by Liz Davies
‘It’s not funny,’ she said. ‘It’s like trying to prevent World War Three from breaking out in our house. So much for brotherly, or sisterly, love. The three of them can’t stand the sight of each other. Whenever I hear a young mum saying she wants to have another baby because she’d like a brother or a sister for her first child, I feel like inviting her round to my house at breakfast time. It’ll soon put her off having another baby just so the first can have a sibling, I can tell you.’
Kate snorted, continuing with, ‘Not only are the sleeping arrangements a bone of contention, but Ellis decided to become a vegetarian last night, Portia says she doesn’t believe in Christmas anymore and says the whole thing is pointless – although when I suggested we take her presents back to the shop for a refund, she had an absolute hissy fit and accused me of trying to ruin her life – and his mother informed me last week that she has both a gluten and a dairy intolerance. Oh, and my mother is bringing her smelly, incontinent dog with her.’
Doris was chewing at her lip and trying to control her laughter. ‘A typical family Christmas, then?’
‘I wish! Once, just for once, I’d like it to be the way it is on the telly. You see these adverts where everyone is happy and smiling, sitting around a table groaning with food. No one is necking back the vodka, no one is wishing the little bang in the crackers was a ruddy great big one, no one is wondering why they didn’t think of putting sleeping tablets in the gravy before dishing up the Christmas lunch. And no one is wishing they’d booked into a bed and breakfast in the middle of nowhere, just to get away from it all. And that was last year, with just the one nan. This year is shaping up to be even worse.’
‘It’s only for a couple of days,’ Doris said. ‘I’m sure you’ll cope.’
Kate, on the other hand, was almost certainly positive she wouldn’t.
Chapter 5
‘You’re what?’ It was Friday evening and Kate was wrestling with the laundry. She stopped trying to fold a king-sized sheet while holding the phone wedged under her chin, and dropped the item she had been about to iron back into the laundry basket.
‘Arriving on Monday,’ her mother said.
‘You’re supposed to be coming on Christmas Eve.’ That would have given Kate nearly a whole week to mentally and physically prepare for the onslaught; the house was a tip and there wasn’t a decoration in sight.
‘I never said when. You just assumed,’ her mother stated.
‘You always go to Aunt May’s on Christmas Eve.’ When Kate had spoken to her mother yesterday evening and Beverley had informed her of her plans, she’d made no mention of arriving before Christmas.
‘May only lives four miles down the road. You live four hours away. Why you felt the need to move to the Midlands is beyond me. Your Brett had a perfectly good job in London.’
Kate sank slowly down onto the nearest chair and resisted the urge to hang up on her mother. No matter how many times Kate had explained that Brett had been offered a promotion, with a better salary and everything that went with it, Beverley had chosen not to hear. Not to mention the fact that London hadn’t suited her husband. He’d never settled there, and had taken the very first opportunity to return to the area he grew up in. Besides, they now lived in a lovely big house in a lovely little village; rather than in a tiny house, which was all they would have been able to afford if they’d stayed in London. They had fresh air, open fields, and the River Severn on their doorstep. OK, the river wasn’t quite on their doorstep, but it was only a few miles away.
Her mother said, ‘If you think I’m travelling halfway across the country on Christmas Eve, you’ve got another think coming. I’m far too old for that.’
Kate rolled her eyes. At seventy-one, her mother was hardly a frail old lady.
‘I’m coming on Monday,’ Beverley repeated. ‘It’s cheaper on Mondays.’
‘What is?’
‘Train fare.’
‘Aren’t you driving up?’
‘All that way? No chance! You know I don’t like it on the motorway. As it is, I’ve got to change trains twice, and I’m not getting any younger, you know.’
Kate shook her head in exasperation.
‘You can come later in the week, Mum,’ Kate suggested, desperately. ‘I’ll pay for your ticket, if it’s the money that’s worrying you.’ Please say yes... please... please...
‘No, I’ve made my mind up. I’ll see you on Monday. And I hope you’re not expecting me to share a room with Brett’s mother.’
‘Er, no, I—’
‘Good. You can fetch me from the station. The train gets in at four o’clock. Don’t be late. I don’t want to be hanging around on a draughty platform. The cold will play havoc with my arthritis.’
Kate stared at her phone for a long time after her mother ended the call. Then she placed it gently on the table, stood up and walked to the door leading out to the garden, opened it, stuck her head outside, and screamed.
A flock of crows which had settled down for the evening in the tall fir trees beyond the garden, were startled by the noise, and flapped into the air in a flurry of squawks and jet-black wings.
Murder, she thought haphazardly. It wasn’t a flock, it was a murder of crows.
How apt, because that was exactly what she felt like committing.
‘Did you say something?’ Brett asked, strolling into the kitchen, his eyes on his mobile, his index finger jabbing at the screen.
‘Not really. I was screaming. My mother just told me she’s arriving on Monday.’
‘That’s nice,’ Brett said absently, and Kate realised he wasn’t listening to her. ‘I told my mum that your mother would be joining us for Christmas this year,’ he added.
‘Oh? How did it go?’
‘I don’t think she was too pleased.’
‘If she doesn’t like it, she’ll have to lump it. Or not come herself. I know which I’d prefer.’ Kate muttered the last bit under her breath.
‘She doesn’t want to have to share a room. You know she’s such a light sleeper.’
Kate knew all right. Helen had told her. Many times. Usually accompanied by some acerbic comment about the children being too noisy. What did she expect Kate to do, Sellotape their mouths shut? Tie them to their beds so they didn’t run up and down the stairs (apparently, they stomped up and down them, and not walked like normal people). Send them away for the duration?
‘She’s worried your mother’s snoring will keep her awake,’ her husband added.
‘My mother doesn’t snore.’ She paused. ‘Does she?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Brett said.
‘And even if she did, how would your mother know?’
He shrugged. ‘Anyway, she says she can’t possibly share a bed, even a double one, with your mother, because of her allergies.’
Kate’s eyes widened. ‘Your mother is allergic to my mother?’ Kate knew she sounded as incredulous as she felt.
‘Don’t be silly. She’s allergic to dogs, and even though the damned poodle will be in kennels, its hair gets everywhere. Beverley will have some on her clothes, in her bag – everywhere,’ he repeated.
‘Mum didn’t say anything about putting Pepe in kennels for Christmas,’ Kate said. ‘She’d never do that.’
‘Oh? I assumed—’
‘You assumed wrong. I fully expect Mum to bring Pepe with her; she always does, so why should this visit be any different?’
Brett scowled. ‘Because my mother is allergic to dogs.’
‘Since when? She’s never mentioned it before,’ Kate pointed out. If Helen was allergic, then Kate would have been told all about it. Many times.
Pepe was coming for Christmas, too, and that was that. He always slept in a little basket at the foot of Beverley’s bed and Kate couldn’t see any change in the situation this time. Although she didn’t like him sleeping upstairs (he was prone to the odd accident), Kate couldn’t be bothered with the drama which was certain to unfold if she tried to insist that Pepe
’s place was in the kitchen.
This time it was Brett who rolled his eyes. Kate suspected there would be a great deal of eye rolling going on before the Christmas holiday was over.
Brett repeated. ‘Either way, it wouldn’t be wise putting both mums in the same room. One of them wouldn’t survive the night.’
‘Because they’d try to kill each other?’ Kate uttered a semi-hysterical giggle, then closed her mouth quickly, worried that she was already starting to lose it and the nans hadn’t even arrived yet.
Brett gave her an odd look. ‘No, because although the bed is a double, it’s too small for both of them. One of them would end up falling out, and at their age it could mean a broken hip. And we both know what that could lead to.’
‘The fallee would have to move in with us, and I’d end up murdering her?’
Another odd look from her husband. ‘What I meant was, a broken hip can lead to pneumonia.’
‘Oh, right.’ Could it? Was there a direct correlation between hips and lungs? Kate thought not. But what did she know? Brett claimed to have far more medical knowledge than she did because he was in the pharmaceutical business; although Kate wasn’t aware that the act of working in the office of a company which manufactured and distributed drugs made him any kind of medical expert.
‘Can you close the door?’ Brett asked, finally looking up from his phone. ‘You’re letting all the heat out.’
‘Sorry.’ She’d been leaning against the door jamb, hoping her husband would wander back out of the kitchen so she could have another scream, but with him giving no indication he was about to leave, she closed the door and leant against that instead.
“Letting all the heat out” indeed. That was the least of their worries. Sometimes Brett sounded old and grumpy. Forty-eight wasn’t old, though, not these days. Neither was forty-six, but this evening Kate felt every one of those years piling up on top of her and weighing her down. She wondered if her husband ever thought the same way about her – that she was getting old. Was she, God forbid, starting to sound, look, and behave like her own mother? She bloody hoped not, but now and again she could hear traces of Beverley Collins in her voice when she shouted at the children or nagged them to do this, that, or the other.
Then something brought her out of her musing and into the present.
‘—which is why she’s coming a couple of days early,’ Brett was saying.
‘Pardon?’
‘I said,’ Brett began, with exaggerated patience. ‘That’s why she’s arriving a couple of days early.’
‘Who is?’ Kate felt a flutter of panic in her chest.
‘My mother. I swear you don’t listen to a word I say.’
Brett had stolen her line. He was the one who never listened, who always swore blind she’d never told him something when she so definitely had.
‘Your mother is arriving early,’ she repeated woodenly, the flutter becoming a full-blown flurry of ink-black wings.
‘That’s what I just said. It’s all right, isn’t it? She’s coming on Wednesday to spend a day or so with us on her own, before your mum gets here. She’s used to having us all to herself, so having Beverley here is going to be a bit of a wrench. I thought we’d have a leg of lamb for supper. She’d like that.’
I bet she would, Kate thought. And who was going to have to rush home from work and cook it? Not Brett, that’s for sure. And she’d just proved a point; she’d clearly told him only a few moments ago that her own mother was arriving on Monday, and it had gone straight over his head.
Oh God, she’d have to break it to the kids, and she’d have to force one of the girls out of her room for the best part of next week, and not just for the couple of nights that they’d been anticipating.
‘Where’s Ellis?’ Kate asked.
‘Out.’
‘Out where?’
Brett gave her a helpless look. ‘How should I know? She’s seventeen.’
‘Portia?’
‘Out.’
Kate should know where her children were. She was their mother, after all. But they’d arrived home from school earlier than her because she’d had to drop off Brett’s dry cleaning and do the food shopping for the coming week on the way home. When she’d got in, it was to find Sam waiting impatiently for a lift to his friend’s house in the next village (although he hadn’t asked her beforehand – he just expected to be taxied there and back), and therefore she hadn’t managed to catch up with either of her daughters yet.
‘Taylor’s party?’ she guessed. It wasn’t the first Christmas party her middle child had been invited to, and Kate suspected it wasn’t the last. The kids had only broken up from school today and there was a whole week to go before the big day finally arrived, and most of it was filled with parties.
‘Yeah. You missed the sequinned top drama,’ Brett said, sounding aggrieved that his wife had the misfortune of being out and leaving him to deal with it.
Pity, she would have loved to have been home for that. Not.
‘We’d better get a Christmas tree, and fetch the decorations from the garage tomorrow,’ Kate said, her brain beginning to rev like a car with a newly-passed-their-test teenage driver at the wheel. She could feel the cogs spinning furiously as she thought about all the things which needed doing. She’d originally (stupidly) assumed she’d have a whole week to prepare for the impending visits.
Now it was only two days before the first of them arrived, that was all. The weekend, which was already full of stuff that needed to be done, had suddenly become a great deal fuller. Today was Friday. Christmas Eve was next Saturday. That was a whole week away, a week in which she’d planned on doing all the things she’d now have to cram into two days.
A thought struck her. Two thoughts, actually. One of them was the worry that if Brett’s mother realised her nemesis was turning up earlier than expected, she would also try to bring her arrival date forward. And the second was, Brett would be in work all next week, and so would she.
That meant the children would be on their own in the house with one or both of their grandmothers.
It also meant that the grandmothers would be on their own with each other.
OMG!! Could this Christmas get any worse?
Chapter 6
‘Where are you going?’ Kate demanded, seeing Brett shrug on his coat and pick up his car keys.
‘I promised I’d join the guys for a quick game of golf.’
‘In this weather?’ It was lunchtime on what was almost the shortest day of the year; the day was sullen and overcast, it was dank and cold out, and there were barely three decent hours of daylight left. She should know, she’d just done the supermarket run and she was bloody freezing, Besides, she had so much to do, she could use her husband’s help, starting with carrying all the shopping in from the car.
‘I promise I’ll wrap up,’ Brett said, dropping a quick kiss on the top of her head and patting her on the shoulder.
‘But, there’s the tree to fetch, I haven’t finished cleaning yet, there’s a pile of ironing to do—’
‘That’s why I thought you’d be better off with me out of the way.’
‘What about the kids?’ By that premise, then surely she’d be better off with the children out of the way, too? ‘Couldn’t you take them when you go to get the tree? I’m sure they’d love to go with you.’
Kate was fairly certain they wouldn’t, but the three of them under her feet wasn’t conducive to blitzing the house successfully. From past experience, she knew that as soon as she’d cleaned the mess away from one room, it would reappear again in the form of half-drunk glasses of juice, abandoned homework, thoughtlessly kicked off shoes, and the thousands of other items that her family seemed incapable of returning to their rightful places. If they were all out of the house at the same time, at least she’d have a fighting chance of tidying up, and she didn’t want to put any of the decorations up before she’d given the house a good clean.
‘Aww, I would, but I promised
the lads I’d play a round. The club isn’t open over Christmas and this’ll be my last game of the year. You can pick the tree up tomorrow. The garden centre is open on Sundays.’
Kate sighed, exasperated. She’d dearly love to slope off for a game of golf (OK, maybe not golf, or any other game for that matter, but having a couple of hours to herself sounded good), but she had far too much to do. Brett, she knew, couldn’t understand her need to clean before his mother’s visit. She was pretty sure he didn’t notice the mess or the crumbs dotting the kitchen floor, or the smears all over the shower cubicle, and if he did, he wouldn’t be unduly bothered – probably because he knew the cleaning fairy would pay the Peters’ house a visit and the cleaning would magically get done. But neither had he been on the receiving end of his mother’s barbed, subtly pointed comments and criticisms regarding Kate’s housekeeping and parenting skills. If Kate could head the woman off at the pass, she would; having a clean, tidy house would give Helen one less thing to mention.
Of course, Helen would still find things which weren’t up to her exacting standards – her visit wouldn’t be complete unless she did – but the less ammunition Kate gave her to fire, the better.
Fine, Kate thought as Brett walked out of the door; leave me to do all of it, why don’t you. At least her own mother (although she could be a pain in the backside) didn’t constantly and snidely criticise her, even if she did complain a lot, as the children rightly noted.
Kate decided to start with stuffing the school uniforms into the washing machine so it could carry on doing its thing while she hauled bag after bag of groceries out of the boot and into the kitchen.
‘Ellis? Portia? Sam? Would anyone care to give me a hand?’ she called up the stairs. Even as the words left her mouth, Kate realised she’d asked a daft question; of course her children wouldn’t care to give her a hand. They’d pretend they hadn’t heard her, and by the time she’d tramped upstairs, told them what she wanted, waited for them to finish applying fake tan/ this game/ listening to this track/ sending a text/ watching the latest episode of The Kardashians/ painting toenails/ speaking to X,Y or Z, she might as well have just got on with it and carried the shopping in herself. She could have done that, put it away, made herself a cup of tea, drank it, and had the washing machine go through half its cycle before any of the children made a move to help her.