’s terminally ill. No one ever says, ‘I have to talk to you’ unless they’re dying. Or leaving. Oh, God.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked. ‘Are you sick? Is the business in trouble?’
‘No, Susannah.’ He glanced at the children attaching silver balls to holly. ‘Can you just come outside, please?’
‘Are you going away? You’re going away.’ I had a sudden vision of him sitting cosily alone with a book in Mawson’s Hut.
‘No. Please just —’ He beckoned.
Mum trotted in and said, ‘Now, children, where shall I put this beautiful Fabergé egg? It’s too good for the Christmas tree.’
I wished terribly that I could stay and talk about Terrence Squirrel and eggs and things other than Antarctica, but Hugh took me by the arm. I followed him outside and when we got to the clothesline I said, ‘If you’re going away, then perhaps you could take us all with you? We could all do with a change of rhythm.’
‘Susannah, I’m not going away. I’m sorry, I know this is the wrong time and place but April can’t come for lunch with us, and I can’t not tell you any more – something happened, Zannah, in Melbourne just before she went to Mawson. Just before Ria … Anyway, April …’ He rubbed his eyes and took a breath. ‘April kissed me. I kissed her back. It happened twice. Then I stopped it. I didn’t start it but I knew she had, you know, feelings, and I let it happen. I would have told you sooner, but Ria … and I should have put a stop to it before it got to that. I’m sorry and I need you to know that I love you, it’s not a thing, and it will never, ever, ever happen again.’
And I think he was saying some other things but I didn’t hear them because I felt suddenly nauseous and had to concentrate very hard on not being sick. I clutched a trouser leg that was flapping from the clothesline and raised my hand in a stop sign. He stopped. From the kitchen I could hear Ryan Adams singing ‘ Come Pick Me Up’ and I wished Dad didn’t share my taste for sorrowful music. I wished we were home and Valda was singing from her windows and drowning things out. I wished that April hadn’t appeared and Ria hadn’t disappeared and I’d never started to meddle with our lives. I screwed up my eyes and wished all those Christmas wishes. Take me back a year, I thought. Take me back. I felt butterflies in my stomach. The ones that tell you to run. There were sparks too. Angry, fatal, voltage sparks. I heard them crackling. Those are no-good sparks, I thought. He’s given all the good ones away.
‘Susannah?’ Hugh whispered.
‘The turkey needs me,’ I said and went back inside, trying to walk steadily but probably not because my mind was in a snarl-up of guests arriving and turkey basting and having to plaster up my cracks with make-up for the sake of the children, and wondering if my bell earrings and festive dress might mean I could climb into the Christmas tree and hide until it was all over. And then came the terrible, crashing thought that, actually, it probably was all over.
I put myself in Mum’s powder room for another few minutes of head-whorls (with tears), then I wiped my eyes, fluffed up my hair, brushed my eyebrows and emerged with hugs for the children. I said things like, ‘Isn’t this exciting! Everyone will be here soon.’
By twelve-thirty everyone had arrived. Alison and Laurence with their respective snips and silence, the de Montagus with their gratitude, Henry with his familiar warmth, Charmian and her curiosity, Father Graham and his dear beans. And April, looking gracious with pretty pink cheeks, exciting Antarctica tales and a Christmas hamper. They all threatened to scatter the brittle pieces of me.
We had the handing-out of the presents. Hugh gave me some perfume, Valda gave me a pair of hand-stitched, lavender-filled bags to put in my shoes, Mum gave me some lacy knickers and a whisk. And then Jimmy handed me a large heavy parcel, which I opened to reveal Hugh’s painting of the Susannah albatross. ‘Dad and I made the frame,’ he said proudly. I cried some tears that weren’t happy tears, even though most people thought they were.
Then Charlie boomed, ‘Well, I think Susannah and Frannie should be given a trophy for inviting us all today, but this might do instead,’ and he handed me a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. I would have quite liked a trophy as well. After all, I’d given April some Christmas shortbread and not a knuckle sandwich.
At lunchtime, even though Valda avoided mentioning the dry turkey (self-basting, my arse), complimented Mum on her honeyed carrots and gave us an exquisite rendition of ‘The First Noel’, I couldn’t find my cheer. In fact, I felt jeal
ous! Of Valda! I checked myself and said, ‘Valda, thank you. That was truly lovely.’ The words felt like stones.
Alison was thrilled to see Hannah, of course. She was all, ‘Oh, Hannah, you can’t be a day over thirty,’ and, ‘Nice to meet you, Charlie, but I can’t pretend I’m not a bit cross with you for nabbing Our Hannah.’ Getting along like a house on fire, I thought, then imagined the house bursting into flames.
All the time I felt the pulsing, contained want of April from across the table. And all the time Hugh watched me. So did Mum, apparently, because she caught my arm at the kitchen sink and whispered, ‘Darling, you’ve been taking deep breaths all day and you keep rubbing your hands. What on earth’s wrong?’
‘Oh, you know, I’ve never been a very relaxed entertainer.’ She looked suspicious but I couldn’t say anything because cracks. I just swigged some champagne and smiled. She frowned.
I was still in the kitchen (with the champagne) when Hugh came in, cupped my face for a second and said, ‘How are you doing?’ It might have been better if I’d thrown a wobbly then and said, ‘Not good. Really terrible, actually. No one gave me a trophy and I’m wondering whether I should just surrender to being the hired help and step aside for the April and Hugh show. I mean, you two have so much in common so that’s bound to be a happy ending.’
But Raffy bounded in and so I turned away towards the dishwasher and did a sing-songy, ‘Very well, thank you! Lovely old Christmas.’
And I drank some more champagne, let everything bubble away inside me and wondered whether I should just get really pissed and bury myself in the discarded wrapping paper. With any luck I might get put out with the rubbish. But instead I started saying things like, ‘Tell us a bit more about yourself, April. What do you do other than work work work? Henry likes country music – all those lonesome hearts and long dusty roads. Do you have time for hobbies?’ and ‘Tell us all about Antarctica, April. Everyone, April’s fresh back from the South Pole. I’ll bet Hugh’s been anxious for details. I hear you saw some phosphorescence.’
‘Yes,’ said April feebly. ‘And the Aurora.’
‘Oh, fabulous,’ I gushed. ‘Sea sparkles, sky sparkles, sparkles everywhere and all around.’
Then there was a bit of an awkward silence into which Mum said loudly, ‘I nearly got you a budgerigar, Jimmy, but then I thought, no, a sandwich press is much more useful.’ She looked at Charmian. ‘He loves his toasties.’
‘Hugh would have liked to have gone back to Antarctica,’ I said. ‘Except he has a terrible case of albatross. Did you see any down there, April? Albatross?’
And Mum said, ‘Alison, tell me, do you mind showing me how to make a shandy? I quite fancy a shandy.’
And Alison looked down her nose and said, ‘I wouldn’t have any idea, Frances.’
‘Oh, Alison,’ I said. ‘Would you stop being so snooty about us, please? We’ve never been good enough, have we? And anyway, Mum hates being called Frances.’
Please behave, said a distant voice to my heart, but it didn’t listen.
‘Oh, that’s all right. I quite like it these days,’ said Mum. ‘Frannie’s a bit too close to Fanny, isn’t it?’ And people forced out a laugh.
Then Father Graham said, ‘How’s your new viola going, Susannah? Henry showed me the bow. What a beauty.’
And cheery, beery Charlie called out, ‘DID YOU BRING IT ALONG?’
‘I brought it!’ said Raffy, with his eyes suddenly shining and his cheeks very pink.
‘PLAY US A TUNE,’ boomed Charlie. Raffy darted from the house, banging the front door behind him.
Things get a bit blurry after that. I have vague, melting memories of me turning my gaze to Hugh for a long moment and my eyebrows stinging with overwhelming fury.
‘Oh, well done, Raffy,’ said Alison, with a smile in her voice. Mocking. ‘A tune, please, Susannah.’
‘Yes!’ said Charmian, clapping her hands as Raffy wafted back in and towards me like a mirage, the viola case between us.
Rumpenda asinis eorum, said Ria from elsewhere, far away. Shove it up their arses.
‘No, Susannah,’ said Valda in a kind voice, and I realised I’d repeated the Latin words aloud. Kindness in Valda commands attention so I paused. She shook her head. ‘Don’t …’ But it wasn’t quite enough.
I took the case from Raffy’s tentative hands, threw open the clasps and wrenched the viola from its velvety bed. ‘A tune?’ I said. ‘Rightio then.’ Without even attaching a shoulder rest, I raised the viola, and after a moment’s pause for effect, I launched into a crazed frenzy of horrible scratches and squeaks and tonal clashes, enough to make dogs run and humans recoil.
I hurt with shame, recounting this. I’ve committed a travesty against my beloved music: shown complete disrespect to an innocent instrument and violated its trust with a shocking assault. Ria would be utterly furious if she could see what indignities I forced upon the viola she’d helped lovingly create. Oh my God, Ria. I’m so, so, terribly sorry.
But on and on I went, until I felt an old familiar fizz in my hands that might have softened the performance and turned it into something else, something lost and almost found. But in the moment, that feeling felt like a threat. And so, before it took hold, I stopped abruptly, and said, ‘There you are, a new composition. A little impromptu called ‘Ode to April and Hugh’.
‘Susannah —’ Hugh stepped towards me.
‘No, don’t,’ I said, pointing the bow at him like a weapon. ‘I am not a building, my damp cannot be removed, and you can investigate my weak spots all you like but they cannot be fixed. Experts say that damaged hearts will never heal.’ Then I shoved the instrument back into its case and stormed out of the room. (But something was so undone and unresolved that it was like leaving a parenthesis off one end of an aside.
See, such tension. So I stormed back in and said, ‘And incidentally, if you’d like a composer’s interpretation, you could just take it as a very raw playing of the heartstrings, if you like, and a final poof! of the spark.’ And then I stalked once again from the room and out of the house and all the way to the park, where I sat on the bench and tried to hear birds but couldn’t because of the enormous pounding in my head.
And the people I left behind? I can see them all now and the shock in their faces is so acute it looks like trauma.
So there we are, then. I don’t know where to go from here. Merry Christmas?
TUESDAY 26th DECEMBER
I’ve apologised to our guests. Via text. This is a cravenly act but that’s apparently my forte these days so I’ll just run with it, I think. I didn’t message Alison, though. She’s been awaiting my downfall for years and is no doubt in raptures. I didn’t message April either. I don’t even have a teeny-weeny sorry for her.
I’ve had replies:
Hannah: Take care and see you
soon Xx
I think that’s probably the last I’ll hear from the de Montagus. Denting Hugh’s car is far more graceful than putting on a show of demonic possession and scarring everyone forevermore.
Henry: Oh, I wanted to call but hadn’t quite worked out what to say. I feel very sorry. I hope you feel better soon, please say if you need anything. Charm and Father G send love too. Henry
I wonder whether Father G dabbles in exorcism.
I’ve apologised to the children too. I didn’t let Hugh talk to them about any April foolery because I just want them to think I mixed things up, that I was all wrong about anything to do with April and Hugh. Mary-Lou squinted up her eyes and said, ‘Are you and Dad going to be drivorced? Sally Pedder’s mum and dad are drivorced and now she gets two houses and gummy bears in her lunch box.’
So I made myself laugh and said, ‘Of course not, darling. I’m sorry. I have to never, ever drink champagne. I got all silly over nothing and I’m very sorry. Will you forgive me for my terrible behaviour?’
Eloise said, ‘Will you let me off next time I’m very, very badly behaved?’
‘I’ll
still love you,’ I said.
‘I still love you,’ said Jimmy.
‘I’d still love you even if you ran through the school playground in the nuddy,’ said Mary-Lou, who thinks nudity is hilarious.
‘I’d still love you,’ said Jimmy, ever competitive, ‘if you ran through the school playground in the nuddy and shat under the swings.’
‘Oi,’ I said. ‘Don’t say shat.’
‘Well, don’t screechy about with the viola and yell at Daddy,’ he retorted.
‘Deal,’ I said.
‘And please don’t ever do poos in the school playground,’ said Raffy.
‘Okay.’
Hugh laughed in a feeble way. And I wondered whether, if I squinted my eyes, he might have looked a bit like the Hugh who loved me once. But I can barely look at him at all.
Eloise hasn’t said much but I know she knows. She’s been sufficiently occupied, though. I gave her my credit card and sent her shopping with Mimi and Rebecca because today is her fourteenth birthday. She couldn’t believe her luck. I can’t believe my shame. It’s filled me right up. It’s filled twenty viola cases. It’s filled the vase with horribly grey-brown water. It’s her birthday and I’ve been so weird that her father has been compelled to kiss a lesbian. (She’s not a lesbian. Apparently we all just assumed that. She’s just brave. Antarctica brave. And she’s also, I realise, an electrical engineer with a PhD, which means she’s a doctor of sparks.)
Oh, I wish and wish and wish like never before that I could just be normal. With useful, kept-warm hands.