Souper Mum
Page 32
‘Go back to sleep, honey. You know the rules, we all open pressies together.’
He doesn’t protest too much. I watch him go up to our room and throw himself onto our bed. I then go into the kitchen and prod at the turkey in the fridge and decide to take it out. Pale and pimply, like me circa the late nineties. He goes in the sink and I put on the kettle. The door opens and Matt enters.
‘Jesus Christ!’
I shrug. ‘No, but it is his birthday.’ He laughs sleepily then takes Millie from me while I make us some tea.
‘Merry Christmas then …’
He gives me a kiss next to my ear and I repay the gesture with milk and one sugar. We sit down and he looks at the homemade name place cards that Hannah made, enough glitter on them to keep the tooth fairy in business for a year. Next to them, some cards from the faithful few: lewd naked Santas from Donna, Annie’s sonogram framed in holly, full-out nativity from Gia. Next to them, our Christmas present from Luella: a trendy wooden frame with an excerpt from some newspaper review of the year.
Villain Of The Year - Tommy McCoy
The worst of times for chef McCoy, who tried to boost a flagging career with a series of attacks on a lowly mother-of- four. The nadir came on a live televised cook-off where the chef was cringeworthy in his victory, only made worse when it was clear he had sabotaged her efforts and bribed her to lose. With book sales plummeting, restaurant reviews floundering, and a wife who’s now taking a misguided foray into baby fashion (neon jumpsuits for babies?) things Chez McCoy have become seemingly desperate, the ploys for attention delving to all-time lows, the empire which once shined so Michelin bright becoming a victim of its own success.
Hero Of The Year - Jools Campbell
The mother-of-four who took on the McCoys and may have lost (we all saw the blood drip into the mince; we’re glad she told the tasting panel they shouldn’t eat it) but won a place in all of our McCoy-hating hearts. Even though her personal life was dragged through the tabloid mincer (her only response being – ‘no affairs here’, she Tweeted), she came through the other end of such mauling with respect, appearing dignified for not jumping on the celeb bandwagon. Instead she put her energies into a family cookbook with a twist: it’s actually been written by her family – a heart-warming compendium of recipes from her dad’s chilli recipe to her mother-in-law’s ultimate lasagne al forno, recently voted best family recipe in Good Food magazine. A new housewives’ fave; endearing, honest, and not a child with a food-based name in sight.
Next to some vintage vinyl and perhaps the kids, this has become Matt’s favourite thing in the whole house. I’m still staring at the turkey, thinking if they let those cameras in here today, then reviews would be a whole lot different; what did Nigella do? Doesn’t she put her turkey in a bath or something? I’m sure Heston starts roasting his the previous night. Matt logs on to Facebook to wish his anonymous friends seasonal greetings and then logs on to Amazon. He likes to sit there and read reviews and badmouths the ones who call my book a big pile of pap.
‘Look at this! People who bought your book also bought The Best of Girls Aloud.’
What the hell? Is it terrible to think that in all of these months, this might be the most venomous thing anyone has said to me? Matt is laughing at me while I glare at the screen. They also bought Delia’s Christmas, box sets of Family Guy, and Kerplunk! As you do. Matt grabs my hand and smiles. I’d like him to say something corny at this point to make this a proper Jimmy Stewart Christmas moment, where imaginary bells will ring and clouds of snow will fill the kitchen window. This is going to be the best Christmas ever! You’re all I need this Christmas day! But he says nothing, like Matt does. That is until he sees the turkey.
‘Why is the turkey all frozen?’
The turkey was frozen. I had wedged it too far into the fridge so half of it had been frozen and crushed against the back wall. This meant we had to find a bucket where we could dunk half of it in tepid water to defrost and have its unfrozen legs akimbo, sticking out the top like a small, chubby, hairless mole. So in all the turkey chaos, the whole day becomes a terrible mess of mistiming and temperamental oven. The parsnips are black and sticky because I’ve forgotten honey burns so they get taken out to the garden by Dad who returns to tell me he’s buried them at the site of our annual bonfire. The Brussel sprouts are that weird dark green that tells me they’re going to taste like fart, and the potatoes are a little underdone. Crispy because of that goose fat I spent a fiver on but a little al dente. Can potatoes be al dente? Hell, I’m a celebrity chef now. Yes, they can. Thank God for Matt and his bacon and chestnut stuffing. Thank God for sausages that you just plop on a foiled baking tray and are lovely and bite-sized and you can just pop in your mouth when it’s all become a little too stressful.
When we do sit down to eat, we have an old family tradition where we save a present to open at the table. It draws the present excitement out for the day, otherwise the kids go into withdrawal and start clawing at newspaper, catalogues etc. just so they can hear the sound of paper tearing. As is tradition, Dad and the boys all get socks and there’s laughter because they’re all matching. Ben’s date, Leo, a scruffy Bohemian with hair like steel wool and a cravat, laughs like a pair of bellows. Millie’s not keen and starts crying. I pick her up and the kids dig in. Hannah throws her hands around me when she sees I will be taking her to some ice musical thing involving Disney tweens. She’s happy. I am less so but it’s nothing some gin and earplugs won’t get me through.
The boys, who have yet to get as excited over pieces of paper, have got a Scalextric thing which I suspect Matt may have bought more for his own desires. Adam’s eyes light up to see it. The boys are slightly manic now. The question is, will they eat? Which will probably be yes, given I haven’t fed them a thing since breakfast unless they’ve nabbed the last of the chocolate Christmas tree decorations. Millie is last and Hannah rips the paper open for her. She gets one of those talking computer things which at the time of purchase I thought would charge her brain up to Einstein capacity but really will just annoy me with stupid animal noises and American accents.
Still, the children are happy and their faces glow with commercial festive joy. There’s a small attack of the fuzzies given the fact we’ve sometimes skimped with Christmas when funds have been low. But the book has meant we can go all out this year. I even have luxury crackers. Some of the mortgage has been paid off, we got ourselves a new car. And a new sofa which got wrecked the next day by Ribena, but that’s nothing turning the cushions over didn’t solve. Matt and I always exchange our presents now. I’m very proud of mine. Matt quit his job last month. He’d worked so hard for so long in a job he hated, he resigned and let me bear some of the financial responsibility of the family until my star runs out. And so, while he has this career break to decide what he wants to do next, I’ve enrolled him in some night courses. He’s always wanted to learn Japanese so he’s on a course for ten weeks at our local college. I’ve even bought him a new pencil case. When he opens it, he takes one look at it and smiles. He smiles more these days. We have a kiss, which Jake declares disgusting and Ben agrees so they all clamour together and rip open crackers, we trade unfunny jokes (luxury does not extend to humour it would seem), and hats get worn and mostly end up on the floor. I keep looking at Matt who does his best to look at Millie and cut up bits of potato for her. Nothing for me then? I twist my lips around each other. It’s not like this hasn’t happened before. We’ve had present droughts: crappy boxes of chocolates for birthdays, even shittier anniversaries where he declares he’s giving me himself. Inside, I pout and cross my arms, but outside I try and pretend that having my family around me is all the present I need. Yeah, whatever.
‘Mum! Jake’s got more stuffing than me!’
Of course my kids would also be fighting over the stuffing, not the rest of the dinner I’ve made. I try and appease Ted with another sausage. We do what we always do in our family; Adam takes more potatoes than is polite, Dad floods his plate with
gravy, Hannah thinks I don’t know that she hides her sprouts in her napkin. I look down and my plate is full, overloaded, and foaming over with food. It’s no glossy picture in a food editorial but it’s enough for me to smile and get my fork ready. I see a bit of cracker foil on a sausage and go to pick it out. Wait. A ring? Ooooh, maybe these luxury crackers were worth their money. Shit, it’s actually quite nice. A vintage feel to it with a lovely little stone set in the centre. Perfect. I like cheapo jewellery that looks better than it is. Why the hell is Matt grinning at me? He keeps looking at the ring. Not my fault you got a pocket calculator. But then the penny drops, as does the ring, back into my stuffing.
‘A ring? For me?’
He nods back at me. ‘That engagement ring you never had. The one we were never too bothered about having. Until now.’
Talk about warm and fuzzy, I’m a hair’s breadth away from crying, from throwing myself at him. But I don’t. I’m not sure Dad’s folding table, already teetering under the weight of dinner, could take it. I just smile.
‘Eat up, love. What’s wrong?’
Dad looks over as Matt puts a hand into mine. Dad is chewing slowly, waiting for me to announce that the turkey must be spat out because I’ve done something to it.
‘Nothing. Just …’
I look down at my plate to find, extract, and wear the ring. I hear coughing next to me.
‘Ted?’
I automatically take a hand to his back. He stops coughing and looks up at me, his face all blueberry.
‘Something hard in your stuffing, Mum. Nearly couldn’t swallow it.’
THE END
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For more information about Jenny Kane
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please visit
www.accentpress.co.uk
Published by Accent Press Ltd 2016
ISBN 9781786150981
Copyright © Kristen Bailey 2016
The right of Kristen Bailey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN