They were wide awake. When Frances put the basket down they got out and began tentatively to explore their new place. They were twelve weeks old, and Frances was relieved to find them confident, even – after a few minutes – lively, and ready to play.
She and Alec sat up an hour longer keeping the kittens company, watching them discover the Christmas tree, the heap of presents around it crackling beneath exploring paws, and laughed when one of them was tapped on the nose by a shiny bauble swinging back.
Frances moved away from the window and swallowed the last of her cooling tea. Probably they had ended by making love. Friends again, as of course they had to be for the next morning, the excitement of the kittens, and the whole, long, festive holiday. It did not seem so long these days, slipping past uneventfully. Her break would be over, and Jack back in Aberdeen before she had got used to his being at home again.
She heard her sons’ gruff voices and the sound of wrapping paper being torn. Why on earth had she let old that old stuff flow into her mind? There was no point.
As she began to climb the stairs, the telephone rang. When she picked up the receiver she had no inkling that anything was about to change, none of the premonition women are supposed to achieve, being so intuitive. ‘Frances?’
She did not pick up his voice in those first seconds. ‘Yes.’
‘Hello there. How are you? Sorry this is a bit of a bolt from the blue. It’s been a long time, I know, but I thought you wouldn’t mind, since it’s Christmas. And it’s important, or I wouldn’t.’
In all this polite preamble, he had not bothered to announce his name.
‘Alec,’ she said.
2
Jack came upon his mother sitting on the stairs, half way down. To see her doing nothing was in itself surprising, but there was something about her back, the way her head bent forward, that made him pause instead of rattling past ruffling her hair. Instead he came and sat beside her.
‘You OK, Mum?’
‘What? Fine. Did you open the stockings?’
‘Thanks for the sugar mice.’
There was always some childish sweet in the stockings, as well as socks, after shave, and a satsuma destined never to be eaten, but discovered weeks later, shrivelled under a bed. ‘Andrew’s gone back to bed. Did I hear the phone?’
‘I told you – Gill called.’
‘No, again. A couple of minutes ago.’
A pause. Then she said, her voice carefully neutral, ‘It was Alec. Your father.’
‘Good grief. What did he want?’
‘I really don’t know. He just asked if he could come here.’
‘What, come and visit?’
He had never done that, or Frances would not let him. Jack had seen his father only twice since Alec left. The first time it had been evening, and he and Andrew sat at the top of the stairs in pyjamas, listening to their parents’ voices below. Soon, they knew, Daddy would come up and see them, as he always did after a trip away. When he eventually came up and chased them into bed, he had brought them no coming-home present, not even sweets. He had looked and smelled different. Only later did they realise he had left them for good. Jack had been six, Andrew four, so the memory was blurred.
The second time, years later, Alec had been curiously familiar, like a television actor, and yet a stranger. Jack had no particular feelings about him now. He suspected Andrew was interested; he was more defensive when fathers were talked about. Of course they had missed having a father, Jack supposed, especially when they were younger. There had always been Grandpa, however, and later John and Albert Ramsay, to help out, take them to football matches … whatever it was fathers were supposed to do. People made too much of it, Jack thought.
‘What did he say?’ he asked.
‘Well, not much. Could he come for Christmas.’
‘He rang this morning? To ask – ’
‘He seemed to mean. … He wanted to come today.’
‘He wants to drive up from Newcastle on Christmas Day? I thought Gill was cutting it a bit fine, from Aberdeen. You could keep him some cold turkey, I suppose.’
Frances got to her feet and followed Jack downstairs. ‘Maybe I got it wrong, and he didn’t mean actually today. I was so taken aback I couldn’t think straight.’
‘What did you say – did you say he could?’
‘No, of course not. It would be ridiculous. Awkward, to say the least. I suggested he come the day after Boxing Day, if he really wants to.’
Jack stopped and looked at her in surprise. ‘Right. So he’s coming?’
‘Well, Granny and Grandpa will be away in the morning. They won’t even meet. I’ll change the bed in the spare. … He sounded very keen, as if he needed to talk about something, though I can’t imagine what after all this time. I couldn’t very well say no, could I?’
‘You did before.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s Ok, Mum, it’s cool. Don’t worry about it.’
‘I didn’t think you’d mind, now you’re both grown up.’
‘I said – it’s cool. Maybe he’s come to see Andy and me, maybe he’s been left a fortune and he wants to divi it up with us.’
Frances laughed. ‘He did inherit a bit. It wasn’t a fortune, and I think he got through it pretty quickly.’
‘The swine – and we were eating porridge and using string to tie up our boots.’
Andrew appeared at the top of the stairs in pyjama trousers long outgrown, revealing hairy calves and large feet bruised by rugby. His black tee-shirt had a skull on the front, and the name of a rock band Frances had definitely heard of.
‘What’s going on? Can’t get back to sleep for the racket you two are making.’ He came downstairs two at a time. ‘Thanks for the presents Mum. Happy Christmas.’ He hugged her then headed towards the living-room. ‘You want your presents? They’re under the tree.’
‘That would be nice.’
Jack said, ‘Dad’s coming. He just called.’
Andrew, standing by the tree with a neatly parcelled box, looked blank. ‘How do you mean, Dad?’
‘As in father, blood of our blood, etcetera … person not to be mentioned in front of Grandpa.’
‘What, like, he’s coming for Christmas?’
‘No, no. In a couple of days,’ Frances took the parcel from him, since he looked as if he might drop it.
‘Right. Remind me to go out to the pub or something.’
‘You’re underage,’ Jack said. ‘You’ll just have to stay here and be polite.’
‘Shut up you.’
‘Oh lovely,’ Frances said hastily, unwrapping first the salad bowl she had asked for, then a pair of earrings. Not quite the ones she would have chosen, but pretty, and she knew plenty of mothers whose sons never bought them anything.
She tidied away wrapping paper and directed Andrew to the bathroom. ‘Remember I need to change your bed for Gill to sleep in tonight.’
‘Is there anything I can eat now that’s not part of Christmas dinner?’
‘Help yourself. I must get on.’
She left them standing in the hall. They looked at each other in silence for a moment, then Jack said, ‘Don’t ask me. Maybe she’s just in the Christmas spirit or something.’
‘She could have asked us what we thought.’
‘I think she was kind of stunned.’
Andrew turned and went upstairs.
From time to time during the rest of the morning, Frances heard the echo of Alec’s voice in her head. Her whole day was given a nervous edge by that call. She did not say to her sons, ‘Don’t mention it to Granny and Grandpa’; there was no need. She would tell her parents, but not yet.
Christmas Day was easy, if you simply gave in to it: the rich food, the stupefying afternoon in front of the television, the box of chocolates going round too many times. After the meal was over, Frances’s father bore the last of the dishes to the kitchen, determined to do his bit. With difficulty, Frances and Gillian wrested plat
es from him to load in the dishwasher.
‘Don’t worry, Dad, there’s still plenty for you to do. I can’t put these glasses in, and there’s no room for all the pots.’
‘Right then – clear a space you girls. Let the dog see the rabbit.’ At eighty he was fit and active, his silver hair smoothly brushed, his sleeves rolled up. Briskly the pots and glasses and serving dishes were assembled in their proper order.
‘Now then – who’s chief dryer? Where are those boys of yours?’
They were in Andrew’s bedroom in front of a computer.
‘We can dry,’ Gillian said.
‘Nonsense. Man’s work this. One day in the year, eh?’ This was a tease (you liberated women!) but they suspected he meant it.
Their mother hovered in the doorway. ‘I suppose I’ve to keep out of the way?’
‘You sit in front of the fire with the girls.’
Frances went up to Andrew’s room and leaned on the door jamb, listening for a moment to their discussion of European football, of tactics and players. On the screen was their invented league table. Andrew, she saw with amused dismay, was selling a player he had named Alexis Uselessowski. Have I missed something, she wondered.
‘You’ve to go and help Grandpa with the dishes.’
They groaned.
‘One day in the year it’s men’s work, apparently.’
Jack grinned. ‘Tell him we do it all year round.’
‘I’m not perjuring myself like that. Come on, he’ll only get irritable, then Gill and I will have to do it.’
‘No sweat, Mum.’ Jack rose to his feet and prodded his brother. ‘We’re between games anyway.’
‘You want a walk?’ Gillian asked when Frances came back downstairs.
‘We should keep Mum company – what do you think?’
‘She might come with us.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Oh well. I wouldn’t have minded some fresh air, that’s all.’ Gillian looked sullen. ‘I drove for three hours this morning, remember.’
‘Go out then – nothing to stop you.’
‘Not on my own.’
Frances thought, she wants to talk, and if there’s no new drama (though there usually was) I’ll end up telling her about Alec. ‘I’ll ask Mum,’ she said with a sigh.
Grace had fallen into a doze, the Radio Times askew on her lap. She opened her eyes as Frances came in.
‘Oh dear,’ she murmured. ‘It’s that heavy meal making me sleepy. Lovely, though, dear. Very nice.’
‘Would you mind if Gill and I went for a quick walk before it gets dark? Would you like to come?’
‘No, you go ahead. We’ve all day tomorrow to catch up on the news. The boys are looking well. Jack’s still enjoying the university, is he?’
Frances perched on the arm of the sofa. ‘He loves it. Now Andy can’t wait to get there too.’
‘What is it you said Jack’s doing? A science subject, isn’t it?’
‘Microbiology.’
‘My goodness, what kind of job will he get with that?’ She shook her head, not waiting for an answer. ‘Your Dad thought he should be a lawyer, did you know that?’
‘Mm.’ Frances rose to leave, aware of Gillian hovering in the doorway. ‘We won’t be long.’
Outside, the air was clear and frosty but the light was going already at half past three, the landscape greyish white, misty over the fields.
‘Careful,’ Frances asked, as they began to walk up the lane. ‘It’s slippy in places.’ Gillian was walking quickly, impatient to be clear of house and family.
‘I’m telling myself that next year is the year I’m going to change everything.’
‘Your love life, you mean.’
‘Not just that.’
‘But that too.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘You’re going to give him the heave, are you? I seem to have heard that before.’
‘I’m thirty six!’ Gillian declared, as if Frances might not know. ‘I thought I’d have a party next birthday. Well, a sort of wake. For all the hopeless relationships I’ve been in.’
‘You could have married Michael.’
‘It wasn’t ever right.’
‘But if you had, you might have children. Isn’t that what you’re saying you want?’
‘Oh yeah, but not with – anyway, don’t preach, Fran, just because you’ve got everything sorted in your life. You don’t mind being on your own, but I’m not strong like you. If I were, I wouldn’t be saying this, year after year, about changing my life. My God, I’ll soon be forty.’
‘It seems quite a nice life to me,’ Frances commented. ‘A well paid, interesting job, a beautiful flat in a nice part of Edinburgh …’
‘Oh I know.’ Gillian dismissed this with a wave of her hand. ‘But you don’t really understand the feeling of waiting for something to happen, for your sort of real life to begin.’
It was almost dark by the time they neared the house. A car coming towards them stopped in the lane by Frances’s driveway. The headlights dazzled.
‘Visitors?’ Gillian asked.
‘Not today – I wonder who – ’
The engine died, the headlights dimmed and went off, then doors opened and slammed shut. Frances blinked, looked again. There were two people standing on either side of a low silver car. It was the woman she focused on first. Her heart leapt so fast it was like a pain, and she thought, Susan. But of course, Susan was not young any more, not thin, and her hair did not fall straight on either side of her face, as this girl’s did.
‘My God,’ Gillian sounded breathless, but she was not as fit as Frances and the walk had had a good deal of uphill in it. ‘Is that Alec?’
‘Yes.’ They stopped, instinctively side by side, as if Gillian meant to square up to him too. ‘It’s Alec. I think that’s Katy with him. It must be.’
‘Just for a minute I thought – ’
‘So did I.’
Gillian held Frances’s arm. ‘Are you Ok?’
‘Yes. He phoned me this morning.’
Now they were within earshot of the two by the car, who stood waiting for them. Alec moved forward, his city shoes uncertain on the unmade road. He wore a long overcoat and in the almost dark looked still young, though his hair, brushed back, had receded in the five years since she had last seen him.
‘Hi there. Gillian – hello.’
He might have been the host himself, embracing them in turn, Frances stiff in his arms, Gillian giving back a bewildered, hasty hug. The girl stood apart.
‘Sorry, I know we agreed day after Boxing Day, but Kate didn’t want to wait, did you Kate, and I thought … well, thought you wouldn’t mind really.’ A slight dip of his head, as if in apology, was followed by a smile.
‘Come in,’ Frances said. ‘Hello Katy, how are you?’
The girl did not speak, but she allowed herself to be ushered into the house through the back porch, where Frances opened the door to the kitchen, and she and Gillian took off their boots and coats.
The kitchen was empty, everything as neat as if no dinner had happened at all today. Only the turkey carcass and the covered leftovers of the Christmas pudding remained as evidence.
‘Take your things off,’ Frances said. ‘You can hang them here.’
‘Ah,’ Alex breathed, ‘the hallstand,’ greeting it like an old friend. In the light, his face had the worn tiredness of someone who sleeps badly, but he was still lean and well-dressed, a good-looking man.
Gill said, ‘Will I put the kettle on?’
Frances looked from Alec to Katy. She must be fourteen. The girl was as tall as she was herself. She was dressed entirely in black, a fair wraith of a girl, with dark shadowed eyes, pale lips, and rows of ear-studs. Frances glanced at Gillian, flushed with fresh air and exercise, frowning, full of how terrible all this was, and earnestly trying, for Frances’s sake, not to enjoy it.
‘Yes, just put the kettle on. That seems simplest,’ Frances said. She turned to
Alec. ‘Well, since you’re here you’d better come through, I suppose.’
Then she opened the living-room door and went in to face her parents and her sons.
3
Alec was awake, stiffly supine on the camp bed, like the effigy of a knight in some medieval church, and almost as cold and disregarded. The boxroom was so small his feet touched a bookcase along one wall, and his head pressed against the one behind. He fancied to himself through the night, not quite conscious, dozing, that this must be what your coffin was like: a limited space, enough but no more, and of course, no room to move. But he was not dead, however lacking in life he had felt over the last few months. He stuck his elbows out to prove it, to remind himself there was at least an armslength on either side, but it was too cold for experiments, so he eased onto his side and curled up a little, in the hope of growing warmer.
Frances had thrown a sleeping bag and rug onto the camp bed with a brisk ‘Sorry, this room has no radiator.’ She turned on a small fan heater. ‘You’ll have to put this off when you go to bed – it costs a fortune to run.’
He did not know if recognising this ancient heater, which emitted a flow of dusty air round his ankles, made him feel better or worse. He opened his mouth to say, ‘Isn’t that the one your grandmother gave us?’ then changed his mind and said only ‘Thanks. Sorry to be such a nuisance.’
Frances said, ‘I’ll put Katy in with Gill and give her the pullout bed. Why don’t you get your things out of the car while I make it up?’
‘We don’t have much.’
‘Then it won’t take you long.’
There was to be no quarter here. He acknowledged it with a suppressed sigh, and went downstairs. He recognised other things in Frances’s house, of course: pictures, a bookcase – the hallstand. In thirteen years she had bought new furniture and pictures and books, and he was interested in her taste. A certain clutter, which she would not have allowed in those early years, seemed to have gathered comfortably around her. The bookcases were untidy, with small heaps of books lying on their sides on top of others. On the kitchen window sills pot plants jostled with china cats given to her by the children, and also with pens, a sheaf of cutout recipes and a fat bulb of garlic. He was curious, and would have liked to prowl about opening drawers and looking in cupboards. The house however was full of people, all of whom must be hostile to the idea of his being there at all, let alone nosy-parkering about in their beloved Frances’s home.
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