With Love at Christmas

by Carole Matthews

  ‘Let’s not worry about that now,’ Rick says. ‘We’ll just make sure that we give her a good Christmas.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Rick has always had a tetchy relationship with my mum because she can be so damned difficult, and he doesn’t think that she appreciates all that I do for her. Even after twenty-seven years of marriage, she never hesitates to tell me that I could have done better than Rick. I look at him now and don’t think that I could. He has been the rock of this family through thick and thin. ‘I know that you love her really.’

  ‘She’s your mother. You love her, and that’s enough for me.’

  She is my mother. And she may well be a tricky customer, but I hate to see her like this.

  He rubs his hands together. ‘Now, are you ready to go and see the baby?’

  ‘I can’t wait.’ That’s true enough. I’m dying to get over to the hospital as soon as possible. I wonder, will this baby hold a special place in my heart, as I had a helping hand in bringing her into the world?

  ‘Me neither,’ Rick confesses. A grin breaks out on his face. ‘Our new granddaughter is a little smasher.’

  ‘We did a good job.’

  ‘So we did.’ Rick puts his arms round me and we hold each other tightly.

  ‘Chloe did well too.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s made of sterner stuff than we give her credit for,’ Rick acknowledges. ‘She’s got you to thank for that. You’ve been a great mother to our children. I hope they appreciate that.’

  ‘I’m sure they don’t at all,’ I say.

  ‘Well, I do.’ Rick gazes into my face, and he’s not a natural gazer. ‘I want you to know that.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I look at my husband tenderly. This is not a man who’s thinking about walking out on us, surely? We have so much binding us together. Where else would he find the depth, the layers of love that his family offer? I don’t like to think about that.

  ‘We’d better get a move on then.’

  As always, our family commitments, those that knit us together so closely, are the same ones that so often keep us apart. Reluctantly, we let go of each other.

  ‘I’ll get my boots on.’

  Minutes later, we jump in the car – the car which has seen so much action in the last twenty-four hours – and, once again, head off to Stoke Mandeville hospital. The journey is certainly less fraught than the last one, and we arrive with the same number of passengers we started out with. Always a bonus.

  In the maternity ward, Chloe is sitting up in bed. She’s now wearing her own nightie rather than a hospital issue and Pooh Bear is gracing the front. I think she would look only marginally less out of place in the children’s ward, and my heart squeezes with love for the mother who is still little more than a child herself. It’s nice to see that Mitch and Jaden are here to meet the new arrival, and Mitch is cuddling the new addition to their . . .

  I stop and sigh to myself. I was going to say their family, but that’s hardly right. They’re not a family any more. Jaden has Chloe’s surname, and I wonder what this baby will be called. Surely Mitch won’t insist on her having his surname – he didn’t with Jaden – so she’ll also be a Joyce. But it can’t be easy for him, having a different name to his children.

  ‘Hello, love.’ Both Rick and I kiss Chloe, and then I peer into the bundle of hospital blankets that my granddaughter is swaddled in.

  ‘Here you go, Juliet.’ The ever affable Mitch hands her over.

  ‘She’s so beautiful.’ Not to be left out, Jaden slides onto Rick’s knee.

  ‘We were just talking about names,’ Chloe says. ‘I was thinking Pepper, or Meadow.’

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Rick recoil in horror. There’s a flinch from Mitch too.

  ‘What about Laken?’ she continues pensively. ‘That’s nice. Or Rihanna?’

  ‘What about something seasonal,’ I suggest, ‘to mark the fact that she’s a Christmas baby? There’s Ivy, or Joy. Or what about Carol?’

  ‘Are you mad, Mum?’ It’s fair to say that Chloe looks unconvinced.

  ‘You could call her Cracker,’ Rick suggests, and we both glare at him.

  ‘Holly,’ Mitch chips into the discussion with a firmness I’ve not heard from him before. ‘I like Holly. I like Holly a lot.’

  ‘That’s a lovely name,’ I interject. ‘Really lovely.’ I dig Rick in the ribs.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he pipes up. ‘Beautiful. Modern, without being . . . ’ Stupid is the word that’s left dangling.

  ‘Festive without being frivolous,’ I add. ‘It would be a nice reminder that she was born at Christmas.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Chloe holds out her hands for her daughter, and I duly hand her over. ‘What do you think, Baby? Would you like to be called Holly?’

  Cradled in her mother’s arms, the baby blows an enormous spit bubble.

  Chloe laughs. ‘I think that’s a yes.’

  There’s a collective sigh of relief around the bed.

  ‘They say I can probably come out tomorrow,’ Chloe tells us. ‘With a bit of luck I’ll be home in time for Christmas lunch.’

  ‘That’ll be lovely. I’d better set an extra place then.’ ‘I’ll keep Jaden overnight,’ Mitch says. ‘That way I can see him open his presents in the morning. Just let me know what time you want me to bring him back.’

  ‘Mum,’ Chloe says, ‘Mitch could come and stay for lunch, couldn’t he?’

  ‘Of course he can. There’s no need to ask.’ Mitch smiles. ‘That’d be great.’

  ‘Come round whenever you’re ready. I’m planning to make

  lunch for about two o’clock.’ I look at my watch. ‘We’ll leave you to it now. Dad will come and get you when you’re ready to leave in the morning. Just text us.’

  We say goodbye to baby Holly, making an extra fuss of Jaden, then arm in arm Rick and I walk back to the car.

  ‘So,’ he says. ‘Mitch is back in favour.’

  ‘Looks like it. Let’s keep our fingers crossed.’ I sigh happily. ‘It’s nice to have everyone together for Christmas.’

  ‘Have we got a big enough turkey?’

  ‘The turkey’s more than big enough,’ I promise. ‘But I will be sure to peel some extra potatoes.’

  Chapter Sixty-One

  The minute we get home from the hospital, I call Dad.

  ‘How’s Mum? Any better?’

  ‘Fine,’ Dad says. ‘She’s upstairs in bed, sleeping like a baby.’ I don’t point out to Dad that babies usually scream the place down rather than sleep – something we are soon to be re acquainted with chez Joyce. ‘I think we’ll stay here overnight, love. If you don’t mind. The place is looking a bit neglected. I can do a bit of tidying around while I’m here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I’m not liking the sound of this plan at all. I’ve grown accustomed to my parents being in the next room, where I can keep an eye on them. ‘I’ll worry about you.’

  ‘Don’t. We’re fine. Honestly. We’ll come back in the morning, in time for Jaden to open his presents. I wouldn’t want to miss that for the world.’

  It’s a good job that Jaden is spending the night with Mitch, otherwise I’m sure we’d be unwrapping his presents at four in the morning.

  ‘I’ll get Rick to come and collect you about ten,’ I tell him. ‘Chloe will be coming home with the baby too.’

  ‘That’s grand,’ Dad says, and I can positively hear him swelling with pride even down the phone.

  ‘What about tonight? Can I bring you some dinner round?’

  ‘All sorted, love,’ Dad assures me. ‘I got something out of the freezer earlier. I can just heat it up when your mum wakes.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure?’

  ‘You and Rick enjoy a quiet evening to yourself, for once. You’ll be busy enough tomorrow.’

  That’s certainly true. ‘Promise you’ll phone if you need me.’

  ‘Promise,’ Dad agrees.

  I hang up, still worrying at my fingernails. ‘Dad says they’re going to stay
there.’

  ‘They’ll be fine,’ Rick assures me. ‘We’re five minutes away.’

  Before I can voice my anxieties further, Tom breezes in.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ he says. ‘Can’t stop. Big night.’ He stuffs a mince pie whole into his mouth.

  ‘Someone has told you that it’s Christmas tomorrow?’ Rick asks.

  ‘Chill, Dad.’

  ‘You will be here for lunch, won’t you?’ Now it’s my turn to nag him.

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ He kisses me. ‘Just don’t make me wear the paper hat, though. Totally naff.’ This is a tradition that I like to insist on. ‘What time?’

  ‘Twelve,’ I say. Given that Tom excels himself at lateness, that gives him a good window to make it here just as the turkey hits the table. ‘You’re not sleeping here tonight?’

  ‘No. Better offer.’ He grins at me as he takes another mince pie, wisely exiting the kitchen before Rick’s head comes off. Then he bounds up the stairs, taking two at a time. Within five minutes he bounds down again in a different shirt. He shouts, ‘Laters!’ and is gone again, banging the door behind him.

  ‘He gives me a headache,’ Rick says, rubbing his temples.

  ‘Stop!’ I hold up a hand. ‘Listen to that.’ There’s not a sound in the house. Absolutely nothing.

  ‘Silence,’ Rick says, perplexed. ‘When did we last have that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think it was possibly the late eighties.’

  ‘I normally have to lock myself in my shed to find such allencompassing peace.’

  ‘You know what this means?’ I wiggle my eyebrows at him while he stares at me blankly. ‘We have the house to ourselves tonight. Just the two of us.’

  ‘And Buster,’ Rick adds.

  I concede. ‘And Buster.’ Obligingly, the dog thumps his tail against the floor, assuming that if his name is mentioned, then it must be time for food or walkies.

  ‘Wow.’ My husband breathes the word with awe.

  ‘Wow indeed,’ I say, excited now. ‘This is a fantastic opportunity. I can make us a nice dinner – just the two of us – and then we can have a few hours of peace and quiet. I think we deserve it after all that’s happened in the last few days.’

  ‘I’m not going to argue with that,’ Rick says.

  I don’t say it out loud, but it could be the last time for months – years – that we’re on our own, and I think we should take advantage of it. I should make an effort. Show Rick that we can still have passion and spontaneity in our lives, once we get rid of the family for the night. This could help to bring us back together as a couple. Remind us of how we once were. Now that I’m on a roll, I think Rick and I will have a very romantic candlelit dinner, perhaps open a bottle of champagne. And I haven’t forgotten that I still have some very sexy lingerie in my drawer upstairs that I bought for our abandoned trip to Bruges. If I’ve got any energy left later on, Rick could well be in for an early Christmas treat.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  I have run round like a thing possessed for the last few hours, and now I finally believe that I am ready for anything that Christmas can throw at me. No: I shouldn’t say that. It would just be tempting fate. All I want is a lovely, quiet Christmas at home with my family with no arguments, and no Rick threatening to put his foot through the telly if we have to watch any more repeats. I would just like everyone to be nice to each other and to end the day without blood on the carpet.

  Tonight, we’re having a quick pasta dish for supper and a salad – saving up all my calories for the onslaught of food tomorrow. Plus on our only free night for the foreseeable future, I don’t want to spend the entire evening cooking. My Delia lattice-topped mince pies have gone unmade, and I can only hope that I’ve got enough bought ones in the cupboard to see us through to Boxing Day and thus avoid a mince-pie crisis. The fizz is chilling in the fridge. Doesn’t ‘chilling’ sound so much better than ‘getting cold’? I, on the other hand, am getting warm with a long soak in the bath that has been squeezed into the proceedings. A thrill of excitement runs through me. I haven’t felt like this in ages. It feels like Rick and I are on a ‘date night’. Something that I believe is very popular with the likes of the Beckhams, but is not widely embraced in Chadwick Close.

  When I’m dry, I slip on the sexy lingerie, which I’m pleased to see still fits despite the amount of Christmas cake and mince pies I’ve eaten over the last few weeks. Then I remember that tucked in the back of the drawer – away from prying eyes and little fingers – is a sexy red feather boa and matching handcuffs. I laugh to myself and drape the boa round my neck, pouting in the mirror. Could be the last chance I have to get my money’s worth out of these babies.

  Sex is funny when you’ve been married for twenty-seven years, and I don’t mean funny ha, ha. How do you still find excitement, lust, in a body that is every bit as familiar to you as your own? Any form of regular sex life is now but a distant memory. Rick and I are usually just pleased to have survived another day intact, and any thoughts of joining our bodies together requires more effort than is feasible and is, by necessity, way down the list of Things To Do. Though we normally try to mark high days and holidays. Birthdays never go un celebrated, though sometimes it might be a week or two after the actual date.

  I can’t say that Rick and I have ever really had a wild time in the bedroom department. We peaked in the back of Rick’s car when we were teenagers. Tom was born just after we married. Chloe pretty soon after that. There’s nothing more destined to banish passion than a toddler or two crashing into your bedroom at an inopportune moment. There have been a few crazy occasions, but only a few. We once made love on a beach as dusk was falling. I can’t remember where, now. It wasn’t anywhere white-sand exotic like the Caribbean or the Maldives. I think it was in Newquay, in the days before it was populated by well-heeled sixth-form students being sick. Rick complained a lot about the sand. He’s never been a big fan of sand. I think it was being regularly buried in it by the children whenever we were on holiday that put him off. I always fancied being taken at the edge of the sea with the waves crashing over us like Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr, all very From Here to Eternity. It never happened. And I don’t remember Burt Lancaster complaining about the sand.

  I can tell when Rick wants sex now, as he has a shower and a shave before he comes to bed. When we were younger we would tumble into bed, heedless of what our breath smelled like or whether I would end up with stubble rash. I wouldn’t care whether my make-up was scrubbed off or if the light was on. But it can’t stay like that, can it? Passion must surely diminish with the passing years. The best we can do is hope to tickle our fancy with a festive feather boa and that we still make it to bed by twelve so that we’re not too tired to function tomorrow. After half a lifetime together, I guess we should be glad we have the urge at all, no matter how infrequent.

  Slipping on a dress and heels, my seduction outfit is complete. In the kitchen, I pull out all the candles I can find, including the IKEA bag of a hundred tea lights that every home harbours, and fill the room with them. I’m still lighting them all when Rick returns from walking the dog.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he says. ‘Are we having a romantic dinner, or are you planning on burning down the house?’

  ‘Don’t be a killjoy. I’m getting us in the mood.’

  ‘Right!’ Rick rubs his hands together. ‘Have I time for a shower and a shave?’

  ‘Ten minutes. I’ll put the pasta on now.’

  He slips his arms around my waist and hugs me. ‘This is a nice idea. We don’t do it often enough.’

  We don’t do it ever, I want to reply, but decide to keep my mouth shut.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  The pinger on the oven goes and I shout up the stairs, ‘Dinner’s ready!’

  Rick appears in the kitchen seconds later. He has even put on smart jeans and a crisp white shirt.

  ‘You look lovely,’ I tell him.

  ‘Thought I’d make the effort.’

 
I can’t believe that Rick is having an affair. Apart from the frequent mystery texts, there’s nothing in his behaviour to suggest that he’s anything but the same husband he has been for the last twenty-seven years. He’s just as solid, just as caring, just as grumbly, just as infuriating. Perhaps I’m being paranoid. If he is thinking of straying, then I hope tonight will show him that he still has a wife who is hot, hot, hot! We have to find the time to fit the hotness in among everything else.

  While I serve the pasta, Rick opens the champagne. We’re not natural champagne drinkers, and only ever buy it when it’s on offer in Morrisons. Rather than making me want to dance on tables, it usually has me dozing off.

  On cue, Rick yawns. ‘Sorry, love,’ he says. ‘It’s been a tough few months. I can’t wait for this break.’

  Normally Rick hates the enforced downtime that Christmas brings in his job, but he’s right – this year he needs some time off to relax. Though how much of that will be done with a new baby in the house is another matter. I can see him spending a lot of time in the shed.

  I put some soft music on the CD player – not Christmas songs, for once, but a bit of Adele – and we have a lovely dinner together, chatting and laughing, catching up with news that we’ve missed in the general hurly-burly of life. I tell him that I phoned Chloe again at the hospital, and both mother and baby are doing fine. I can’t wait until they come home tomorrow. What a lovely Christmas treat.

  Afterwards, when we’ve thrown everything into the dishwasher, we take a bottle of advocaat through to the living room. Rick normally calls it the devil’s advocaat because my mother drinks so much of it. I’ve filled this room with candles too, and the lights on the Christmas tree are sparkling. Very romantic.

  ‘I still can’t believe it’s just us,’ he says in wonderment. ‘It’s been great.’

  It’s been a very busy day, and now I stifle a yawn too. ‘Fabulous.’