The Unreliable Placebo

by Gill Mather

  THERE IS A fierce and ear-splitting hammering on the door of my bedroom. I try of course to ignore it. The quilt is thick and soft and I duck under it holding it fast to my ears. But the noise continues. It is then accompanied by a voice.

  "Anna. Get up," it says. "You know what day it is don’t you." Do I? I know it's not a work day and if I'm not working, generally I'm not really bothered what day it is.

  "Uuuhh," I say.

  "Anna. Get up, do."

  “I can't; I'm too tired,” goes my brain but the words won't come out of my mouth.

  "Can I come in?" Odd for my mother to show such circumspection. What happened to the barging in at just any old moment to suit her?

  "Ihh oo muuuh." She takes that as a yes and there she is, peering down at me. When I was a teenager on school days, I'd have had the covers unceremoniously whipped away and occasionally a glass of cold water added to the effort to wrest me from my slumbers. I quickly sit up, my upper half unsteadily swaying around.

  "Darling. It's Christmas Day. You have to get up. It's nine thirty and we're going out."

  "Going out on Christmas Day?"

  "Yes. For lunch of course."

  "Wha’bout the prezzies?"

  "We'll exchange them over Christmas lunch. Anyway. I've brought you some tea and some soluble aspirins. Just drink up and you'll be right as rain in no time." How can someone be so bright and cheerful after a skinful the night before? I look to the side of the bed and there is indeed a mug of steaming beverage and a glass of fizzing liquid, actually two glasses, on a tray on the bedside table, the tray no doubt being to lessen the chances of a clumsy spill. She sees me looking and tells me that the fizzier of the two glasses contains Andrews Liver Salts "…to rehydrate you and replace some of the lost minerals."

  "Aren't we having Christmas lunch here then?"

  "Not this year no. It's something arranged by The Friends. Special rates. The restaurant was very pleased to take the booking."

  I bet they were. Judging by the number of enthusiastic party-goers last night, The Friends have probably filled the restaurant to bursting. But there's something wrong here. What time did she say it was? I look at the digital bedside clock. It says 09:35.

  "Why are you asking me to get ready for lunch at nine thirty-five?"

  "We're going to Christmas morning Mass first of course."

  I must be hearing things. The plates are shifting and I'm entering an alternative universe.

  "But you don’t go to church."

  "Well we do now. You have to come. Everyone wants to meet you again. All The Friends and their house-guests'll be there."

  I swig down my Andrews, shake my head and things settle a little. I suppose it's no stranger than attending safari suppers, a joy yet still in store.

  "OK then," I say. Satisfied my mother leaves and I hurry to the shower, after which I slap on some face paint and spray my hair up a bit. I find something suitably demure to wear to church but with a bit of a sparkle and short sleeves so that I can throw off my cardie if I start to go red in the face at the restaurant later as I'm apt to do. I don a thick coat since the sky through the small dormer window looks pale and wintry as though snow may be threatening.

  MY FATHER CLUTCHES a bagful of the majority of the presents as we walk to the church. I carry my own presents for my parents. It turns out that last night after I went straight to bed, he rifled through my handbag for my car keys, went to my car and took out my Christmas presents which I’d left sitting on the back seat. I am rather surprised not to have received a lecture about the states of both my handbag and my car interior, but my parents are greatly diverted by the imminence of further contact with their new friends and neighbours.

  "So," I say as we trudge along, "are we having a traditional turkey roast or something more culturally advanced, more continental perhaps?" No sarcasm intended but any is lost on my parents anyway.

  "We're not sure," says my mother. "It was all arranged by Tarquin." Hmm. Tarquin. Of course.

  "Yes it's a treat for your mother not to have to cook Christmas lunch for once," says my dad.

  How many more treats, I think, can one person handle in a whole lifetime of them?

  "You were certainly raving it up last night Anna," says my mother. I'm uncertain how to respond. Did I show them up? I have recollections of some quite energetic dancing but mostly it was talking to people I’d never met before which is quite easy really since whatever you say or have said to you is new and it seems interesting even if it’s not actually. But if I had proved to be an embarrassment, I feel quite sure it would have been rubbed well in by now and that I wouldn't have been invited to church this morning.

  I take a chance on: "Yes. It was fun."

  "Yes it was, wasn’t it," says my mum. "We're really glad you enjoyed it."

  Gosh. Amazingly I am actually enjoying this visit. I feel mentally warm and comfortable and the inclusion of a traditional Christmas Day service makes it even better somehow. We've never done this before.

  We are approaching the church now and my parents stop to greet lots of people. Of course they must have some old friends here as well as their new ones. They seem to know a great many people. Some of them nod at me having met me last night and I nod back. We deposit our presents at the back of the church on the floor and we’re not the only ones. At least half the congregation must be going to this Christmas lunch.

  We are lucky to get seats together in the church. By the time the service starts there's barely standing room. The vicar must be cock-a-hoop to have his congregation numbers so swelled. Perhaps the vicar, Tarquin and the restaurant owner are in cahoots with one another. Maybe Tarquin gets a cut of the restaurant takings and the church collection plate. But we are standing for the first hymn. I do feel quite faint having had no carbohydrate-laden hangover-busting breakfast, but I put on a hearty contralto and my mother, who has only ever been able to manage the squeakiest of squeaky sopranos, regards me proudly. A big change there. Proud looks are not handed out routinely or freely. Of course if the words on the hymn sheet were not swimming about in front of my eyes it would be better but those I can't see I make up.

  We sit for the first lesson. We are about three quarters down the church so we can see a large proportion of the worshippers in front of us. My mother nudges me and hisses: "Dominic's looking at you. You two were getting on like a house on fire last night." The blood freezes in my veins. What the hell went on last night? Against my better judgement, I scan the heads for any wizened old walnuts turning and leering in my direction. But there is nothing in that category. There’s just the rather good-looking man aged about thirty to whom I spoke briefly last night and danced with but I dismiss immediately as a contender for the house fire-raiser. He must be checking on his presents at the back of the church. I continue to cast about if only to please my mother.

  I am nearly knocked sideways by the next nudge, fragile as I am this morning. "Look, him," my mother says. "Atticus's son."

  What is it with these people? Why can they have normal names like….like Dennis I think inevitably. I don’t know why he persists in my hopes and dreams as there's clearly no hope whatsoever in that direction. Cathy Earnshaw obviously has her northern talons sunk deeply into him. It’s a stark anomaly that the more unattainable a person is the more attractive they become. It’s just human nature I suppose but I start to feel a bit depressed. It must be the downer after the previous night's dizzy Baker's Lane heights. I determine though to pull myself together and enjoy this Christmas sojourn with my parents who apparently are glad that I had a good time last night and would like me to be happy for the several days with them.

  "He'll be at the restaurant," says my mother and I see that she is smiling and waving not very discreetly at someone. For some reason it’s in the direction of the fit looking thirty year old. It occurs to me fleetingly that she and my father may have become swingers. Do they now go to those parties where men throw their car keys into the centre of the room and�
��.well you know the rest? It doesn't bear thinking about. The young man smiles weakly back at her and turns away embarrassed.

  The embarrassing parent syndrome. I thought I'd got rid of that when I left home. The Arsehole when he came for a visit with me must have acted as some sort of buffer between my parents and their worst excesses. Now that I am toute seule again it’s back with a vengeance. Well, I tell myself, I don’t care. I will if necessary this next few days join with my parents in casting aside my prejudices and the normal social constraints and have FUN.

  I am nudged again to rise for the next hymn. These Christmas songs are so lovely. As the herald angels sing, the sun appears, or I suppose rather it rises high enough in the winter sky as we are at about fifty two degrees of latitude above the equator, and shines gloriously through the old stained glass windows of this lovely stone building which has nestled here at the heart of this Suffolk community since Norman times. I’m glad however when the service comes to an end. I don’t think I'm the only person who fell asleep during the Christmas sermon. As I lent heavily on my mother and she on me, my father on the other side made a comfy pillow of my mother's fur coat collar (apparently coney, especially if second hand, is acceptable again these days). We shake the vicar's hand as we leave.

  "Lovely service," says my mum.

  "Yes, very thought-provoking sermon," says my dad.

  "Thanks, I enjoyed it," I say, which I sincerely did. My parents beam so it was clearly the right thing.

  IT TAKES AGES to be served at the restaurant as is hardly surprising given the crush and the paucity of serving staff. But the starter comes soon enough in the form of vegetable soup which is served to everyone with lovely artisan breads. This I assume is because veg soup can hardly be objected to by anyone, though there is the option of gluten-free bread. However there has been a choice of main courses so that takes longer especially since the venison is much more popular than the rest and sells out quickly. The poor serving staff have to go around and explain this to many people and ask for their second choice. I rather wonder why they didn’t ask for a second choice to begin with, but perhaps just getting the Christmas lunch organised at short notice apparently, I now learn from my mother, was enough of a challenge for the restaurant.

  Before any of the main courses are served, Tarquin organises us to all to change places as befits a cool chattering classes party of diners which confuses the serving staff no end. I had already opted for the readily available vegetarian quiche with stir fry vegetables and roast potatoes and my plate goes round the table several times before it finds me. What does find me however, or who does find me to be more precise, is the good-looking thirty year old from the church. He seems to think I should know him well and says his name is Dominic. I tear and strain at my memory of last night but simply have no recollection of having spent more than a short time talking to this Dominic and maybe one or two dances which hardly adds up to an understanding.

  Nevertheless we chat. I can tell that there are quite a few things I ask him about himself that he thinks he's already told me. However I was terribly distracted at some points last night because one of my parents’ older neighbours was trying to retain my attention. Though older and with a face usually generously described as “lived-in”, he was endearing and entertaining with a half smile most of the time. He was slim and looked quite fit and I kept thinking that it wasn't fair that people get old and, though still attractive, cease to be physically desirable while remaining vital and young inside. I kept stopping to listen to him, while at the same time recognising that I couldn't in a million years be physically attracted to him. Not really. Which is sad. He might be my soulmate in another time. And, though his name escapes me, his face and his personality are uncomfortably seared into my psyche. But he isn't here today.

  When Dominic's venison turns up I have to look away as the dark meat, rather rare, is cut deeply into with his sharp steak knife. Dominic, chewing away, says he’s twenty-seven (he looks older) and, looking deep into my eyes, asks me how old I am. I lie and say forty-three. His smile remains fixed but his eyes go cold. A look of comprehension passes over his face. He now knows why I have such a bad memory of the essential facts about himself which he imparted last night. I'm obviously going senile. He loses interest in me which is fine by me and therefore when we all swap places again, I go back and sit with my parents.

  "So how did you get on with Dominic then?"

  “Well not so bad. But…” I think about the ageing neighbour. I don't say anything about him however. I hope he didn't see in my eyes last night my involuntary attraction to him combined with the impossibility of our forming any kind of union or, possibly worse, my pity that he might even consider himself a potentially viable partner.

  My parents are still chewing away at their lamb shanks which look very tasty and they eat them with relish. At the end of the meal over coffee we all exchange presents. I’ve got my mother an antique mink stole. She loves anything like that. My dad I know must be missing veg gardening so I took a chance on two small raised beds. I think there’s just enough room in the gravelled courtyard garden without making it look cluttered. I checked the agent’s particulars and scaled up the Land Registry plan. Obviously I didn't pack and bring the beds with me to the restaurant. They’re in the car boot. Instead I wrote him a card and enclosed brochure photos of the beds when made up which I wrapped in several layers of gift paper to make it more exciting than just an envelope. He’s delighted.

  Their present to me is a full length brass rubbing of a medieval knight on a pale material with stiffening rods top and bottom and a gold cord for hanging it.

  “Your mother does quite a lot of them these days when she’s got time,” says my dad. My eye-rolling at this remains purely imaginary but I tell them I love the present which I do. He continues:

  “Your mother was keen to give you a year’s subscription to a rather good marriage bureau some of The Friends go to, but I said you’d be making your own arrangements.”

  “Thanks dad,” I say.

  THE REST OF the day after getting home from the restaurant is spent dozing in front of the TV with a roaring log fire in the grate. At five thirty my mother produces some little quiches, some triangular packets of filo pastry with cheese and spinach filling and an unpronounceable Greek name and some stunning homemade cakes together with a pot of tea from the kitchen/diner opposite.

  I find I like the idea of a sitting room on the first floor with its little balcony for sunning oneself in the summer. The balcony my mother says was installed in the 1920s, another fact of which I'm already aware from having carried out the conveyancing which these days entails trying to see statutory consents for just about every little alteration in recent decades. But it enables my parents and me to chat about the constraints of the planning system today. You'd probably never get permission for a balcony now in a built up area. Every property-owner in the vicinity would complain about being overlooked. This conversation and the effort of putting cakes and cups of tea to our mouths exhausts us for now and we fall back again onto the squashy cushions of the sofas for another snooze through a Harry Potter film.

  Thus passes my first full day in Baker's Lane. And not a word either about my brother's successful marriage. It's just amazing what an active retirement can do to divert a couple from dwelling as publicly normally as possible on their daughter's failures.

  LATER IN THE attic room, sleep eludes me here every bit as much as at home. It’s that need to nest with a suitable mate intervening and interfering again. Of course there are disadvantages to sharing a bed chamber with another. Most notably the persistent snoring, though I always found with the Arsehole that a well placed pillow applied full on his face pressed firmly down would do the job nicely. However at this moment if I’m honest I’d exchange the deep silence up in this attractive eyrie for a little male stertor.

  I’m not well over the limit tonight as last night, Christmas Eve. I haven't had stupor-inducing levels of booze thi
s afternoon and evening at home with my parents. And snoozing on and off is not exactly the best way to conserve the sleepy dust until it’s really needed. Therefore I have to fall back on a book to get me to sleep. My current read is “One Day” and I do so love it. I finished “Gone Girl” and if I’m honest I didn't enjoy it that much despite how hyped up it was by the critics and everyone. It seemed pretty improbable to me. “One Day” is making me laugh out loud. I read a critique of it by two separate journalists, a man who just adored it and said he cried at the end and a woman who thought it was ultra-schmaltzy and that the female character was way up her own backside. So far I’m definitely with the man.

  And I can laugh out loud at 2 am without disturbing anyone now. Because I’m ALL ALONE.

  Happily as I love it so much, the book is having the desired effect. I always know when I start to read words that aren't on the page that somnolence is overtaking me. In this case I read knee-bark instead of tree-bark and it helpfully expands itself into a times five hundred magnification of what I imagine my knee skin must look like when subjected to microscopic examination. Like tree-bark in fact. Soon, muddle words are piling in. “Nose-border” seems perfectly logical. It has a meaning; an illusive one as I hang between consciousness and sleep though I’m sure it does. But “email-witch” (I know for certain that it’s spelt “witch” and not “which”) sends me over the top and right down the other side deep into the hallucinatory territories of the Land of Nod. Goodnight.

  Chapter 13 Safari Supper

  THERE IS, AS my mother promised, lots going on. Boxing Day we went to "open house" at Number Eight. Everyone took something to eat. As our contribution, I made coronation chicken with a lightly currified rice. "Thanks for giving your mum a rest," said my dad.