Chapter Eleven
The next morning I felt sluggish and depressed. I knew this was just a reaction to the emotional upheaval of the night before, and I tried to ignore my feelings. One thing I’m good at is repression!
I was used to having good days and bad days, as well as backsliding. That didn’t mean I didn’t still feel like a failure on the bad days.
It was Christmas Eve, so I didn’t have anything much to do. I’d saved decorating until then because I knew I’d probably feel antsy.
Before I started, I poured a whole bottle of red wine in a saucepan, added a packet of mulled wine spices, and left it on low heat. I’m not really a fan of red wine, but the smell of mulled wine is one of those comforting things to me. It instantly takes me back to my childhood, when everything was right with the world. Still, just because I didn’t drink it didn’t mean it would go to waste. I could give it to Diane—she loves it.
I also put my Christmas playlist on to help me feel festive.
I didn’t have space for a tree, so I trimmed the mantelpiece with a mixture of pine boughs, holly, Christmas lights, and ornaments. I also strung fairy lights over the window and put three church candles on the windowsill. It looked nice, but more than that, it felt cozy.
I had just hung a holly wreath on the front door when I saw my mother approaching, sans my father. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
I greeted her as I usually do. I saw that, although she had covered it well, she looked as if she’d been crying. I ushered her into my house and offered her tea or coffee.
She sniffed the air.
“Is that mulled wine?”
I nodded.
“I wouldn’t say no to a cup of that.”
I blinked. My mother, drinking at lunchtime?
“Sure.”
The brew was simmering nicely, so I ladled some into a cup and turned the heat off. When I returned with it I saw her sitting on the couch, looking huddled in on herself.
“How are you?” I asked gently, handing her the cup and taking the adjacent armchair.
My folks were stubborn and obtuse, but most of the time they had been good parents to me. I didn’t like to see them suffering.
“Still rather shocked, if I’m honest,” she admitted as she wrapped her hands around her cup. “We hardly got any sleep last night. We’ve been reevaluating a lot of things that we took for granted.”
“I’m sorry.”
She began to tear up.
“You’ve no need to apologize.” She gave me a watery smile. “I’m sorry we raised you to feel that this could have been your fault.”
I didn’t know how to reply to that.
“Where’s Dad?”
“He’s having a hard time coming to terms with what you told us. He took the car and went for a drive.”
“When?”
“This morning.” Her tears flowed harder for a moment, so I handed her a tissue.
I wasn’t sure what that meant. Dad sometimes went quiet when he was thinking, but he’d never left before. Well, not as far as I knew.
“Mum—”
“No, please.” She looked over at me. “What I have to say is hard, but please let me get through it.”
I nodded and watched as she wiped her eyes, then twisted the tissue in her hands while she thought. I sat attentively on the edge of my chair, hands clasped tightly in my lap, waiting for her.
“The first thing I want to say is that I’m sorry.” She swallowed when tears threatened to overwhelm her again. “I can’t believe I was so blind to what was happening. I’ll never forgive myself that you felt you couldn’t come to me. I’ll do my best to make sure that never happens again.”
Her knuckles were turning white from gripping the tissue so hard.
“You’re angry.”
She finally looked up at me. “I’m furious, but not at you,” she spat. “I can’t believe I trusted that man only to have him do that to my little girl. I want to hurt him, but I can’t.”
“I’d quite like to dig him up, grind his bones to ash, and then pee on them every day for the rest of my life,” I said bluntly. The honesty felt good.
She looked taken aback for a second.
“If it’s a choice between laughing and crying, I choose to laugh,” I told her. She allowed herself to smile at my dark humor.
“I’ve been plagued by revenge fantasies all night,” she admitted. “None quite so inventive as that.”
“Letting go of that anger is hard,” I admitted. “But every time you feel angry, just think about how pissed off he’d be to see me doing exactly what I want to do—and living off his money to do it!”
Mum even chuckled at that.
“Anyway”—she grew serious—“I’m going to try and butt out of your life and just be your mum.”
I reached over and took her hand. “I’d rather you were my friend before my mum. Can you do that?”
She nodded enthusiastically. I felt my own eyes pricking with tears, so I pulled her to her feet and hugged her. Not the polite air-kiss hugs we usually have, but a big bear hug.
“I love you, Kelly-Welly,” she said, using my childhood nickname.
“I love you too,” I sobbed.
I knew this was a little too good to be true. Saying you’ll change was easy, but actually changing was hard. I was hopeful that she meant it. And I supposed that if I wanted her to be more supportive of me, I should try to be supportive of her attempt to change. She was trying her best, and that’s more than I had expected.
As I pulled away I wiped my eyes and let out a watery laugh that Mum echoed.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough tears for one day! Why don’t we clean ourselves up? I’ll show you where you can buy the best cakes in all of Suffolk,” I suggested.
She nodded.
After touching up our makeup, we were both ready to face the world again.
Over slices of coffee cake at Missy’s, I asked about her job again. Unlike last night, when she’d assured me it was fine, this time she sighed, put her fork down, and buried her head in her hands.
“I hate it,” she confessed as she looked up. “I’ve never enjoyed it, but each year it’s like it becomes more oppressive.”
“Do you want to quit?”
She held my gaze for a good five seconds, then gave a minuscule nod and looked away.
“Mum.” I reached over and put my hand over hers. “No one lives forever. You’ll regret it if you don’t try to find something you love.”
She nodded but didn’t look up.
“Is there anything you’ve thought you might like to try?”
Her gaze flashed to mine for a second, and then she looked away again.
“Travel,” she admitted. “There are so many places I haven’t been to, but nobody’s going to pay me for that.”
“Why not? They pay Bill Bryson for it.”
She shrugged, dismissing the idea.
I wasn’t completely surprised by her answer. My childhood holidays had been spent in various historical sites, both at home and abroad. Places my father thought it would be educational for me to see. The delight in my mother’s eyes as we explored was undeniable, though.
I’m glad I had her around on those trips, really, because history as taught in school was a dry and dull subject. History as to me taught by my mother was full of stories. Stories of people and their lives, their experiences, their loves, and their losses.
Dad had suggested teaching because it meant she could take holidays off to look after me, so she had ended up teaching seven- and eight-year-olds. She enjoyed teaching them history, but she also had to teach them all the other core subjects.
“Have you ever considered writing books?” I asked.
The look she gave me almost made me laugh out loud.
“What, like Dan Brown?”
“No!” I did laugh then. “I mean like children’s history books. You’ve heard of Horrible Histories, haven’t you?”
She nodded.
“Well, don’t you remember all the stories you used to tell me when we visited historical places? You used to make it so much fun. Just imagine if you wrote them down and had them illustrated?”
I could see the interest in her eyes.
“You wouldn’t even need to give up work. You can write in the evenings or during the holidays. Once you find a publisher and they’re successful, you can quit.”
“Your father wouldn’t like me to give up work.”
“You wouldn’t be!” I laughed. “You’d be swapping teaching for writing.”
“A secure income for an insecure one.”
“Mum . . .” I gave her my best are-you-kidding-me look. “I know you’re not megarich, but I also know there’s no mortgage on your home, your pension pots are full, and you have thousands in savings. And that was when I lived at home. Since then Granny Walsh died and left you a tidy sum, so live off her inheritance if you want!”
“Your father—”
“Shouldn’t be the reason you’re unhappy,” I interrupted. “But if you really can’t stand the idea of quitting, you should still write, if you want. Doing something you love makes living with things you hate so much easier.”
The conversation almost died then, but that was to be expected whenever Mum was thinking.
“Besides . . .” I wanted to add one last convincer. “You could travel for research. Remember how much lighter Dad always seemed when we were on holiday?”
Whether she took my suggestion or not, I just hoped that one day she would find a job that she enjoyed—or at the very least liked.
She became a little more animated as I showed her around and introduced her to some people as picked up a few things. She met Mary, who ran the newsagents’ where she bought Dad’s paper, George, who ran the local deli—I told mum she had to try his ham-hock terrine—and Bridget, who had some permanent space in a local gallery and had popped in to speak with the owner when we arrived.
I had hoped that Dad would find us, but we hadn’t heard from him by the time the sun was setting. I walked Mum back to her holiday rental, but my father was still nowhere to be seen. Mum made some tea and texted him. He did eventually reply, but all he said was: Be home in 2 hours.
“He is all right, isn’t he?” I asked Mum as I readied myself to leave.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” she said with a tight smile.
Of everyone I knew, my dad was probably the last person to do something stupid. Disappearing was just so out of character for him.
She led me to the door. Rather than giving me an air-kiss, she hugged me tightly and kissed my cheek.
“Take care, lovely girl,” she said as I left.
“You too, Mum.”
I would have stayed later, but Mary shut up shop at six o’clock and I wanted to get Mum something extra for Christmas.
Mum finally texted me at seven to tell me that Dad was home and everything was fine. I asked where he’d been. She replied that he’d just needed some thinking time.
I spent the evening alone, Christmas movies playing in the background while I wrapped my final few presents. Then I settled down with Buttons and a ready meal to watch Bruce Willis shoot his way through a gang of terrorists in Die Hard. That totally counts as a Christmas movie, right?
***
Christmas morning dawned bright and frosty.
I always hope we might have snow over Christmas, but it’s more common in January and February. This year also wouldn’t be a white Christmas. The frost, still thick in shaded areas, almost gave the illusion of snow, though, if you really wanted to see it.
My parents arrived at eleven o’clock. While my mother hugged me tightly, I got the standard air-kiss from my father. I wondered what it meant, but I wasn’t going to let his stiff upper lip ruin Christmas. They had a bag of presents; I put them with mine, under the stairs.
This was my first proper Christmas in a while; I usually went away for a few days and spent it alone. I told friends I was going to see my family, and I told my family I was going away with friends. It was just easier than intruding on someone else’s Christmas or lying about my life to my parents.
I offered them a choice of a Buck’s Fizz—but with prosecco, not champagne—or plain orange juice. They chose the latter. I wanted the alcohol. I expected a comment from my father about drinking so early, but it didn’t come.
I left them in the living room with Christmas music playing, so I was surprised again when Mum followed me back into the kitchen, downed half her glass of juice, and topped it up with prosecco! After that I made sure to take their glasses into the kitchen for refills so that Dad couldn’t see me make Mum’s drink.
Christmas hadn’t really been a happy occasion for years, so I hadn’t minded spending it alone. Now that I had no secrets to conceal and no one to fear, I was actually starting to feel the Christmas spirit.
Lunch came courtesy of Waitrose supermarket—all I had to do was decant the items and cook them. Still, as I worked around my kitchen, for the first time ever I started to feel how small my house was. It would be nice to have a dining table to eat at and to not keep bumping into the kitchen table at every turn. Wouldn’t it be nice to live somewhere that four adults could comfortably share for a few hours?
My folks kept offering to help me cook, especially my mum, but the idea of two or three of us trying to move in the small space was too busy to contemplate! Besides, I was mostly just checking and turning things. I felt harassed for about ten minutes while I carved and served everything piping hot—sometimes having the table right behind you is a bonus—but I quickly relaxed once we sat down.
My father spoke only when spoken to, but he accepted a glass of wine with the meal. Mum and I chatted away. They both complimented my cooking. We decided to leave dessert until later when we had made some space. Mum helped me clear away and load the dishwasher, and then we decamped to the living room to exchange gifts.
I gave Mum her original gift first—a cashmere cardigan in a shade of blue that I knew suited her beautifully.
Mum gave Dad a beautiful engraved fountain pen. He loved to sign his name in style and still sometimes handwrote letters. He gave my mother a handheld vacuum cleaner.
Oh Dad.
Mind you, I’d got my father a set of stationery and some new socks, so could I really complain about his gift-buying abilities?
Dad handed me my gift next. I tore the paper off to see a Canon EOS 5DS camera! Its specs were similar to my camera’s, but this one was brand-new and a better brand. I knew that it must have cost him in the region of three thousand.
I wouldn’t spend that much on myself, especially for what, at the time, had been just a hobby. I’d bought a refurbished camera. It wasn’t the money he’d spent that made this gift special, though. It wasn’t even that he’d bought a professional camera, meaning he must have done his research. No, what made me tear up was that this was his way of giving me his approval.
I stood up and pulled him to his feet, and then I hugged him tightly as I whispered in his ear, “Thank you, Dad.”
He stood stiffly and seemed uncomfortable, but when I pulled away he gave me a genuine smile.
“I . . . uh, I also got you . . .” He handed me another parcel, this one squishy.
I wiped away my tears before they could fall and tore off the paper. It was a professional camera bag stuffed with accessories: a Wi-Fi adapter, a spare battery pack, two different types of lenses that also cost hundreds each, a neck strap, and three memory cards.
I would have hugged him again but I knew it would make him uncomfortable. I just thanked him and put the wrapping paper in the rubbish bag.
I handed him his two parcels and felt even guiltier. Stationery and socks after that?
He seemed chuffed enough with his gifts, though, and even stood up and gave me another hug. Then he asked where the loo was, so maybe he hadn’t meant to hug me!
As he disappeared upstairs, Mum leaned over to me.
“Your dad went to London,” she whispered. I must have looked confused as she went on. “Yesterday, when he went out to ‘think,’ he drove to London. Said it was the only place he knew for certain he’d get what you needed.”
My jaw dropped. London? On Christmas Eve? Well, that explained why he was gone all day!
I gave her a watery smile.
She passed me a tissue, her way of reminding me that Dad was uncomfortable with tears. “Here.”
While he was gone, I handed over her second present—a beautiful ring-bound notebook that she could write her stories in.
She looked touched and maybe a little teary herself.
“And if you need someone to transcribe them, I’m more than happy.” My mother knew how to use a computer, but she typed with only one finger.
Dad returned then. After another round of drinks, we had a slice of Christmas cake.
Now that I knew where he’d disappeared to the day before, it was easy to draw him out. Soon we were chattering away about the London traffic, Dad’s opinion of the major roadwork project on the motorway, and the cost of petrol. Together, we put the world to rights.
Mum asked to see my latest photo project. I tried to demur, but Dad gruffly urged me on. I set my laptop on the coffee table where we could all see the screen clearly. I brought up my sound in water pictures, then I explained how I’d got the images, the whole rigmarole with creating a flexible plastic base so the speakers moved the water directly, testing lights and their placement, and why I’d gone with neon to get the most vibrant pictures.
Mum gushed over the photos, calling them ephemeral and gorgeous. My dad asked all sorts of keen questions and was fascinated by the technical aspects of what I’d done. Evidently he’d picked up a little technical knowledge yesterday and wanted to understand more, so he asked me about things such as lenses, focal length, shutter speed, that sort of thing. Eventually he proclaimed the process “very interesting, really.”
I honestly couldn’t remember the last time Dad had shown such an interest in . . . well, anything to do with me. And actual praise? I had to stop myself tearing up.
They left around about five o’clock, which I was glad about.
I do love them and it was wonderful spending the day with them, but I wasn’t used to spending much time with them anymore. Small doses are always better to begin with. As I kissed them goodbye, I realized I was looking forward to seeing them again. We arranged to meet for a walk along the beach the next day, to work off the Christmas dinner. Then we’d settle in a local pub for a drink and a bite to eat.
Once they’d gone I made up a bowl of leftovers for Buttons, unloaded the dishwasher, then settled down with a pot of tea and searched for a Christmas movie. I caught the end of Miracle on 34th Street.
While searching for something else to watch, someone tapped on my door.