‘Hello.’ I wander into the kitchen all bushy-tailed as Mum is plating up pancakes. She always does Christmas breakfast although this is the first one I’ve been awake for in years. The table looks amazing. There’s a huge bowl of berries to go with the pancakes as well as poached eggs, smoked salmon and hollandaise, currently sitting in my nana’s favourite jug and oozing creamy yellow richness. I’ve been a fool missing out on breakfast all these years. My eye catches the champagne coupes.
‘Ooh darling, what a lovely surprise. Merry Christmas. Have you just got in?’
‘No, I came over late after work drinks yesterday and snuck upstairs for a good night’s sleep. I didn’t want to disturb you. Happy Christmas.’ I move towards her and plant a peck on her cheek. Usually I don’t go in for small gestures of familial affection but I’m determined to demonstrate my love for them today.
‘Where’s Dad?’ This is unusual. Dad is usually up, swooping around the kitchen, reprimanding Mum about the angle of her eggs or some utter nonsense whilst scrolling through Instagram looking for likes. His addiction to social media validation is akin to that of a thirteen-year-old.
‘He’ll be down in a minute. He’s been a bit tired the last few days. I think rehab took it out of him.’
‘Yeah probably,’ I agree. I imagine after years of drinking, the body may have the odd twinge or so that without alcohol is no longer being masked.
Dad gets downstairs, he’s a bit breathless and sits rather than stalks around the house looking for faults. I’m worried about him but he still manages to criticise at every turn so that’s a good sign – Mum’s hollandaise is lacking (it’s not), I’m not peeling carrots the correct way (I am) – and starts his ‘you’ve always been a bitter disappointment’ chat even earlier in the day than usual. Happy Christmas.
As the morning progresses I know I’m being irritating, coming across as smug – ‘Perhaps we should have virgin fizzes for breakfast, Mum? Dad?’ – but my intentions are well-meant. There’s something off, he’s not right and I’m not convinced getting plastered before noon is going to help.
I try to talk to Mum about it but her ‘don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud, darling’ combined with ‘you know how hard your dad works, I think he deserves a treat’ defence means she’s chosen her side. But, to be fair, she has been successfully petrified into obedience by my dad over the last two decades – she’s hardly going to change her stance now.
Again, the scene playing out in front of me reminds me of Hermione andThe Winter’s Tale, though the hope my mother will also one day turn from stone into a woman with opinions and rights and resolutions is probably never going to materialise, no matter how many times I re-read the play. I know my parents love each other in their own way and just because I struggle to accept the behaviour in their relationship doesn’t necessarily mean that they do.
A couple of hours in and half an hour before lunch is served, Rose arrives with her golden husband in tow. My dad adores Jack and is frolicking about in the hallway like a spring-born lamb, albeit one heavy on his feet and with slightly swollen ankles.
‘Oh Cyndi, look! Our daughter is here, come in, come in. There’s nothing like family to put a smile on your face.’ Our daughter.Our daughter. I mean, I don’t want to be an arse but… Hello, I am right here.
‘Who in their right mind would expect people to be sober on Christmas Day?’ Mum queries as I wave the bottle away at lunch, still trying to keep to my plan, prove sobriety is possible, and bite my tongue from replying, ‘Ones straight out of rehab, I would have thought.’
My intention to be kind, loving and non-judgemental is beginning to wear a little thin. I hold firm but this had better get me a sainthood, or at the very least guaranteed entrance to heaven.
‘So, how’s work?’
Oh my goodness. Dad is looking at me as he says this. Straight at me. Is it really happening? Who needs heaven? This is reward enough. I start to tell him all about my project. ‘Really good. I’m actually quite proud…’
‘I was talking to Jack. The world can’t always revolve around you, you know, Belle. She spent the night last night, isn’t that what you said, Cyndi?’ My mother nods, no attempt from either to engage me, to look at me, instead speaking to Rose. ‘That’s two nights in one month, we’re a bit worried she’s homeless and just not telling us.’
The table explodes with laughter as I look up at the clock.
We make it through lunch, watch the Queen’s speech and are just about to play board games, the final point of the day before visitors can withdraw home – i.e. Rosie and Jack can leg it out of the front door with me not far behind.
I’m proud I’ve bitten back any responses to the constant pitter-patter of put-downs from my father. So far Armageddon has been averted at least fifteen times and Rose has even taken me to one side as we were clearing the dishes to say that she’s impressed with how I’m not biting today. I gloss over the fact she’s eight years younger than me and try to appreciate the sentiment. She’ll no doubt be doing the royal wave as she drives off as well.
As we huddle around the Monopoly board – I had mildly suggested Buckaroo or KerPlunk, both of which seem less likely to result in murder when my father objects to paying rent or going to jail – the atmosphere gets more tense.
‘So Jack, I was wondering if you had any openings for Belle here, you know, just basic entry-level work. I’d give her something myself but don’t want to be accused of nepotism…’ Clearly, he doesn’t understand what that is. ‘Always having to watch the what ya call them, optics these days, or so my reputational management guy would say. Ha.’
‘Dad, I’ve got work.’ I keep my tone peppy.
‘I mean, obviously nothing important, we wouldn’t want Belle involved in government…’ The whole family laugh for a full three minutes at this, stopping then starting again as they catch each other’s eye – my sister actually clutches her sides – as I sit there and try not to roll my eyes at my dad’s humour. ‘But even she can make tea. Anything?’
‘Dad, I’ve got work,’ I repeat. Surely when they hear I have bookings for next year, surely that will shut them up? I just need them to listen. I’ve been meek and mild all day but this is important, all I want from him is some recognition that I have finally managed to make a go of what I love. I can shelve the mild, albeit ever-diminishing, hope that he would be proud.
And if not him, then maybe Mum. Mum’s mum gave me the Shakespeare bug, surely, she can see that my love of the Bard, all of the work I put in, is testament to the love I had for Nana, and the pathway she set me on?
‘Well, you hadn’t when you were here for your mother’s birthday. Rose told us you had been sacked again,’ he shoots back. I look over at Rose. Seriously? She gives a hands-up don’t-blame-me gesture.
‘I’m sure with your watchful eye she won’t be any trouble. After all you have Rose in good shape,’ my mum reassures Jack. Yeah, cos he’s the one sitting here desperately seeking reassurance. I swear my parents are somehow completely unaware of anything about the twenty-first century, I’d go as far as to suggest most of the twentieth as well.
What had I been thinking this morning? Leontes. I swear if Dad could order me from his life then he would. He would have loved it if I had sodded off to grow up on a mountainside as an orphaned shepherdess. Quite frankly, even in December, it is pretty appealing right now.
‘I don’t need a watchful eye, Dad.’ I can feel my temper building. Come on, Belle, you’ve done so well. You’ve almost got through the day. It’s early evening. So close.
