Devils, for a change

by Wendy Perriam

  She felt her own mouth water as Amanda Carson carried in the turkey, entrusted it to Dale to carve. Jewelled hands around the table reached out for vegetables: roast potatoes, uncharred and golden-brown, tiny petits pois. She heard her stomach rumble, quickly masked it with a cough.

  ‘Enjoying it?’ asked Maureen.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, swallowing and smiling. Delicious tender turkey breast was melting in her mouth, crisp and perfect sprouts dispelling the sweet sickliness of Tesco’s British sherry.

  ‘More sprouts for you, Hilary?’

  ‘No, that’s plenty, thank you.’

  ‘Swedes?’

  ‘I’ve got some, thanks.’

  ‘Joe grew those himself. He’s got a little patch of garden next to his menagerie. The rabbits got out once and ate everything in sight, including all the swede tops.’

  Joe gave a boozy guffaw. ‘Greedy buggers! I got my own back pretty quick – killed the biggest blighters and put them in a pie. Terry called it swede and bunny pie.’

  Hilary put her fork down. It was bad enough trying to eat the goose. She kept remembering the Sunday when she and Luke had gone down to the river, fed a pair of Canada geese with scraps of bread and cake crumbs. They’d been so tame and trusting, they’d eaten from her hand. Now their flesh was skewered on her fork, its gamey taste rancid in her mouth. The whole meal seemed tainted, germy. Both Amber and Sylvie had prodded half the dishes with sucked or dirty fingers, before anyone was served. The dishes had no lids, were just cracked white pudding basins, one leaking greenish fluid on the table. Then Rita had dropped the carrots, scooped them from the carpet, fluff and all. She seemed unsteady on her feet, had spilt gravy down her skirt, upset several glasses. There had been a row when Joe returned, and she’d disappeared upstairs, come down pale and shaky, as if she’d been mixing drink with tranquillisers. Joe had refused to wash his hands, or change; was sprawling at the table in an old blue donkey jacket, with a grubby yellow tee shirt underneath. His hands were filthy, oil and grime engrained into the skin, nails black and bitten off.

  ‘They’ll get a wash later, when I do the dishes. No point wasting water.’ He grinned and turned to Hilary. ‘I always do the Christmas washing up. It’s my gift to Rita. She won’t get nothing else.’

  ‘Some gift! He always breaks the glasses, or bungs ’em in the sink with the greasy baking tins.’

  ‘You’re an ungrateful bloody cow, Rita. Some wives would give their …’

  ‘Shut up, Dad. We’ve got company, remember.’

  Hilary tried to hide her embarrassment in her beaker of champagne. The champagne was pink, expensive; the beaker stained brown melamine. It was a household of extremes: expensive toys and presents, yet no proper dining table – just a table-tennis top set across two trestles; no cloth to hide the bare and cracked green wood. She understood about the cloth once she saw Sylvie try to eat. The girl paddled her hands in gravy and bread sauce, then wiped them on anything or anyone who happened to be near. She dropped food all around her, mauled it, played with it; uttered piercing wails or piggish grunts to indicate she wanted second helpings. She seemed never sated, never full. Before lunch had even started, she had eaten two whole Mars bars, half a packet of ginger nuts, and various greasy titbits Rita fed her from the kitchen, to prevent her devouring newspaper or toys.

  Hilary wished she could offload her own still bulging plate, employ Sylvie’s mouth to clear it. The swedes were the main problem. Swedes spelled penance for her, and despite her years of practice, when she’d always asked for double – done her best to relish them, to release holy souls in Purgatory or ease Reverend Mother’s rheumatism – that all seemed arrant nonsense now. The Abbess needed cortisone, not swedes. She pushed them round her plate, made patterns with them, hid a woody lump beneath a piece of goose skin. Luke was also messing with his food, had hardly eaten anything. He was sitting next to Amber, whom he obviously despised. The contrast was quite painful. Amber was a pink and perky child, who enjoyed chatting with the grown-ups, flirting with her father, and had even managed to finish up her goose, whereas Luke looked tired and sullen, ignored everyone around him, and was using his knife to cut the table, rather than his food. Hilary wished they’d put her next to him, instead of next to Joe, with a rowdy beery Terry on her left. Both men were gnawing bones, talking with their mouths full, so that tiny particles of mingled food and spittle sprayed onto her face.

  ‘Pass the stuffing, Terry. More for you, Dot?’

  ‘No, thanks, Maureen, love. I can’t eat much these days. The last op I had they took away so much, I reckon I’ve only got a shred of stomach left.’ Long speech for Auntie Dot, who had hardly said a word so far, seemed cowed by Joe, awed by his two sons, kept flashing on her nervous smile, as if she hoped it might protect her, or at least be accepted in lieu of conversation. Hilary herself found it hard to talk. Every subject which came naturally to mind seemed either out of place, dangerous, or tactless: Luke’s schooling, Luke’s bruised face, her stupid disappointment that he hadn’t bought her anything for Christmas; Brignor, and its Office, the fact she missed it still. She was missing Liz, as well, her mind continually sneaking back to Norfolk, then on to Scarborough, so that she was living through three Christmases at once – the convent one, the Kingsleys’ and the Craddocks’.

  ‘Hilary’s a nun,’ Amber suddenly announced, in a tone of obvious relish. Everybody laughed, even Hilary herself. Much of Amber’s chatter she couldn’t understand. The child was obviously intelligent, even quite precocious, but she used her own child’s language, with private or invented words; spoke so indistinctly Hilary felt embarrassed when she couldn’t grasp her questions, or failed to laugh at jokes which the others found so cute. Ron and Terry talked mainly to each other, discussing subjects she knew nothing of at all – greyhound racing, souped-up Kawasakis, Chelsea’s shaky prospects in next week’s FA Cup. Joe seemed only keen to pick a fight, kept contradicting everyone, complaining about the food, the heat, the government, the snooping bloody VAT man whom he threatened to castrate, and the way they ran the tote at Kempton Park. He reached out for the potato dish, not to take some more, but to put his own five back, despite the fact they were soggy-wet with gravy, and already hacked about.

  ‘It’s time you learnt to cook, Maureen. These spuds are so damned hard, I almost broke my teeth on ’em. No wonder Gareth looks like he’s always got the trots and Amber’s cadging chocolate half the time.’

  ‘Lay off, Dad, can’t you? I’ve spent half my bloody Christmas slaving in the kitchen, and that’s all the thanks I get. And if you’re going to start slagging off my family, we’ll stay at home next time.’

  Joe ignored her, heaped his plate with swedes, bloodied them with ketchup, then waved fork and swede at Hilary. ‘My fucking stupid daughter didn’t want to cook these; said they weren’t the thing for Christmas. “Weren’t the thing”.’ He imitated Maureen’s high-pitched voice. ‘Christ knows where she gets all her stuck-up fancy notions – not from me or Rita, that’s for sure. I spend all year trying to grow the buggers in soil that’s more like gravel, and they’re not good enough for …’

  ‘Watch your language, Dad. We’re used to it, but …’

  ‘I won’t watch fucking nothing. You’ve all been picking on me since I walked into this house. If you don’t like it here, get out.’

  ‘Cool it, Dad.’ Ron now intervened, ripped the tags off half-a-dozen cans, poured his father a glass of light and bitter, as if that might calm him down, refilled his own pint tankard. Joe had already damned the pink champagne as ‘woman’s bloody piss’.

  Hilary sipped her woman’s piss, laid her knife and fork together, to indicate she’d finished, leant back in her chair with a ripple of rebellion. She wouldn’t finish up her swedes, wouldn’t eat her goose. She wasn’t a nun, wasn’t seeking penance, and if Joe could be so rude, she’d be impolite herself, risk offending him by leaving food he’d shot or grown. This was Christmas Day, so she’d indulge herself for onc
e, fill up on dessert, which wasn’t spoilt, since Rita had looked after it herself, saved the Christmas pudding from death by drowning, the mince pies from cremation.

  She looked up at the small and grimy window pane. It was already almost dark. They had missed the Queen’s speech, which had just been starting as they all trooped in to dinner, though she’d heard Gareth say he’d record it on the video for Maureen. Christmas Day was already half over. She felt a sudden droop of failure. What difference had it made to Luke to have her there, share his Christmas with her? She’d had so little chance to talk to him, make things better, present him with some chink of hope. And even when she’d tried, offered to play Snap with him while they were still waiting for their lunch, he’d merely shrugged, slunk back to his room. He seemed uneasy and on edge, pulled between his family and her, as if even he could see the gulf between them, felt he belonged to both and neither. How could she help him, anyway, when his problems were so grave, when so many other people would soon be clamped onto his life – well-meaning dangerous people like so-called welfare officers?

  She must make one last big effort after lunch, maybe take him for a walk, dark or no – try to get him on his own and draw him out, ask him what he wanted, find out what he feared. At least she could promise to keep in touch with him, write to him from Hertfordshire, perhaps invite him up to visit in the holidays, if the college and the Craddocks both allowed it. Then, once she’d reassured him, let him know she wouldn’t simply vanish, she could say goodbye all round, make her getaway, slip back to Cranleigh Gardens after tea, spend Boxing Day mercifully alone. She had just ten days to finish off the bridesmaids’ dresses, complete her last few jobs, before she packed up her belongings and decamped to Claremont College. Despite her worry over Luke, she was really looking forward to it. December was a feverish month, with all the fuss and fret of Christmastide, its painful lacks and memories, but cold and steady January would blast her back to health. She’d been to see the College, taken to it instantly, liked its friendly atmosphere and spacious well-kept grounds. She’d even seen her room – small, but bright and cheerful, with a marvellous view, looking out across a beech wood. She knew she’d settle down there, begin to put down roots, be able to start again as a new and different person – not ex-nun or Liz’s protégée, but as assistant domestic bursar, future warden to the girls.

  The room was growing dimmer, the one weak unshaded light bulb no match for the wintry dark outside. The table was now littered with nutshells, chocolate wrappings, dismembered Christmas crackers and a pool of spilt custard congealing round Sylvie’s empty place. Sylvie herself was sprawled out on the floor, still engaged in eating. She had returned to savouries again and was picking at a goose bone, her nightie hitched up high above her knees, displaying gross white thighs and a drooping bulge of sanitary towel, which looked more like a nappy. Amber was asleep, had nodded off after the dessert, and was now stretched out on her mother’s lap, blue eyes closed, chic dress splashed with gravy.

  Hilary shifted in her seat, longed to leave the table, as Luke already had. The room was getting chilly, cold draughts sneaking in through the small ill-fitting windows. It was a mean low-ceilinged room, which held nothing but the table and eleven makeshift chairs; had once been just a lean-to, only annexed to the house when the Craddocks had their fifth child and could no longer fit the kitchen. She was feeling claustrophobic, closed in by the circle of slumped and sated bodies, and weighted down inside with heavy Christmas pudding, over-sweet mince pies. The trinket in her cracker had been a tiny plastic gun, which seemed somehow menacing, even when Luke swapped it for his thimble. They all wore paper hats now. Gareth sported two, one above the other. Sylvie’s was too small, had started disappearing down her throat.

  ‘Coffee!’ Joe demanded.

  ‘You don’t want no coffee, Dad. The doc told you to keep off it. Anyway, I want to put my feet up. We’ll have tea in half an hour. You can bloody wait for that.’

  ‘I’ll make it.’ Rita got up, starting stacking plates. ‘I ought to clear up, anyway.’

  ‘No, don’t, Mum. You’re meant to take it easy. If Dad wants coffee, can’t he put the kettle on himself? Or is he paralysed or something?’

  ‘Don’t you take that tone to me, girl. You don’t know what work is. What is it they call you at your job – a receptionist? That’s just a fancy term for sitting on your arse all day and getting someone else to mind your kids. You’ve always been the same – bone idle.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Dad, I’ve just cooked Christmas dinner for eleven.’

  ‘Ruined it, you mean. If your mother wasn’t always running to the doctor and living on them pills, we might have had a decent meal for once.’

  ‘Oh, you’re starting on her, are you? I’d have thought she’d had enough from you already. She almost died in hospital, and all you cared about was who’d wash your shitty pants or cook your rotten dinners.’

  ‘And what fucking help was you, I’d like to know? You didn’t lift a finger, didn’t even visit. You’re all the same, you lot, only come here when you want something, or when I’ve got a few bob spare. I’ve worked my arse off feeding seven kids, yet when Rita falls apart, I have to send the youngest to a stranger, because his own flesh and blood just don’t want to know.’

  ‘So Hilary’s a stranger, is she? That’s nice for her, I must say. She must feel really great, sitting there beside you, while you use that filthy language, then insult her.’

  ‘And what about your own language? Not that marvellous, is it? Oh, you try to play Miss Prim and Proper, but it don’t cut no ice with me.’

  ‘Look, shut up all of you!’ The mild and shambling Gareth suddenly exploded, sprung up from his chair. ‘I’ll make the coffee myself. Maureen, go and watch the Queen. The video’s all set up. If your father can’t be civil to you, then keep away from him.’

  ‘She’s not watching no video. Lucky Break is starting in five minutes and I’m not missing that for anyone.’

  ‘The speech only lasts five minutes, Dad. You won’t miss nothing. Anyway, we could have watched it hours ago, if you hadn’t hung around the boozer and made us all so late.’

  Joe lunged forward for his glass, drained it in one defiant gulp. ‘I don’t know why I stay here. You’re always on my back, always yak-yak-yakking. I sometimes think I’d have been better on my own, without no wife and kids at all,’ He wiped beer foam off his mouth, pushed his glass away. ‘Rita never should have had no kids. She’s not built for it, not got the right equipment. It went wrong from number one, when she produced that … that …’ He seemed lost for the right word, finally swung round on his chair and jerked his thumb at Sylvie, who was sitting vacant-eyed now, grease and dribble curdling on her chin. ‘Kids like her should be done away with – yeah, right from birth, before they break no hearts. It’s kinder in the end. Once that was born, we didn’t stand a chance. Oh, for Christ’s sake, Rita, don’t turn on the bloody waterworks. I’ve got to talk straight sometimes.’ He heaved up from the table, flinging back his chair and waking Amber, who broke into a wail. ‘Yeah, go on, bawl, the lot of you. I’m going to watch the box.’

  ‘Oh no, you’re not, Dad! I’m watching the Queen’s speech first. I don’t care what you say.’

  ‘You’ll quiet your bloody brat first – both your bloody brats. Now the little un’s started.’

  ‘Only ’cause you shouted. Look at you, you bully, you’ve made everybody cry. It’s a wonder Hilary’s not howling her eyes out, too. Come on, Hil, d’you want to watch the Queen?’

  ‘No. She’s watching Lucky Break – same as me. She’s my guest, isn’t she? I asked her here.’

  ‘Some guest! You’re treating her like shit. She’s not used to this, you realise. She’s probably never heard such language in her life.’

  Joe ignored his daughter, made an elaborate show of offering Hilary his arm, easing back her chair for her. ‘You come with me, sweetheart. And how about a little drop of whisky? It’s good for indigest
ion and I reckon we’ll all finish up with that, after Maureen’s shitty cooking.’

  Hilary was steered into the sitting room, seated on the sofa, a drink placed in her hands. She could hardly think for all the noise, commotion. Both the children were howling still, Amber near-hysterical as she tried to fight her mother, lashed out with feet and fists. The row had upset Sylvie, too, and her frightened wails were resounding from the dining room, countered by Terry’s angry shouts. And now the Queen’s voice was added to the uproar, as Maureen struggled with the video, managed to switch it on, despite one child screaming in her arms, one kicking at her skirts.

  ‘The Christmas message is a very lovely one: peace on earth to men of good will. At this universal festival, we should aim to see the world as one, united by our common bond of humanity, our desire for peace, our fervent hope for that good will mentioned in the …’

  ‘Shit! He’s soiled his nappy.’ Maureen sniffed her son’s lower half, wrinkled up her nose. ‘That’s all I need! Amber, if you don’t stop that noise this minute, I’m putting you to bed and you’ll stay there till we leave. Okay, that’s it – you’ve had it. Come on, both of you.’ She swept them out, Kevin bundled under her arm, while she steered Amber by the ear; paused a moment at the door, to yell some last invective at her father.