Christmas At Leo's - Memoirs Of A Houseboy (32 page)

He turned his attention back to the sausages. I walked over to the counter and half filled one of the champagne flutes with chilled juice. I located the bottle of impotent sparkle and opened it, pouring some into the orange juice. It looked the part. I took a sip. Not even the zesty juice could disguise the chemical background taste of the de-alcoholised wine, but all in all it was palatable and the fizz did add an element of fun. “Tastes nice, Leo. Thank you. It was good of you to consider me.”

“You’re welcome.” He looked over his shoulder. “Bring it over, let me try a sip.”

I obliged and he nodded approval. “Not half bad. I might serve it up tomorrow at the party. It will add a nice festive touch to proceedings. I bought a case of it, seeing as it’s the only one you found even mildly acceptable out of all the ones we trialled over the summer.”

“Shall I make you one?”

“I’ll have the real McCoy. There’s a bottle of Moet in the other bucket, open that. Let’s get this party started.”

Shoving jealousy aside, I opened the real McCoy, poured a measure into orange juice and took it over to him. He took a sip and gave an appreciative sigh. “Gorgeous. What better way to start Christmas Day.”

Leaving him supping posh fizz, singing carols and turning sausages, I slipped out of the kitchen and went into the conservatory. Like the hall and lounge it was seeped in Christmas glow. Kneeling down by the pretty tree, I rummaged amongst the brightly coloured and beribboned packages until I found the present I’d wrapped up for Leo.

When I returned to the kitchen, he was adding the cooked sausages to the electric buffet trays to keep warm.

“I got you this for Christmas. It’s just from me, not Dick and Shane.” I held out the parcel.

He eyed it suspiciously, as if he expected it to explode at any moment. “I was planning that gift opening would take place in the conservatory after everyone was up and had breakfast.”

“I jiggled the package. “I want you to open it now. It isn’t much. I don’t want everyone thinking I’m cheap.”

“No one would think such a thing, Gilli. It’s the thought, not the price tag that matters.” He put down the sausage plate and tongs and reached to take the present. “You don’t usually get me a gift under your own steam.”

“Only because you have the best of everything in the world and what you haven’t got I can’t afford, plus I don’t like you.”

He smirked. “Of course you like me, when green-eyed jealousy isn’t clouding your vision, which isn’t often I grant you.”

“Whatever, Leo, whatever.” I glared at him, and then continued. “Anyway.” I pointed at the parcel. “I saw that and thought you might like it, for fun. Don’t comment until you open it and look inside”

“Curiouser and curiouser.”

I watched like a hawk as he ripped ribbon and paper from the present, keen to gauge his reaction. My gift to him was a slightly shabby second-hand cookbook from the seventies. ‘Adventures In Cookery.’ Leo probably had every recipe it contained, or variations thereof. What made the book special, in my view, was the autograph it contained. The author, famous cook, Marguerite Patten had signed it. Her signature came under a personal hand written message to someone called Eloise about cold hands making the best pastry. I’d discovered it in an Oxfam shop and had snapped it up for little more than a fiver. I’d hoped he would like it. He did. A broad smile lit up his face. I found myself enveloped in a crushing bear hug.

“What’s he done to make you want to smother him?”

“Shane, my love, I didn’t hear you come in. Good morning.” Leo laughed and let go of me to hug and kiss him, and then Dick. “Merry Christmas!” He waved the book. “Look at this little treasure trove of culinary blasts from the past, and signed by the great lady herself.”

“Told you he’d love it.” Dick, looking good and smelling like heaven, slipped an arm around my waist, drawing me against his side.

“You did.” I smiled up at him.

“You should listen to your Daddies more often.” Leaning down, he kissed me softly on the lips.

Pat arrived in the kitchen and another peal of festive greetings rang around the room. Bucks fizzes were poured and then we all sat at the breakfast bench, tucking into a feast of venison sausages, dry cure bacon, eggs and mushrooms, while poring over the recipes in the book. Pat joked that he was old enough to recall a relatively youthful Marguerite Patten being on the telly in her heyday, along with Fanny Craddock, whom he could never warm to, because she came across as a dreadful old bully. A lively conversation about TV cooks through the ages ensued. It was my favourite part of the day.

The rest of Christmas Day went well enough - recorded highlights below.

The gift opening session wasn’t as embarrassing as I’d feared. Dick’s gift to Shane, a framed set of pencil sketches of me in various poses, was much admired. Shane didn’t gush exactly. He complimented Dick on his fine artistry and said he was going to hang it in his private office at work. I think he really did like it though. It might have been wishful thinking on my part, but I fancied his eyes turned a shade of soft green, like moss warmed by the summer sun. For my own part, I loved the idea of my likeness being hung on the wall in his office where he could view it every day.

Jak gave Vince a sly wink before asking Dick if he did other ‘pet’ portraits, as he was sure Leo would love a pencil sketch of pussy Genny and he’d like to commission one as a future birthday gift. Dick made tsk-tsk noises and told him to behave. I’d have been happier if he’d punched him in the mouth and knocked his perfect teeth out, but that’s just me, vengeful and violent.

Leo’s gift to me was also food inspired, two years subscription to a lush monthly cooking magazine. He said it might stop me slyly ripping recipes out of his magazines when I thought he wasn’t looking.

Shane had bought me a collection of Bernard Cornwell’s Sharpe novels along with a handsome boxed set of Sharpe Dvd’s featuring Sean Bean, a man who makes my love spuds throb with desire. I’d been meaning to read the books for ages, something I’d mentioned when there was a Sharpe episode on telly a while back. I was pleased, as much that he’d listened to me as with the gift itself.

My main present from Dick was a set of beautiful platinum hoop earrings. He also gave me a Brutus red checked shirt that he’d picked up at a vintage clothing boutique in London. It was still in its original packaging. Style wise it was casual and yet super smart. I loved it.

The only gifts I didn’t care for were the token ones Penny had wrapped up for me, in cheap paper without a bow to grace them. One was a Jools Holland CD. I suspected it wasn’t even new; there was no cellophane wrapping on it. She’d probably found it at a jumble sale. I can’t stand JH. Shane likes him, but I don’t and Dick only likes him if Shane glares at him hard enough. She’d also bought me a tie. Aside from the fact I rarely wear a tie, it was hideous. The lumpy material had a pattern like blood spatter. If I wore it, I’d look like I’d been shot in the chest. It probably represented one of her fantasies where I was concerned. (Shake those pom-poms. B-I-T-C-H!)

I kept my thoughts regarding Penny’s pressies to myself, fearful in case Shane turned the impression of blood spatter into reality. He’s of the opinion that Christmas gifts should be accepted with good grace, and no moaning. Personally, I think Christmas is the perfect occasion for moaning. I bet Mary moaned when the three wise men (or the three daft dickheads as she privately called them) lumbered her with gold, frankincense and myrrh, when what she really wanted was a comfy bed in a nice hotel, a bottle of champagne, a box of chocs and a stable full of disposable nappies.

Leo’s other friends arrived just after noon. They were a well-preserved, middle-aged couple, and clearly scene people. The man, Ian, was tall and lean with a shaven head and a hard expression. His guttural South African accent did nothing to soften his overall demeanour. He could have challenged Jak to a leather wearing contest and won. He had leather pants, a leather shirt and a leather tie and of course leather boots. I suspected even his socks and underpants were leather. It was a wonder he didn’t squeak as he walked.

His wife, Trina, was a delicate Eurasian woman who looked like she might break if you breathed on her too hard. Her floaty, diaphanous Indian tunic revealed a leather crop top, tight leather leggings and knee length boots. Dick told me that her fragile looks were deceptive. She had a rep for being a tough Dominatrix with a fondness for heavy flogging and drawing blood. He also revealed that both she and Ian were bisexual. I suppose it made for some interesting variations in their sex life.

As a pair they were pretty intimidating. Shane, Dick and Mike were known to them, as was Pat, by means of his departed partner. Jak, Vince and I were new faces. On being introduced, they cast an eye over us, as if they were grading meat. We were noted, politely greeted, and coolly dismissed as unworthy of their time. They turned their attention back to the senior members of the party. Jak and Vince had one of their face gurning exchanges, while I pulled one on my own account.

Shane’s strictness, which I’d so battled against and resented the day before, proved to be a comfort. Putting my energy into observing his boundaries and pleasing him, instead of dwelling on inner thoughts brought me a measure of calm and helped me cope with the social obligations of the day.

I avoided Vince and Jak as much as I could, but was pleasant and polite to them at need. There was one sticky little moment during Christmas dinner when I courteously refilled Pat’s champagne glass for him. Vince immediately drained off the contents of his glass and waggled it at me, as if he were a lord and I was a servant there to do his bidding. I ignored the gesture and set the bottle of champagne back down on the dining table, well out of his reach. I caught Shane giving me a speculative look and immediately moved it back again. Vince had to pour it himself though. He made a point of saying how delicious it was. Tosser. He also had a bit of a smug smirk when I had to forego the rich, booze-soaked Christmas pudding that Leo ceremoniously served up after the main meal. I didn’t mind too much. I had homemade mince pie ice cream. It was, as Leo had bragged, utterly divine.

Things went slightly awry for me on Christmas night. Parlour games had been played. Vince had excelled at Charades and Jak had put on an impressive display of juggling. (Bloody show offs.) Everyone was settled around the fire, sated with excellent food and fine wine, or just excellent food in my case. Fun and frolics over, the mood leaned towards something more laid back and relaxing. Leo tried to pester me into singing a song or two. I declined, unwilling to perform when I was stone cold sober. I was scared of making a prat of myself. It was daft really. Everyone was mellowed out to a point where I could probably pump my right hand under my left armpit and make farting noises to the tune of ‘Rule Britannia’ and still get a round of applause. I couldn’t do it though, fart or sing.

I felt unsettled afterwards, conscious that I’d disappointed people, especially Dick. He didn’t say a word, but I could mentally hear his plummy voice chiding me for being a jolly bad sport. It made me feel ungracious and petty, and pissed with Leo for putting me on the spot. In useless retrospect, I can of course see that part of my refusal was still rooted in revenge for not being allowed to imbibe. It was a childish case of:
if I can’t have my own way, then I’m not playing, so there!
I am what I am, a boy of many imperfections.

Dick picked up his guitar and played and sang a few perennial favourites, including ‘The River.’ He also performed a Fleetwood Mac song
, ‘Landslide.’
The song is about the changes wrought by the passing of time, and an awareness of life as a series of seasons that have to be weathered. Given the downturn in my mood the beautiful (somewhat cryptic) lyrics struck an emotional chord so loud it was a wonder everyone in the room didn’t hear the clang of it.

A wave of melancholy swept over me. I retreated inside myself, returning to thoughts of my mother and her ‘family’ Christmas, from which I was excluded. It was nothing new. I’d been excluded from family Christmases ever since she’d married Frank. She had joined his family, leaving me on the sidelines. Christmas didn’t just make me feel sad, it made me feel alone, even in a crowded room. I was bound and held prisoner by the boy within, isolated by obsolete hurt. Shane would say the boy needed a boot up his arse to propel him forwards, and he’d probably be right.

Mike and Leo lightened things up with several rousing renditions of traditional carols, demanding we all join in the choruses. With Shane’s eye on me, I went through the motions, but I knew he knew I’d slipped and was struggling to remain engaged. I made a discreet and polite request to be allowed to go to bed. It was declined. He wanted me within sight.

I was glad when things wound down and people began drifting towards bed to sleep off the festive excesses.

Once abed, Dick soon drifted to sleep and Shane too. I lay awake, my mind busy and conflicted with thoughts of my mother and her final Christmas. I hoped it had been a good one, filled with laughter, providing a happy memory to carry forward to wherever she was going. I would not be part of that memory. Kelly would, and her boyfriend Mike, but not me. Other people’s children had shared my mother’s last Christmas. The knowledge made me feel crushed beneath a weight of unbearable emotion.

I was angry with my mother for past hurts, guilty for what felt like grudge bearing and also grief stricken at the prospect of her death. Many months down the line a counsellor would tell me that anger is a natural part of the mourning process, especially if unresolved grievances are involved. She would tell me that when a parent dies, a part of you dies with them and can never be recovered. What happened in the past will remain in the past with no hope of redress.