It's from June, of course, showing a bit of the old forward planning herself. You could say that's the small bit of me coming out of her (the rest being entirely her mother). It's supposed to make me think I'm on the top of her list, as well as leave me plenty of time to send one back. And like a fool every year I open it in the faint hope that this time she'll have put something different inside.
And what happens - you give someone a second chance and you get the same old slap in the face. Nothing's changed. Open the envelope, and there it is: 'Hoping to see you this year. Love from June.'
And that's just what I'm talking about. It's always the same. Yet all it would take would be a couple of words to turn everything around. Despite everything. Larry's not the man to bear a grudge; All he wants to see is that 'Love, June' changed to 'Love June and Bill'. And you know why? Because that would show she'd worked on him a bit, made the effort. I'm not even after an apology, not any more - just his name at the end of a card, which would amount to the same thing.
Christmas seven years ago it happened. The fifth I'd spent on my own.
Naturally enough, I'd got my own little routine by then. Nothing fancy, just a nice quiet programme of innocent enjoyment, starting off with a decent breakfast while the oven got to work on the turkey. And let me tell you now, it was hot in that kitchen of mine - a fact which explains everything else. After all, there are women who don't bother to get dressed on Christmas Day until they're about to serve dinner. And I never saw Doreen smarten herself up just to peel the Brussels sprouts.
Only how was I to know I was going to be receiving visitors? First I heard about it was an almighty racket on the stairs, the clumping and clattering of boots and the sound of 'Once in Royal David's City' being murdered by two voices. Next thing, there they were, June and that great hulk of a husband of hers, falling through the kitchen door like a pair of overgrown kids. Snow on their coats like Christmas with Bing Crosby and bottles under their arms. Grinning all over their faces.
'Surprise!' Her voice squeaky, a little bit nervous even. His booming, not even pretending to give a damn.
And me, standing there in vest and underpants and nothing on my head. You see, it was too hot even for the hairpiece.
Not expecting visitors, I'd left it by the side of the bed. And that's what they'd done. Caught me standing in my smalls, with a piece of bacon halfway to my mouth and not a hair on the top of my head. Someone in Waltham Abbey would be laughing from now until New Year about this.
And just for starters, June takes one look, and that nervous beam turns into a giggle. 'Oooh Dad. You don't half look a sight.'
The moment she'd spoken she could tell she'd said the wrong thing. Well, she could see my face, couldn't she? That grin disappears like I'd come along and wiped it off myself. A young face she had, even though she was well over thirty then. Always thin, was June, and never one for make-up really. So there was nothing to hide the expression that came over her now. I want to call it her young look, but I suppose the word for it really should be anxious. The girl was actually worried about what I was going to say. And that, I'll admit, stopped me in my tracks a bit. And so for a second or two we just stared, me in my underpants and she with her young look, and both of us with the good sense not to say anything, not straight out, not straightaway. And who can tell what would have happened next? It was only five years then and we'd still kept in touch, sort of, on and off...
And that's when he had to open his mouth.
'Well, go on June girl. Give your old dad a kiss and he'll be all yours again.'
That did it. It must have been the shock of his voice coming between us that brought me back to my senses. Suddenly I was seeing clearly again. Five years of her giving aid and comfort to her mother, keeping in with her and her fancy man. Five years of Fraternization with the Enemy, and she thinks she can come and blot it all out with a kiss, one kiss - because he told her so.
Then it was probably straight on from here to Waltham Abbey for Christmas proper. And a good laugh all around.
Surprise. I could do a bit of surprising myself.
I told her she could wipe that silly look off her face for a start. Told her she'd got the wrong house, the wrong man. Larry Mann didn't have a daughter. Not any more. That ended five years ago. Words to that effect. And, yes, a lot more besides.
To tell the truth, it was all a matter of planning again. That's the only way I can explain what happened that day. I'd spent so much time planning what I'd say to her if I got the chance, it came out without me really having to do anything. Or think anything. All of it justified, mind, every word. Only. Only what I'm saying is, maybe I wouldn't have chosen to come out with it all at once, not then, not if I'd been really thinking about what I was saying. But you know what it's like when you let the water out of the bath and then can't find the plug when you change your mind. And when you do, it's too late - I looked at her, and saw she was starting to cry. Real tears and all. Even her mother could never fake those. I don't suppose she ever saw the need. And it was then that I found the plug. Stopped right where I was, in mid-flow. Didn't say another word. And I'll tell you what else. A moment later, me being the sort of chap I am, and seeing her like that, I might even have found myself taking it all back, well, some of it anyway. I might have. If I'd ever got the chance.
But that's just it. I never did get the chance. Because something happened then that never should have. All of a sudden there was Bill, jumping in where he had no business, between a father and his daughter, pushing her out of the picture and shouting - at me of all people, coming out with things I couldn't bring myself to repeat. Big fat finger, poking me in the chest, big red face, all bristles, shouting into mine, in my own kitchen. The very image of all those louts you see on TV at football matches, insulting decent folk they don't know from Adam.
But do you know the worst thing about it? She let him. Just stood there and never once raised her voice to stop him, not even to complain about his language. And believe me, there's not a respectable woman alive who would have put up with what he was coming out with. All she did finally was to tug on his coat, before disappearing away off down the stairs. One more jab of a finger after, he was behind her. I don't suppose the snow had time to melt on their coats.
Which was good enough for me.
The only thing I can say about it now is to wonder where she finds the raw cheek to keep sending the cards. Because that's not once but twice she's betrayed the last person in the world she ought. Even her mother only managed the one time. There's not a man anywhere who could take that lying down. Yet his name at the bottom, that's all it needs. The next best thing to an apology. I might even get round then to sending one back.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. That card of June's, it's a reminder, as if I needed one, that time is getting on. From now on every minute counts.
Chapter Fourteen
So here's the plan.
All weekend it took me in the end. I was so busy with it that when it came to the time for his nibs to depart, I didn't even notice. Well, hardly. There was no way you could escape them completely, not unless you were stone deaf. Mind you, it's Mandy who's the real culprit down there, laughing all the time as if life with His Lordship is just one big joke. Ha ha ha, she goes, morning noon and night, ruining your concentration until you find yourself wishing that someone would come along and switch her off. Makes you wonder what one person could say that's so funny.
But Sunday comes around once more, and believe it or not, this time I'm almost wishing I'd seen a bit more of him while he was still here. Know your enemy, that's what they say. But with all the work of making my lists and the fact that they're out nearly more than they're in, you could hardly say I had the chance. And anyway, you can hear all about him, just in that flaming laugh.
I did listen out for her, though, after, in case she took it into her head to come up once she'd got rid of him. Not that I wanted her to, not really. Not when all she'd be doing was seeking company f
or a mope. No, what was worrying me was that she'd make her way up when I was still sitting surrounded with my bits of lists. One look at them, and she'd know something was afoot.
But I needn't have worried. She was back here after seeing him off and the first thing she does is close that bedroom door of hers and not come out till the next morning. Not that she was sleeping. You only had to step inside the bedroom and listen for the sounds coming up through the floor. Silly girl was at it again.
Anyway, here's the plan.
From now to Christmas is one month. Four weeks. That being the case, I've got four lists made out (with copies just to be safe) containing all the items to be gathered in by the end of each one. Are you with me?
List One (headed: Early Miscellaneous) is about the small stuff, plus various things that might be in short supply nearer to the time. So what I'll have by the end of the week are all the nuts, wrapping paper, chocolates - stuff that will keep. Not to mention those classy tree decorations that often disappear by the time you've made up your mind to splash out, the sort you would buy in June if you only had the foresight...
Going on to the second week, then, I want to have the tree, pudding, cake, order the turkey, oh, and find out the price of a second TV just in case. Third week will be for buying the liquor and some of the perishables, looking around for stocking-fillers - she's going to have a stocking, naturally, even if it's not her that hangs it up. And the fourth week...
Ah now, the fourth week. That's going to be almost the most important week of all. By that time, I reckon this place will be bursting. Christmas could be dropped on us from a great height and still I'd be ready. No fear of either of us having to turn to the other and say, 'Did you forget the...? 'It's just not going to happen. It will all be here. Except maybe for one thing. The biggest and the most important thing. It's not written down anywhere on my lists, because it's in a class of its own.
If I haven't found it already, the fourth week is reserved for one thing, and one thing only. Mandy's present.
What are you going to get for her then, Larry? I hear you ask. Well, that's just the point. I don't know. I don't even have the first idea. But between now and the big day my eyes won't have a moment's rest. They're going to be looking looking looking all that time. And when at last I see something that's right, I'll know it. There'll be nothing left to do then.
In other words, I've got my work cut out!
In the meantime though, there's the question of whether to tell Mandy. At first I thought to myself: why not? The old kid is bound to be miserable, faced with a Christmas all by herself. You might say the kindest thing would be to tell her everything's taken care of, that she isn't going to be alone and friendless, that she's going to have Christmas after all, thanks to Larry. Added to which there's the thought of the two of us, filling up the long winter evenings here in front of the gas fire, with all the stuff laid out around us, ticking it off our lists as it comes in, me pouring out the Christmas cheer, and her trotting out her mother's handy hints for turkey leftovers. I mean it's a pleasant picture, you'll admit. Sort of brings Christmas that much closer.
In which case you're probably amazed that I haven't gone ahead and spilled the beans already. Well, I'll tell you why not. He left on the Sunday, and I didn't even catch a glimpse of her until the Wednesday. And that was an insult in itself, her drifting through the door without so much as a word of an apology. You'll forgive me for thinking we were back to the bad old days. But the crowning moment comes after I've finally got her to sit down and say to her, just by way of testing the water, 'So what have you got planned for Christmas, Mandy love?'
Do you know what her answer was? 'Mmmm?' is what she says. 'Mmmm?' .
She wasn't even listening! Sitting there on my settee in front of my gas fire, and she wasn't even listening to a word I said. It would have gone in one ear and out the other.
No, she's got to wake up a bit first. Wait till she starts noticing the Christmas trees blocking up the windows, and 'Silent Night' piped in at her from all sides. And later, the Sally Army, doing their bit, shaking their boxes under her nose, after what little bit of money she's got. Even those funny types at the college will be handing out the Xmas cards and talking about going home. It'll sink in soon enough, you mark my words. And we'll see what she thinks then, faced with a Christmas without so much as a turkey drumstick.
But you know something, even then I'm not going to tell her. I'm going to wait, hang on till the big day. By then I reckon the poor old kid will be beside herself. But imagine the look on her face when Larry steps in and shows there's been a Christmas waiting for her all along! It'll be like a dream come true. Of all the surprises I've planned for her, this is going to be the best one ever.
But what if she's one of those funny types who don't care if it's Christmas?
The answer is - no chance. I know my Mandy. Even when she's acting up like she has been lately, I know my girl. I've seen what she's like when she's properly alone, when lover boy hasn't been in touch and the last visit begins to wear off. In no time, she'll be up here to see the only friend she's got, listening to all the friendly chat and picking up ideas for that little larder of hers. My Mandy will be back to herself in a twinkling, and she's not the sort not to notice Christmas.
And I was right. Of course. In the end it hardly took any time at all. Friday night she must have been overdoing the snacks again because there she was down in the lav, throwing up like a big kid who's eaten too much birthday cake. And today, Saturday, she was right back to normal. Nice, quiet and attentive. A bit nervy, maybe, but that was hardly my fault, and I wasn't surprised when for the first time in ages she smoked some of the cigarettes I'd put out for her. But more of that later.
First, let me tell you about this morning. I reckon I did my own little bit to press home the point about Christmas. By the purest chance I was in the hall picking my cards off the mat. Thick and fast they're coming now, even for Larry. And that's when she arrives down the stairs, panting slightly as if she'd run all the way.
Well, maybe I shouldn't have done it, but I couldn't resist it. I counted out the cards right there in front of her. Four for me and seven for the Ducks. 'Why Mandy, love,' I said, sounding all surprised. 'There's not a single card here for you. You are Miss Popular, aren't you. Never you mind though. There's plenty of time.'
Now you can tell me I was seeing things, but just for a second there, I could have sworn she looked a bit lost. What's more, she didn't say a word. Just turned and ran back upstairs, which was proof if proof you needed that she'd only come down because she thought there might be something there for her. Only who from? Not from Lover Boy, that's for sure. He never writes.
After that little tête-â-tête it was straight out for the real business of the day. In case you've forgotten, today was the end of week one of the Plan, and Oxford Street was waiting.
Even if I hadn't met up with Mandy, I would have been in a good mood. It's being out that does it, seeing the shops all done up for the Christmas spree. You'd never guess there was a recession - or maybe you would. Maybe that's why they're trying so hard. Whatever, the effect is lovely, and they're all doing it, even the second-hand shops on the Holloway Road - as if a few bits of tinsel is going to make someone cough up their last five quid on some fleasy old bits of junk. But it helps, doesn't it, reminding you what Christmas is all about. It's the same when it comes to fighting your way through the crowds, putting up with rudeness in the bus queue and so forth. You're all in it together, because you care. The ones who don't care stay at home and don't spend their money. And the shops (at least the ones in the West End) understand that, and make sure to give you the welcome you deserve with their decorations and carols over the intercom. Makes it more tasteful, more like it should be all the year round.
Tired out I was by the time I got home, though. Tired out but happy. There wasn't one single item on my list that wasn't where it should be, namely sitting on my kitchen table, ready to be ticked off a
nd put away.
The wonder was that I still had the strength to talk when Mandy appeared, but once I'd got started there was no stopping me. Somehow I brought up the subject of Christmas, the way it was before Doreen left. Naturally I made it all sound a lot better than it actually was, didn't say a word about the trials and tribulations of spending the season of goodwill with people who are thinking only of themselves. The truth is, I could have gone off on a different tack altogether, mentioning how it was around Christmastime it happened, with Doreen buying in everything we needed, putting it all away, and then announcing that she was off. What sort of woman does that to a man? But I don't say any of this to Mandy. Don't want to give Christmas a bad press do we?
What's more, it was during this that she started to smoke, which makes me think that some of it was hitting home. And so, just to make sure that no chances were lost, I asked her, quite casually: 'And what about you, Mandy love, what plans have you got for the big day?'
Well, it was only the same question as I asked last time, but you should have seen the difference now. Red as a beetroot she went, straightaway. And it was seeing her blush like that that told me there wasn't a word of truth in what was coming next.
'I expect I'll be getting together with, a few friends, Larry. Nothing much though. I mean it's not that big a thing, is it? Christmas, I mean.'
And all the time she was pulling at the flecks on her jumper, careful not to look remotely in my direction. And that answer spells it all out for Larry. For one thing, Mandy my girl, he knows when you're telling your little porky pies, because if you try talking about friends, then you've got to be telling lies. The simple fact is you don't have any. In the first place, you can't afford them; you don't have the money to do anything they do, and in the second place, you haven't got the time. You've been too busy thinking about lover boy, saving it all up for him, with just enough left over for that so-called work you're doing. You're only lucky you've got Larry to understand you. Who doesn't go on to ask why you've gone the colour of a Jersey tomato when he asks a perfectly simple question.
The Last Girl Page 15