The Magic of Christmas Tree Farm

by Erin Green

  I wasn’t supposed to notice or ask any difficult questions. So, I didn’t ask questions for nearly five years, until it was blindingly obvious that I should have asked them sooner.

  It takes an hour and a half just to empty the cupboards of forgotten saucepans, trifle dishes and soup tins.

  How can anyone stash so many tins of tomato soup and not ever eat?

  I ooze cream cleaner onto my cloth and smear the newly-discovered red floor tiles in opaque white.

  *

  ‘Shall I drag the junk out from the cubbyhole under the stairs?’ asks Bram, opening the tiny wooden door.

  ‘No!’ I dash into the hallway, hurting my hand as I slam the tiny door closed, dislodging his grip. ‘There’s no junk in there!’

  I don’t want anyone touching under the stairs. It is precious and doesn’t need disturbing. My fixed gaze blurs with tears as Bram’s bemused face stares at me. For the second time in two days I lean and bury my head into a male’s solid frame whilst his arms wrap around my shoulders.

  I appreciate the twins’ help with the house cleaning, but it’s all too much, all too soon.

  *

  Justifying my decisions whilst others strongly suggest solutions to my current circumstances finally gets the better of me. It isn’t entirely Bram’s fault; his Christmas tree suggestion is simply the final straw after a difficult two days. I snap.

  ‘I’m never having a Christmas tree again!’ I shout at Bram’s frozen expression. ‘There’ll be no sparkly lights, or colourful tinsel, not even a holly wreath on the door. Never!’

  ‘OK, I hear you, no need to shout,’ mutters Bram, backing away from me. ‘Just saying it would be nice, that’s all.’

  It wasn’t the craziest suggestion, given that his father traditionally gifts each of his workers a spruce come Christmas Eve. Boss Fielding wouldn’t be surprised or offended – he and Jackie understand my reluctance to join in with the season’s festivities. Wasn’t that what Sunday’s little chat was about?

  My mood doesn’t improve once they’ve gone home, taking all the bin liners to the rubbish tip on a short detour. As I watch TV, I feel lonely, ungrateful and thoroughly miserable. I look across to Dad’s seat and, for the first time since he’s gone, I can’t imagine him sitting there any more. The seat is empty. I berate myself for letting the twins rearrange the lounge furniture. The room feels alien, uncomfortable in every way, from every angle. Not how my dad would remember it. I know he’s never coming back, he’s dead, but in the world of make-believe my mind throws up strange comforts. It feels as if I’ve lost him all over again.

  At eight o’clock, I go to bed and cry.

  *

  Angie

  ‘Alfie, it’s Mum.’ I wait for his reaction to know how to proceed.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘I was wondering when you’re free… so we can hook up for a chat.’ I can hear the TV blaring in the background despite it only being four thirty. Shouldn’t he be doing homework?

  ‘Dad’s working late… suppose we could get some pizza later.’

  Hallelujah, an answer. I snatch a glance across the office. My desk and in-tray are clear, Jilly’s computer screen is blank, so she’s winding down for the day too. I could pack up and leave bang on five.

  ‘OK, how about I pick you up in forty minutes?’

  ‘Could you make it an hour or so? I’m kind of busy right now.’

  Great! Don’t rock the boat and wreck it.

  ‘OK, that sounds perfect… We’ll head into town for pizza, if that’s your choice.’

  ‘Excellent. Cheers!’

  ‘Alfie… I…’ The phone went dead. Well, blow me, does no one say goodbye any more when talking on a mobile? It is beginning to be like the American soaps where everyone simply puts the phone down and cuts you dead. ‘Bye, Mum, bye, lad… see you in an hour,’ I say sarcastically aloud to myself.

  *

  Holly

  ‘That was my mum…’ says Alfie, shoving his mobile into his blazer’s top pocket. ‘What time have you got to be back home by?’

  We’d gone round to Alfie’s house straight from school. Alfie had let me in with his own key. My mum wouldn’t trust me with a goldfish, let alone a door key. I’d met their dog, Rolo, who is now sitting begging for titbits. I had tried to focus on the dog while Alfie was talking to his mum.

  ‘Five o’clock otherwise I’ll be in trouble with my mum about being grounded,’ I say dolefully. I don’t really want to go home. It’s peaceful here. I’d much prefer to stay here in Alfie’s kitchen drinking hot Ribena and scoffing waffles.

  ‘I’m heading out for pizza with my mum… awkward or what?’

  ‘Is that not your usual routine for Wednesdays?’

  ‘Nah! I haven’t seen her for months. She’s trying to build bridges before Christmas arrives. She’ll probably be all hyper pretending she saw me only last week.’ He doesn’t look at me as he explains, but fiddles with his mug handle.

  We sit at their breakfast bar; a fruit bowl filled with plastic bits, keys and string sits between us. My feet swing on such a high chrome stool, my pleated school skirt bounces at my knee.

  ‘I stayed with Dad… which annoyed the hell out of my mum but, hey, she was the one that was unhappy with us, not the other way around.’

  I nod as he speaks. Complain as I do about my mum, I can’t imagine our home without her.

  ‘I’m sorry, it sounds dreadful,’ I say, not knowing how else to be supportive.

  Alfie shrugs in a nonchalant manner.

  ‘It was her decision. Me and Dad have got along without her… She doesn’t understand how tough it’s been, but she’s not witnessed it, has she?’

  ‘But she’s your mum.’

  ‘Exactly. A mum that left me for…’ He hesitates before continuing, ‘Dad reckons she was having an affair… someone at work.’

  I see the sadness flicker about his eyes. Funny how you don’t suspect a classmate of having a bad time when you see them laughing and joking with their peers in lesson. There must have been times he didn’t want to be in school, let alone be the popular boy with the funny banter.

  His eyes flicker to meet mine.

  ‘I’ll never know, will I? Unless I confront her. Did my mum choose some good-looking boss over me?’

  ‘Alfie… I’m sure…’ I fall silent. I’m not sure of anything in this world regarding adults. I only know what happens in our house and desperately hope my parents stay the course without having affairs with their bosses. An image of both their bosses springs to mind. I want to giggle at the ludicrous idea, given that my dad’s boss at the garage is Mr Evans, with bushy grey eyebrows that overhang his face. My mum’s is a baby-faced bloke at the local café where she works part-time.

  ‘Can you imagine doing that?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘It’s not a nice lesson to learn about people you think you know… I suppose I expect everyone to leave.’ He stares at me.

  My brow furrows. He’s obviously hurt by her actions, but still.

  ‘Sorry, that was a bit heavy. It’s just how I feel now. I might be a teenager, but she’s changed how I think about people.’

  ‘I get that… but please don’t think all girls… women act like that. My mum has never been away from my dad and they’ve been married for sixteen years.’

  ‘Mine did eighteen years – it didn’t stop her leaving.’ He stares at me; silence lingers. I can see he’s calculating the maths.

  ‘Yeah, she was eight months gone with me by the time they got married.’

  ‘I just got that.’ He laughs. ‘Parents… they aren’t that clever, are they, despite what they say?’

  ‘Exactly.’ I laugh. ‘My parents are forever lecturing me on the rights and wrongs of life and yet they couldn’t use a condom properly.’

  Alfie smiles; his hand reaches forward and gently strokes my cheek.

  ‘I’m glad they messed up,’ he whispers, a slight blush appearing on his clear complexion.r />
  ‘Me too.’

  *

  Angie

  He’s grown so much since I last saw him and he holds himself differently. One thing that hasn’t changed is his appetite. Alfie wolfs down his pizza like a starving dog. He doesn’t stop to draw breath but inhales each piece – Frankie and Benny’s pizza was always a family favourite.

  His jawline looks different; the downy fluff has gone. Has he started shaving? Surely not, he’s still at school.

  ‘What?’ he says, midway through a bite.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘But you’re staring, Mum.’

  I shake my head, admit nothing, the ultimate defence to being caught watching. He continues eating his pizza while I toy with my bowl of carbonara pasta. I can’t even taste the creamy sauce, but I ordered it because this was always our order. Our order when we were a happy family unit, before I trashed the family portrait.

  ‘So, how’s school?’ Usually a safe question.

  He rolls his bottom lip. That’s not my Alfie. That question usually fills a fifteen-minute silence as he rattles on about History, Physics and sometimes Maths. More if you nudge him as regards sport.

  ‘Really? That good.’ I rack my brain for the next conversation lead. ‘How’s young Neil doing?’ I ask. The pair have been inseparable since playgroup.

  ‘He’s got a job as a glass collector at weekends but he’s started smoking stuff… so, I don’t see—’

  ‘My God! At sixteen? Does his mother know?’

  ‘Sure, Mum, he told her first off… Of course she doesn’t know.’

  ‘I’ve a good mind…’

  Alfie stares at me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I haven’t seen you in months but you’ve a good mind to dash around their house to inform Jenny of his weed habit. Cheers!’ He puts down his pizza slice. ‘Maybe I should have joined him with a joint or two.’

  ‘Hey, cut it out. It was your decision not to see me. I wanted visitation weekends.’

  ‘When, Mum? When in the last six months have you offered to see me, talk to me or do this?’ He waves his hand in the gap between us.

  I’m taken aback. Since when did he argue like his father? All logical and factual.

  ‘Alfie—’

  ‘Leave it. I don’t want to hear it.’ He resumes eating his pizza slice.

  I push my unfinished bowl away, grateful for an excuse.

  ‘Alfie, I have every right to be happy… I wasn’t happy.’

  ‘True. But I have every right to have a mother I can rely upon… but, hey, you chose to ignore me while you had your fling.’

  ‘Has your father told you that? Is that what he’s saying?’

  ‘It’s what I’ve heard him say on the phone.’

  The phone? Who the hell would Nick say that to?

  ‘To Gran?’ I ask.

  Alfie pulls a face.

  ‘Like she wishes to discuss you!’

  I balk at his remark. Julia and I had always got on; surely she understood where I was coming from?

  I breathe deeply. This isn’t how I envisaged our meal. I expected the usual laughter, happy chatter and jokes with my son. That child seems to have grown and developed an opinion of his own, or one spoon-fed to him by others.

  ‘Do you want me to explain?’

  ‘Nope.’ He wipes his mouth with the green serviette, and swigs his Coke.

  I watch his Adam’s apple dance as he does so. When did that appear so prominently?

  I try another tack.

  ‘Has your father spoken to you since the weekend?’

  ‘Not much. He’s worked late tonight…’ His eyes flicker about my face before he continues. ‘He had a date last night, so I didn’t see him before bed.’

  That was with me. Why didn’t Nick say?

  I give a nod, unsure how to proceed.

  Alfie takes the lead instead.

  ‘This morning over breakfast he said she was nice.’

  ‘Did he?’ I eye him. Alfie’s watching my every move. Is he toying with me or testing me for information?

  ‘Have you met her?’

  He shakes his head profusely.

  ‘First date, I think.’

  ‘Has Dad had many dates?’

  Alfie smiles.

  ‘That would be telling.’

  I stare. I can’t believe my own son is toying with me as regards his father’s actions. I know, he’s told me he hasn’t seen anyone in the entire time, and yet…

  ‘I’m glad. It’s about time your dad started to see other people… move on with his life.’

  Alfie nods, a little too eagerly. Thanks, I now know which camp he supports.

  ‘Exactly what I said. He’s spent too long moping around the house, trying to figure out how to move on, but he seemed happy at breakfast. He was whistling again.’

  My ears prick up.

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, I took it as a good sign – he’d had a decent night. Though he hadn’t brought her back to ours for a coffee or anything.’

  ‘He might have… she might have slipped out before you woke.’

  ‘Nah. I was wide awake listening for him to come in. He was alone when he came back.’

  Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?

  ‘Would you have minded?’

  ‘If he’d brought her back?’

  I nod. Now who is testing who?

  ‘Not really… I suppose it’s what I expect him to do when he finds someone. You must have taken people back after a night out?’

  My mouth works at an answer but fails miserably.

  ‘See. Why should Dad be any different?’

  ‘Dessert?’ I literally bail from the conversation. I can’t talk in this manner with my son. He’s not even left school and yet seems to know the ins and outs of adult relationships without ever bloody being in one.

  He shakes his head.

  ‘I’ll have a coffee though… if you’re having one.’

  Since when did my son say no to a dessert but wants coffee? I try again.

  ‘You love that chocolate brownie dessert…’

  Alfie shakes his head.

  ‘Too sweet.’

  ‘Too sweet?’ I laugh. I’m stunned. ‘You used to wolf it down. Boy, how you’ve changed!’

  I cease; he’s watching me.

  ‘Lots of things have changed…’ His voice fades. ‘More than you realise.’

  ‘Alfie, come now.’ I reach for his hand. His eyes follow my touch and he stares as I try to take his dead hand in mine. Under his gaze, I retract my hand and sit back.

  He’s very different from the boy I waved off from the doorstep each day. Adolescence is difficult in lots of ways; I suppose he’s confused entering another phase of life. No longer the child but certainly not an adult.

  I call for the bill. We sit in silence waiting, but it feels like an eternity.

  ‘Are you interested in any young ladies?’ I ask, trying to end on a good note.

  He eyes me before speaking.

  ‘Nah!’ His eyes flicker, as if he’s lying.

  ‘Really? At your age most of the lads are cute on someone.’

  ‘If this is heading towards a chat about the birds and the bees – I’d quit now, I’ve discussed it with Dad.’

  He sees the interest in my features.

  ‘I don’t think you’ve ever been a guy, so there’s really no point you trying to explain… stuff.’

  I nod an acknowledgement. Useless and redundant in that department too, am I?

  The young waitress nips the bill wallet to our table. I flip the cover to view.

  ‘Are we going Dutch?’ asks Alfie.

  ‘No!’ I’m horrified. When did my son start using that phrase?

  I pass the waitress my debit card.

  ‘Look, Alfie, whatever has happened, I remain your mother. You are the child and I am the…’ I don’t finish my sentence.

  ‘Well, there’s the problem. You should have
continued to act as my mother when life got tough, but you didn’t, you… you bailed.’

  The waitress doesn’t know where to look, and neither do I.

  *

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  I kiss him on the cheek, the ultra-smooth slightly fragrant cheek, which has been scraped bare by a man’s razor, before he escapes from the passenger seat of my car.

  The house looks empty, albeit for a dim light around the edge of the lounge curtain. Is Nick home or not? Is Alfie now a latch-door kid? Am I a bad mother for having feelings of my own? Or is Alfie still naïve regarding emotions and desires?

  I half lean across the passenger seat, expecting him to turn and wave at the gate. Maybe the doorstep? Before the door closes? Nothing. He is gone, door shut.

  I pull away from their kerb, drive into the next street, pull over and park beside a stranger’s kerb… and sob. An uncontrollable, gut-wrenching sob.

  I’ve lost my baby.

  A dog walker passes by. He bends slightly to view the mess in the driver’s seat, clutching her steering wheel and wailing. From outside I must look like a tragic mime artist, mascara seeping down my cheeks, but without the gloves. He hastily walks by, tugging impatiently at his dog to hurry up.

  I sit back, dry my eyes and stare at the road ahead. A pristine street, similar to ours… theirs, with neat front gardens, privet hedges and reverse-parked cars awaiting the routine of tomorrow morning. I stare aimlessly at each set of drawn, fully-lined curtains, all hiding the stage show of a family. Those happy, sad, desperate families protected from public humiliation by the face they project to the neighbours. The cheery good mornings shouted across the manicured lawns, the polite nods to the nameless few. We, the Woodwards, were once one of these decent families, until I blew our shit wide open to the neighbours by packing two large suitcases and plonking them on the block paving. Boy, that must have given Mae over the road a new topic to discuss at coffee morning with her WI ladies.

  Six