Another Life Altogether (34 page)

“What?” my father asked, still staring at the television.

“He said national service never did you any harm,” Frank said.

My father shrugged. “Bloody waste of time, you ask me.”

“Eh? What did he say?” Granddad asked.

“He said he thought it was a waste of time,” Frank repeated, louder. “I never felt like that, mind. Too young to serve in the war, I was, but not too young to serve my country. I—”

“Should be proud of serving your country,” Granddad said, scowling at my father. “If you’d appreciated your time in the army, maybe it would have made more of a man of you. See, our Brian … Did I tell you about our Brian, erm—” He waved vaguely toward Frank.

“Frank, the name’s Frank,” he said, a strain of irritation in his voice.

“Right, Frank.” Granddad repeated. “Well, Frank, did I tell you about my lad Brian? Grand lad, he was. Now, if he’d had a chance he’d have served his country. But killed, he was. On his eighteenth birthday.” Granddad breathed a heavy sigh, shook his head, and folded his arms over the huge curve of his belly.

“What, in the army was he?” Frank ventured.

“He was a football player,” I chirped. “He was run over by a delivery van.” For some reason, I enjoyed supplying this particular item of information.

“Oh, aye,” Granddad said. “Terrible it was. Best bloody football player you’ve ever seen. And if his life hadn’t been snatched away from him so young there’s no doubt he would’ve played on the national team. Lad like Brian, he’d have gotten the England squad out of the bloody doldrums. He wouldn’t have let us lose three nil to the bloody krauts.”

At that moment, the door burst open and Mabel propelled herself
into the room. “Right, then, lads,” she said, breathless. “I hope all this sitting around has worked up your appetite because your dinner’s ready.”

As if on springs, both Frank and my father bounced to their feet and followed Mabel into the kitchen. I launched myself after them, leaving Granddad, who continued to extol Brian’s football-playing skills, muttering behind me in the hall.

Once assembled, we all sat, a cramped little bunch, elbows touching, around the piles of steaming food on the kitchen table. I had covered it with a big white tablecloth and had managed to make it look quite festive, with holly-patterned serviettes. In an effort to enhance the party atmosphere, my father had unearthed a box of Christmas crackers that Ted had given us on one of his previous visits. At some point, apparently, the crackers had been stored in the sun so that, on one side, the colors on their crepe-paper coverings were washed-out and streaky. The fatigued colors gave our gathering a rather sad air. Like the crackers, my mother looked as if she had passed her prime. No longer gleefully drunk, she sat glum and barely verbal, staring down at her empty plate and playing with the edge of the tablecloth, as a nervous guest might, wrapping it between her fingers and around her hands.

“Cheer up, Evelyn,” Frank declared, knocking against her with his shoulder. My mother flinched slightly and glowered at her plate. “Crikey,” he muttered to Mabel. “Doesn’t seem like I can do a bloody thing right.”

“It’s all right,” Mabel said, lowering her voice to a whisper, as if my mother wouldn’t be able to hear her across the tiny table. “She’s just in one of her moods, that’s all. She’ll get herself out of it, you’ll see.” I was glad for her optimism, but I wasn’t so sure. I’d seen my mother like this before, and it seldom ended well.

“Some people, they don’t know when they’re onto a good thing, really, do they?” Granddad pronounced, unfurling his serviette, tucking a corner into his shirt collar, smoothing the rest over his chest, then picking up his knife and fork. Not known for his willingness to stand
on ceremony, Granddad was apparently eager to get started on the food. “Most women—well, they have to make Christmas dinner themselves, don’t they? Don’t have a loving sister like you to come in and make everything for them, do they now, Mabel?”

“I helped,” I said. “And Dad. We made the stuffing, and I peeled the potatoes. It took ages.”

“Aye, well, there’s some men what would think it’s a wife’s job to take care of all that,” Granddad said, pointing his knife at my father. “Your mam, God rest her soul—well, she would never have expected me to help out in the kitchen. Oh, no, a woman’s job, is that.”

“Maybe women don’t want to be stuck in the kitchen, maybe they want to do other things instead,” I said.

“See, I told you, didn’t I?” Granddad said, giving Frank a knowing look. “Listen to it, the voice of the younger generation. Don’t know what the world’s coming to. I tell you, young lady, the way you’re talking there’s no man will want to marry you.”

“Good,” I said decisively.

“Now, now,” said Mabel, “it’s Christmas, remember. No time for disagreements. And, besides, we need to tuck in—it’s getting cold.”

“You’re right there, Mabel. But before we start noshing,” my father said, his voice booming with false jollity, “why don’t we pull our Christmas crackers? That’ll be a lark, now, won’t it?” He looked hopefully at my mother. She did not respond.

“What a lovely idea,” Mabel said.

“Come on, Ev, pull a cracker with me, won’t you?” my father said. My mother said nothing and merely worked her fingers more fiercely into the tablecloth.

“Will you pull mine with me, Dad?” I asked, picking up my Christmas cracker and holding it across the table so that my father could take the other end.

“Of course, love,” he said. I took the crepe-paper ruffle of the cracker in my hand and searched with my fingers for the cardboard strip inside. “All right, now, let’s give it a good tug, eh?” my father said.
We both reached across the table, pulled hard, and the cracker tore apart, sounding its short, sudden bang. My father and I burst into laughter, but my mother, who had been steadily staring down at the table, still entranced by her empty plate, hadn’t anticipated the noise, and, jolting with shock, leaped from her chair, gripping the edge of the table and pressing all her weight against it.

The table creaked, shifted slightly to one side, then to the other. All of us watched with held breath as it performed this gentle wobble and the plates, cutlery, and food in front of us wobbled with it. Then, as my mother let go and reeled backward and the table seemed to right itself, we all let out our breath in relief. But, with that collective exhaled breath, the table creaked again and shuddered as two of its legs buckled outward from under it and the entire thing toppled sideways, falling hard against Frank and knocking him from his chair as it made its fast and inevitable journey to the floor.

The plates, food, and everything else that had been on the table were hurled around the room in a deafening cacophony of clattering metal and shattering china. Frank, sprawled on the floor next to his chair, shrieked as the gravy boat landed on him, spilling steaming turkey gravy into his lap.

For perhaps a second, the rest of us sat there stunned and I had the sensation of sitting within a frozen tableau, watching from some outside viewpoint: my father white-faced and open-mouthed; Mabel, a palm pressed hard against each of her cheeks; Granddad, a bemused frown on his face as he held his knife and fork expectantly aloft; while I looked over at my mother, horrified, and she stared at the collapsed table, her face a picture of dazed bafflement. And, as I observed the scene, I wondered why I hadn’t been able to prevent this calamity. I’d known my mother shouldn’t drink, and I’d witnessed the precipitous decline of her mood. I’d even seen how the kitchen table hadn’t seemed as steady as it should have when she slammed her hand down on it earlier. If I’d been brought to witness this chaotic scene by the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come a couple of hours before, I would not have
been surprised. Like Scrooge, I might have asked if this version of the future was inevitable or if I could make different choices that would change the outcome. But now it was too late. And, as the turkey, which had fallen off the table to balance precariously on Frank’s vacated seat, dropped to the floor with an enormous thud, that frozen moment was ended and I was no longer distant, observing, but fully occupying my horror.

Everyone began to move. Frank scrambled to his feet and half hopped, half ran over to the sink, where he began frantically dabbing at his trousers with a wet cloth. Mabel jumped up and dashed over to help Frank, Granddad loosed his grip on his knife and fork and let them clatter to the floor, and my father, speaking through clenched teeth, said, “Jesus bloody Christ, Evelyn, you’ve gone and done it now.”

“Are you all right, love?” Mabel said as she reached Frank.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said bitterly. “Of course, I may never have a normal sex life again.” He looked, incensed, over at my mother, who had backed away to the kitchen counter and slid down to the floor. She sat there, legs folded under her, shoulders sunken, as if she had crumpled.

“I’m sure you’ll be all right, love,” Mabel said, grabbing another wet cloth and starting to dab at Frank’s trousers herself. “Just a bit of gravy.”

“Gravy? More like frigging molten oil. It’s not right, Mabel. I come here for Christmas dinner and I end up losing my bloody manhood.”

After his first muttered comment, my father had remained silent. But now, as I looked at him, I realized it would not be for long. He stood up slowly, visibly shaking, the muscles in his face tensed. His hands were clenched, white knuckled, with one fist still wrapped around the remnants of the Christmas cracker we had pulled. He spoke softly at first, glaring down at my mother as if his eyes could burn right through her. “You have to spoil everything, don’t you?” he began. “Bloody everything. Can’t bloody well stop yourself, can you?” Gradually, his voice became louder, his words faster. I felt myself pressed against my chair, as if I had been slammed there by a wild and irresistible
gale. “We can’t even have a bloody Christmas dinner without you causing chaos,” he continued, while my mother looked at him, her face pale and expressionless. “If it’s not one thing, then it’s another. I mean, what more do you want? I try my best. I bloody well do. I go out to work every day. I come home and I try to fix up this bloody house. I put up with your moods—your bloody ups and your bloody downs, your crying fits, your screaming bloody rages, your bloody weeks in bed. I take you to the doctor’s. I try to play the nice bloody husband. The caring bloody spouse. Hah!” He let out a short, sour laugh, shaking his head as if laughing at his own stupidity. “But nothing works, does it, Evelyn? Nothing ever does. And what I want to know is, what is wrong with you? What the bloody hell is wrong?” He was yelling now, but he stared at my mother imploringly, as if he really expected a response. His question hung in the air between them, the force of his words and his need for an answer filling the room. My mother dropped her gaze to the floor and began running an index finger along the zigzag pattern in the shiny linoleum my father had laid a couple of weeks before. My father sputtered and turned away. “I don’t know why I bother, I really don’t,” he said, closing his eyes and shaking his head so slowly that it was as if he could barely move it for all the misery it held. “I mean, what’s the bloody point?” Then he scowled over at my mother again. “Are you bloody well listening to me?” he yelled. My mother flinched, as if a sudden shock had coursed along her spine, but she did not look up. “Might as well not waste my breath.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mabel, Frank, Dad,” he said, his voice suddenly soft and utterly defeated. “I really didn’t mean to spoil your Christmas like this.” Then he looked at me. “I’m sorry, Jesse, love,” he said. His face looked as worn out as I had ever seen it, his skin pale and sagging, as if, after finding the energy for all this anger, the muscles beneath had lost all their strength. “Sorry, love,” he repeated, “but I’ve got to go.” He turned away and began walking to the door. Halfway across the room, he realized that he was still holding the ragged remainder of the Christmas cracker. He paused, lifted it up and looked at it for a moment, then threw it to the
floor. Then he walked out of the kitchen, down the hallway, and out the front door.

AFTER MY FATHER LEFT,
Auntie Mabel and I bundled my mother up the stairs and into her room like a heavy sodden sack. She fell onto her bed, pausing only to kick off her shoes before clambering under the covers, resisting both my and Mabel’s efforts to make her undress. Within a minute or so, she had fallen asleep, her breaths coming out in soft, chortling snores.

I ate my Christmas dinner on my lap in front of the television with Granddad, Frank, and Mabel—a plate of salvaged turkey, stuffing, Brussels sprouts, and mashed potatoes, all of it cold and rather dry without the benefit of any gravy. Frank had apparently found a pair of my father’s trousers to change into. They were far too big and hung around his thin hips in huge folds. A belt kept them from falling to his ankles when he stood up.

“Well, I don’t know about you three, but I could do with a cup of tea,” he said, still chewing on a final Brussels sprout, his teeth flecked green as he spoke.

“Ooh, yes,” declared Mabel. “That’ll do the trick. Thanks, Frank.”

“Aye, tea would be nice,” Granddad said. “Would be nicer with a bit of Christmas pudding, though.” He looked meaningfully at Mabel.

“You want Christmas pudding, Harry, you’ll have to make it yourself. There’s some sherry trifle in the fridge that our Evelyn made, but last time I looked at it, it didn’t look like it was going to set.”

Granddad turned and scowled at the television. “Should have stayed at home and ordered bloody Meals on Wheels.”

Frank carried his and Granddad’s plates to the kitchen while Mabel pushed hers onto the arm of the settee, lit a cigarette, and began flicking her ash into a pile of uneaten mashed potatoes. “I honestly don’t know where your dad’s gone,” she said, leaning forward and craning her neck to look out the window, as if she might see him lurking in the front
garden. “A bit daft taking off like that, if you ask me. Don’t you worry yourself, though, darling,” she said, reaching over to pat my knee. “I expect he’ll be back when he gets hungry enough.”