by Beth Moran
The 1st December fell on a Saturday. Valerie and I had spent the previous week stringing blue and white Christmas lights from campsite trees. We had created, following Scarlett’s strict instructions, a Christmas trail through the woods, hiding a star, a robin, elves and a present, along with other festive objects, leading a trail to where Jake was building a Christmas grotto. Archie turned up in his antique Father Christmas costume, ho-ho-hoing and proudly stroking his three-inch beard grown especially for the role. On Thursday and Friday we displayed notices and placed leaflets around Hatherstone and a couple of other nearby villages. Elf Valerie visited the local schools, winning them over with her sparkly, Christmassy exuberance.
In a jovial, buoyant atmosphere we got everything ready, wrapping presents for the grotto, decorating inside and out. Even the pigs embraced the festivities, allowing us to stick antlers on the back of their heads. But as Scarlett tacked up the sign detailing our price list, her face looked drawn and tight.
This was business, not pleasure – at least for all of us except Archie. We were throwing crumbs at a starving bank account. But it was a start; it was something. As the person responsible for keeping the bank fed put it: “Sugar, if that moist-skinned bullfrog with a lump of concrete where his heart’s supposed to be is goin’ to take my Peace and Pigs offa me, I’m goin’ to make darn certain that every day before he does we fill this place with love, laughter and gingerbread snowmen.”
Having worked late Friday night wrapping hundreds of tiny gifts, I was given the next day off. So, while carloads of children full of December-flavoured beans hunted for miniature reindeer and wooden angels, I hunched in my caravan contemplating a postcard with a red phone box on the front and a swimming costume.
Harriet had given me her swimsuit on my sixteenth birthday. I unwrapped it in the library office, still shy of Harriet’s gusto, and unable to quite believe she considered me a friend.
“Um, thanks.”
“Come on, Marion. Aren’t you going to ask me why I’ve given you an old cossie for your birthday? On the face of it, it’s not a great present.”
“Why did you, then?”
“Courage.” Harriet pointed one jewel-encrusted nail at my chest. “Think about it, now!”
I thought about it. “This is an adult-sized swimsuit. With all your swimming badges on it.”
“So?”
“So, either you transferred the badges from your school costume. Which you would never have done because you couldn’t be bothered. Or you only learned to swim as an adult.” I glanced at Harriet for confirmation. “Which needed courage. You were scared of water.”
Harriet lifted a heap of books off one of the plastic chairs and sat down. “When I was six years old I watched my brother get swept away at Bundoran beach. For the next fifteen years I could brave nothing bigger than a bathtub. But I knew however much I buried fear under bravado, so long as I was scared it had control of a piece of me. So I signed up for swimming lessons. For the first five weeks I sat there like an eejit shivering on the side. Then I paid the lifeguard ten quid to push me in.
“Life is too short to let fear make your decisions for you, Marion. Too much gets thrown at you as it is. So, I’m giving you my cossie of courage. I figure you could use it.”
“Thanks.”
“Well? Aren’t you going to put it on?”
I did, allowing my fear of Harriet to make the decision for me, fantasizing about how awesome it would be if some of Harriet’s courage seeped out of the fabric into my pores.
Every birthday after that, Harriet ordered me to don the cossie of courage. She would wave her hands and preach about how it was time for me to stop existing and start living, to throw off the cloak of mousiness and run naked and brazen through the streets of planet earth.
“Don’t let yourself dither about one more year in this town, killing time and watching the clock tick by!”
“But I’m waiting for Eamonn.”
“Yes, Marion. I understand why you feel the need to wait for that handsome, presentable, nice young man to finish his studies. I accept that you want to hang about waiting for that lovely, boring, patronizing, spoiled man. But why are you waiting for him here? You have sixty years to spend picking up his socks and cleaning his toilet, being a grand wee wifey. This could be your only chance. I’m booking two tickets this time. And yours will be one way only.”
I could have pointed out to Harriet that she too lived out her days in this small town, working at the same small library, dealing with the same small-minded customers. The difference was, every winter Harriet booked eight weeks off work and went on holiday. And these vacations did not include lounging by the pool – unless maybe a natural pool in the middle of some mountain where a near-extinct flower bloomed for the first time in a hundred years. The only occasion she went to the beach was to protect baby turtles from birds of prey as they flippered themselves to the sea. She had been to forty-nine different countries, never to the same place twice and always with an itinerary ensuring she spent each and every day “justifying the use of every molecule of oxygen I breathe by doing something I can honestly call worthwhile”.
Harriet said she could only bear to look after other people’s stories for a living if she spent the rest of her time creating her own. She remained my hero.
The postcard was not for Harriet. Once I had replaced my tossed-away phone I texted her that I was doing fine (her reply: “Of course you are. Now stop wasting time texting me and get yourself a life that is a lot better than fine”). I also sent her a photo of me wearing one of my new outfits, flicking my hair about (the reply: a photo of her with a load of children from the library story time all flicking their shoulder length black wigs and sticking their thumbs up).
The postcard was not for Eamonn, either. I shrivelled up inside when I thought about what I had done to him. However much he had taken me for granted in the last few years, or thought only of how I fitted into his life – if he considered me at all – I had behaved appallingly. I had no excuse. Not cowardice, or selective mutism, or a rubbish childhood, or a mother who bequeathed me a thousand issues and taught me nothing about how to relate to people in an appropriate manner. And I knew that though my continued silence was not the answer, a postcard didn’t cover it either. Hi. How are you? Don’t wish you were here. Don’t know when, if ever, I’ll be back. Weather is fine. From Marion. P.S. Are we still engaged?
I pulled the swimsuit on, slipping my new jeans and soft grey jumper over the top of it. I picked up a pen. This was not the first time in recent months I had attempted to write this message. However, this time would be different. It was my birthday, and I had on my cossie of courage. Go, me! I wrote:
Ma. I hope you’re well at the moment. I think about you a lot. I’m doing grand here. I have a job, and a nice wee place to live, although it’s very different from home. Sorry I haven’t been in touch sooner. I can’t come home yet. I hope you can try to understand. Please send my love to everyone, and wish them a happy Christmas from me. Marion.
I put it in an envelope, knowing my mother would be livid if she thought every postie between here and her letterbox had feasted their eyes on her personal business. I felt fairly certain she would rip it into tiny pieces and chuck it into the fire, cackling as it burned to ashes. Whether she read it first or not was impossible to predict. But I had written it. I would send it, and I would feel no guilt whatsoever regarding my relationship with my mother. She had plenty of people to support her and take care of her, to help her through the more serious bouts of illness. At twenty-six years old, I could finally accept that however much I longed for it, however hard I tried, until my mother chose to forgive me I could not be in her life.
I was late for my cooking lesson by the time I had composed myself. Writing that postcard had felt like taking a meat fork and jabbing the prongs into my liver with every word. I threw on my old raincoat to ward off the sleet tumbling down from steel skies, and trudged in my new fur-lined boots thro
ugh the fields to the Hall.
Hallelujah! Yet again Erica had been unable to come over. Her excuse, passed through Reuben, was that she was flat out throughout the Christmas season at work. I understood this, but noted how conveniently that enabled her to avoid facing an employee from the holiday park plunged into crisis following her father’s decision. I also felt relieved because Erica, underneath her sugar coating, was patronizing, dictatorial and frustratingly intimidating. Reuben, left with the task of teaching me the arts of haute cuisine, dumped a side of beef, a box of muddy vegetables and some suet on the table, and let me get on with it.
It was all going well. My casserole was bubbling nicely in the oven. I made us each a mug of coffee, after which I planned to start on a Christmas cake, which, according to Ginger’s antique copy of Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management, must be baked by the 1st December at the absolute latest so you can then spend the next three weeks feeding it brandy.
But my foot caught on an uneven flagstone. I lost my balance and the scalding hot coffee flew out of the mugs and drenched my new jumper. Wrenching it off, I ran over to the Belfast sink and started running the tap. Reuben startled me with a hand on my shoulder.
“Marion, you need to take this top off too. You’re getting scalded.”
“What?” Only then did I notice the searing pain of freshly boiled water soaking through my top. The adrenaline kicked in, and I dropped the sweater, panicking.
“Here. Keep your arms still.”
I couldn’t keep my arms still. I was burning. Reuben tried to pull my top up, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Your top’s stuck.”
I started to cry. Big, jerky sobs. Lucy stood up on her cushion and began to join in with anxious whines. I put my hands to my top and when my fingers hit the fabric I remembered.
“Oh no.” I could see my alarm mirrored in Reuben’s eyes in front of me. His may have been for slightly different reasons.
“I have to take my jeans off.” No longer sobbing. Too mortified.
“Your jeans are fine. You need to get your top off – now!”
I undid my belt, wrestling my skinny jeans down – a manoeuvre I hadn’t yet managed to perfect without falling over. I tugged them over my big feet like a child yanking her wellies off, wanting to cry again when Reuben grabbed one trouser leg to speed up the operation. By now he had realized that the rainbow-striped garment covered in badges ranging from five metres to five hundred metres in distance was, in fact, a swimming costume. All this, although long enough for me to have died a thousand deaths, had only actually taken less than a minute. The coffee must have been cooling by this point, but my chest was on fire.
“I have to take this off.” I was gabbling. “Sorry.”
During emergencies such as this, when trying to avoid causing yourself serious bodily harm, while simultaneously plummeting into new depths of humiliation, a small part of the brain always remains detached, as if observing the catastrophe from outside the rest of the head. This part of my brain took a moment to be very, very thankful I had kept my bra and knickers on underneath the cossie of courage.
This separate, objective bunch of brain cells similarly, two seconds later, reflected on the irony of having removed my pluck-producing one-piece, because in the next few moments I would need a lot more courage than dealing with a mug of hot coffee required.
I don’t think it was unreasonable of me to have been making some noises while Reuben dabbed at my chest with a freezing cold tea towel. Yes, they were quite groany, and it wouldn’t be inaccurate to have described them as breathy. If somebody had decided to stand and eavesdrop from around the side of the pantry, yes, they could, with a suspicious imagination and lewd mind, possibly interpret the sounds that I was making as being caused by something altogether different from a scalding accident. Maybe, if that person then decided that they had done enough earwigging and wanted to see for themselves what was going on, and they discovered their boyfriend rubbing the ribcage of a woman wearing only her brand new push-up bra and matching knickers, they might not instantly comprehend what was happening, and form an entirely erroneous assessment of the situation.
Well, Erica did anyway. Reuben turned to face her, one hand still pressing the tea towel against my raw skin.
“Erica!”
“Reuben!”
Erica had blanched the colour of her perfect teeth. She tried to spin around, her heels skittering on the stone floor. Frantic, she grabbed a metal jug containing meat juices from the table. Before Reuben could move to stop her, she flung it at me. I stood and let the cold blobs of gelatinous stock plop off my shoulders and hair onto the flagstones. Erica wasn’t finished.
“Bitch!” She grabbed the large jar of self-raising flour and threw that, continuing to scream insults. Reuben tried to grab her hands, but she fought him with all the fire of a woman scorned. Those next few minutes, as Reuben yelled explanations over Erica’s shrieks and Lucy’s whining crescendo, and my throat clamped up tighter than an oyster’s shell, were akin to a hideous nightmare. To be called a “flabby, fat slut” and an “abnormal, ugly, boring troll”, confirming most of the worst fears I held about other people’s opinions of me, felt unpleasant. To have it spat at me from a stunning, successful woman while I stood there in my underwear, my skin blistering – that brought things down to a new low.
Eventually, Reuben managed to drag Erica away to calm down. Disregarding the greasy meat stock dripping from my hair down my burned chest, I pulled on the swimsuit with trembling hands, dragging my jeans on over the top. Hurriedly finding my coat, I put on my boots, and left. This time, however, I left a very sincere note apologizing for making a mess in my host’s kitchen and an even greater mess in his personal life.
The Christmas trail proved a runaway success. Scarlett began selling mulled wine and mince pies in the evenings, with chocolate cake for “all those regular people who know the reason we eat mince pies only once a year is ’cause they are revoltin’”. She arranged for Jake’s band to play jazzed-up carols and Christmas songs, and soon we had parents dragging their teenagers along just to have an excuse to enjoy the festivities (the teenagers then came back bringing more of their teenage friends). Some adults started bringing nieces and nephews, neighbours’ kids, even the children of their work colleagues. We added jacket potatoes and hotdogs to the menu, and before long the adults were coming on their own too.
Archie dusted off an old wagon languishing in one of his barns and gave rides through the forest. We decorated it with lanterns, strung battery-powered fairy lights around the wheel spokes, and twisted ivy and red ribbons along each side. I persuaded Scarlett to trust Grace with decorating the ten-foot Christmas tree, and she spent hours creating baubles out of spray-painted tennis balls, weaving ornaments from twigs she also sprayed silver.
Had we known then what New Year would bring, would we have been determined to laugh more? Would we have paused more often to wonder, gaze at the stars, make each moment of her last December sacred? Or would every greeting and farewell, each frosty breath, have been coloured bittersweet, tainted with aching yearning for what could not be? Is it better to know? To have the opportunity to live your final winter certain it will be your last? Or is there blessing in a swift goodbye?
The 21st December, a Friday, was the grotto’s last day. Scarlett, Grace and Valerie were due to fly out to Florida for a fortnight on the 22nd, courtesy of Scarlett’s brother, an obstetrician with five children of his own. Grace knocked on my caravan door early Saturday morning.
“Hi, Grace. Come in.”
She grinned.
“Grace!” I clutched one hand to my chest. “You actually have teeth. I was beginning to wonder.”
“Mock all you want. I’m spending Christmas in an actual house, built with real bricks. With a bath and the internet and privacy. With palm trees and Disney World and family members who are my age and therefore normal and interesting.”
“Careful. It sounds like you might be tee
tering dangerously close to the brink of a good mood there, Grace.”
“So that’s was this weird feeling is.” She flopped onto my sofa, flinging her arms out from her sides. “I thought it must be all the coke I snorted with Archie in the grotto earlier.”
“Are you all packed, then?”
“Yes. I just wanted to give you your present.” She reached into her duffel bag and handed me a shoebox wrapped in Christmas paper. I held it up to my ear and gave it a good shake.
“Um… is it a gift voucher? Or a pair of earrings?”
“Don’t shake them too hard!”
I sat on the other sofa and cradled the box as if it were a baby.
“Thank you. I can’t wait to open it. But I will. It’ll probably be my only present, so I’ll resist until Christmas morning.”
“Are you really staying here by yourself?”
I nodded. Scarlett had made discreet enquiries about my plans already, reminding me that with Jake visiting his dad I would be the only person on the site for more than a week.
“Yep. All on my ownsome; and I fully expect it to be my best Christmas for a very long time.”
“What are you going to do all week?”
“I’m going to cook and read and walk off all the mince pies I’ve been eating. And someone has to dismantle the grotto and pack up the decorations. I’ll give Samuel a hand with the pigs and chickens. Well, with the pigs.” The chickens were quite capable of looking after themselves, in my opinion. Samuel wasn’t so much looking after them as preventing them from taking over the campsite and turning it into an independent poultry state.
I stood up and went to put my present under the two-foot-high tree I had dug up from the forest behind the caravan and planted in a green and gold stripy pot.
“What do you normally do at Christmas, then? Don’t you have any family to go and see?”
“There is no normal in my family.”