by Sue Watson
I was now alone, I had no husband and all I could think was ‘How will I tell the kids?’ My only consolation was that the twins were now both away at their respective universities and though the break-up of their parents’ marriage would hurt, it wouldn’t impact on their lives as it might have when they were younger. Resentment rose in my chest and I was glad Neil wasn’t there with me because I had a whole block of kitchen knives and who knew what might have happened? Neil and I didn’t have an idyllic marriage, we didn’t ravish each other passionately every night of the week, life got in the way. Neil needed new friends, sparkly objects and flashing lights in his life – whereas I was happy with the status quo and a nice cup of tea.
I returned to the kitchen, my Christmas was over, but Bella was still on the TV creating a Christmas heaven in her home.
‘People laugh when I put bananas in my trifle,’ she was saying, making her eyes wide, her mouth forming a soft O. ‘But I implore you, if you do nothing else this Christmas – have a go with a big banana.’ This was breathed into the lens rather than actually spoken, and was pure cooking porn. ‘Whisky soaked, damp with alcohol, crushed nuts, a scattering of sour cranberries to cut through that icky-stickiness and snowy peaks of cool, white, severely whipped cream. Oooh,’ she was now dipping her finger in the cream, eyes closed, licking slowly, she was no doubt engaging more viewers than just the country’s amateur chefs. Every straight male and gay woman in the UK must have been transfixed by Bella’s culinary Christmas spectacle. I bit my lip, she was too much. Even Nigella would baulk at ‘severely whipped cream’ to describe a bloody trifle.
‘Bella’s Christmas Bake Off’ always started in early December and for years had prepared me and the rest of the country for the culinary season ahead. Bella basted beautiful, golden turkeys, cooked crispy roast potatoes, baked magnificent cakes and biscuits, causing power surges throughout the country as people turned on their ovens and baked. She would sprinkle lashings of glitter, special olive oils, the latest liqueurs and all in a sea of Christmas champagne bubbles.
Bella’s style was calm, seductive, and gorgeous. Her very presence on screen made you feel everything was going to be okay and Christmas was on its way. She didn’t just stop at delicious food either – her tables were pure art and her Christmas decorations always the prettiest, sparkliest, most beautiful. Bella Bradley had an enviable lifestyle and she kept viewers transfixed all year round, but her Christmases were always special. Her planning and eye for detail was meticulous, from colour-matched baubles to snowy landscapes of Christmas cupcakes and mince pies – and soggy bottoms were never on her menu.
So in an attempt to forget my own life and fill myself with something like Christmas cheer, I watched Bella now, as she poured the whipped cream on ‘naughty’ custard. Oh if it were only the custard in my life that was ‘naughty,’ I thought as she added edible pearls for decoration, fingering each one as she pushed them firmly into the cream. I sat in my little kitchen just waiting for the Christmas sparkle to land on me, the frisson of Christmas baking, the preparation, the anticipation that always came with the first ‘Bella’s Christmas Bake Off’. But this year I just couldn’t get excited by her baking or her beautiful, twinkly home or her magnificent tree. She had everything – and I had nothing…which had always been the case, but now I didn’t even have a husband anymore.
Bella’s husband, Peter Bradley, or the Silver Fox, as Bella affectionately referred to him, was gorgeous. He was a foreign news correspondent who, when he wasn’t making ‘impromptu’ appearances in Bella’s busy kitchen during the show, could be seen on battlefronts across the globe. He’d wander into Bella’s kitchen all five o’clock shadow and war-weary as she iced her voluptuous buns or titivated her tarts. He always looked quite out of place in this domestic idyll after doing a piece to camera in a war-torn city, but he was obviously happy to support his wife’s career by just being there. Unlike my husband, he hadn’t left her alone at Christmas for another woman – he’d stayed by her side, happy to brush the flour from her décolletage and stick his finger in her buttercream.
‘The Silver Fox loves my plump, tasty breasts,’ she announced while tearing at tender white turkey flesh and giving the camera a knowing look. Peter was there in all his war-torn glory, taking her proffered morsels with a twinkle in his pale blue eyes, a crinkly smile on his well worn features. He was so handsome, fit for his late forties, and no doubt, given his career, very strong, intelligent and brave. He was the perfect accessory to Bella, bringing just the right amount of rough masculine charm and good looks to her glossy girlishness. And as a delicious bonus, the Silver Fox wasn’t afraid to show his feminine side judging by the previous year’s Christmas special, when he’d flown in from Iraq to whisk cream in nothing but combats and a tight vest. I was transfixed - trust me, Christmas had come early!
I glanced back at the screen, Bella was now informing us that we had to rehearse for Christmas Eve. Rehearse? As if one Christmas stress-fest wasn’t enough? She was wearing silk pyjamas and a girly grin which, given my current state, seemed to me like she was bordering on smug.
‘So, imagine it’s Christmas Eve – the turkey has soaked in something fabulous, and so have I, and now I’ve put my jim jams on,’ she giggled, jiggling her breasts for no apparent reason – she did that a lot… even when she was making quiche. I noted with envy how her chocolate brown eyes matched the chocolate brown silk of her pyjamas and considered my own nightwear, a pair of frail pyjamas, once pale pink now edging towards grey after too many washes. If I needed any proof that her life was completely different to mine – it was all there in those ancient pyjamas.
‘Me and the Silver Fox just love a pyjama party at Christmas,’ she twinkled, a little wink and a sip from the crystal flute. ‘But then, don’t we all?’
‘Speak for yourself,’ I said, turning off the TV and finishing the last of a bottle of cava I’d found in the fridge. Oh yes, Bella Bradley had always been the lucky one, even when we were kids – but it didn’t stop me loving her – she was my best friend. Then, when we were eighteen I did something stupid which affected her life so profoundly she left the area where we lived and I hadn’t seen her since. I tried not to think how our friendship had been destroyed by what I’d done all those years ago. I still felt guilty about what had happened and longed for her forgiveness. Watching her on screen was the nearest I would ever get to her, and despite the odd twinge of envy I found it therapeutic to see her in a wonderful new life, knowing she was okay… even if I wasn’t.
2
Euphorically Single or Desperate and Alone?
My state of shock at Neil leaving so cruelly and abruptly lasted for several days. During this time I discovered from various sources (a mutual friend and Neil himself) that Neil’s new playmate was ten years younger than me and the proud owner of a pole attached to her ceiling for ‘dancing.’ Apparently this was situated by her bed, a vital part of her decor but something I’d omitted to buy when I last went to Ikea for bedroom furniture.
‘I never knew what I was missing,’ he announced the day after his departure when he popped in for clean pants and a fresh supply of haemorrhoid cream. I watched him throw it into his bag and wished I’d intercepted it beforehand and laced it with something spicy – or toxic.
‘So what exactly were you missing with me?’ I asked, not wanting to know.
‘She makes me feel like a man in the bedroom.’
‘Well you made me feel like a man in the bedroom,’ I replied, without even turning to look at him. I was in bed sipping on the Christmas sherry, where I’d been since he’d left. Alone in the marital bed I’d gone from feeling desperate and alone to euphorically single and back again, with intermittent pauses for a go on the brown paper bag. I could only contemplate one day at a time and my recovery wasn’t aided by the fact that whenever I closed my eyes I saw a blonde woman gyrating on a pole and Neil on the edge of a bed clapping.
I went to work on the Monday after he’d left on t
he Friday and taught a double session of algebra to 10B while trying not to cry. A video of me screaming like a banshee and hurling cake at my husband was apparently up on You Tube (courtesy of Alfie my neighbour’s son). I know this because they were playing it on their phones and I could hear myself in a tinny voice screaming ‘Happy Christmas you fucking loser,’ again and again. Consequently, this first lesson was something of a rollercoaster and after the class left I was found curled up in the stationery cupboard, dripping all over Year Ten notebooks and sobbing like a child with my brown paper bag. Tony Jones, the headmaster, discovered me, and assuming I’d been put there by the sociopathic gaggle that were otherwise known as 10B, called the police. Sylvia, my friend and vice principal, stepped in and after telling the head I was just ‘tired’, she tore into me.
‘Jesus Christ, Amy, you are a dipstick,’ she’d hissed in my face while ripping away the brown paper bag. Sylvia was also Head of English and had a way with words. ‘I can’t believe you came into work after what’s happened. And climbing in the stationery cupboard? What’s that about? Mr Jones had to go and have a lie down after finding you – he thought he was hallucinating – again,’ she rolled her eyes, alluding to the poor headmaster’s recent ‘emotional challenges’ which had caused him to take six months sick leave and develop a nasty twitch.
‘You are a complete loon,’ Sylvia was saying, holding out her hand to coax me from my stationary ‘lair.’
I climbed out of the cupboard, thanking her for her sensitive comments.
‘Neil’s a dickhead and you’re well rid,’ she said as she helped me into the nearest chair.
‘Yes he is,’ I agreed. She’d often said this in the past and I’d defended him, but not anymore, I nodded energetically while wiping the tears from my face with a tissue. ‘But Sylvia… it’s the wasted years…all those wasted years.’
She went on to remind me that my marriage hadn’t been a complete waste of my life and I had my lovely twins, Fiona and Jamie, who made it all worthwhile.
After Sylvia’s counsel I managed to keep a lid on things at school for another twenty-four hours. Until the following day during an emotional assembly where John Lennon’s ‘Happy Xmas (War is Over),’ was sung loudly and tunelessly by Year 8. Despite the student’s unfortunate ‘cover version’, the song’s poignancy remained, especially the line, ‘And so this is Christmas, and what have you done?’ I felt John Lennon was asking me this directly – accusingly almost – because as the years had passed and the Christmases had come and gone – I’d done very little. Thank you for reminding me, John. Every. Single. Year. Meanwhile this year he’d just about hammered the nail in the Christmas coffin for me.
I’d sobbed and dribbled throughout assembly, loudly – with no tissues – and had reached rock bottom by the time Sylvia took me in hand and led me to her office.
‘Right madam,’ she said firmly, pulling out a chair and putting the kettle on. ‘I know it’s early days and there are going to be a lot of tears, but you need something to take your mind off your sad, miserable life.’
As I said, she had a way with words did Sylvia – Head of English.
‘I blame John Lennon…he does this to me every bloody Christmas,’ I sobbed.
‘Yes, well it’s not his fault, God rest his soul – I’d direct your anger at the idiot who’s walked out on you!’
‘He betrayed me,’ I cried, ‘for a lap-dancing lawyer.’
‘I don’t think that’s quite true. She might be a horrible human being, a tart and a home-wrecker – she might also be a lawyer, but I don’t think she’s an actual lap dancer.’
‘She does lap-dancing kinds of things in the bedroom…with a pole.’ Neil had reluctantly confirmed this himself (when pushed) on one of his return visits for clean socks and his Bear Grylls box set.
‘I’m sure she does all kinds of things with the lights off – and on for that matter,’ Sylvia nodded with pursed lips; ‘but you don’t need to dwell on all that now. It’ll soon be Christmas and then the New Year – it’s all about fresh starts and new beginnings, and not about your husband’s bedroom antics with apparatus and a wanton woman from the legal department.
‘Anyway, I know just what you need,’ she said brightly, handing me a mug of hot coffee which smelt vaguely alcoholic. ‘Drink that. You and me are going out after work.’
‘Oh no. You’re not dragging me to some speed dating nightmare, Sylvia. It’s one thing being rejected in the privacy of my own home by my own husband but it’s another being publicly discarded at a table by a total stranger I don’t even fancy.’
‘No, not speed dating – not yet anyway. It’s too soon for all that, you need to get Amy back before you even think about riding that horse.’
What Sylvia had in store for me couldn’t have been further from speed dating. Later that evening as we pulled up outside St Swithin’s homeless hostel, where she helped out as a volunteer, I realised that dating, fast or otherwise, wasn’t on the agenda.
The hostel had just had its grant slashed and Sylvia had spent the past few months making the best of her time and talents to try and work miracles with what little budget that was left. I’d often baked bread and cakes for the hostel and given them to Sylvia at school, but I’d never actually visited before.
‘I want you to meet some people,’ she said, pulling on the handbrake. ‘When I was going through hell with my divorce it was this lot that pulled me through – that and the knowledge that there’s always someone worse off than you.’
Sylvia always said Christmas was extra special at St Swithin’s, and with the small budget and donations from local businesses and the community – including our school – they always had a great time. But this year she explained that any donations were needed for basic rations and there was a big question mark hanging over their Christmas lunch, let alone any of the little extras.
Walking into St Swithin’s I was immediately struck by the emptiness. I’d heard the expression no frills, but until I walked into that building I had no idea what it truly meant. Sylvia showed me the dining hall first, which seemed stark and unwelcoming with bare walls, no table cloths, just rickety tables where people sat in coats and big jumpers because it was so cold.
‘Heating is a luxury, I’m afraid,’ she sighed. ‘Beatrice the manager has to keep it on a low setting even on days like this.’
It was freezing, almost as cold inside as it was outside, but I suppose at least they were sheltered from the elements in here.
Sylvia showed me round and one of the first people we met was Stanley, who used to be a train driver but whose love of whisky had taken him down the wrong track. He nodded and with a faraway look started to sing, ‘And now, the end is near and so I face the final curtain…’
‘He thinks he’s Frank Sinatra,’ Sylvia said. ‘Spends all day singing, he takes requests, hosts his own “show” in the middle of the canteen during mealtimes…don’t you, old blue eyes?’ she said to him with an indulgent smile. He nodded and smiled then continued on with ‘My Way’.
Sylvia told me the other residents weren’t always impressed by Stanley’s musical interludes – they had their own problems and would often tell him to be quiet while they ate. Listening to his rather rusty and racy rendition of ‘Come Fly with Me’, I could see why he didn’t always go down well with the sponge and custard.
Next, Sylvia introduced me to Maisie, who wanted to tell me about her time in the ballet, apparently she’d once danced with Nureyev. She was shivering with cold when she reached out and held my hand saying, ‘Daddy never let me marry Simon you know…’ I asked her what had happened, but by then she’d drifted off. I wasn’t sure what her story was, but like Stanley, who apparently once sang on the same stage as The Beatles, they all had a story. I didn’t know why or how their stories had led them to this place, but it was clear to see they’d had tough lives, and if St Swithin’s closed things were about to get even tougher for them.
Over a cup of tea in the kitchen,
Sylvia introduced me to the hostel manager Beatrice. She nodded and handed me a tea towel to dry the plates as she made fresh bread and told me in her lilting accent of tales from ‘my little rock’, meaning her home, Jamaica. I heard all about her barefoot childhood, and judging by the look in her eyes she was back there as she kneaded the bread.
I suspected Beatrice, a former social worker, escaped into her Jamaican past because she was worried about the present and the lack of funds for St Swithin’s which threatened not only the Christmas lunch that year – but closure.
‘Perhaps we could ask people at the local allotment to donate vegetables? I’m sure the butcher in the town will help too…and not just at Christmas?’ I suggested, the problem-solving maths teacher never far away.
She shook her head. ‘We already ploughed that field. Folk don’t have no money anymore. Local shops are closing down and the men on the allotments are selling their stuff or taking it home to their wives and mammies for meals and chutneys.’
Sylvia nodded in agreement; ‘Everyone is short of money these days,’ she sighed. ‘The people who used to donate can’t afford to any more, and the councils are slashing the budgets for places like this. You watch, there will be more and more homeless on the streets.’
I’d never met someone who was homeless before – I’d seen the odd person lying in shop doorways or sleeping on a bench in the park, but I’d never spoken to anyone in this situation. Meeting the residents of St Swithin’s made me realise my own ‘problems’ were quite different. My husband leaving me was devastating – but not life threatening, yet for some of these people being without shelter on a cold winter night could kill them.
We walked together into a common area where Maisie and a few others sat on very shabby chairs watching an old TV propped up against the wall. One woman was a similar age to me; she didn’t speak but Sylvia told me her husband had walked out on her, taking everything. ‘She was left with what she stood up in,’ Sylvia said discreetly, and I thought how I could easily be one of these people sitting here with nothing.