It Must Have Been the Mistletoe

by Judy Astley

  FOUR

  ‘If you hadn’t gone and promised them bikes, it would all be so much easier.’ Emily was fuming over lists and trying to plan her packing. Work was backing up. Who would imagine there could be so many people who thought it cute and endearing that they couldn’t organize their tax affairs till the very last minute? Hilarious. Not.

  ‘We’ll never get them in the Golf. In fact, if we don’t hurry, we won’t get them at all. Everyone’s child wants a Christmas bike. Stocks will be low. We’ll end up bikeless and it’ll all be a disaster.’

  Sam could have sorted this. Should have sorted this. Instead he was in his writing shed day and night, working on extra copy for New Year specials and apparently ‘up to here’ in it, as he claimed. She hadn’t meant to be deliberately stealthy when she took a mug of coffee out to him that morning, but before he’d heard her approach she’d had time to see that he was engrossed in Facebook Scrabble on his computer and not writing about the Obituaries of the Year or his so-urgent piece on the possible line-up for the year’s Sports Personality. It had made her furious. If he had time for Facebook, he had time for ordering the Christmas presents for the children. In fact, was it really too much to ask that he could even have got into the car and actually gone to the nearest cycle shop by now? There were enough of them in the area to cater for the many fit sorts round here with their state-of-the-art wheels and a taste for tight Lycra.

  ‘I thought we’d wait and buy them when we get there.’ Sam leaned against the kitchen worktop and stared out of the window at a squirrel that was raiding the hanging bird feeder.

  ‘Shoo it away,’ Emily said, rapping her nails on the glass. ‘It’s making a mess, dropping stuff everywhere.’ The squirrel took no notice.

  ‘It’s as entitled to eat as the birds are. There’s plenty to share,’ Sam said, smiling as the little animal scrambled up to perch right on the top of the feeder, clutching a peanut between its paws.

  ‘Sly things, squirrels. I don’t like them. And what do you mean, Sam, buy them when we’re there? How on earth can we do that?’

  Sam rinsed the mug he’d been drinking from and put it in the sink. Would it hurt him to open the dishwasher? Emily flicked at the stretchy bracelet on her wrist, willing herself to be calm. Mindful. Stay mindful. Breathe.

  ‘They do have shops in Cornwall, you know, Em. I thought we’d order from a local shop there and get the bikes delivered after we arrive. Simple and also obvious. Otherwise, even if we could get them in the car, which isn’t likely, the children would see bike-shaped packages and know for sure what they’re getting. Might as well keep the Santa mystery going, at least for Alfie. I’m sure Milly’s had her suspicions for a year or two now.’

  ‘I suppose we could ask Thea to drive the bikes back here after Christmas in her car,’ Emily told him. ‘There’ll only be her in it. It’s not as if she’s got to drive a mountain of baggage and people, like we have. But OK, so where would you get these bikes from? Assuming we’re not on some far rocky outcrop miles from anywhere?’

  He shrugged and looked vague. ‘Argos? A big Tesco? Same as any shops here? I’ll go online and look up a cycle shop near where we’re going. Truro, Penzance or something. Easy.’ He opened the back door and gave her one of his best smiles as he went out to return to his shed. ‘You see? Sorted. You can’t say I’m not doing my bit.’

  After he’d gone, Emily went and sat cross-legged on the big cream rug in the sitting room. She picked a little chunk of blue Playdough from the wool and kneaded it between her fingers to make it squishy and malleable again, rolled it into a smooth ball shape and put it on the coffee table – from which it immediately rolled off and vanished under the sofa. She sighed, deliberately emptying her lungs as far as she could, closed her eyes, circled her thumb and her middle finger together and took slow, deep breaths, trying to shut out the sound of children’s footsteps thumping across the floor in Milly’s room above her. After the tenth breath, she loosened her hands, stretched her arms high above her head and and put her index fingers to the sides of her nose, breathing in slowly through one nostril and out through the other and losing herself in the rhythm, feeling her body and spirit letting go of the stress of this strange Christmas which was very much not the sort she’d hoped for. So much for the silver and green décor scheme she’d decided on (last year’s Christmas special Livingetc, kept for reference), the invitations she’d had to turn down, the drinks party she’d planned so the neighbours could admire her artistry and her canapés (a mixture of Delia and Ottolenghi). The breathing worked for several minutes but then some nearby scuffling and huffing sounds cut into her thoughts and she heard the door handle turning.

  ‘What’s Mum doing?’ Alfie whispered to Milly.

  ‘She’s mooing. Again,’ came the scathing reply.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to travel down with us? There’s room in the car so long as you don’t mind the reek of Lynx Peace. Elmo’s taken to it in a big way. I think there might be a girl involved – not that he’d tell us. He’s well into the grunt stage at the moment,’ Jimi said to Thea on the phone.

  ‘Thanks, that’s sweet of you but I really want to take my own car,’ she told him. ‘I’ve got a huge amount of stuff because I put myself on the rota for the first lot of food shopping – I know it’s partly catered but I thought I’d get the sort of extras that everybody suddenly wants but then won’t find when they look in the cupboards. Crisps, crumpets, masses of tea bags, that Italian coffee Dad likes, the basics for making more mince pies and lots of party food – because everyone likes that over Christmas even if it’s not officially a party.’

  ‘Wine?’ He sounded worried that it might have been left out. Jimi without wine was pretty much unimaginable. If she had to do a portrait of him it would be with a large glass of red and a pile of Sudoku puzzles.

  ‘Mum said she and Dad are bringing wine. And there are supermarkets a few miles away from the village. No need to panic that we’ll run out.’

  ‘Phew! Oh, and Rosie’s bringing a box of our Christmas decorations, to add to the tree.’

  ‘Really? I’d got Emily down for that.’ Thea consulted her list. Definitely Emily. ‘But that’s OK, two lots will be even better. You can never have too many and if the place is as huge as it looks on the website, the right-size tree will probably need a ladder to get the fairy on top – so the more decs the merrier.’

  Needing space for all the packing and the presents wasn’t the only reason Thea wanted her own car with her. She had a feeling she was going to need it so as to make a few break-out trips from the family. Much as she loved them and was delighted to be spending time with them, this idea of constant all-together activity might well make her feel a bit claustrophobic. It would be good to have the means to get away. She might not actually need it if everything went brilliantly but it would be good to know that if she felt at all hemmed in or she needed a bit of space just to think, she had the means to whiz off for some quiet time alone to, say, St Ives to look at art galleries or to Land’s End simply to stare at the waves crashing onto the rocks below the cliffs.

  She and Rich had had a week in Cornwall only two years before. It had been spectacularly hot weather and they’d rented a cottage on the north coast, close to the Hayle estuary. They’d watched Benji hurtle along the endless dunes and roll in the sand till his fur was many shades of orange, and they’d eaten crab sandwiches on the beach. The sea was full of sleek surfers and exuberant body-boarders, and small children paddling in rock pools, where they caught little creatures and proudly presented them to their parents, who would quietly return them to the water a while later. Two small girls of about seven and nine whose parents were sitting close by had come to show Thea a starfish they’d found and she’d admired it, feeling flattered that they’d picked her out on their way to their own family.

  ‘I must have some sort of teacher aura about me,’ she said to Rich as the girls walked on with their treasure.

  ‘You shoul
dn’t have encouraged them,’ he said, frowning. ‘We could be anybody.’

  She’d felt a bit sickened by this. Talk about spoiling the moment. ‘They were just being friendly, Rich. What am I supposed to do, tell them to get lost?’

  ‘Probably, yes,’ he said, turning back to his book. ‘For their own safety. And besides, we didn’t come on holiday to have kids hanging around us. Don’t you get enough of that at work?’

  ‘I like children – it’s why I do the job I’ve got. Don’t you like them? At all? They’re just people. Nothing to be scared of.’

  Rich looked up and considered for a moment, squinting over the top of his sunglasses at her in the bright sun. ‘Actually, I suppose I don’t like them really, when I think about it.’ He put his hand out and patted Benji’s fluffy orange head. ‘You know where you are with dogs. Children, not so much.’

  As Thea now started loading the car in the pre-dawn dark, she thought about this conversation. Why had she ever thought it didn’t matter? That he didn’t really mean it? Probably because she couldn’t believe anyone she was so close to could have such a lack of affection for his own species. She remembered thinking that of course it would be different when they had their own child, one hypothetical day in the future when (God willing) she was pregnant. Who wouldn’t love their own baby, even if they didn’t much like other people’s? She should have realized that what her mother had said when Thea was going out with her first – and very moody – boyfriend at sixteen was actually true: you can’t change a man. And if you think you need to, then you’re with the wrong one.

  The weather forecast was very much all doom and gloom and ‘essential travel only’ warnings. According to last night’s TV, the entire west of the country could expect anything from gale-force winds and torrential rain to a thick blanket of snow by the evening, with more of the same over the whole of Christmas. Thea felt excited about the idea of snow – she’d never seen a white Christmas but she also knew it wasn’t likely down in the far south-west. The description of Cove Manor promised log fires, in the plural, and Thea hoped fervently that these were in addition to phenomenally efficient central heating and not instead of. You could never trust big old houses not to be full of icy draughts and she’d been into Zara the day before and bought a gorgeous blue sparkly dress that went brilliantly with her new copper and pinky-purple highlights and was a look that wouldn’t be improved by a cardigan.

  She loaded the last bags into her Polo and slammed the boot shut just as June Over-the-Road came across to her, pulling the reluctant Westie on his lead. He looked quite bleary-eyed and a bit puzzled as if he’d been woken from a deep sleep. The hem of what was clearly a pink nightie was visible beneath June’s coat and she was wearing sheepskin slippers. What on earth was she doing? It was only just after seven o’clock, midwinter dark and close to freezing. The dog blinked dozily in the light of the streetlamp and peed against the Polo’s front wheel. Steam wafted up.

  ‘Making an early start then. Very wise,’ June said. ‘I expect there’ll be lots of traffic hold-ups.’ She sounded rather pleased about this, as if she were inflicting a curse for a long and uncomfortable journey. Thea crossed her fingers for a moment, hoping it would be enough to ward off the bad luck.

  ‘I want to get there in plenty of daylight,’ she said. ‘We’ve been told not to trust the Sat Nav so it’s a matter of maps and luck.’

  ‘You can’t trust technology,’ June sniffed. ‘And there’s a whole generation growing up who haven’t a clue how to read a map.’

  It was too early in the morning to argue the case. Thea ran through a very fast last-minute checklist in her head and opened her car door.

  ‘Yes, you’re probably right, though I expect they’d be able to do it if they needed to. Anyway – er, Happy Christmas, June. And Happy New Year too, because I won’t be here for that either. Love to Robbie.’

  ‘Hmm,’ June said. ‘You have a nice time too, dear, and perhaps you’ll meet a nice man while you’re away. Someone more your own age.’ She patted Thea’s arm. ‘Someone not married.’ And she turned and tugged on the Westie’s lead and went back across the road, slippers slap-slapping on the tarmac.

  Thea climbed into the Polo and switched on the engine. What on earth was June on about? Somebody – possibly even Robbie himself? – must have reported back to her about his bodged and clumsy attempt at a kiss at their party. Did June really think Thea was in hot pursuit of her husband? She looked back at her little house, whose spare key was safely with Jenny, and waved it goodbye for the holiday as she drove away towards the main road. Honestly, what was this? She was a single woman so must be chasing a man? Anyone’s man? Ugh – the thought of fancying Mr Over-the-Road, his sly pawing, his sticky moustache, his feeble twiglet of mistletoe, made her feel quite creeped out. Gross. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to get a car of my own now. Or you will,’ Anna said to Mike as they sat in a barely moving traffic jam on the A303 by Stonehenge. ‘There’s a lot to think about with a divorce, isn’t there? It’s not just a matter of selling the house, divvying up the possessions and finding somewhere else to live with half the proceeds.’

  Mike looked in the rearview mirror. There was a camper van coming up alongside with surfboards on the roof and young hippie-looking sorts in it. Funny how that look was still around all these decades on. That had been him, once. Same sort of van, though only Californians had gone in for surfing back in those days and his camper had been painted with swirly flowers, and had plastic roses and daffodils like a garland all along the front bumper.

  ‘Remember when they used to give you a plastic flower as a freebie when you bought petrol?’ he asked Anna.

  ‘I do. Why did they ever think people would want them? Later it was wine glasses. At least they were useful.’

  ‘I had them on the van when we first met,’ he said, moving the car a bit in the traffic. ‘Roses, daffodils and carnations.’

  ‘They were horrible. They got filthy from stuck-on flies and road grime.’

  Anna seemed in no mood for reminiscing. A hand came out from the van’s passenger-side window as it pulled up alongside, holding a cigarette. Mike opened the window and sniffed. Ah yes, someone was smoking a joint; something else that took him right back to being young. Charlotte smoked a bit of weed now and then, but not the way he and his friends had done it, back in the far-off days when you rolled a big fat spliff, passed it round the assembled company and it was all something of a ritual with quiet, contemplative respect for the product, not unlike wine-tasting. Charlotte went in for skinny little roll-ups that stuck to her lips. She’d offered one to him last time he was at hers but he didn’t fancy it, not after more than thirty years of going without. It would probably make him edgy, possibly affect the old potency level and he didn’t want to muck about with that. He was surprised she smoked anything at all, with singing being her livelihood, but he wasn’t going to come over like some old granddad and make a comment. It was her business and she was pushing forty-five so wasn’t likely to tolerate a telling-off.

  The camper van was crawling along next to Mike’s Sierra now. Some kind of hip-hop music was blaring out, or was it house? If it wasn’t blues or country or proper sixties’ pop, he wouldn’t know what it was. He raised his hand at the smoking passenger in a vague sort of comradeship gesture. The boy looked startled, closed the window and the driver accelerated quickly, neatly cutting in, in front of Mike. Two more lads on the back seats turned round and stared at him, and one of them picked up a red T-shirt and wrapped it round his head in mockery of Mike’s own scarlet bandana. The van’s occupants seemed to find it hilarious and their laughter was making it rock. He felt embarrassed, humiliated and uncomfortably old. Ageist little bastards, he thought, slowing and waving a fishmonger’s van into the gap between him and the camper.

  ‘This is a good idea, isn’t it?’ Anna asked as at last the traffic sped up past the ancient stones. The fields around them
were pale and frosty. Grazing sheep looked grey and matted, and fat with next year’s lambs. Circles of life, Mike thought, still feeling a bit maudlin.

  ‘The Christmas thing? Yes,’ he said, then, ‘no. Hell, I don’t know, Annie – we’ll have to see how it turns out. Maybe we shouldn’t have told them about the divorce.’

  ‘Oh, bloody typical. It was your idea to tell them before Christmas, if you remember. “Let’s be upfront about it, then it’s out of the way,” you said. I had my doubts. Still, too late now.’

  ‘It is.’ Mike could only agree. ‘Sorry. Also, to be fair, telling them about the divorce was a bit of emotional blackmail to get them all to agree to come. I doubt Emily would have wanted to. She’s an urban soul, that one.’

  Anna reached across and squeezed his hand. ‘It’s OK. Nothing to be done about it now. I just think, you know, it could be strange. Awkward. Possibly for everyone. Rather like Fawlty Towers and “Don’t mention the war”.’

  ‘We’ll have to make sure it isn’t awkward. We have to, because it’s going to be the future normal, isn’t it? It’s the perfect chance for them to get used to the idea,’ Mike said, reluctantly removing his hand from hers so he could change gear. He hoped she wouldn’t think he didn’t want her touching him at all. They hadn’t got to that stage yet. With a little ouchy pang, he realized he hoped they never would. He reminded himself that they’d still be seeing each other, still be the greatest of friends. That was a given.

  ‘So what will you get?’ he asked.

  ‘Get? Oh, are we back to the car? So you’re keeping this one?’ she said.

  ‘Well, I just thought … But no, you can have it if you want. I really don’t mind.’ He was used to the Sierra, old and rather tatty though it now was, and he was the one who drove it the most. He liked having a substantial estate car for carrying his guitars and amps to gigs. He often got stuck with someone’s drums too.