‘He’ll know we’re not asleep,’ Stuart would whisper. ‘And if we’re not asleep, he’ll not leave any presents.’
‘Ssh,’ I’d reply, my heart in my mouth. ‘Cover your eyes with your hand and just look through the tiniest crack in your fingers.’
We’d feel our way along the banisters and shuffle slowly towards the tree in the corner of the front room, passing the fireplace where we’d left a glass of milk and a mince pie. I’d peer out between my fingers, the light of the moon illuminating the room just enough to see the remainder of a mince pie on the plate. I’d gasp.
‘What is it? Has he been?’ Stuart would cry eagerly.
I would be able to make out the shapes of wrapped presents under the tree and my heart would leap for joy. ‘He’s been,’ I’d say, barely able to contain my excitement. ‘He’s been.’
Twenty years on, and not much has changed. Despite it being Boxing Day, we’re still treating it as if it was Christmas Day itself. We’re still gathered around the same old tree. ‘If it’s not broken, don’t fix it,’ Dad has repeated for the past decade, even though there’s clearly a withering branch or two needing assistance. Mum is still insistent that the presents underneath it have nothing to do with her, and Stuart and I exchange a look, as if willing ourselves to believe it.
‘So, how’s the new romance going?’ my sister-in-law, Laura, asked in between mouthfuls of Mum’s famous roasties.
I nodded, my own mouth full of crispy Yorkshire pudding. ‘It’s going well,’ I said, smiling.
‘Ah, she’s got that twinkle in her eye,’ said Dad. ‘Didn’t I tell you, Valerie? I told your mother you had that twinkle in your eye again a couple of weeks back.’
‘Again?’ I asked.
‘Didn’t I, Val?’ he called out to the kitchen, where Mum was filling a second boat with gravy. ‘Didn’t I say she had that twinkle in her eye again?’
‘What do you mean, again?’ I asked, laughing. Stuart and I rolled our eyes at each other. It wouldn’t be Christmas if Dad didn’t have too many sherries.
‘He means since Tom,’ tutted Mum, as she bustled into the dining room, her obligatory apron still on, though why she only wore it at Christmas when she cooked every other day, I’ll never know. ‘Honestly, Gerald, you’ve got the tact of a . . .’
I looked at her expectantly.
‘Go on, Mum,’ said Stuart. ‘The tact of a what?’
‘The tact of a . . .’ she repeated, though where she was going with it was anybody’s guess.
I snorted.
‘We’ve got three different conversations going on here,’ moaned Mum in mock protest. She gives off a good impression of it all being too much, but I know for a fact that she loves nothing more than having her family around her. And now we have little Sophie she’s even happier.
‘So, whose eyes were twinkling?’ asked Dad, almost to himself.
‘You said Emily’s were,’ Mum said, rolling her eyes. ‘Because she’s got a new boyfriend.’
‘When am I going to get to meet him, then?’ asked Dad loudly. ‘I hope he’s not a bastard like that other fella.’
‘Gerald!’ Mum shouted. ‘Watch your language.’
‘How long have you been together?’ asked Laura, genuinely interested.
‘Oh, only three months, not that long,’ I said flippantly, but instantly regretted making what Adam and I had sound like a casual fling. ‘But I’d like you to meet him.’
‘Well, you just make sure he treats you right this time. Don’t take any of his . . .’
‘Gerald!’
We all laughed, and I wished that Adam was there. I wanted him to meet my nutty lot just so he knew what he was letting himself in for.
I left reluctantly, knowing I’d miss the drunken charades and Mum’s inability to remember how many syllables were in Dances with Wolves. Stuart gave it to her every Christmas, just so we could see her attempt to mime it, yet, every year, she treated it as if it was the first time she’d ever heard of it.
‘Take care of yourself, sweetheart,’ Mum said, as she hugged me at the door.
If it wasn’t Adam I was going to, I’d have stayed right there, in her warm embrace. She smelled of mulled wine and oranges.
‘Thanks Mum. I’ll call you when I get there.’
‘Do you fancy an eggnog before you go?’ asked Dad, as he came to the door, his paper hat askew. ‘I bought a bottle specially.’
‘She can’t, Gerald,’ chastised Mum, ‘she’s got to drive. And who drinks that stuff anyways?’
I smiled to myself and kissed them all goodbye, and gave baby Sophie an extra squeeze, before dragging myself out into the cold air. Unsurprisingly, the roads were clear – I imagine because most sane people were settled in for the night, unwilling to leave the warmth of their fires and unable to resist the lure of one more sherry.
It was dark by the time I pulled up outside Pammie’s cottage, one of five in a row, their flintstones cheek to jowl. The white wooden door swung open before I’d even turned my lights off, and Adam’s bulk filled the porch, his cold breath billowing, at odds with the warmth of the light that spilled out from the hall behind him.
‘Come on.’ He beckoned, like an excited little boy. ‘You’re late. Hurry up.’
I looked at my watch. 5.06 p.m. I was six minutes later than expected. We kissed on the porch. It felt like forever since I’d seen him. It had only been three days, but when Christmas is in between, it makes you feel like you’ve lost whole weeks sitting indoors, watching telly and eating until you’re sick.
‘Hmm, I’ve missed you,’ he whispered. ‘Come in. We’ve waited for you. Dinner’s about to be served.’
‘Dinner?’ I faltered. ‘But . . .’
He kissed me again as I took off my coat. ‘We’re all starving, but Mum insisted we wait for you.’
‘All? But—’ I began again. Too late.
‘There she is,’ exclaimed Pammie, scurrying forward to hold my face in her hands. ‘Oh, you poor mite, you’re freezing. Come on, let’s get you fed. That’ll warm you up.’
I looked at her questioningly. ‘Don’t worry about me, I’ve just eaten . . .’ I started, but she had already turned and was heading towards the kitchen.
‘I hope you’re hungry,’ she called out. ‘I could feed an army with this lot.’
Adam handed me a glass of fizz and, nerves frayed, I was grateful for the cold tingle on my tongue.
‘What have we got for tea?’ I asked, careful to keep the word ‘tea’ light, as if I could actually will it to be.
I kept a fixed smile on my face as Adam said, ‘It’ll be easier if I tell you what we haven’t got.’
‘Adam, I can’t . . .’ I tried again, as we walked into the dining room, but when I saw the table, beautifully laid out for four, with sparkly placemats, crisp white napkins carefully rolled into silver rings, and a red-berry and pine-cone centrepiece, I didn’t have the heart.
‘Here you go,’ said Pammie, in a sing-song voice, as she carried in two plates, laden down with a full Christmas dinner and all the trimmings. ‘This one’s for you. I’ve given you extra as I knew you’d be hungry by the time you got here.’ My heart sank. ‘I do hope you like it. I’ve been in the kitchen most of the day.’
I smiled through gritted teeth. ‘Looks lovely, Pammie.’
‘You sit here,’ she said. ‘And Adam, that’s you there. Sit, and I’ll go and get the other two.’
I looked at him as she left the room, and tilted my head towards the empty seat, its place setting laid out just as beautifully as the other three.
‘Oh, that’s for James, my brother,’ he replied, in answer to my silent question. ‘He showed up unexpectedly on Christmas Eve and he’s been here ever since. Thought I told you that on the phone?’
I shook my head.
‘James,’ Pammie called out. ‘Dinner’s ready.’
I looked at the plate in front of me. Even if I hadn’t eaten for a week, I still wouldn’t be able to get through this mountain of vegetables. I could just about see the corners of the thick turkey slices poking out from beneath two Yorkshire puddings. The colour of the crockery was unknown.