by Beth Morrey
Retrieving a panting Bobby, we continued on our journey and arrived at Sylvie’s little Georgian terrace on the dot of twelve. There was a layer of frost covering her parterre and the eucalyptus wreath on her door, and I could see the warm yellow lights of her tree glinting in the window. Feeling apprehensive, I lifted the knocker, and a moment later Sylvie appeared, wearing a Mrs Claus apron edged with white fake fur, huge bauble earrings dangling from her ears. Decca and Nancy pranced at her feet, both wearing reindeer antlers. It was so over the top that I burst out laughing. She beamed and held out her arms.
‘Darling, do come in, we’re about to open the champagne,’ she said, sweeping off down the corridor. ‘This was a present from Denzil,’ she continued, gesturing to her apron. ‘I love it.’
‘Are you sure about Bobby?’ I asked. ‘Where is Aphra?’
‘Don’t worry, she’s at my next door neighbours’, living it up with a Siamese called Tyson. She’ll be having a whale of a time.’
Denzil and Miguel were already in the kitchen, Denzil brandishing a meat thermometer, while Miguel folded a pile of snow-white napkins into swans. Handing Sylvie a bottle of champagne and my latest and most successful home-made panettone, both were exclaimed over, and my holly dress admired. Then Sylvie’s other guests started to arrive, firstly Desiderata Haber, the historian who’d been at Denzil’s party, and secondly Hanna, the waitress from my favourite café.
‘I didn’t know you knew Sylvie,’ I said, when she came over to say hello.
Sylvie sailed over to fill up our glasses. ‘I teach a design course in Chelsea and Hanna was one of my star pupils.’
‘I study at the Royal College of Art now,’ said Hanna. ‘Sylvie got me the job at the café to help fund my work.’
I looked across at Sylvie, weaving her way through her guests, pouring and pressing her concoctions on everyone, just like she did when we first met. Initially she’d reminded me of Leo, but really it was an unfair comparison. Leo was jovial and kind enough but his interest in other people was fleeting, as mine had been. We existed in our own bubble, floating along without ever really being bothered enough to probe deeper or – heaven forbid – pierce our protective film. But thinking about that made me feel ashamed and sad, so I drank my champagne and smiled at the last guests who’d arrived and were being introduced – Desi’s husband Simeon, who’d been parking their car, and their teenage son Sam, who looked utterly horrified to be there, though marginally less appalled when he was handed a glass of champagne.
We milled around Sylvie’s kitchen, munching canapés, drinking and gossiping, as Ella Fitzgerald serenaded us, and Sylvie herself bustled about basting, stirring, keeping up a constant flow of food and chat. The dogs sat drooling under the peninsula, occasionally snapping up a slice of smoked salmon or a morsel of cured meat. At one o’clock, Sylvie clapped her hands and we all filed through to her dining room, papered in a dark forest green and lit with dozens of candles, strands of ivy trailing off the mantelpiece. I found myself sitting between Miguel and Simeon, a bespectacled bookish-looking man who stooped slightly and kept looking across at his wife. I thought he might be disappointed to be next to me but gradually realized he was merely very shy and uxorious.
Sylvie and Denzil brought in the first course with much fanfare – a chestnut soup zigzagged with cream and scattered with parsley. We pulled crackers – cossacks firing – and the dogs immediately retreated to the kitchen while we rustled through the booty. Wearing golden crowns, we feasted, congratulating the chef who was, as usual, immensely pleased with herself. Sylvie had a wonderful capacity for ‘philautia’, that boldest of Greek loves, the love of the self – a much finer quality than narcissism, which it’s often mistaken for. The way I saw it, with narcissism, you were just gazing at your reflection in a lake; with philautia, you were frolicking in the lake and inviting people to join you. People who truly liked themselves seemed to have a greater capacity for friendship, for letting people in. Perhaps that’s why I, in the past, was always rather solitary. But I liked to think I was starting to dip a toe in the waters.
It was a noisy, convivial and delicious lunch, punctuated with jokes and compliments, a roar of approval going up when Sylvie brought in two plump chickens from the Hebden Bridge farm, reclining in tawny roast potatoes. When I took my first bite I fancied it brought back those days in the Kirkheaton rectory, Aunt Sibby hovering in her apron as we tucked into Elspeth or Marigold or whichever poor hen had been sacrificed for our festivities.
Simeon had to rebuke Sam, who’d had a little too much of the Pouilly-Fumé, but once he’d dealt with his son I asked him about his job and was delighted to discover he was an archaeologist, who knew of Alistair and had even read one of his research papers. My cheeks burned with pride, and I told him all about Ali’s fieldwork. Miguel and Denzil were arguing about Miguel not eating his potatoes, so Desiderata came and sat with us. She was startlingly attractive, with tumbling dark hair, sleepy almond eyes and a beguiling, languorous air; I could see why Simeon was so besotted.
‘Sylvie tells me you are the wife of the famous Leonard Carmichael. I’m a great admirer of his work,’ she said, sipping her wine.
I felt a flicker of unease. How much did she know about him? If Leo had been here he would have definitely been an admirer of hers. But he wasn’t, so instead I helped myself to more gravy and tried to recall Angela’s gossip at the party.
‘Angela Brennan said you were writing a book about Elizabeth I? It sounds very interesting.’
She laughed and flicked her hair away from her face. ‘The lesbian thing? My agent told me to write it, might get me a BBC series,’ she drawled. ‘One must make one’s mark.’
‘Was Elizabeth a lesbian then?’ asked Sylvie, topping up our wine.
‘Maybe. Maybe not. I’m sure we’re all on the spectrum,’ replied Desiderata, picking a last roast potato out of the dish with beautifully-manicured hands, and eating it like an apple. Her son was scarlet with embarrassment, choking on his water, so I thought I’d better change the subject.
‘Did we do the cracker jokes?’ I asked, and everyone delved back into the glittery cardboard rolls.
‘What does Santa suffer from if he gets stuck in the chimney?’ asked Denzil.
‘Don’t tell me!’ shrieked Sylvie, shoving the wine back in the cooler. ‘I’ll get there!’ She sat down and put her fingers to her temples, eyes closed. After a second’s ruminating, she opened her eyes wide. ‘Claustrophobia!’ she exclaimed triumphantly.
‘Correct,’ he said, tossing his paper back on the table.
‘What do you get if you cross a snowman with a vampire?’ asked Simeon.
‘Easy. Frostbite,’ returned Sylvie. ‘Next!’
Then it became a game trying to get to the pun before Sylvie could, but such was her capacity for wordplay, she bested us all.
‘What do you call Santa’s little helpers?’ asked Desiderata.
‘Um … Elf workers?’
‘No. Do you give up?’ she teased, waving the paper.
‘Yes,’ said Sylvie. ‘I want to go and get the pudding.’
‘Subordinate Clauses,’ said Desiderata, smirking.
Sylvie stood up. ‘That’s too sophisticated for a cracker. You damn well made that up, you cheat.’ She swept out in mock-anger.
The smirk broadened into a smile. ‘I might start a career sideline. Erudite cracker jokes.’
‘Wisecrackers,’ said Simeon, deadpan. Desiderata reached over to cup his cheek with her hand and Sam flushed with mortification again.
Sylvie came back in, buckling under the weight of an enormous dish. ‘Sufganiyot, in honour of our Jewish friends,’ she said, bowing towards the Habers and Hanna, putting down a plate of bronzed and sugared doughnuts. I took one and bit into it; cinnamon-flavoured custard oozed down my chin. Reaching for a napkin, I thought better of it, instead scraping up the excess with one finger and licking it off. I noticed Bobby had crept back in now the cracker bangs had subsided and
was panting at my feet, so after my second mouthful I offered her a scraping of custard and she lapped at my finger eagerly.
Next we moved onto the cheese, tucking into an oozing Brie and a nutty, salty Comte, along with oatcakes and quince jam. Then we all trooped, groaning-full, into the living room where the tree lights and flames of the fire glowed brighter against the fading light outside. There we opened presents to the croon of Nat King Cole, while the dogs snuffled around the discarded wrapping.
Sylvie was delighted with her Murano vase and immediately went off to arrange some white chrysanthemums in it. I’d bought Denzil some of his favourite cigars, and Miguel a biography of Ninette de Valois, whom I particularly revered because my mother had seen her dance at the Royal Opera House in the 1920s. I gave Desiderata a signed copy of Leo’s Disraeli biography – one historian to another – and Simeon a bottle of port because Sylvie said he liked it. She said not to bother with Sam because teenagers hated everything, but I didn’t like to leave him out so with Angela’s help bought him a little gadget that turned his mobile phone into a wall projector. I’d got Hanna a sequinned scarf, just a small thing, but she had tears in her eyes when she hugged me. They all seemed so pleased with their presents that I felt the agonizing had been worth it. In return I received a wonderful haul – cashmere gloves from Sylvie, silver earrings from Miguel, a beautiful new leather collar for Bobby from Denzil, a book called Baking for Dogs from the Habers, and a box of almond biscuits from Hanna. Even Bobby got a bag of Bonios.
Sam set up his new phone projector and projected a YouTube video of cats jumping at cucumbers onto Sylvie’s living room wall. Bobby in particular was entranced, cocking her head and growling as she stared at the flickering images. I looked round the room, watching everyone huddled and laughing, enjoying the presents I’d bought, and couldn’t remember a more resplendent Christmas. Last year I was so worried, checking everything was perfect, constantly panicking about food and whether everyone was having fun and dreading it all being over, washing up and stripping beds in that horrible silence.
Sylvie put on some more music and we danced a little, and drank coffee with home-made truffles and slices of my panettone, which had turned out just right. Then Desiderata and Simeon made their excuses, as Sam was drunk, and Denzil and Miguel said they’d better be going because Miguel had a flight the next morning, and Hanna left because she had an early Boxing Day shift. So in the end it was just Sylvie and me clearing up. I helped her load the dishwasher, and when it was gurgling away with her crystal glasses in it, we sat down for a tot of brandy in the kitchen, surrounded by leftovers in foil.
‘How was that, do you think?’ asked Sylvie, picking at a bit of chicken.
‘It was lovely,’ I sighed. ‘Thank you so much. What a wonderful day.’
‘I think Bobby enjoyed herself,’ observed Sylvie, indicating with her foot. All three dogs were piled onto one bed, Nancy and Decca’s grey mingling with Bobby’s brindle as they snored and twitched together.
‘She wants to stay for a sleepover, but we’d better be going,’ I said, getting to my feet. Bobby lurched groggily, opening one eye, then rolled over and up when she saw I was on the move. She came to me, nosing my hand, and I gave her an affectionate pat. Sylvie led me to the door and helped me with my coat and scarf.
‘Excellent panettone,’ she said. ‘And thank you again for the Murano. Gorgeous.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘For everything.’
‘It was my pleasure,’ she replied. I turned on the pathway between her parterre and looked back at her, bathed in the light of her hallway.
‘What did the sea say to Santa?’ I asked.
She grinned. ‘Nothing; it just waved.’
Back home after another meandering walk through back streets and squares, I switched on my tree lights and sat on the floor next to another little pile of presents I’d accumulated. I gave Bobby hers first – she nibbled off the wrapping to reveal a floppy, enticingly soft stuffed rabbit. After staring at it intently, paws splayed either side, she nosed it and looked at me enquiringly.
‘Yes, my darling. Merry Christmas.’ I looked around my living room, lights twinkling on the tree Angela bought, illuminating the artful clutter created by Sylvie, the pictures of my family, the gifts under the tree. ‘You deserve it. You got me the best present of all.’ I gazed at her, a haze of browns and golds, with her flash of teeth and whorling nose. My Bobby, who sauntered out into the garden in the mornings, her nose lifted to the breeze to smell what the day might bring. Whose haunches nestled in the small of my back every night, defying the demons. Who listened like no one else ever had. She was vivid, present, warm, vital. The best gift anyone could ever have.
She gazed at the rabbit resting between her paws, then pounced, and immediately bore it off to be destroyed. As she lovingly mouthed her new toy on her bed, I attended to the rest of my pile. Mel and Octavia had bought me a pair of wellington boots and a takeaway coffee mug with a Blackadder quote on it. Alistair had sent me a beautiful dark blue parka with a fake-fur hood. I tried it on and looked at myself in the mirror above the fireplace. As I slipped my hands into the pockets I discovered another wrapped up present. Pulling it out, a tag read ‘To Grandma, love from Arthur’ in spiky child’s handwriting. When I opened it, I discovered the long-promised memory stick. Still wearing the coat, I went straight through to the kitchen and plugged it into my laptop.
It took a little while to find the files, but eventually I unearthed a whole folder of pictures. Not just the ones that I’d lost, but new ones too; photo after photo of Arthur enjoying his life in Australia. On the beach, on the terrace next to a barbecue, sitting on the sofa alongside a giant stuffed bear, round the dinner table with his Australian grandparents, Emily’s mother looking just as dottily devoted as me. In all of them he was beaming away, bathed in love and light. Then more photos of our Christmas together last year, him sitting on the sofa with me watching The Snowman, my hands stroking his hair, as I gazed down at him. And finally, one last picture of Alistair, Emily and Arthur unfurling a banner on the beach that read ‘Merry Christmas Grandma!’ all bronzed and glowing, grinning at the camera. I drank them all in, thinking how tragic it was that Emily had lost the baby, but also how lucky they were, because how perfect – how utterly, heart-breakingly perfect – was the boy they had already.
Closing my laptop and blinking back the well in my eyes, I switched off the lights and made my way upstairs, Bobby at my heels. I patted the bed and she jumped up, ready to snuggle. We curled up together, and, putting my hand down, I realized she’d brought her stuffed rabbit with her. It seemed our family – our little oikos – was now three.
PART 4
Transit umbra, lux permanet – ‘Shadow passes, light remains.’
Chapter 33
On New Year’s Eve I agreed to dog-sit Decca and Nancy, who were scared of fireworks, while Sylvie went to a party in Maida Vale. I wasn’t particularly upset at the idea of spending that night alone, since I’ve always considered it to be an overblown affair – too much expectation, not to mention the staying-up-’til-midnight requirement, which seemed to me to be an aggressive kind of party etiquette, like telling guests what kind of wine to bring or forcing them to move two places down the table during dinner.
I was quite happy to sit with the dogs on the sofa, watching television and eating the shepherd’s pie Sylvie had brought over as a thank you. Everyone seemed glad to see the back of the year, as if all the terrible things that had happened to the world would evaporate on the stroke of midnight. But it had been such an auspicious twelve months for me personally that I rather wanted to hang on to it. Perhaps if I was asleep when the clock struck twelve, I might carry over some of the magic with me.
That evening, as I was feeding the dogs and clearing up, there was a knock at the door, sending Bobby into her usual frenzy, with Nancy and Decca providing the accompaniment. Angela stood on the porch, looking rather thin and pale, her hair in a messy topknot, ho
lding a bag that smelled of vinegar.
‘Do you mind if I eat these with you? My mother’s come back with me, and she’s driving me mad. I poured all the milk down the sink so I could go out to buy more. Mam has to see out the year, and everything else, with a cup of tea. Can I come in?’
‘Of course.’ I moved aside to let her in and she followed me into the kitchen, where I continued washing the dishes while the dogs noisily ate their food. Angela opened her bag on the kitchen table and sat, dipping her chips in ketchup and contemplating Otis’s numerous pictures taped to my fridge.
‘How was Christmas?’ I asked, stacking my plate on the sideboard.
‘Tense,’ she mumbled, through a mouthful. ‘My mother’s only happy if she’s telling me about people who’ve died, and what’s more, she’s teetotal. Like, she last had a Babycham in 1992 and says anyone who drinks on their own is an alcoholic. Plus she thinks I should have married Otis’s father, Sean, even though he’s a useless twat. But he’s a useless twat from our village, so ideal marriage material. And now she’s come for a visit, so I’m sleeping on the sofa and she’s asking why I haven’t bought a house yet. “Is it because of all the immigrants?” “Jesus Christ, I AM an immigrant,” I said. And she said, “Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”’
‘Oh dear,’ I said, trying not to laugh. ‘Do you want a drink?’
‘No,’ she sighed. ‘She’ll smell it on my breath and there’ll be hell to pay. It’s like being a teenager again, but without the illicit sex.’
I hung up the tea towel and went to sit at the table with her, while the dogs, having polished off their own meal, roamed around hoping for scraps.
‘Sylvie off at her party?’ Angela indicated Decca and Nancy, slavering at her knees.
I nodded. ‘I’ll turn the radio on when the fireworks start, poor things. Do you have any resolutions?’ Leo and I used to make them together, three each. His were always the same: to finish writing one book, start another and give up chocolate – he was particularly partial to Toblerones and used to bring them back from his work trips. He generally managed the first two, never the third. Mine changed every year, and usually centred around new hobbies I intended to take up. One year I decided to learn the cello and even went as far as looking at one in a shop on Church Street, but the price put me off. Leo used to tease me about it, calling me Jacqueline and asking how I was getting on with the Elgar. I’d still like to learn.