Lemonade and Lies (25 page)

“It’s complex,” said Alice as she sloshed more whisky into her glass. She’d offered me some more too. But she was drunk enough for both of us. She’d brought two bottles for my father, but had already started on one of them. I was trying not to drink too much, for Christmas Eve had just turned into Christmas Day. I’d have to be on the ball. Kids to look after, kitchen duty to contend with.

“But we laugh at complex, don’t we?” I said.

“Not this time.” And my friend looked sad.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have tried to change him.” I offered my pearl of wisdom (for what it was worth, for it wasn’t like I was an expert on relationships - vis-á-vis my own!)

“Jill, sometimes you talk straight out of your arse.”

I didn’t have a comeback. She was my friend. She was drunk. And maybe it was true.

“You saying you
didn’t
try to change him?”

“’Xactly what I’m saying.”

“What, he changed all by himself?”

“The guy was a surf-dude. That’s why I liked him. Different from me, from my mates in London. In his way, he’s a bit like you – you know?”

I didn’t. Me and David? I didn’t think we had a thing in common.

Alice tried again. “He was down to earth. Not afraid to say what he meant. Not worried about being politically correct all the time. And now look at him. He’s turned into a bloody Yuppie like the rest of them.” She hung her head miserably. “We’ve had a row about it.”

“Maybe he was trying to please you. Your situation, the difference between your circumstances, it’s . . .”

“Complex, I know.” She laughed for the first time. “I’d have uprooted for him. You know that? I’ve have gone any bloody place on the planet he wanted. He was the guy.
That
guy. Know what I mean?”

“But did you tell him that?”

“‘Course I bloody did. Don’t be wet, Jilly. It was Norway, you know.”

“Norway?”

“When he came back from there he’d changed. Didn’t seem fussy about going near the sea again. What the hell happened over there?”

“Better ask him.”
He hadn’t told her.

“He hangs out with upwardly-mobiles. Trying to get himself a job in insurance now. But that’s not him. New clothes that don’t look right on him.” She burst into tears.

“Want me to have a word with him?” It wasn’t any of my business, but she was my friend. And I could understand his sudden hatred of water. Even if Alice couldn’t.

“Help yourself. But it won’t do any good.”

I thought about my mother. Time to make lemonade. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” I said, hoping she was too drunk to spot the worn out old cliché. “Maybe there’s still hope.”

HOPE, an underrated quality. I parcelled Alice off to bed and hoped that Christmas would work its magic on her.

*

“Hope you’ve all got room for afters.” My mother had been looking forward to setting light to the massive Christmas pudding. My father’s eyes shot towards me and I waited for the inevitable comment about me needing some more weight on. Maybe it was in his head, but it didn’t come out.

The kids had been bouncing off the walls all morning, but I didn’t rein them in too much. It was Christmas Day and it proved they were normal, even though they came from a one-parent family. Toys were strewn all over the parlour next door and boxes and wrappers were pilled high in a corner of the room. That had been my mother’s only concession to tidiness, some sort of amnesty for Christmas Day I reckoned.

“Yumm. This is glorious, Ellen.” Alice had coated the whole of her trifle in a thick blanket of Cornish cream and looked as if she’d finally made her way to paradise.

My mother had produced a selection of deserts. You could never be sure if people would be happy with Christmas pudding, ‘even though it’s traditional’, she’d explained to me, like this was my first Christmas.

“We saved that cream especially for you, Alice. I know how much you like it,” she said.

Alice nodded. Couldn’t speak. Her mouth was crammed full in a way that my mother would normally have called unladylike. My friend looked slightly worn at the edges (a night on Ardmore Single Malt can do that to you) but happier than she’d been the night before.

She and David even held hands once. Whether that was just a truce for my parents’ benefit, or they were on their way to fixing up their love-life, was hard to tell. But it was encouraging. There was room for optimism. And as you know, I’d been trying to rekindle mine.

Most of the presents had already changed hands. But I’d held back my parents’ gift until later. I guess that was for effect. Perhaps I really am a drama queen. Or maybe I was just being a wimp, for I wasn’t sure about their reaction.

I’d given Jamie his and the basic set of golf clubs along with the instruction manual – Golf for Dummies – seemed to hit the right spot (his funny bone). I tried to hide my disappointment when he didn’t give me anything. Blessed is he who expects nothing I told myself, for that’s often what he gets. But I wasn’t thrilled. I’m only human. I know men are pretty clueless on the present front, but he might at least have taken a shot at it.

We let Alice off washing-up-duty. It didn’t look as if her contribution would be major anyway. And when mother and I had finished, we went to join the others in the parlour.
God help us, here comes the Charades
. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to play. I mean it’s traditional, isn’t it? But I was stuffed full.

Saved! The gaming element of Christmas Day Frivolities (at least in the Webster Household) was being slotted into the evening programme. Time for a snooze maybe.

“Okay, everybody. Charge your glasses,” my father said.

He’d brought out the Drambuie he’d been saving. A lethal concoction of malt whisky, honey, herbs and spices. Admitted it was sweet and golden and all those other things that the label promised. But it was also 80 per cent proof. With an ABV count of 46 per cent. That’d do me. Go with the flow was my motto, or was that Alice’s? It was hard to remember between all that wine and now a large slug of Drambuie.

I figured this was the time to give my parents their present - before I started slurring my words. Not that I intended giving a speech or anything, but I wanted to appreciate their reaction and still be in touch with reality.

I got the thing from my handbag. It was long and thin and only weighed a few ounces. So I’d saved myself a bundle on wrapping paper.

I slewed across the sofa to my mother and put it in her hands. She looked at the packet strangely like she wasn’t sure of its purpose, even though the Christmas paper gave the game away.

“For you and dad,” I said quietly. “A joint present. I hope you’ll like it.”

She tore the paper off excitedly. Looked quizzically at the long, white envelope underneath. Summoned my father to come over and join her on the sofa. She took the paper out and started to read. Her eyes widened and I wondered if she’d understood. She’d shifted a fair amount of whisky and started early in the morning on the sherry when she was making the trifle. And she wasn’t a natural drinker. She passed the paper across to my father and her eyes moistened. So I knew, then. It had worked. It was a good present. Maybe the best I could have given them.

“This isn’t a joke, is it?” my father asked. “It really means you’re staying?”

“We’re
staying
? What does that mean?” asked Millie.

“It’s a copy of our rent agreement,” I said, remembering how excited I’d been when I finally signed the thing. “I’ve rented a cottage in Maidens for us. Not too far from here. You guys can walk up to visit Grandma and Grandpappy. And they can come over to see us, of course.”

I smiled at my parents. “You’re welcome whenever you like. The contract’s for a year. I thought that would give me long enough to see if I can write something decent.” I hadn’t wanted to make a speech, but I’d ended up giving one all the same.

“You
write
?”Alice asked, flabbergasted.

Tom looked up from where he’d been building a complicated looking crane structure on the floor. “Of course my mum writes. Her stories are cool,” he said. Like he couldn’t understand anyone being surprised by it.

“That’s my son, talking,” I said to Alice, panicked that she might ask to read something. I wasn’t ready for that, not yet. “Of course he’d say they’re good. I’ve only written one book for teenagers. And bits and pieces of bedtime stories for the kids. But I want to try and make a proper go of it.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Alice. “We’ll talk later when we’re both not seeing double.”

I went to protest. But my mother stepped in, could see I was floundering. She pointed at the paper still clutched in my father’s hand. “This is wonderful, news. The best Christmas present we could have had.”

“That’s right,” my father said. “I just can’t believe you’ve done it. Are you sure it’s what you want? What about your job?”

“Forget the job,” I said. “If I need one, there’ll be other jobs. Something will turn up. But I want to give this a real shot first. It’s what I’ve always wanted.”

“Okay, folks,” said Jamie. “Hold that thought. And if I can have your attention.” He cleared his throat. Looked a little embarrassed when all eyes turned towards him.

“
Now
?” asked my father.

“Now,” confirmed Jamie. “Right, everyone. If I could ask for your patience and when my assistant here gives you the signal (Jamie made a sweeping, theatrical gesture pointing at my father) I’d appreciate you all stepping outside the front door.”

We piled into the hallway, exchanging various clueless looks.

“Okay, reel them out,” shouted Jamie.

And we all made our way outside where Jamie stood (looking self important) in front of some kind of wall plaque with a silk cloth covering it. We were about to have an unveiling.

It was a Norwegian Mangle Board. The same one, but something had been added. The letters were rough, chipped into it by a hand whose DIY skills were basic. It said: Dear Jill, be my love.

“Happy Christmas,” said Jamie. “I thought this would be better than trying to chose some stupid perfume that you didn’t really fancy. Sorry I didn’t have the chance to make you a proper one, but if you insist, I’ll give it a shot.”

“So romantic,” said my mother. “Does this mean you’re walking out together?”

“I don’t know what it means,” I said.

“It means I’d like you to be my girl,” said Jamie. “The wooing bit, remember?”

Corn straight from the cob, but wonderful stuff all the same.

“So, will we have a dad as well as a mum and grandma and grandpappy?” asked Tom, never reluctant to get to the heart of stuff. “That’d be cool.”

“Who’d have guessed?” said Alice, her tone dripping with irony.

“Well?” asked Jamie.

I walked over and put my arms around him. “I never put you down as a woodcarver.”

“All part of the service,” he said. “But I have to warn you, I’m no catch. I don’t have a job, and I’ve recently come into possession of a set of golf clubs.”

“He does have a decent car, though.” said Alice. “And his ass isn’t bad, either.”

My mother flinched. Ass was another word on her list that wasn’t quite suitable for genteel company.

“Well?” he asked again. “What about it?”

“We’ll see,” I said and grinned; an ear to ear job.

And you know what? We would!

THE END