It’s a good job that the lounge is the most spacious room in the house but, even so, it looks like a cramped and slightly bohemian branch of Harvester. The sofas are pushed back against the wall. All the tables we have to hand have been pressed into service and are grouped together at one end of the room. I can only hope that no one eats with their elbows sticking out, or we’ll be in deep trouble.
‘Ready, love?’ Rick says.
The table is groaning with food. Steam is rising from the dishes of carrots, parsnips, sprouts and potatoes. The turkey looks plump and golden. There’s cranberry sauce, bread sauce and gravy waiting. Christmas crackers are nestling next to everyone’s dinner plate. ‘I think so.’
‘Right, lunch is ready,’ Rick says. ‘Come on, everyone. Let’s sit down before it goes cold.’
With much shuffling in the tight space, everyone manoeuvres to a chair at the dining tables.
‘We should take a photograph.’
‘Camera’s in the kitchen drawer,’ Rick says. ‘I’ll do the fizz.’
So, while I dash to get the camera, he pops the champagne cork and pours everyone out a little bit – even Robin. When I get back, everyone has settled themselves but, as I go to take the photograph, I realise there’s an empty chair. Mitch and Chloe are here, next to each other. Jaden’s alongside them and Holly is in her Moses basket in the corner. Then there’s Tom, Mali, the two recalcitrant children and Robin. Merak, Lisa and Izzy have got their seats. Mum’s here, and me and Rick. So who’s missing? I check the number of heads at the table.
‘Where’s Dad?’
Rick looks round. ‘He was here a minute ago.’
‘Perhaps he’s popped out to wash his hands.’ But as the minutes go by and everyone waits patiently, there’s still no sign of him. ‘I’ll be two seconds,’ I say.
Out in the hall, I shout, ‘Dad! Dad!’ I call upstairs. ‘Dad!’ Then, as I head to the kitchen, out of the dining-room window I catch a glimpse of him in the garden. What on earth is he doing there, just as dinner is about to be served?
I go outside, shivering in the cold, and I’m glad to see that Dad has, at least, slipped on his coat. He’s sitting on one of the garden chairs on the patio, gazing straight ahead.
‘Dad?’
When he hears me, he pulls his hanky out of his pocket and surreptitiously dabs at his eyes. I go and sit next to him and take his hand. There are icy tears coursing down his face.
‘Oh, Dad.’ In all the hustle and bustle of this morning, I’d forgotten how much Dad must be suffering without Samuel.
‘I miss him,’ Dad says. ‘Nothing more than that, love.’ He pats the hand that covers his. ‘Don’t you worry about me.’
‘Of course you miss him. We all do. I should have been more considerate. I’ve been rushing around like a mad thing, and I’ve dumped you with looking after Mum when you probably wanted some time to yourself.’
‘It’s my duty to look after your mum,’ he says. ‘She was my wife for more years than I care to remember. For the most part, her terrible singing took my mind off it. Then, a minute ago, when we were all getting ready to sit down and all of the family were there and your new friends, I realised that the person I wanted to see most would never have Christmas with us again.’ Dad stifles a sob. ‘And Samuel did like a good gettogether.’
‘I know he did.’
‘You go back inside,’ Dad says. ‘I’ll be in soon.’
‘We won’t start without you. I’m not having someone else missing from the table.’
‘You’ve worked very hard to make it all nice, love,’ Dad says. ‘Thanks for everything.’
‘Come on.’ I put my hand under Dad’s elbow. ‘Samuel wouldn’t want your lunch getting cold.’
‘No.’ Dad stands up, and it feels like his bones are weary. ‘He was a good man.’
‘The best.’
Then it starts to snow. Fine flakes that dust our faces.
‘A white Christmas,’ Dad says.
‘Perhaps Samuel sent it for us.’
‘It would be just like him.’ Dad tries a smile. ‘Do you think he’s in a good place?’
‘I’m sure he is.’
‘I’d like to think that I’ll see him again,’ Dad says.
‘I’m sure you will.’ I link my arm through his and kiss his cheek. ‘But not just yet, I hope.’
‘No,’ he agrees. ‘Not just yet.’
We walk back to the house, taking it easy as the patio is getting slippery. The snowflakes land on our faces and very nearly disguise the fact that Dad is still crying.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
‘Where have you been, Frank?’ Mum wants to know. ‘The wedding’s about to start.’
Dad takes his seat. ‘It’s not a wedding, Rita, love.’
‘Are you sure? I thought Juliet was marrying that awful boy, Rick.’
At the end of the table, my husband makes stabbing movements with the carving knife and a Psycho-style noise in the direction of my mother.
Me: ‘Rick!’
‘It’s Christmas,’ Dad continues. ‘You like Christmas.’
‘Really?’ Mum looks down at the cracker in her hand. ‘What are all these people doing here, then?’
‘They’re our family,’ he says, patiently. ‘And our friends.’
Mum looks suspiciously round the table and harrumphs. ‘I don’t bloody know any of them.’ My mum points at me. ‘Who’s she?’
‘Turkey?’ Rick says loudly as he begins to carve. I hope he’s remembered to sharpen the knife. It’s one of the very few jobs he’s charged with.
‘I should have remembered to sharpen the knife,’ Rick says with a tut at himself.
I smile. Though I’m not sure if he wants it sharp for the carving of the turkey or the filleting of the mother-in-law.
‘I’ll take a photo.’ Before anyone can argue, I whip the camera out. ‘Say cheese, everyone!’ I back up to the end of the room so that I can get our whole gathering in.
Everyone raises their glasses in a toast. ‘Merry Christmas!’
The shutter clicks. Another Joyce Christmas recorded for posterity.
Finally, I sit down.
‘Pass your plates along,’ Rick says and he starts to dish out the slices of turkey.
Me again: ‘Shall we pull the crackers?’
Taking one, I turn to Chloe and pull it with her. She’s put Holly down in her Moses basket and, at the moment, the new baby is sleeping right through her first Christmas with the Joyces. Long may it last. Chloe and Mitch seem to be getting on famously, and I can only hope that it carries on beyond the festive season and that they can be a proper family once more.
The cracker bangs and Holly flinches in her cot. Chloe gets the body of the cracker and I’m left holding a piece of ripped crêpe paper and a roll of cardboard.
‘A plastic fingertip,’ Chloe laughs as her novelty gift drops out. ‘That’ll be useful.’ She slips the fake, red-manicured nail over one of her own and waves it in the air.
‘They were cheap in ASDA,’ is my only excuse.
‘I’m not putting that hat on, either,’ she says.
Having no shame, I unfurl the bright green paper crown which has fallen onto the table and put it on. It’s slightly too tight for me.
Chloe reads out her joke. ‘What’s Santa’s favourite pizza?’ She waits for me to guess but I’m useless at jokes.
I don’t know.
‘One that’s deep-pan, crisp and even.’
We chuckle together at that, and then pull another cracker. This time I win, and my novelty is a pink plastic ring.
‘Great bling,’ she says. ‘You really have pushed the boat out with these.’
‘You can have it.’ I slide it onto her engagement finger over the fake manicured nail. ‘Hmm. Suits you.’
‘As if,’ she laughs. ‘You can have the fake nail, I’ll keep the ring.’
‘Want to hear my joke?’
‘If I must.’
‘How do
snowmen get around?’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘They ride an icicle.’
We fall about laughing again, more than the joke requires. Then she turns to pull one with Mitch.
Across the table from me, Izzy, Lisa and Merak are all pulling a cracker together. Merak helps Izzy to fold her little hands round the brightly coloured paper while still gazing in awe at Lisa. That’s nice. When the cracker splits, they don’t even care that the novelty inside is a totally useless magnifying glass about a centimetre wide. I hand Chloe’s abandoned plastic finger to Izzy, who is much more thrilled with it than my daughter was. The little girl smiles shyly at me from beneath her lashes.
‘Thank you,’ she whispers in her shy, lispy voice. ‘I like Christmas.’
My heart twists. ‘That’s nice, sweetheart.’
I won’t trouble Lisa or Merak to read out their joke, as that would mean tearing their eyes away from each other for a few seconds and I’m imagining that would prove quite difficult.
Tom and Mali are sitting at opposite ends of the table, which is not a good sign. I don’t think they’re turning out to be love’s young dream after all. Mali, instead, is ensconced next to Robin, and is fluttering her eyelashes at him. My boss, I have to say, looks quite enthralled. It may simply be the amount of cleavage on display that’s turned his head. He certainly seems to have forgotten, for the moment, that he has very recently been abandoned by his wife.
‘You estate agent?’ she cries out in glee. ‘Very good job. Proper job.’ She looks slyly at Tom. ‘You make lot of money?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Robins answers affably.
Her eyes light up. ‘You pull cracker with me. I very lucky lady.’ So they pull a cracker together, and Mali giggles as a plastic packet containing two dice fall out onto the table. ‘I told you! Maybe I throw double six,’ she says. ‘Get very lucky!’
Tom scowls across the table at her and she gives him a death stare in return.
‘Let me put hat on.’ She unravels the red paper crown and places it at a jaunty angle on Robin’s head, a man who is clearly lapping up the unexpected attention. He strikes a pose and Mali claps her hands. ‘Oh! Very handsome!’
Niran and Kamol, bored with pre-lunch rituals, are already eating roast potatoes straight from the bowl.
‘Pull crackers!’ Mali clips them both round the back of the head and, reluctantly, the boys pull crackers and put on their hats.
‘My joke! Who hides in bakery at Christmas?’ Mali shouts out. ‘A mince spy!’
Only Robin laughs uproariously. ‘Very good, Mali. Ha, ha. Yes, excellent.’
Mali looks puzzled. ‘I no get this! Why funny?’
‘Can we read out the rest of the jokes later, love?’ Rick says, his patience clearly wearing thin. ‘The food’s getting cold.’
‘Of course.’ No one wants a cold Christmas dinner. I quickly hand round the dishes of vegetables and everyone digs in. Dad helps Mum so tenderly that it makes the tears that never seem so far away prickle my eyes once more.
‘Thanks, Arnold,’ she says, breaking the moment. Arnold, the toy-boy pensioner that she abandoned to his fate in the desert. Why has he popped into her mind now?
‘Mum—’ I go to correct her, but Dad shakes his head imperceptibly.
‘Let me cut up your turkey, Rita, love,’ he says, and does just that, God love him.
When everyone’s served, I sit for a moment and take stock. I’m not a religious person, but I offer up a small and silent prayer for my family, our friends old and new and our loved ones who aren’t with us this year, but who are sadly missed.
Then, before I feel too maudlin, I go and turn up the Christmas songs. I help Jaden to some turkey and veg, then pile my own plate high. This is one day on which I don’t count the calories. Delia has done us proud. As always. The roast potatoes are perfect and plentiful. The turkey, despite its extended stay in the oven, looks bronzed and succulent and is, thankfully, plenty big enough to serve our rush of unexpected guests. Through the living-room window, I can see the snow falling – more heavily now – and my very ordinary garden is transformed into a winter wonderland. Just perfect.
‘Come on, Rita,’ Rick says, ‘have you got enough turkey?’
‘Yes, thanks, love,’ Mum answers, and Dad helps her to hold the gravy boat.
‘This looks delish,’ Chloe says. ‘Thanks. You’re a top mum. No one does Christmas dinner better than you.’
‘Thank you very much, Juliet.’ Merak tears his attention away from Lisa. ‘You are a very kind family for having me here. I am honoured.’
‘I agree,’ Lisa adds. ‘Izzy and I can’t thank you both enough.’
I look round at the smiling faces at my table and lift my glass. ‘A toast,’ I say. ‘Merry Christmas to one and all!’
‘Merry Christmas to one and all!’ is echoed back to me.
This is my family, for better, for worse. They may not be perfect. Sometimes they may not be all that nice. But they’re mine. And this is what it’s all about. This is the point of life. Being surrounded by the ones you love at Christmas.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
If I’m not mistaken, I’d say that the rather silly grin that’s appeared on Robin Westcroft’s face would indicate that he’s feeling up Mali underneath the table. And, judging by the silly grin on her face too, I’d say that she really doesn’t mind all that much. Oh, Lord. Tom, at the other end of the table, is drinking too much and, by no stretch of the imagination, could the dark expression on his face be classed as a ‘silly grin’.
‘Everyone finished?’ I ask. General agreement and thanks come back from our family and friends.
Rick and I clear the table. There’s very little food left, and I’m glad that I bought a big ham too as that will have to be brought into service for sandwiches tonight.
In the kitchen, Rick says, ‘Round one done. You’re doing a great job.’
‘Think everyone’s enjoying it?’ I nibble my nails anxiously.
‘Some more than others,’ Rick answers sagely.
‘You’ve seen Robin and Mali?’
‘I think the only person who hasn’t noticed is your mother.’
‘Thank God for that. She’d no doubt announce it at the top of her voice if she had.’
Delia couldn’t help me with the Christmas pudding as I ran out of time, but Morrisons did, and I have two of their top-ofthe-range Christmas puddings on offer for dessert. Bumper-sized ones, which is just as well. One year I will make my own. I will remember in September or October that I need to get cracking. But for now, I take the supermarket own-brand puddings out of their packaging and put them on the table. At least with these there’s no boiling for hours – they just need a quick ping in the microwave.
‘Robin seems to be recovering from his wife leaving very quickly,’ Rick notes.
‘I didn’t want him to have a miserable day by himself, but he’s starting to take it to the other extreme.’
‘We need to split them up,’ Rick says. ‘Move everyone round when we have the Christmas pud.’
‘Good idea. Though I don’t want to separate Merak and Lisa. They seem to be getting on famously.’
‘Even I noticed that. I’m pleased for them. They’re both good kids. Lisa needs a break.’
I touch his arm. ‘I can see why you wanted to help her.’
‘You don’t mind?’
‘Of course not. To be honest, I haven’t had much chance to talk to her yet, but she seems lovely.’
‘She’s trying to do her best for her little girl with no support at all. It’s not easy for her.’
‘I don’t mind taking another one under our wing.’
He winds his arms round me. ‘That’s why I love you.’
And, in the kitchen, while our guests are waiting for their pudding, we kiss each other long and hard. ‘We’ll have that romantic night yet, Mrs Joyce,’ he promises.
‘I’ll hold you to it.’ I straighten my dress and my hair. ‘Now I’d better feed our guests.�
�
When I turn back to the table, I shout out, ‘Rick!’ While we were having our moment of what classes as passion in the Joyce relationship, Buster has quietly crept out of the utility room and has climbed onto one of the kitchen chairs. He’s currently giving one of the Christmas puddings a good old lick, clearly before deciding which bit he should sink his teeth into first.
‘Buster!’ Rick shouts. ‘Down, boy!’
Buster, knowing when he’s been rumbled, climbs down and slinks off to his bed, tail between his legs.
‘We can’t tell him off on Christmas Day,’ I say, feeling guilty. I have some turkey set aside for him, but I can hardly give it to him now or he won’t realise what he’s done wrong.
‘He should know better than to pinch food off the table. We didn’t bring him up to be like that.’
We didn’t bring up any of our family to be badly behaved, but they quite frequently are.
‘What shall I do? I can’t serve them now. Supposing he licked the other one too, while we were canoodling?’
‘Give them a good wash,’ Rick advises. ‘No one will be any the wiser.’
‘Can you wash a Christmas pudding?’
‘Run it under a hot tap, put plenty of brandy on it and then we’ll set fire to it. That will kill any germs.’
‘If it doesn’t, it might well kill our guests.’
‘We’ll miss some of them more than others,’ he assures me. ‘It’s worth the risk.’
So, against my better judgement and vowing to blame my husband if anyone goes down with food poisoning, I rinse off the Christmas puddings under the hot tap and then tip them one by one into the colander and blot off the excess water.
‘Do you think they’ll notice?’
‘A blind man on a galloping horse wouldn’t notice that,’ Rick says.
Which doesn’t reassure me. ‘Do you want to taste it first?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘I think we’ll leave that honour to your mother.’
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Rick and I trail back into the dining room. ‘Pudding,’ I announce, over-brightly. ‘Anyone for pudding?’
With Love at Christmas Page 30