The Only Boy For Me Page 25

  Kate suggests one of us pretends to faint, and then the other one can drive her home, but we can’t work out who should faint and anyway we suspect someone is bound to be a Red Cross first-aider and will force the fainter to sit with her head stuck in a bucket for hours. So we set the tables, and try to hide the jelly. The party-goers troop in, and the next hour passes in a horrible blur of screaming children, lots of wet crepe paper, food flying about, and very loud music. Miss Pike keeps smiling, but I think she’s gone into a trance. Our Vicar has dressed up as Father Christmas, and is rugby-tackled by a mob of screaming children as soon as he enters the room. He tries to walk around with a small boy attached to each leg, but fails, and then Mrs Taylor restores order by blowing on her whistle repeatedly and demanding ‘Fingers on lips, everybody, now’.

  Kate and I stand with our fingers on our lips, and Miss Pike finally gets the message and does the same. The rest of the staff reappear from the kitchen where they have been hiding, Father Christmas shakes off his hitch-hikers and gradually the riot calms down. He then gives each child a handful of sweets, just to keep the sugar levels at optimum, and they all begin swapping them and throwing wrappers on the floor. Just when it looks like we might actually get out of there in one piece, Mrs Taylor announces we have just enough time for a little bit of dancing before the mummies and daddies start arriving. Is she mad?

  Apparently she is. The music is turned back on and we are all doing the hokey-cokey like our lives depended on it. It turns out to be very revealing: some children are quite able to put their left leg in and left leg out as many times as you like, while others have to concentrate very hard indeed to get their left leg in at all. And just when they’ve got that bit sorted, everybody else has moved on to shaking it all about. Charlie and James are doing their own version, which seems to involve sticking out your bottom as far as you can without actually falling over, and Phoebe is doing hopping, without seeming to be aware of the music at all. As Kate says, all those ballet classes have really paid off. There’s so much jelly on the floor children are going down like ninepins, and most of them just stay down and wave their legs in time to the music while eating bits of food they’ve found under the tables.

  Parents finally start turning up to take their children home. One very smart dad is clearly horrified to find his two little daughters covered in jelly and crisps, and makes them sit on sheets of newspaper in the back of the car. Another rota has been organised for clearing up after the party, and we are not on it, thank God. So we all go back to Kate’s house, along with a huge collection of bags full of PE kit, artwork and God knows what else. Charlie appears to only have one plimsoll, but has gained a pair of shorts, and James has no shorts but two PE shirts. The children watch television, and Kate and I hide in the kitchen smoking and drinking gin.

  I get so drunk we have to walk home, with a huge torch Kate has lent us that lights up the whole lane, and weighs a ton. It’s very dark and cold, and it feels like it may snow again. Charlie is thrilled to be out at night. He begs me to turn off the torch so we can have an adventure. I’m too drunk to argue, so I switch off the torch and promptly fall into a vast crater which has appeared out of nowhere. I end up landing on a small tree which turns out, naturally, to be a holly bush. Charlie’s delighted, especially as he thinks he heard me say the F-word. We tiptoe forwards and stumble about until I can bear it no longer and put the torch back on, promising to switch it off again when we get near the house, so he can walk the last bit in the dark.

  When the house is in sight, I keep my promise and turn off the torch, plunging us back into darkness. We know this bit of the lane really well so we walk along fairly steadily. I look up and see millions of stars, and Charlie pretends he knows all their names and points out the Bear to me, and the Giraffe and the Lion. We finally get back inside, and the fire is still alight, just. Charlie is exhausted and practically falls asleep standing up while I help him into his pyjamas. We’re getting the Christmas tree tomorrow, and I still have a list of things to buy that makes me feel faint every time I think about it. But I’m still drunk so I don’t care. ‘Tis the season to be jolly and I feel very jolly indeed.

  Next morning I have a desperate hangover, and Charlie is annoyingly loud and excited about getting the tree. I have Panadol and black coffee for breakfast, and Charlie has Shreddies. Finally I can’t put it off any longer and we drive to the local nursery, choose an enormous tree and then realise I can’t get it into the car unless Charlie sits on the roof. After much shoving and pushing I manage to wedge it in without snapping the top off, and Charlie crouches on the back seat behind me, with his seatbelt on because I insist. He moans that he can’t breathe, and keeps saying he’s swallowed pine needles, but we finally make it home and get the bloody thing out of the car. Each year I buy one of those special tree stands, as I can’t find the one from last year. I’m determined that this year will be different, and begin hunting. I discover all sorts of things I’d completely given up hope of ever seeing again and eventually find it on the top shelf of the airing cupboard, behind piles of old towels and beach mats, which I’d spent hours searching for in the summer. I put the tree in its stand, nearly poking my eye out in the process, and finally manage to get it almost straight. The smell is wonderful. Charlie claps, and does a dance in celebration.

  Things then get very fraught as Charlie’s idea of decorating involves shoving everything on the lowest branches, and I want to space things out. He disappears off to get more things to hang up, and returns with various plastic birds to go with the robin we bought last year. The robin is lightweight, feathery and has a ribbon. The plastic eagle weighs a ton and looks as if it is about to swoop down and eat the robin for lunch. The flamingo also looks odd, as does the large black rubber spider, but Charlie is very pleased with the effect so I let him leave them on, and then cover them up with lots of tinsel when he’s not looking. The lights still work, which is a miracle because Charlie has sat on the box. He sits and stares at the lights for ages, and goes into a sort of trance, and then rushes off to find more plastic animals to put on, so that the birds won’t be lonely.

  I spend the last few days before Christmas doing non-stop shopping. The office has closed for the duration, and I manage to survive an endless round of Christmas drinks parties in the village without getting too drunk, or doing anything too embarrassing, though I did manage to introduce myself to the same person twice in the space of five minutes, and could see she thought I was either very drunk or very stupid. Or possibly both. Edna has spent the morning with Charlie, and I’ve got the last-minute food shopping done by the simple process of going into Marks and Spencer’s and buying one of everything still on the shelves. I’m sure tinned kiwi fruit will come in handy one day.

  I had to reserve the turkey in June, and cannot remember what I ordered. The butcher’s van turns up late in the afternoon on Christmas Eve, and two men stagger up the drive with what appears to be a dead ostrich. I can’t remember why I ordered such a huge turkey, nor can I work out how it will fit in the oven, but a large gin and tonic takes the edge off my panic and I decide to seek help from Mum when she arrives.

  Charlie is writing last-minute instructions to Father Christmas. He’s decided he’s going to be a spy when he grows up, and I now have to preface every request with the words ‘Your mission, should you choose to accept it’. He wants a special wristwatch that can fire bullets, and a pen that squirts poison ink, but I’ve told him Father Christmas doesn’t bring presents that you can kill people with, unless you count roller-skates. I’m getting fed up with this spy business. It was bloody annoying in Safeway’s yesterday: ‘Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to get some Flora and put it in the trolley.’ I announce his new mission, whether he chooses to accept it or not, is to go to bed and get to sleep as fast as possible or Father Christmas won’t come at all. I wrap presents like a demented person, lose the scissors and feel sure I’ve wrapped them up but can’t face opening all the parcels, so e
nd up using nail scissors instead which takes ages. I just hope Charlie doesn’t get the real scissors in one of his parcels, or he’ll insist on keeping them and cutting things up.

  I get rather drunk by mistake, since I have a swig of wine each time I wrap a present. As a result I can’t really walk when I try to stand up and stagger around piling up presents on the sofa and under the tree. Getting upstairs with Charlie’s stocking proves very tricky, but I finally manage it and collapse into bed. What seems like minutes later I’m woken up by Charlie yelling, ‘He’s been, Mummy, he’s been,’ and playing a small trumpet, which I do not remember buying. I certainly will never buy one again, except for children whose parents I hate. My bed is soon full of pieces of paper, Charlie is eating chocolate coins and playing his trumpet with all his might, and it takes all my negotiating skills to get him to agree to stay in bed for another hour and play with small stocking toys. I hide the trumpet under my pillow. Apart from the trumpet I also wish I hadn’t bought a balloon shaped like a chicken which deflates with a rude noise, a small flexible torch that can shine right in your ear, and a book of rude poems.

  Finally I can stand it no longer and we get up. Charlie finds the huge pile of presents downstairs and goes into a frenzy of ripping up wrapping paper and screaming with delight. He wants to start playing his new board game, build his new Lego spaceship and watch his new video simultaneously, and refuses to eat any breakfast except chocolate. I start peeling sprouts and Charlie ‘helps’ by chopping up carrots with a small blunt knife, so that each one takes about ten minutes. Then he spends hours feeding all the peelings to Buzz and Woody for their Christmas lunch. We’ve put tinsel on their hutch, and they look very festive. The cavalry arrive in the form of Mum and Dad. Dad takes Charlie off to do Lego, and Mum finally stops laughing at the size of the turkey and works out how long it will take to cook the bloody thing. She says it will have to ‘rest’ for half an hour after being cooked so there’s space in the oven for the potatoes. I quite fancy the idea of half an hour’s rest, preferably right now, but Mum rather pointedly remarks that parsnips do not peel themselves, and could she please have a sherry.

  Auntie Joan and Uncle Bob turn up. I’m not entirely clear why Auntie Joan thought I would like an apron with ‘Cooks Do It Standing Up’ written on it, but I thank her all the same. Mum and Dad seem pleased with their present from Charlie: a rather flat nest with baby birds in it, made out of modelling clay which we baked in the oven. I think I might have got the temperature wrong because it took days to go solid. The baby birds are very comic, especially as Charlie insisted on painting them bright orange. Auntie Joan has knitted a jumper for Charlie, which is about six sizes too big and has a Postman Pat motif on the front. Charlie looks horrified but thanks her nicely, and we have a whispered conversation in the kitchen where I promise he will never ever have to wear it, ever.

  Lunch is finally ready at teatime, but everyone declares the food delicious and Auntie Joan begins a long story, which she tells us every year, about the time she had ten people to Christmas lunch and there was a power cut. Charlie gets very excited about the crackers, and insists everyone wears paper hats. He also thinks the jokes are excellent. He appropriates the presents from all the crackers, and the wheels fall off the small plastic car he’s liberated from Uncle Bob.

  ‘Mummy, these crackers are a swiss. My car just broke for no reason.’

  ‘Well, never mind, darling, eat your lunch.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s a swiss, Mummy. You should go back to the shop and get your money back.’

  ‘It’s not a swiss, Charlie, it’s a swizz.’

  ‘No it’s not. James says it and it’s swiss.’

  Dad helpfully joins in and says he think swiss is the perfect word for something that looks exciting but turns out to be very boring, like fondue. Charlie says he wants fondue, and what is it? Auntie Joan says she loves Switzerland and can’t imagine what Dad means. Uncle Bob says he hates Switzerland and is not going again, ever, and that’s final. It looks like a heated discussion is imminent so I decide to open the bottle of champagne which Uncle Bob brought. This is an excellent diversionary tactic, as everyone has to put their heads under the table in case I hit them with the cork. I’ve never quite mastered the technique of opening champagne without the cork ricocheting around the room, and everyone knows this.

  Calm is restored, and lunch continues. I’ve cooked and peeled chestnuts to chop up and put in with the sprouts. It took bloody hours, and just as I finished Mum helpfully pointed out that you can buy them ready-chopped. Charlie peers at his sprouts with suspicion and begins picking out all the nuts, and I tell him he’s being silly. It seems daft to make such a fuss about this, but I end up getting more and more annoyed, and Mum starts to laugh. Dad explains that I once did something similar with almonds in a trifle, and it’s very nice to see Charlie carrying on the family tradition of annoying your mother at mealtimes. I gradually calm down, although setting fire to the Christmas pudding proves harder than I thought, and in the end I use so much brandy it looks like the flames will never go out. I eat too much brandy butter and feel sick, but everyone else seems happy and Charlie finds a pound coin in his pudding and is thrilled.

  Finally lunch is finished. There is intense lobbying from Charlie for us all to play Snap, but we hold firm and then Lizzie and Matt arrive. They’ve been to Matt’s parents for lunch: not a huge success as Matt’s grandmother is not getting any better and hardly recognises anybody now. This time she decided Matt was a burglar and kept throwing brazil nuts at him. More presents are exchanged, and they’ve brought Charlie a sword that extends to about ten foot long so we all have to keep ducking. It also makes a piercing whistling noise. Lizzie apologises but says Matt was adamant Charlie would adore it. I point out to Matt that if he doesn’t find a way to stop the noise he will have his tea in the garden, with Charlie and his new sword. Matt enters into long negotiations with Charlie, and I escape to the kitchen to prepare tea.

  The Christmas cake is greeted with much hilarity because Charlie and I decorated it ourselves. I still think my reindeer were very sweet. Charlie insists we have candles, because then it will be like a proper party. Leila rings up and wishes us all Happy Christmas; the Flying Dutchman has flown home to Amsterdam for the holidays so she’s staying with friends in a castle in Scotland. She says this sounds a lot more glamorous than it really is, and it’s absolutely freezing and she has to wear three pairs of socks and a woolly hat in bed, but apart from that she’s having a brilliant time.

  Kate also rings, but she’s not having such a brilliant time. Lunch was a disaster as her mother insisted that the children should be forced to eat sprouts, which they both hate, and should not be allowed to leave the table until they’d eaten everything on their plates. Kate finally cracked and told her she was a fascist, and took the children off to watch television. Her mother is still sulking, and Kate has been reduced to sucking out the contents of liqueur chocolates.

  With a slight shock I realise that I haven’t thought about Mack at all today. I’ve had a lovely time, and feel very happy with life, even without Mack in it. I hope he’s enjoying himself – unless he’s with a new woman in which case I hope it’s a nightmare. I still want it to be him every time the phone rings, and haven’t completely overcome my new-found Whitney habit, nor can I listen to Frank Sinatra, especially ‘New York, New York’. But there is definitely light at the end of the tunnel. Sort of.

  Mum and Dad are staying the night, and are downstairs making supper while I try to get Charlie to go to sleep.

  ‘I think Nana and Grandad really loved my nest, don’t you, Mummy?’

  ‘Yes, darling.’

  ‘And do you really love your slippers?’

  ‘Oh yes, they’re very lovely.’

  Actually this is a downright lie. They’re revolting and I can’t think what possessed Mum to go for gigantic bunny-rabbit slippers in white fleecy material with tartan-ribbon bows on the ears.

  ‘Yes,
I did very clever choosing, didn’t I? Nana helped a bit, but I saw them first.’

  ‘Yes, darling, now snuggle down and go to sleep. It’s very late.’

  ‘Mummy, I love turkey, don’t you? Can we have it tomorrow as well?’

  ‘Yes, Charlie, and the next day too probably.’

  ‘Brilliant. I love you, Mummy. To infinity. How much do you love me?’

  ‘To infinity and beyond.’

  ‘Yes, to infinity and beyond. Now you have to say “And back again”.’

  ‘Alright, darling. And back again. Twice. Now shut up and go to sleep.’

  About the Author

  Gil McNeil is a Consultant at Brunswick Arts International and works with Sarah Brown on Piggybank Kids, a non-profit venture which organises a range of voluntary projects for charities, to support their fundraising efforts. She lives in Kent with her son.

  In the Wee Small Hours