Christmas comes in all it’s tacky glory.
The days shorten and darken. The wind howls. Rain lashes the windows. The trees groan and creak. The house is too hot. The house is too cold. Husband grumbles and turns the heating down. Reading lamps pierce the gloom. Christmas sucks everything into it like a black hole. All Son’s problems are pushed onto the periphery. He and his friends ramble about the house. They hole up in his bedroom for hours. There is smoke and loud music. I barely notice them. I’m obsessed with shopping, shopping. Food, mountains of it. More and more presents. Make it right. Is there enough? Is there enough? Christmas Eve. Lights are draped over every surface, taped to vases, threaded through plants. Christmas tree is resplendent. It is a twinkling piece of magic. It’s baubles glitter and gleam. I am entranced by it. And. Daughter is coming home on an unreliable train. We watch and wait and worry on the dark platform. Trains arrive, empty of her. Strangers stream past. Doors clang. Finally. She appears out of the gloom. She is cold and grumpy. We bundle her into the car. Drive home through streets lit with Santas and reindeers. Lights in trees. Lights round doors and windows. Winking and chasing. Tacky and tasteful. Home. Gleaming tree in the window. We step from cold to warmth. From darkness to light. No sign of Son as I make hot drinks. I worry and fret about the day ahead and the perfection which must be achieved. The pressure on the Mother to provide the superlative Christmas Day drives the feminist within me wild. Yet I’m still afraid to be found wanting. My existence still has to be justified. Fool. Christmas Day dawns diamond bright and cold. Paper ripped. And snatched and put in black bag. Presents exposed. Tree looks unglamorous and a bit tacky in the winter light. No sign of Son. Lunch is made. Ancient Aunt is collected. Son arises. We sit, paper hats askew. We plough grimly through the mountains of food. Atmosphere a bit tense. I watch and panic. Daughter and Son snipe at each other. Husband glowers. He needles Ancient Aunt who eats doggedly. There is food on her chin. We are all obsessed with it. Then it’s over. We all shamble into the front room. The long afternoon begins. As the light dims the tree slowly looms. The tack fades, the magic reappears. All the lights glow. Everyone slumps and sags onto the floor. Husband collapses on sofa clutching a cushion. Ancient Aunt sits ramrod straight, scarf immaculately tied, lipstick refreshed, food on chin. Much later. Son and daughter start a vicious argument. Always about music. Husband and I shrink into the shadows in fear. I try to intercede, to no avail. Soon he goes to bed. Followed swiftly by Son, whiskey bottle in hand. Daughter and I make coffee. Survey the debris. My head aches. We switch the lights off one by one. The tree withdraws into the darkness. Merry Christmas. Ho ho ho. Over the next few days family dynamics shift and change. We’re all trapped indoors. We seethe and bitch. We attack and retreat. We love. We hate. At night the wind howls and moans. The windows rattle. Our unquiet slumbers are disturbed by the shade of my mother. Recently dead. Still by my side. Still holding my hand. She creeps downstairs. Her wedding ring taps on the bannister. Only Daughter and I heard her light step. Gradually the pressure cooker atmosphere dissolves. We all get bored. New Year’s Eve comes and goes. Daughter leaves. Husband and Son return to work. I untangle the lights. The baubles are wrapped in tissue paper, their glow dimmed. The tree stands stark and bare. It’s just a tree after all. Soon it’s outside in the drizzle. A sad trail of silver flutters and glints in a little dance of farewell. I go indoors. Close the door. I hoover up the pine needles. Take the boxes upstairs. The house is returned to itself. I sense the demons crouching in the corners. Christmas has gone. Nowhere to hide.. Real life lies in wait...
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Husband drops me at the station.
He helps me out with my bag. I feel like I am abandoning him. We kiss. The doors squish, I'm through. A quick wave. I'm gone. I'm standing on the chilly platform feeling guilty. But. The simple anticipation of seeing Daughter overrides everything. Train hisses into the station. I'm on. Doors swish shut. Whistle blows. Train judders. The scruffy little town slips away. I settle into my seat. Just me and my book for a couple of hours. Heaven. Daughter waits on the platform in the late autumn sun. Her face is splashed with freckles. We hug and hug. She takes my bag. We get a taxi to my B&B. (I'd be a brave woman to stay in her student house) Deposit my stuff in my room. Then into town for lunch. It's chilly and there's a watery sun but I'm elated. I've escaped. Daughter looks well. We are a little hesitant at first but we soon lapse into our easy familiarity. One of my friends used to say we were still umbilically attached. It cheers me to be with her. I am stunned by her academic achievements. By her hard work. And by the fact that she can live with privileged non-northerners and remain herself. I do not want to mythologise daughter and demonise Son. I love them both. Blood and bone. It's visceral. Unfortunately a lot of time and energy is spent on Son whilst Daughter gets on with things. So sometimes a light has to be shone on her. Anyway. We have lunch. The afternoon darkens. She looks at me. "Shall we go and say hello to everyone, have a rest then go for a curry?" Oh heck. They're all superficially very nice but I still feel strongly the north/south divide. I can't help but feel rather provincial and a little intimidated. However. We leave the cafe. Soon we're walking through the front door of a splendid, if rather run down Georgian house. Daughter and roommates live on the top floor. As we enter, music, loud voices, clattering and clinking of cutlery all float down the stairs. I'm filled with dread. We go into the kitchen. There seem to be people everywhere. I am overwhelmed. Lots of people are shouting "hello, hello. It's Mum. She looks great, she's wearing Doc Martens. How are you?" "I've come from the frozen north. Haha." Not funny, but they laugh. I look around. There is stuff everywhere. The sink is full of pots. I perch on a rather sticky stool. The noise swirls around me, someone puts a coffee in my hand. I must not talk too much. I must not talk too little. It's like a scene from student life performed for awestruck mother. Through it all, Daughter remains confident and assured. Soon it's over and we're sitting on her bed. Morrissey's droning on and I'm in need of a rest before we head out. I'm back at B&B after a superb curry and a few beers. We've laughed and she's told me secrets and delicious gossip. I am now in pjs in lovely comfy bed. I've spoken to Husband. He says all is well. He's probably lying. Bless him. For the moment I choose to believe the lie. I settle under the duvet too tired to read. I drift off to sleep knowing I'll see Daughter in the morning. The next few days whizz by. We shop. Lunch. Drink coffee. Eat cake. Eat good food. Look at old graveyards, their leaning graves overgrown with Rosebay Willowherb. We wander round parks and feed ducks in the rain. Soon it's the last night and it's suddenly over. I'm on that station with daughter again. But this time I'm sad. Sad to leave. But proud that I can leave her there knowing that she is fearless and brave. She puts my bag on that train that takes me away from her. We hug. I touch her face. "Go now" She turns, walks away and the crowd swallows her up. She returns to her world. I return to mine. I am grateful for the glimpse of her world and to have been a part of it for a while. I am grateful for her beauty and her joy of life. I sit in my seat. I lean my head against the window. I weep. I weep because she's gone. I smile with pride because she's done it. As home draws near rain spatters on the window. My stomach knots. However, I've had a lovely relaxing time and I do feel better. Husband stands on the platform. He looks strong and reassuring. I am grateful for him. We hug. He takes my bag. We smile at each other. "Dare I ask?" So.
Here we are again. His room is a dark squalid cave. The floor is littered with debris. No drug paraphernalia in evidence, but then there wouldn't be would there? Don't look too closely. He is wrapped in the duvet looking ghastly. Sweaty, drowsy and spaced out. We are horrorstruck. Husband spews a rage filled tirade at the figure. When he pauses for breath I add my own bile. He's sorry. He's always sorry. We storm out. Mightily pissed off. We survey the damage downstairs. Silently, we don rubber gloves, pick up cloths and black rubbish bags. We are adept at this. We have cleaned up after many, more innocent, parties in the past. The holiday memories are fading fast. Daughter rings in the middle of the operation: "How was the holiday?" "What holiday?" I tell her what we have found on our return. Stuff broken and missing, empty bottles, cans, cigarette stumps everywhere. "Why don't you come and stay with me for a few days next week?" Tempting. I think about abandoning Husband. I think about it for for 30 seconds. "Yes, please." If one of us can escape it might as well be me. I reason. I just need to convince him of that fact. Bless him. He agrees. The plans are made. He reminds me he is in credit. We chat a bit longer. I feel much better. Later. House is restored. We have a drink, issue more threats to the form in the bed. We take to our bed. An uneasy peace descends. We are surprised but not surprised that he succumbed to temptation. Our abscence obviously was the incentive, if one was needed. But that's the nature of addiction. We learn this over the next few years. Addicts are always in recovery. Never completely recovered. We are not aware of this fact yet. We are blissfully ignorant and still assume that it will all stop soon. These are just little blips. Ha. The night passes. I sleep fitfully. He creeps up and downstairs. Finally. All is quiet. Morning comes. No rosy fingered dawn today. Husband and I drink tea and eat a scrappy breakfast. Not much food to be had. Suddenly, we hear footsteps on the stairs. Front door opens and closes. He has made a swift, unshowered exit. The gate clangs. He's gone. Back to The Underworld and a place we have no knowledge of. Yet... Autumn has crept upon us.
Trees turn red and gold. Leaves crisp and fall. The nights are dark earlier, there is a chill in the air. An enormous moon hangs low in the sky. We book a holiday on a Greek island. Greece. Blue skies. White houses. White churches. We stay in a dusty little town. Old men sit on steps and on plastic chairs, they clink worry beads and glare at us. They sip small cups of coffee. Every morning Husband goes to the sweet smelling bakery for bread and croissants. We eat breakfast on our scruffy little balcony which overlooks a noisy street. Men and women shout in Greek, we breathe in car fumes, cooking smells and drains. The flat is a bit grotty and the shower is a dribble. But, hey. It's Greece. And we're miles from home. We drive round the island stopping for herds of goats, bells tinkling, ambling across the road. The woods smell of pine and smoke. In the evenings we sit in candlelit tavernas gazing at Homer's wine dark sea. After a while, on these evenings, inevitably one of us brings up The Incident. I talk. He is dismissive, interrupting and getting angry. He talks. I am dismissive, I interrupt and get angry. I am right. He is right. Maybe we're both right, but we have to find that middle ground. We order coffee, chat to Brits on the next table. They tell us about their perfect family. We tell them about our perfect family. We all play the game. We laugh as we walk back through the scented air. Soon the end comes. The cases are packed and standing in the hall. Misery descends. Early start. Last chance to see the famous rosy fingered dawn. It's fabulous. The gods surely move through these islands. We return to a chilly, drizzly Manchester. We land with a bump. Usual quota of holidaymakers still in shorts and flip flops. We're in the taxi, on the motorway, outside the house. Inside it's quiet and dark. "Hello?" Silence. Doom hangs in the air like smog. I go into the kitchen. There is stuff everywhere. Cups half full of coffee, plates with old food congealing on them. Flies circle. We go upstairs. Into his room. He's lying in bed. There is debris everywhere. He stares at us glassy eyed. He mumbles something. We all look at each other. The holiday is well and truly over... |
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