by Liz Davies
‘I’ll just do it myself then, shall I?’ she muttered, stomping out to the car and coming back with several bags in each hand. ‘Just like I do everything else around here. One day, I’m going to go on strike and see how everyone likes it.’
But not now, not today – she simply had too much to do...
Chapter 7
Golf was a game not at its best when it was played on a dismal and murky Saturday lunchtime in late December, but Brett desperately needed some time-out. If he stayed at home, Kate would get him doing stuff and the kids would hassle him, and he simply couldn’t face it. Besides, the whole polite competitive camaraderie of playing a round of golf was therapeutic, and if he only got an hour in, at least he could relax at the “nineteenth” hole with an orange juice and some non-committal chat about the boxing, or something similar. He would have preferred something stronger than juice, but he didn’t think Kate would appreciate him asking her to pick him up after he’d had a few beers and then having to bring him back tomorrow to fetch his car.
His wife was quite tetchy these days and having both their mothers coming to stay with them for Christmas had sent her into overdrive. She should learn to chill out a bit. So what if the skirting boards were dusty, or the fridge needed cleaning? No one would notice, and if they did, neither mother would care. They were here to spend the festive season with the family, not to pass judgement on Kate’s housekeeping skills.
Brett pulled into the carpark, cut the engine, and took his phone out of his pocket with the intention of switching it off – he didn’t want to receive any work calls right now – then saw he had a missed call from his mother. He might as well phone her back, otherwise she’d only keep calling, and he’d bet his left arm that she’d manage to phone exactly when he was in the middle of taking a crucial shot.
‘You rang?’ he said to her, as he walked into the clubhouse.
‘I just wanted to let you know that I’ve bought Portia the most gorgeous blouse for Christmas. It’s in a pretty shade of lavender. Do you think she’ll like it?’
An image of his youngest daughter dressed from top to toe in her usual black, with heavy black makeup around her eyes (when she was allowed to wear any) popped into his head. It would be nice to see her in some brighter colours for a change.
‘I’m sure she will,’ he said.
‘I’ve got Ellis a cookery book, and Sam a model car.’
‘Wonderful!’ Brett said with forced jollity. Ellis didn’t know a hob from a microwave and Sam hadn’t played with cars since he was eight, but it was the thought that counted.
‘I’ll give them money, of course,’ his mother added, ‘but I want them to have something to open on Christmas morning.’
At least she’d given him the heads-up so he could ensure his offspring were wearing suitably grateful expressions on their faces when the time came to open their presents. He didn’t want any kind of atmosphere, although there would probably be enough of that between his mother and Beverley anyway. He simply couldn’t understand why the two women didn’t get on.
‘Listen, Mum, I’ve got to go, I’ve another call coming in,’ he said, his heart sinking to his golf shoes when he saw it was The Abyss.
‘Morning,’ he said to his manager. ‘Or is it afternoon now?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t care, not when we’ve got Craig Wesley chewing my ear off about The Southern Chemist contract. He wants a report on where we are with it, and he wants it yesterday. I’m in the office right now, but I can’t make head nor tail out of the contract, so I need you in as soon as possible. If we don’t get this sorted before Christmas none of us need bother coming in after the New Year.’
Brett sighed. What a bloody mess; he’d told The Abyss that the contract wasn’t anywhere near ready to be signed because of some fundamental delivery issues, but she didn’t seem to care and neither did Craig Wesley, Head of Operations.
It didn’t matter if he went into the office or not, in terms of getting a signature from anyone in The Southern Chemist, because no one would be available until Monday. But if he didn’t go in, he’d be accused of not showing enough dedication and commitment to the company. It didn’t matter that he was in the office by seven-thirty every morning and didn’t leave until six in the evening. No one cared a fig about his commitment then...
The way things were going, he might as well move his sodding bed into his office and be sodding done with it.
Shoulders slumped and his feet dragging, Brett walked slowly back to his car.
There must be more to life than this, surely? he thought. There must be.
Chapter 8
‘I don’t care, I’m not having her sleeping in my bed.’ Portia folded her arms across her chest and stuck out her chin.
It was Sunday evening, Kate had work in the morning, she’d not managed to get half the things done that she’d wanted to do, and now Portia was up in arms again about the ensuing sleeping arrangements.
‘It’s not for long,’ Kate pleaded.
‘It’s for a week,’ Portia shrieked. ‘A whole week! Why do they have to stay here for so long? Haven’t they got homes of their own?’
‘Don’t be so silly. And try to have a bit more empathy.’
‘Like you have, you mean?’
‘Now you’re being cheeky.’
‘I’m simply telling the truth. I’m not having a wrinkly sleep in my bed. It’s gross.’
What a charming expression, calling older people wrinklies, Kate thought, sarcastically. ‘Your grandmother isn’t gross. Brett, back me up, here.’
‘Eh?’ Brett glanced up from the TV. Countryfile was on. Kate hadn’t realised her husband was so into what was essentially a programme for farmers. He’d never shown much interest in anything agricultural before. Funny that...
‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘Portia, you’ll do as you’re told. You’re moving into Ellis’s room for a few days, and that’s that.’
‘You can’t make me.’ Portia’s chin protruded even further.
Kate disliked the defiant, sulky look her middle child often wore. It was getting to the point where Kate had forgotten what her daughter looked like without her face contorted in teenage angst or plastered in a layer of makeup. Only the other night, she’d found herself slipping into Portia’s room while she slept, to remind herself just what an attractive girl her daughter was. Her face smoothed by sleep and free of black kohl around her eyes, Portia had looked less like a sullen teenager and more like the child Kate wished she still was.
‘Watch me,’ she growled. ‘I can take your phone off you for starters.’
The horrified look on Portia’s face nearly made Kate laugh.
‘Tell her, Dad! She can’t do that! It’s not fair!’
When Brett merely grunted, his attention firmly on the TV screen, Portia gave an almighty shriek, whirled on her toes, and flounced out of the living room. Kate flinched as Portia slammed the door hard enough to crack the plaster on the walls.
She rubbed her face with her hands. Why did kids have to create so much drama? Why couldn’t they simply accept things for what they were and just get on with it? It wasn’t as if this was a permanent arrangement.
For once in her life, she would like a happy, peaceful Christmas. No arguments, no squabbles, no shouting, no complaints. And no being piggy-in-the-middle, trying (usually unsuccessfully) to play referee, to smooth motherly oil on the troubled waters of her children’s lives, to keep the peace between the generations and try to ensure everyone had a good time. Or, at the very least, didn’t kill each other.
Kate didn’t hear the door open and when Ellis appeared, ghostly and silent, ethereal in a floaty dress and several chiffon scarves, saying, ‘I don’t blame Portia – it isn’t fair,’ Kate let out a small shriek.
‘I wish you’d stop creeping up on people,’ Kate grizzled.
‘I don’t creep. I walk normally. It’s not my fault you’re going deaf.’
‘I am not going deaf,’ sh
e objected.
‘Nanny Collins is. It’s supposed to run in families.’
Kate gritted her teeth. She wasn’t interested in winning an argument over whether she was going deaf or not. She wanted to get the sleeping arrangements sorted out before her mother arrived tomorrow afternoon. There was no way she was having this kind of drama when the first of the grandmothers turned up. Of course, it was logical that Beverley slept in the spare room, considering she would be staying the longest. But Kate wanted to sort out which bedroom Helen would be sleeping in before her mother witnessed the children’s strenuous arguing.
‘I don’t see what the rush is,’ Brett said, from the depths of the sofa. Damn it, she’d forgotten to take the cushions off and vacuum down the sides. No doubt his mother would accidentally on purpose lose something, which would necessitate her sticking her hands down the side of the sofa and grimacing at the serious number of crumbs, hair bobbles, and sweet wrappers which were probably down there.
‘My mother won’t be here until Wednesday. That’s three whole days away. Plenty of time to shift one of the girls and fumigate her room,’ Brett said.
‘The sooner we get the sleeping arrangement sorted, the longer everyone has to get used to the idea. I told you, my mother is arriving tomorrow.’
Ellis’s ears pricked up. ‘She’s what? Why? Nana Peters doesn’t usually arrive until Christmas Eve. Why isn’t Nanny Collins coming on Christmas Eve, too?’
Kate couldn’t face telling Ellis that Nana Peters was also arriving early. ‘I’m picking your nanny up from the station at four,’ she said, firmly.
‘Effing hell,’ Ellis muttered. ‘Can this Christmas get any worse?’
‘Probably,’ Kate muttered in reply.
Ellis looked so indignant, Kate wanted to slap her.
Brett didn’t look much happier. In fact, instead of giving her the support she so desperately needed, his whole demeanour was one of long-suffering exasperation. How dare he be this put-out, when she’d had to put up with his mother every year; but the one time her own mother wanted to spend Christmas with them, he was making it sound as if Jack the Ripper was descending on them for a spot of tinsel and turkey.
‘Why is she coming so early?’ Ellis whined.
‘Something to do with the trains,’ Kate said vaguely, not wanting to get into the whys and wherefores. It wouldn’t make any difference, anyway. ‘She’s arriving tomorrow, so you’ll just have to suck it up,’ Kate added. ‘As will your sister.’
‘I’m not sharing my room with Portia for a whole week. She’s so bloody annoying.’
She’s not the only one, Kate thought. ‘You’ll do as you’re told, and so will Portia.’
‘It’s not fair. You’ve got a giant super king-sized bed. I’ve only got a small double.’
‘First world problems,’ she said. ‘There are people in the world who’d think they’d gone to heaven if they had your bed.’ Oh, shit, she couldn’t believe she’d said that out loud.
Ellis gave her a scathing look, which Kate felt was quite deserved. ‘If you’re that bothered, why don’t you give up your room? Nanny Collins could sleep in there and Nanna Peters can have the spare room, like she usually does.’
‘And where would your father and I sleep?’
‘In the living room. You’re always saying you don’t know why you bought that tent in the first place, because you never use it.’
Kate barked out an incredulous laugh. ‘You want your parents to sleep in a tent in the middle of the living room? It’ll ruin the carpet.’
More scathing looks. Ellis was very good at them. ‘I meant that you could sleep on the blow-up mattress.’
Kate had already thought of the blow-up bed, and was about to broach the subject, hoping it would stop the girls squabbling about having to cuddle down under the same duvet. They’d bought the tent several years ago with the intention of enjoying family holidays where they could get away from it all and be at one with nature. But there’d been so much complaining and grizzling about not being able to plug in hairdryers and other essential beauty appliances (the girls), mobile phones (all of them, including Brett), and the Xbox (from Sam, who’d smuggled it into his rucksack), that she hadn’t bothered suggesting it again.
Kate said. ‘Brett, go and fetch the airbed from the garage and blow it up. We can put it on the floor in Ellis’s room, and Portia can sleep on it.’
‘Oh, for fuc—’
‘Excuse me?’ Kate interjected, before her daughter said something Kate would have to take her to task on.
‘Nothing. I hate this family, I hate Christmas. I wish I was eighteen already and could move out!’
Another flounce, another slam, different daughter.
Kate breathed out slowly, counting to ten, and wishing Ellis was eighteen, too.
What was she thinking? Of course, she didn’t want her oldest child to move out. The idea was ludicrous.
But it would solve the sleeping arrangements issue, wouldn’t it, a treacherous little voice whispered in her mind.
Oh, shut up, she told it.
Chapter 9
Brett stalked out of the kitchen, muttering under his breath. It was dark, cold, and raining outside, and he had no intention of scrabbling around in the garage looking for the air bed. He’d do it tomorrow after he came home from work. It wasn’t urgent; Beverley would have the spare room and his mother would have either Ellis’s or Portia’s room. Besides, his mother wouldn’t be here for a couple of days yet. There was plenty of time to sort everything out.
He’d dig out the decorations then, as well. Not that they had a tree to hang any of them from, but it was a start.
He wondered vaguely what Kate had been doing all weekend, considering she hadn’t been to the garden centre to buy a tree yet. There was a time when the Buying of the Tree was a much-looked-forward-to family event and done with a great deal of seriousness, but that had all changed over the years. Last year, if he remembered correctly, Kate had taken a grizzling, complaining Sam with her to help choose one. It saddened him that the kids were growing up so fast and no longer wanted to do the things they’d always enjoyed doing together. These days, his daughters were more interested in hanging out with their friends, rather than spending any time with the “olds”, as he’d overheard Portia refer to him and Kate. Huh! Old indeed. He wasn’t even fifty yet; he had a good long way to go before he considered himself old.
He didn’t want to call his mother, but he thought he’d better warn her. If she turned up on Wednesday to find Beverley already here, he’d never hear the last of it, and neither would anyone else. He thought it best to tell her now and give her some time to get used to the idea.
‘Hi, Mum, just to let you know, Beverley will be here before you,’ Brett said as soon as his mother answered. ‘She mentioned to Kate that she’s arriving tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Helen shrieked, and Brett winced, holding the phone away from his ear for a moment.
‘Er... yes?’
‘Why?’ His mother’s voice was sharp. ‘She didn’t tell you the reason why she’s descending on you so early?’
‘I’m not sure. Something about trains?’ Kate had probably told him, but if she had he’d not been listening.
‘I see,’ Helen said. Her voice was frostier than a snowman at the Arctic. ‘Did she say what time?’
‘Kate’s in work until five, so unless one of the children are at home and can let her in, I expect it’ll be the evening.’
‘I see,’ his mother said, again.
‘Sorry, Mum. I know you were looking forward to spending a couple of days with us on your own, but it can’t be helped. We’ll still have a nice Christmas, yeah?’
‘With the woman who keeps saying “I hate Christmas”? Hardly likely, is it? I mean, I’m not all that keen on Christmas myself – you don’t seem to enjoy it as much when you get older, I’ve found – but at least I don’t keep mentioning it all the time. We all know it’s a waste of money and too
commercialised, but we just grit our teeth and get through it.’
With that, she hung up, leaving Brett staring at his mobile with a bemused expression. Bloody hell, his mother made Christmas sound as bad as having a root canal. He hadn’t realised she felt like that about it. But now she’d come to mention it, he didn’t feel as excited as he used to. All Christmas meant to him this year was having some time off work. Because the offices would thankfully be closed, there was no way The Abyss could bully him into going in, like she’d done yesterday.
It didn’t help his festive spirit that Kate had practically cold-shouldered him for most of the weekend after he’s gone out to play golf. He could have come clean and told her he’d had to go into work but he didn’t see why he should have to explain himself. If he wanted to wind down on the golf course at the end of the working week, then he shouldn’t be made to feel guilty about it. It wasn’t as if he didn’t pull his weight – he worked damned long hours to keep his wife and children in the style they’d become accustomed to. OK, he mightn’t do much around the house, but in the summer he was responsible for the garden, and he mowed, trimmed, and weeded everything to within an inch of its life. All Kate had to do was plump up the cushions on their patio chairs, pour herself a glass of something long and cold, then sit back in the sun and enjoy the fruits of his labour.
To be honest, he thought she had the better end of the stick in their relationship. She was never stuck in work at seven-thirty in the evening. She was always home well before then, pottering around in the kitchen or doing a bit of ironing while listening to Radio 4. Hardly taxing, was it?
Brett found he wasn’t looking forward to Christmas at all this year. What with his mother joining forces with the “I hate Christmas Crowd”, Portia already in that particular club although Brett was at a loss to see what a teenager could find to dislike about Christmas, and Kate stressing herself out over being the perfect wife, mother, daughter, cook, hostess, and so on. Sam would probably be wedged in his room with his headphones on, Ellis would waft in and out whenever she felt like it, and he didn’t even want to mention all the squabbles which usually took place and didn’t need to be exacerbated by enforced jollity and awful TV. He almost wished he could run away for a couple of days and wait for it all to be over and for everything to return to normal.