Christmas at Applegarth is very different from any Christmas I’ve experienced before. The house is as full as ever, and Lazzo joins us for the day (Kaz tells us that Blossom doesn’t do Christmas, and probably won’t even notice her family’s absence). The turkey — an ill-tempered bird of enormous proportions who has spent the last few months chasing us round the garden and biting our legs — has been despatched and prepared, Mum has made a Christmas cake, and a real Christmas tree stands in the hallway, decked out with decorations which go back to my uncles’ and Mum’s childhood. Numerous dusty bottles of wine are brought up from the cellar, their labels washed off for identification purposes, and everyone has Christmas stockings.
‘What, all of us?’ Mum asked, when she was told what was to happen.
‘All of us,’ Silas told her. ‘Eric and I always give each other a stocking, but as there are so many of us, we thought we’d all draw lots and do each other’s.’
I draw Kaz, and wonder what on earth I can put in it, for Kaz has a mind of her own when it comes to matters of taste. But in the event, she is thrilled.
‘I’ve never had a stocking before,’ she tells me, as she unwraps little parcels of chocolate and bath essence and some rather naughty knickers from the market. ‘I always wanted one as a kid, but Mum said no.’
‘Didn’t you get presents?’ I ask her. ‘You must have had something?’
‘Money usually. And maybe some sweets. Nothing much else, though. If I have kids, they’re going to have stockings just like this one.’ She pops a Malteser in her mouth. ‘What about you, Ruth? Will you give your child a Christmas stocking?’
‘Oh, yes. I should think so.’ It occurs to me that the baby should probably have one next year, but what does one put in the stocking of anyone so small? I know nothing at all about babies. Do they eat sweets? Play with toys? Do anything? No doubt I shall find out.
My parents pay lip service to the stocking ritual (Mum has drawn Lazzo, and Dad, Silas), but I can see their hearts aren’t in it, and they hanker after the kind of Christmas they are used to. After a meal which is more mediaeval banquet than traditional Christmas lunch, they make their excuses, and drive off to spend the rest of the day with some of Mum’s new friends from church. In a way I’m pleased, for at least they are united in their discomfort at the goings-on at Applegarth. I feel for my mother’s situation, but I would hate my parents’ split to be permanent. Maybe it’s something to do with the perversity of my generation, for while we aren’t necessarily too bothered about marriage for ourselves, we nonetheless expect out parents to stay securely within its boundaries.
After they have left, everyone else continues to make inroads into the home-made wine, until Eric and Silas fall asleep in their chairs. Kaz, who is by now very drunk indeed, is draped across the table singing Jingle Bells, one pert little breast attempting to escape from the confines of her strappy little top. Kent, who says he needs some fresh air, is feeding the chickens. As for Lazzo, he is still admiring the contents of his stocking. Mum’s efforts have been unimaginative — among other things, sweets, socks, and a keyring — but she couldn’t have had a more appreciative recipient. Lazzo has unwrapped all the little parcels, and arranged his gifts in a neat row. I can see he’s longing to open some of the sweets, but doesn’t like to spoil the appearance of his arrangement.
‘Go on, Lazzo. Have one. That’s what they’re for,’ I urge him (although after the excesses of lunch time, I personally can’t imagine ever wanting to eat again).
Lazzo picks up his packet of sweets and turns it over in his hands. Then he puts it back in its place.
‘Have one of mine.’ I take pity on him.
‘Ta.’ Absently, Lazzo takes a handful of toffees, which vanish without apparently any need for chewing on Lazzo’s part. ‘Never had presents like this,’ he tells me, picking up his keyring and stroking it.
‘Have you got some keys you can put on it?’ I ask him.
‘Nope.’
‘What, none at all?’
‘Nope.’
‘How do you get into the house when you go home?’
‘Key’s under a stone.’
‘Oh. Would you like a key?’
Lazzo’s face brightens, and I forage in my bag and find an old front door key from a long-ago flat, wondering why it is that people never get around to throwing away old keys. Carefully, Lazzo attaches the key to his keyring, then holds it up for me to admire.
‘Perfect,’ I tell him.
Lazzo nods happily. His capacity for finding pleasure in small things never fails to amaze me, and I feel oddly humbled. Here is someone who has never (as far as I know) experienced much in the way of parental love and appears to have very few possessions, and yet he appears perfectly content with his lot. I have heard Lazzo swear, certainly, and he has a very colourful vocabulary in that department, but I have never heard him complain. Whatever he is doing, he gives the impression that that is the thing he wants to be doing above all else. He may not be particularly clean (I notice that among Mum’s gifts there is a large can of cheap deodorant) and his table manners are appalling, but he is gentle and courteous and, in his own way, chivalrous. I don’t think it would be an exaggeration to say that I have grown to love Lazzo.
‘What’s your mum doing today?’ I ask him.
‘Bed,’ Lazzo tells me.
‘What, all day?’
‘Yeah. Always does.’
‘What about church?’
‘Midnight.’
Of course. I’d forgotten that that was what Catholics do at Christmas. It always seems to me to be a very sensible arrangement; get the formalities out of the way as early as possible, and then get down to the serious business of celebrating.
‘So she’s all by herself?’
‘Doesn’t mind.’ Lazzo helps himself to another half dozen toffees.
‘Did she — give you anything? A present?’
Lazzo laughs.
‘Nope. Says I get board and lodging. Shouldn’t expect anything else.’
‘Do you mind?’
‘Nope.’ Lazzo finishes up the toffees.
‘Did you give her anything?’
‘No money.’
This is true enough, for Lazzo never appears to have any money. Although Blossom has cautioned against it, my uncles insist on paying him something for the work he does for them, but I know for a fact that he hands it all over to his mother. She feeds him and buys his few clothes, and if he did have money of his own, he’d probably spend it unwisely.
‘Got fags off our Kaz,’ he offers.
‘That’s nice.’
‘Yeah. Five hundred. Keep me going.’
‘They certainly should.’
By now, Kaz appears to have passed out. Lazzo carries her into the sitting room and deposits her on the sofa, where she lies snoring gently. One of her arms dangles over the edge like that of Chatterton in his famous portrait, and her right breast has finally broken free of its moorings, its rosy nipple pointing triumphantly towards the ceiling. Most people in this situation would look dishevelled and decadent. Kaz simply looks beautiful. Nonetheless, I cover up the rogue breast with a coat, for while Lazzo doesn’t appear to have noticed, I would hate to embarrass Kent on his return.
By seven o’clock, everyone is beginning to recover, and we receive a Christmas visit from Mikey and Gavin, who come bearing gifts and forgiveness.
‘I think I’ve sulked for long enough to make my point,’ says Mikey, giving me a hug.
‘I think you have.’ I return his embrace. ‘But I’m afraid I haven’t bought you a present. I didn’t know you were coming.’
‘Neither did we. It was a spur of the moment thing. We were going to have our first Christmas on our own, but we got bored and decided we needed a party, so we’ve come to see you.’
‘But we’re not having a party.’
‘You are now.’ Mikey fetches bags from the car, and unpacks pork pies and crisps and nuts and Christmas crackers, and yet more drink. ‘There! A party! Now, where’s the corkscrew?’
When my parents return at eleven, they find Mikey’s party in full swing, with a drunken game of charades in progress. Kaz and Kent, together with several cushions, are under an old raincoat pretending to be a camel, with Gavin, his head covered with a tea towel, as its Arab owner and Lazzo some kind of tree. Mikey and I are doing the guessing, but Silas, who is supposed to be on our team, is asleep, and Eric is fretting because he’s realised that he hasn’t accounted for camels on his Ark, and is wondering whether he needs to have dromedaries as well, or will the camels do for both?
‘You don’t hear much about dromedaries, do you?’ he says. ‘Camels, yes, but not dromedaries. What do people do with dromedaries?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ I tell him.
‘Camels drink a lot,’ he murmurs. ‘Oh dear.’
‘It would seem,’ says my father, taking off his coat, ‘that everyone has been drinking a lot.’
This strikes Mikey and me as terribly funny, and we roll on the sofa, crying with laughter. Eric merely looks hurt. Both halves of the camel collapse on the floor, Silas wakes up with a start, and the tree wanders off into the kitchen to look for more beer.
All in all, I think you could say that it’s been a very merry Christmas indeed.