by Julia Kelly
On our way I’d made the fatal decision to take Addie to a vast urban shopping centre. I’d wanted her to see Santa Claus and I’d still had three presents to get. We’d sat in a queue of cars stretching back to the M50 for an hour, parked illegally in a disabled spot and were then sucked into an overly warm world of materialism: waving polar bears in Tommy Hilfiger sweaters, hoards of addled parents, over-stimulated kids and endless Frappuccino-sucking teenagers and bewildered older people, stopping, standing for a moment, turning back in the other direction, ‘So here it is, Merry Christmas’ hurting everyone’s ears. The queue for Santa would have been another two hours in the sleet; we’d gone on the little Christmas train instead, Addie waving at shoppers too preoccupied to notice her.
We’d bumped into one of the old sisters, Pamela, in Urban Outfitters where I’d been attempting to find something to wear for Christmas day and Addie was pulling hands off mannequins.
‘What do you think?’ she’d asked me, this tiny woman in her eighties with freshly-dyed blue-black hair, a white made-up face and ruby lips, holding a sweatshirt decorated with a large red rose in front of her.
‘I like it. Who’s it for?’
‘Me.’
‘It’s cute.’
‘Really? But not too cute?’
‘No. I like it.’
‘Any news on that boy burnt by the lantern?’ she’d asked, her voice travelling under the wall dividing our two changing rooms.
‘He’s at home. He’s going to be OK,’ I’d said, trying to escape from a too-tight white dress, getting make-up all over its neck.
I’d slumped to the floor of the changing room and replayed it for the millionth time in my head. If I told everyone what I saw that night, told them how I was sure it was Billy who deliberately set the tree house on fire, he would go back to being vilified by the community and I would lose the only proper friend I’d made since we’d moved to Bray. Belinda would do what any mother would do – she would always protect her own child.
‘Is she very, very old?’ Addie had asked about Pamela from where she was lying on her belly on the floor, straining to get a glimpse of her under the divider wall. Then I’d heard Pamela ask the sales assistant about the best place to get a tattoo.
‘It’s now or never,’ she’d said.
On our way out, Addie had wanted to jump over the edge of the up escalator by herself but at the last moment she’d lost her nerve. She’d stood howling and frozen as I’d travelled away from her. I’d been damn tempted to keep on travelling – she’d just punched me on the nose in Starbucks because I wouldn’t buy her a third chocolate coin. I’d had to let go of the buggy to grab hold of her and pull her towards me, feeling alarmed eyes all around me. The buggy had tipped backwards with the weight of the bottle of wine in a plastic bag that I’d hooked over the handle. I’d managed to get my child into my arms but the bottle had clunked out and rolled back down the escalator with no way for us to retrieve it.
*
My cousin was sent down to the shops for more wine and I snuck upstairs to the playroom with Addie, where an assortment of various-aged, awkward and silent children had been shoved together. They were all sitting around the TV, watching The Wizard of Oz. I’d handled several questions about the accident and now I was taking some respite. One of the women had come up and said, ‘How are you?’ looking me in the eye as she waited for a reply. So far this year no one had got my name wrong. The boy who’d grown a moustache since last Christmas, making him look younger than he was, had given me a hug that had lasted for far too long. Even my aunt who traditionally addressed me by my sister’s name had got it right first time.
Children were a great social camouflage; you could arrive late, leave early, weren’t expected to help or to provide stimulating conversation. You could sit in the playroom where you’d much rather be in the first place; where the magic started all those years ago in the big house at the big party with the dumb-waiter in the wall and the old black-and-white TV and the godfather who always gave you the most exciting presents – roller skates, that’s what I got that year – breathing in all the delicious firewood, perfumey smells, the confusion and magic of it all and heavy black overcoats and things you saw that you shouldn’t have seen. And trying again to understand why Christmas Eve – the evening of Christmas – came before Christmas day.
*
‘I’m a little worried about your mother,’ I heard my aunt say to her friend’s daughter, as I passed them in the hall on my way to the toilet.
‘Oh no, don’t be. She’s fine. She’s doing much better in fact,’ the daughter said, referring to her mother’s recent hip-replacement. ‘I mean she was a little grumpy for the first few days, but that was to be expected after the general anesthetic.’
‘Well no, it’s not that. It’s just that she’s meant to be bringing the fizzy drinks. She said she’d be here at two.’
And when she at last arrived at the door, my aunt gave her only the most cursory of welcomes and dived for what she’d been waiting for: two litre bottles of 7Up that were bulging from a plastic bag looped around her wrist, the handles strained and stretched and digging into her skin.
*
Our cousins were busy hosting and too many others were away from their seats helping them – never the sign of a successful party – or tending to a child and I always seemed to be the person with an empty seat beside me. I leant across a large bowl of uneaten Brussels sprouts to try and join a conversation Bella was having with another cousin, pretending to have read the book under discussion when I’d only seen the TV series. I said hello in a very animated way to a breastfeeding woman I’d had quite a long and intimate chat with about leaking boobs the previous year, but she seemed to have no idea who I was and just nodded and carried on the conversation she was having. I attempted it again a few moments later. This time she smiled in a detached, vague manner and even looked a little irritated. Then severing her nipple from her toddler’s mouth with her thumb and forefinger, she told her child to say hello. Ruddy-cheeked, with a messy mop of brown curls, she was at least three and had a full set of first teeth. She looked up, surveyed her surroundings and finding nothing to amuse her, she whipped her head away and nuzzled back into the dark and moist comfort of her mother’s breast. Bella and I shot a glance at each other; we’d discussed this before. It just looked all wrong, like an Alice band on an old woman.
Ordinarily I would seek out the solace of my sister in these situations but I was a bit annoyed with her that day. She had already said that I looked exhausted – something I always hate being told; it’s just another way of saying you look rough. Then the subject had somehow moved on to Joe. ‘You really weren’t well suited. It was always so volatile in their house,’ she said to some of the other women in front of me just after Mum dropped the champagne glass.
‘Was it?’ I said, hurt and denying it – but then I recalled this day last year and the red toy kitchen for Addie from Santa that had taken me four hours to assemble with its tiny saucepans and microwave and little apron and telephone. That night, Joe had kicked and damaged it in a rage about me going to too many Christmas parties.
I felt out of sync with everyone in the room; the cadence of my voice was off-kilter. For an alarming half an hour I lost all sense of self-awareness or self-censoring – I couldn’t judge whether I was being interesting or tedious. I was talking about an article I’d read about fizzy drinks and brain development and I wasn’t sure if I was rambling on without making any real points or drawing any conclusions, and my audience weren’t giving me any clues; they just nodded and smiled and picked bits of rocket from between their teeth.
‘That is fascinating!’ I said every so often, when I couldn’t think of anything to say. And I made an inane comment about foie gras. The woman opposite was adamant that it was the liver fat of geese. No, I was the only vegetarian in the room. I was the one who should know. ‘It definitely isn’t geese. It’s goose.’
There was a sudden
loud thumping from the playroom above us, causing the lamp over the kitchen table to tremble. I pushed my chair back a few inches, waiting for tears and the yell of Mummy but nothing. Then there was a further series of small bangs.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ my aunt said, leaning over me with a platter of crackers and cheese. ‘When Jonathan and Florrie were dating, they slept in that room and on Sunday mornings, while we were having breakfast, we’d hear this bang, bang, banging. We couldn’t for the life of us work out what it was. Of course it was them all along, going at it like the hammers,’ she said, sending a little droplet of spit across the table. Her daughter looked stunned, then embarrassed, then annoyed.
‘Now, this is a rennet-free cheese from Ardagh,’ she continued, oblivious of her daughter’s mortification. She was showing off, giving everyone information about the expensive cheeses she was proffering around the table, dangling her arthritic finger and berry-coloured fingernail above each one as she went.
‘And this is a wonderful burgundy brie.’
‘What’s this one?’ I asked, when she reached me, pointing my own grubby-looking finger, which I’d forgotten to paint, at a cheddar type one with red veins running through it. I’d thought I heard her say it was a red Windsor. I wasn’t really in the mood for cheese. I was just being polite. Instead of showing off her knowledge as she did in front of all the other guests, she snapped at me as if I were not a guest at all but an irritating teenager.
‘Oh, for goodness sake, Eve. I can’t remember.’
‘I’d go easy on the ice cream,’ my cousin said, as I stood over by the sideboard, helping Addie to her second bowl. ‘Too much dairy is bad.’
Really, you don’t say, I wanted to respond. Oh, but I was told to give her plenty of it, too little calcium will make her bones brittle. And she’s on the lower percentile of growth for her age to begin with. But then you’re a short arse too, aren’t you? What height is your husband? Oh no, that’s right, I forgot. He’s not your husband. Never was. And now he’s gone. Such a shame. Very damaging for the child, very damaging indeed. What she needs is some stability in her life. What that child needs is a firm hand, it’s for her own good. For her own happiness. She’s far too soft on that little girl. And she needs more clothes on. Shorts in October, I mean what was she thinking? And do you know what I saw her do the other day, she let that child drag her sucky blanket through the grass in the playground, I mean dogs do their business there! Not safe at all. Reckless, I’d say. Well I’m not saying anything, I’m not one to judge but if it were my child I wouldn’t let her sleep like that. She’ll get a crick in her neck. Raisins? Absolutely not, they rot their teeth, you know. Now be sure to remind her to go to the loo, every twenty minutes. Whatever you do don’t ask her if she needs to go, she needs to tell you herself. Ah don’t make her say thank you, that puts pressure on her, she doesn’t have to if she doesn’t want to. Well, I don’t know how she is bringing up that child, no manners at all. Too much attention, that’s the problem with that child. Spoilt rotten, so she is.
‘How are we all doing?’ This was my mother, popping her head around the door to check on the young people. The adults were restless a little earlier than usual this year, perhaps it was more fun to be in the kitchen with us because there were so few of them left in the dining room. Mum often didn’t notice me on social occasions. I was too familiar to be fussed over, gushed about, and she was too busy being social and helpful, but this Christmas Eve, she seemed slower, quieter, more clear-headed and watchful than usual. She came over and sat down beside me.
‘You’re looking lovely,’ she said, touching my shoulder. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’
I nodded and smiled. ‘Not particularly.’
‘Where’s Addie?’ We did this all the time in our family, kept a constant tally of who at any moment was where.
‘Under the table, biting my leg. It hasn’t been a good day in our four-year relationship.’
‘You little rascal,’ Mum said, scissoring her legs about, then lifting the table cloth and lowering her head to look under at my beaming child.
‘And how are you, little monkey?’
‘I’ll be cross in a few minutes but right now I’m happy.’
She sat up again, somewhat flushed, and looked back at me.
I told her about the gift and Ben. She didn’t want to know.
‘Oh, pet, your life will always be full of drama,’ she said in a detached, weary sort of way, as if she no longer had the energy or the duty to fix it.
She gazed for a long time at the candlelight. She seemed uncharacteristically pensive. She picked at some wax that was about to drop onto the mahogany table. Then she turned to face me again.
‘So, we’ve said brunch at eleven tomorrow, presents after that and then I’ll be going to the Kennedys’ up the road if you want to come and we’ll eat around five – I have a vegetarian thing for you from M&S – it just needs to be defrosted.’
‘OK, Mum. And I’ll see you at Midnight Mass.’
‘Of course you will, I’d forgotten that,’ she said, yawning at the prospect of having to stay awake for another eight hours. ‘Oh now, listen, sweetheart, are you going on the McDermott’s walk this year? I’ve promised to let them know how many for numbers.’ This was an annual five-mile walk over the Wicklow mountains to a sleepy old man’s pub.
‘I will, if you do?’
‘I’ll be in the Galapagos by then,’ she said, with some glee.
I’d forgotten all about that trip. ‘I can’t keep up with you. Will I see you before I go?’
‘Of course, if you want to, though you don’t really need to and I’m having my old school pal, Bunty, to stay all next week, so I’ll be pretty busy, do you remember her at all? Bunty’s great, she’s big and bouncy.’
All I remembered about this faceless friend were those three adjectives; the ones Mum always used to describe her.
‘I’ll send you a postcard, love, though it will probably never arrive.’
She pulled me towards her, gave me a kiss on the forehead, got up and left the room.
*
The first guests were leaving – something to do with picking up or delivering a child – before the adults had even finished their mince pies.
My uncle was telling everyone to ‘shush!’ in quite an abrupt way while he tried to organise taxis, further addled by people interrupting him in the background with times and locations and routes.
‘Oh, for pity’s sake, Bruce. Why don’t you take the ruddy thing into the hall?’ his wife said, pushing past him with a tray of empties.
The front door brought in a rush of icy air; there was confusion over coats and belongings and wiped clean bowls, which unsettled everyone else and soon others were looking at their watches and feeling for their phones.
One of the old women’s bowls was missing. She had used it to carry the Caesar salad and now it was gone.
‘It’s a square, Waterford Crystal one, with a nice pineapple design on it,’ she said, describing it half a dozen times to anyone who would listen.
‘I don’t see why she’s so keen on that square bowl,’ one muttered to another, while making a half-hearted attempt to locate the missing bowl herself, by scanning her eyes around the room. ‘I’m perfectly happy with my round one.’
Mum was too busy reassuring her sister to help with the search for the bowl.
She had given Mum her Christmas present. Always quite mean about her own clothes, she wasn’t confident about her ability to buy gifts for others either and even as she handed it over she began making excuses about it. ‘It’s very plain. It’s nothing really. It’s a bit creased. But it’s quite a good colour, I suppose. And didn’t cost much. I hope you like it. You mightn’t like the colour and it might be the wrong size. It’s just a plain round-neck sweater from M&S, nothing too exciting. You can change it if you like. It mightn’t fit.’
And then I made a little girl cry. She had taken Addie’s place at the table
and was happily dribbling Addie’s chocolate ice cream over her pink satin dress. Addie started whimpering and pulling off me and I just didn’t have the stamina for another row. All I said was that she was sitting in my child’s place and could she please move. She slid off the seat, looking horrified – how dare an adult give her an order – and sought out her mother, a larger, fish-mouthed version of her child with the same horrible ringlety hair. She buried herself in her mother’s arms telling her about the cruel and evil thing I’d done. The mother seemed quite unimpressed with my excuses and explanations and her little brat was still shooting me filthy glances. Ten minutes later, both miserable, they left the party and went home.
An hour after beginning my goodbyes, I was out in the open air of Herbert Park.
The moustached boy helped by carrying Addie and strapping her into her seat, before giving me an alarming kiss on the mouth goodbye. In the refuge of my car, I wriggled my Spanx down to below my stomach and breathed out for the first time that day. I kicked off my heels, shoved on my Rocket Dogs. The noise of the party was still ringing in my ears, I was light-headed from all the chatter and gushing.
The windows were frosted up; I rolled them down and breathed in the beautiful crisp winter air. I looked at the road in front of me, at the arch of evergreens as far as the eye could see, and at the frost-covered grass of the park. The old band stand, the Victorian railings, the solid red-brick homes around me all seemed perfectly unreal that evening, like something out of Mary Poppins. The day, the party, the weather was making me nostalgic and weepy. This traditional party would one day end, after my mother and the rest of her generation had gone and all of those characters would become mere memories of people, that would in time dissipate and fade. I would talk about my parents to Addie, the way my parents spoke to me about theirs and she might not listen, might not be all that interested in these vague, distant people who she never knew, who were so vivid and animated now but would one day be summed up in several adjectives.