by Claire Sandy
‘Need a hand?’ Nora crossed to a cabinet and took out a vegetable peeler. ‘Those parsnips won’t chop themselves,’ she added crossly, as if Fern had expected them to do just that.
A dab hand, Nora made short work of the Everest of Maris Pipers after she’d undressed the parsnips. Carrots were next, her bent fingers working deftly, with little sign of her stroke. Fern knew Nora had good days and bad days. On bad days she not only dropped things but barged into cupboards and missed her footing on the stairs.
One night Fern had tried to start a conversation about therapy, but it brought out Nora’s imperious worst. Her aunt had frozen her out, adding a comment about Fern’s bottom in those jeans just to underline how she felt about intervention.
‘Mother of God.’ Nora snatched the whisk out of Fern’s hands. ‘Let me do the bread sauce.’
Unaccustomed to help in the Christmas kitchen – Adam had always had urgent battery-putting-in to do, or a vital It’s a Wonderful Life to watch – Fern was grateful for back-up. Or maybe I’m the back-up; Nora was a born general.
‘Wash up as you go along,’ said Nora, chucking the whisk into the sink.
‘Yessir.’
‘Tallie’s come out of herself today.’
So Nora had noticed the change in the child. Tallulah’s end-of-term report had been a litany of failed tests and daydreaming. ‘The guitar’s cheered her up.’
Nora tasted the gravy, made weeks earlier with chicken wings and defrosted last night. ‘More salt,’ she said.
‘I don’t think so.’ You insult a woman’s gravy, you insult her very soul.
‘I wasn’t asking.’ Nora jiggled the salt cellar. ‘I’ve been thinking about Tallie’s shoplifting . . .’
‘Can we please not talk about that today?’ Fern pushed at her fringe. The steam in the kitchen was turning her hair punky. It was the only day of the year that she cooked in high heels and the strain was beginning to show.
‘She stole liquorice laces, and that’s queer, because Tallulah doesn’t like liquorice.’
‘Where’s the gravy boat?’ Like Christmas itself, the inherited gravy boat only appeared once a year. Fern tuned out Nora, tired of her aunt’s constant harping on Tallulah’s one and only fall from grace. The little girl was suffering enough with her new nickname – ‘Crim’ – and the cold-shouldering by snooty friends with high grades and pushy parents. It cut Fern to see her child hurting at the hands of others. Young girls were so sweet and so generous, and then suddenly so cruel; school was no longer a haven for Tallulah, but at home she was forgiven and that was that.
‘Oh Jesus Christ, cranberry sauce!’ she shrieked, hands to her face. ‘Auntie! I forgot the cranberry sauce!’
Christmas lay in ruins at Fern’s feet. Long after she was dead, her children would reminisce, ‘Remember that Christmas there was no cranberry sauce?’ The turkey in the oven laughed at her, in a gobbly way. She considered leaving home. She considered murdering everybody so that nobody would find out about the cranberry sauce.
Christmas can do that to a woman. Fern didn’t even like cranberry sauce.
‘I bought some yesterday,’ said Nora nonchalantly, taking up a tea towel.
Fern staggered, her head light. ‘Thank you,’ she said, taking Nora’s hand and wringing it over and over. ‘How can I ever repay you?’
‘Somebody,’ said Nora, ‘needs a little lie down.’
Despite the juiciness of the turkey, the abundance of the cranberry sauce, and the majesty of the roast potatoes, the magic of Christmas was elusive for Fern.
Crowded around the table, all digging in, her family were making daft conversation and/or nom nom noises. They were all eating far too much. They would all complain of tummy ache. They would all howl for turkey sandwiches by eight p.m. So far, so good; all was exactly as it should be.
Pushing back her paper hat, Fern refilled Donna’s glass with water and placed Tallulah’s red paper napkin on her lap. She risked a wink at Ollie over the centrepiece candle and was rewarded with a wink back, just like the old days.
‘Top meal, Mum,’ he said, his mouth full.
The gravy had needed more salt. Christmas lunch was elevated by Nora’s touches. The parsnips were cooked all the way through, with no bullet-hard surprises. The nutmeg in the bread sauce made all the difference. Nora had waved away thanks with prickly annoyance, but had muttered, ‘I know what it’s like to slave away feeding people who don’t appreciate the hard work involved.’ A talkative woman, Nana’s vocabulary hadn’t stretched to ‘Thank you.’
It was easy to blame Adam for the lack of magic, so Fern did just that. Watching him covertly as her paper hat slipped over her eye, she saw a man sitting politely, eating his meal gratefully, commenting on the wondrousness of the sprouts, and helping Tallulah cut up her turkey.
He’s a guest, thought Fern dismally. Adam was remote, well-mannered, saying and doing all the right things. He should be saying and doing all the wrong things.
Every Christmas Adam got in the way, plying Fern with Buck’s Fizz when she should be stirring things, and winding the children up to unparalleled levels of overexcitement. He would lean against the cooker, glass in hand, chatting happily as if Fern was throwing together an omelette instead of the most important meal of the year. Washing up with Ollie, he would tell Fern to ‘have a sit down’, as if the washing up was a personal favour to her. She would rant, he would laugh, and they would kiss in the hall when the kids were otherwise engaged.
But not today. Remembering her manners, Fern turned to the man on her left.
Walter, unguessably old, was guest of honour. His face a wrinkled map of his life, Walter had been coming to Fern for manicures since she’d opened up the Beauty Rooms. He was particular about his hands, which now shook as he cut up his turkey.
‘All right, Walter?’ whispered Fern, hoping she’d done the right thing in inviting him. Hearing he’d be alone on Christmas Day, she hadn’t thought twice, but perhaps she’d misjudged the situation. Walter was silent and withdrawn, the only diner not reciting cracker jokes. Remembering his deafness, she repeated her question, louder this time.
‘Yes, thank you.’ Walter had his best dentures in, so the smile he gave her was a tad gruesome.
‘Tell me if you need anything.’
‘Walter,’ asked Tallulah, her cutlery held up like cutlasses. ‘What was the best present you got today? Mine was a telescope. I’m going to examine the moon later.’
‘Why not,’ suggested Ollie, ‘check out Uranus?’
‘My best present,’ said Walter in a papery voice, ‘is all of you.’
I did the right thing, thought Fern, as Evka raised her glass to Walter, shouting ‘Na zdravie!’
‘Na zdravie!’ they all yelled back as Walter shrank back into his best shirt, which was frayed at the cuffs.
The presents from Evka had been generous and thoughtful; Nora couldn’t be parted from her new cardigan, and Tallulah was having a ball with the fake poo she’d unwrapped. The strange fruit cake she’d made for Fern – ‘My muzzer’s recipe’ – might come in handy as a doorstop. Despite Evka’s special way of helping lay the table – ‘Best if I stay out of way with pint of liqueur’ – she added something indefinable to this strange Christmas.
‘I go.’ Evka stood up abruptly, hoiking her bra and taking one last mouthful of stuffing.
‘Where?’ Nora was stricken.
‘Booty call,’ said Evka, sweeping out. ‘Christmas Day rudes are rudest rudes of all.’
‘What’s a booty call?’ Nora looked expectantly around the table.
‘Pardon?’ said Walter.
‘No idea, Auntie. Adam, do you know?’ said Fern evilly, standing to clear plates.
‘A booty call is when somebody leaves their boots to be mended and they call you to collect them,’ said Adam authoritatively, with the merest of eye-widenings for Fern.
Sitting on Adam’s lap – she blamed the lack of chairs – Penny said, ‘No, silly, a bo
oty call is when a guy—’
Ollie, Donna and Fern coughed heartily until Penny got the message. This took a while; Penny could ignore the most blatant warning, as Fern had discovered when she’d opened the door to her that morning.
‘Oh God,’ Fern had said, in place of the more usual ‘hello’. Adam had arrived just minutes before, been jumped on by Tallie and fist-bumped by Ollie. He hadn’t mentioned Penny. ‘Penny, isn’t it?’ asked Fern.
The look on Penny’s face said, ‘You know who I am,’ but her air of bonhomie didn’t waver. ‘Yes! Merry Christmas, Fern. Thank you for having me.’ Pressing a beribboned bottle into Fern’s arms, she stepped forward, but Fern stood her ground.
The women were breast to breast, eyeballing each other. ‘Am I having you?’
‘I’m Adam’s plus one.’ Penny’s eyes were a make-up masterclass. ‘Adam!’ She called to him over Fern’s shoulder. ‘I’m here!’
‘So you are,’ said Adam, sounding just like a man who knew that whatever he said next would get him in trouble with fifty per cent of his audience. ‘Good. Come in.’
Fern stepped out of the way, feeling as crumpled as her apron beside Penny’s mannequin neatness. ‘I hope there’s enough turkey,’ she muttered.
‘There’s enough turkey for the entire street,’ said Adam, who had recovered enough to look amused. He could look amused these days; the Botox was wearing off. Given written notice, he could even look surprised. In a lower tone he’d added, ‘Is it OK? I can ask her to go.’
‘I’m not Scrooge. Of course she can stay. You should have told me she was coming, though.’
Adam had sighed. ‘I’m sorry. Can we start again?’
The fresh start hadn’t taken. From then on, Adam sat back from the action and Fern worked overtime to conceal her annoyance. The kickback of the magic of Christmas is that Christmas is also very, very demanding. Fern was running on empty; usually the celebration could be relied upon to top her up, but not this year.
The Roomies special filled the sitting room with colour and noise, as Lincoln Speed ruined Christmas for his physically perfect friends on the small screen. Putting away board games in the conservatory, Fern heard her family’s laughter drown the canned variety. Swiping up Quality Street wrappers and empty glasses and Sellotape scraps, she sank onto a chair, looking out at the bare, wintry lawn.
Her reflection, shivery and vague, seemed to squat in the twiggy garden. You look cold, said Fern to her image. She rubbed her hands along the raspberry-coloured cashmere sleeves of her Christmas jumper. Soft, consoling, it reminded her of what was missing. When did I last feel like a woman? She couldn’t remember the last time Adam had taken her in his arms. There’d been a drought of lovemaking long before the moody silences turned them into huffy bed-sharers.
Adam had always found Fern sexy, always longed to touch her. With his retreat, her femininity had curdled. Without the regular feel of his skin on hers, Fern was a husk. It was hard not to blame Adam for this – all it would have taken to get us back to normal was a sneaked kiss or two – but that was too easy. Blaming Adam was a habit she must shake.
Penny crept in, her head on one side. ‘Look at you, all on your own,’ she mewed.
‘If you’re looking for Adam, he’s watching Roomies.’
‘I’m looking for you. To thank you for making me so welcome today.’
Fern checked for obvious signs of sarcasm, but could find none. ‘No problem,’ she said as graciously as she was able. Penny wasn’t her type – too polished, too self-aware – but that wasn’t why Fern disliked her. There was nothing Penny could do to improve Fern’s opinion of her except back away from Adam. But I have no right to demand that.
Taking a seat, her knees together, on the rattan sofa Fern had long ago ‘rescued’ from a skip, Penny said, ‘It means a lot to be one of the family. Adam and I planned to spend the day together, so when you changed your mind about separate Christmases it was obvious I’d come with him.’
It wasn’t obvious to me. ‘Like I said, no problem.’ Fern felt like an Amazon opposite this bird of a woman. Her new swishy silk trousers, so elegant on the hanger, were pyjamas in the face of Penny’s body-con ensemble.
Dead air hung between them, until Fern said, ‘So. You and Adam.’
Penny perked up; she’d been waiting for this cue. ‘Me and Adam. What do you want to know?’
Everything. Every. Bloody. Thing. ‘Is it just work?’
‘Ooh, dear.’ Penny smoothed out an invisible crease in her lap. ‘Is that what he’s saying?’ She looked Fern in the eye. ‘You can tell what’s going on, right? Me and Adam, there’s a connection. We tried to keep it professional but, well, we’re only human.’
‘Is it serious?’
‘In what way?’ Penny looked sweetly confused.
Fern wasn’t fooled. ‘Is it love?’ She was picking at a scab, against all medical advice.
‘What?’ Penny’s guard dropped briefly. ‘Whoah, now. That’s not for me to tell you, is it?’
‘If not you, then who?’
‘Adam, of course.’
‘We don’t discuss such matters. Adam’s not with me any more.’
‘But he was,’ said Penny, her composure regained. ‘That’s why we’re having this conversation.’ She softened, leaning forward. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, Fern. I know Adam admires you hugely.’
Looking out again at the garden, Fern swallowed that cobblestone of a word. Admires. People admire scenery, or a new bathroom. Fern had been loved and desired; the demotion to admiration was radical, as if she’d tumbled down one of those long ladders on the Snakes and Ladders board on her lap. ‘It was pretty quick.’
‘I can’t deny that.’ Penny’s face was insipidly sympathetic, like a therapist. She had a way of nodding that made Fern want to drop-kick her to the end of the lawn. ‘When it’s right, it’s right. I know the readjustment must be hard but I don’t want to fight. We could be friends, Fern.’
Fern collected friends easily. There was always room for one more, always another slice of cake to be cut. At Penny she drew the line. Even so, Fern didn’t fight dirty. She couldn’t say evil things in a sweet way, which put her at a disadvantage with Penny, who was obviously a pro at hand-to-hand combat.
‘The truth is,’ said Fern, ‘the rot set in a long time before Adam met you.’ The truth of this turned Fern’s stomach and she felt her face grow hot. ‘Even so, I don’t think you and I are friendship material.’
There was something triumphant in Penny’s demeanour. ‘I had to try.’
I’ve been suckered. Fern watched Penny move away, as stately and gracious as if she was at a state funeral. Now Penny could tell Adam she’d held out the pipe of peace to his ex but she’d been rebuffed. I’m the bad guy.
Roomies was over. Adam’s voice filled the house.
Sometimes stuff just seems to get you down
Feelin’ like there’s no one else around
You wish you could reach out and find a friend
Who’ll be here today, tomorrow, until the bitter end
‘Somebody bring me a Baileys!’ yelled Fern, as she rewound the last twenty-four hours in her head. This time yesterday, she’d been watching Penny through a crack in a wardrobe door.
It had been claustrophobic there in the dark, Penny’s spike heels around her feet and Penny’s cashmere coats crowding her.
Curiosity had got the better of Fern on Christmas Eve as she’d walked Boudi with Hal, among the festive sparkle of the frosted trees in the park. As he’d talked about spending the next few days with his folks, Fern had idly thought His mother might not be much older than me as she looked up at Adam’s apartment block. It leaned away from the river like a liner, the penthouse dark.
A cunning plan – also a stupid plan, as is often the way – formed in her head. Fern turned to Hal, interrupting him. ‘Hal, I have to get back.’
‘Weren’t you even listening? I was being sad that we won’t meet for a while, an
d you were somewhere else entirely.’ Hal didn’t look sad. He looked playful. And sexy. Hal always looked sexy; he probably looked sexy picking his nose, or cleaning the lint out of a tumble dryer.
‘I’ll be sad too!’ Fern had mirrored him, tongue firmly in cheek.
‘I will, though.’ Hal’s eyes flickered. He brought his voice down a notch. ‘I’ll miss you, Fern.’
The air was shot through with silver as they stood red-nosed and freezing, staring at each other. Fern wanted to grab his arm, ask What’s happening here?, but she couldn’t. She was only halfway out of Adam’s life, one foot stuck in what she must now call the past, yet somewhere on her body was an indelible stamp: Property of Adam Carlile.
And so they’d stood, smiling stupidly, until Hal spoke.
‘This feels like a kissing moment.’
It did. Fern reached up on her toes, and aimed for his cheek. It wasn’t, perhaps, exactly what Hal meant, and her warm lips stayed on his ice-cream-cold face for a fraction too long. ‘Merry Christmas.’
‘Message received loud and clear.’ Hal wasn’t bitter; he was resigned. ‘See you next year. Same time, same dogs.’
Back at the house, Evka needed little persuasion to collaborate. A connoisseur of revenge, her eyes had flashed at the prospect of adventure. ‘You need to know truth of Penny and Adam. You do not believe me that they live together.’ She’d reconsidered. ‘You do not want to believe.’
Adrenalin bounced Fern all the way to Adam’s front door, when it suddenly drained from her body entirely, leaving only doubt in its place. Waiting for Evka to find her keys, Fern said, ‘At six o’clock on Christmas Eve I should be wrapping last-minute presents with one eye on an old Morecambe & Wise. Not this.’
‘Is not crime. I have key. You have right.’
Only in Evka’s twisted philosophy could that be true. Fern slunk in behind her, hugging the wall, eyes huge. ‘Maybe I should just leave,’ she’d whispered.