Rory.
Ihad been wandering the aisles in the Tesco near Mum’s, wincing at the bloody Christmas songs belting out – I swear they had managed to run through the whole gamut and start the loop again just in the short time I was in there – when I’d had a moment of seasonal madness and found myself putting a jar of mincemeat and a tub of clotted cream in the trolley. I picture Mum’s face as I triumphantly present her with a mince pie, warm from the oven, the cream sliding off the top like snow from a warmed porch.
She had been exhausted yesterday, evidenced by the fact she let Dave cook the roast – I almost lost three teeth, how he did what he did to the potatoes was a mystery, and who,whoburns peas? I saw the fatigue on her face, her eyes lacking brightness, a pallor hanging over her. I don’t think this is the cancer, this looks like lack of sleep, and I can well imagine that after showing a brave face and a bright side throughout the day she is lying awake at night, consumed with worry about having to leave us should the worst occur. I know how struggling to doze off feels and it breaks my heart that I can’t cast a magic sleep spell for her.
So instead I went to the supermarket, then batch-cooked a whole host of things for her freezer and was currently stood ready to slide out mince pies from the oven. I’ve done this once before when I was twelve, trying to make amends for something hideous I had done at the time, although now I can’t remember the actual crime. I remember the feeling though, as I presented her with the plate. That. That was what I was aiming for today, for the both of us.
It isn’t just my mum who will be surprised though; I have to tell Belle this. I’m itching to reach out to her and see how yesterday went but don’t want to overly intrude. My intention had been to pair them and then step back. The fact that I haven’t heard from either her or Jamal does not bode well. It’s niggling at me.
The two of them are made for each other, I had been so pleased when I had thought of it. What I know and others don’t is that Jamal is back in the UK for the next few months in rehearsals for the RSC’s production ofCoriolanus, scheduled for the summer. He’s politically active with strong opinions on the state and its responsibilities, and this role, so he tells me, is a good one for making a statement about absolute power. Twin that with the coincidence of him being back from America, and in Bristol seeing his family this weekend… If this isn’t the universe intervening then I don’t know what is.
I whip out my phone.
You’re not going to believe this but right now, right now, I am making mince pies. From scratch. Mince pies.
Send. There, that might make her smile, and she might tell me what happened yesterday. I put Mum’s recipe book back on the shelf, an old red ring binder with all Grandma’s recipes inside, handwritten and fading. Grandma had died of breast cancer but I had spent the morning trying not to think about that. Medicine is better now than when my mum’s mum had first got ill. The oven timer buzzes at the same time as my phone.
Mince pies. Wow. I’m impressed. I was going to message you today but it’s been hectic. What’s caused the thawing of your frosty Christmas spirit?
She punctuates her texts. Of course she does. And she’s been busy, that’s a good sign. Maybe I should stop being so pessimistic. Maybe she and Jamal haven’t been in touch because they’ve been up all night hatching plans, her enthusiasm for her subject captivating him as it had me. I feel a flash of something uncomfortable and turn to the cooker, opening the door and sliding the pies out. They smell amazing.
I think thaw is a bit strong. Trust me when I say I still loathe Christmas. But I love my mum. And she loves a mince pie.
Well luckily for you, I have decided to be your very own Christmas Elf and…
What does that mean? I picture her in an elf costume, hair in bunches, and shake my head quickly. For some reason that image has appeared straight out ofPlayboycirca 2002. Thirteen-year-old me would have been keen but adult me is rapidly trying to delete that mental picture right now. This is Belle Wilde and a complication I do not need on my brief visit home. The list of reasons for avoiding that has to number a billion. I am still grieving, we would not be a good match, she is not attracted to men like me, she is not Jess. Mind you, I want to know what she means. My phone beeps again.
…and tonight I have tickets for a show on the Brunel SS. You know you love a boat ;-)
How did she remember that? I must have told her one of the times I gave her a lift home that I had always been fascinated by old boats, and a memory flashes into my head of the both of us giggling about how we could pinch one of the barges docked by the quay and sail away, leaving all of the panic over dissertations behind us. Well, she would have giggled, I probably said something terribly responsible. We’d had a funny friendship back then.
I haven’t been on the SSBrunelsince I was a boy. I did love it then. I suppose it would do no harm.
I walk through the car park and see her before I actuallyseeher. I hope I’m wrong but know I’m not. I head towards the person wearing flashing lights both on their torso and head – a Christmas jumper with flashing lights on Rudolph’s face and an elf’s hat with flashing lights built in. I raise my brows.
‘Just helping you get into the Christmas spirit.’
‘I don’t think that I need that sort of help.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, I think that’s exactly the sort of help you need.’
‘Hmmm. You do know there are several Christmas phobias, don’t you? What you’re doing right now could be cruel as cruel could be. Like locking someone who is afraid of birds into an aviary, that sort of thing.’
‘Oh, calm yourself. You’re making that up.’
‘Am not. It’s called “selaphobia” – the fear of flashing lights – and my selaphobia means that those lights wrapped around your hat are currently causing me trauma.’
‘Pshaw.’
‘Pshaw? Is that the best you can do?’
‘Honestly, it’s a bit of a relief.’ She reaches up to her hat and pulls it off her head, clicking a button as she does so, and then reaches under her jumper and clicks another. ‘I bought these cos I love Christmas and thought it would be fun. But truthfully, I have always been way too embarrassed to wear them. This will probably be my one and only time. And I did it because you need to know I take my elf duties to you very seriously. Very seriously indeed.’
‘Okay, in that case, please keep them off.’
‘Phew.’ She shoves the hat in her bag. ‘I shall take care not to take you anywhere with too many flashing lights.’ Then she winks. She’s different to the Belle I knew at uni. I like this Belle better. She’s less brittle, less aloof.
‘Any more Christmas phobias I should know about?’ We walk towards the ticket office manned by someone in Victorian dress.
