Going Home

‘Let’s have one more quick drink and then supper.’

We glared at her again, and Tom sighed. ‘Aunt Suzy, don’t be a Goody Two Shoes.’

‘Hello!’ said a voice at the door. We whipped round, and there was Rosalie.

‘Good grief, Rosalie, you made us jump! I was just getting you a glass. Everything OK?’ said Mum, running her fingers through her hair.

‘Yes, of course, Susan,’ said Rosalie. She brushed invisible dust from her sleeve, smiling as if she was visualizing chapter two of a self-help book on forging relationships with strangers. ‘Hi, Ginevra, hi, Tom, hi, Lizzy. I just wanted to know if there was anything you needed help with out here.’

‘How kind of you, but don’t worry. You must be exhausted. Go back into the sitting room – supper’s nearly ready,’ said Mum, with a glint in her eye. I could tell she was looking for something to like in her new sister-in-law. Tom, Chin and I shifted from foot to foot: we are not nice people and didn’t want to like her.

‘Come and help me set the table if you want,’ I offered finally.

Rosalie looked delighted, and so did Mum. It was almost a touching domestic scene.

We went into the dining room next door and started with the cutlery. ‘There are ten of us, and the plates are in that cupboard. I’ll get them,’ I said.

Rosalie painstakingly counted out ten knives and forks. Was she a lawyer? She looked like a fully-clothed member of the Baywatch cast. Who moves their lips when they count to ten? I thought, then realized that I did.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘The wine and water glasses are here. And the napkin rings – can you fetch that bowl from the dresser?’

Rosalie reached behind her and put the bowl on the table. ‘Do you all have them? They’re, like, silver!’ she cried.

‘Er…yes, we do. They are silver. We were all given one as a christening present, but my dad has my grandfather’s – he died a few years ago. So there’s a spare for Gibbo.’

‘The Australian guy, right?’ She paused. ‘But, hey, since I’m a member of the family now, I suppose – shouldn’t I have it? Gibbo’s not, like, married to Ginevra, is he?’

She asked it so artlessly, but with such cunning, that I was taken aback. It was such a tiny thing, but I saw that it could easily be the Thin End of the Wedge, plus I’d recently watched a late night American made-for-TV movie starring Tori Spelling called Mother, May I Sleep With Danger? about a woman who keeps giving in to her thankless, dim cheerleader daughter which results in the daughter nearly getting killed by her boyfriend from the wrong side of the tracks who has a penchant for bumping off his inamoratas with a wooden chopping board. It is all super-ironic because the mother knows she could have prevented the near-death by being firm with her daughter from the get-go. Anyway.

‘No, you can have this one,’ I said firmly, and handed her a wooden ring. I looked at her. She bowed her head, as if admitting defeat, and I felt like Maximus Decimus Meridius in Gladiator, accepting the cheers of the crowd in the after-math of a particularly bloody bout.

Mum came in. ‘I’m going to ring the bell now,’ she said, and looked at Rosalie. ‘Or would you like to do it? First time in the house, and you’re a member of the family now, aren’t you?’

Damn you, Mum, I thought.

Rosalie seemed delighted, and swung the huge Swiss cowbell that my great-great-grandfather brought back from a painting trip in the Alps and which had stood on the shelf in the dining room ever since.

The others came in, and we all sat down. Jess poured the wine and Dad stood up. ‘I’d just like to make a little speech.’

Saints preserve us! Two in one evening. By this stage I was wondering why I’d come home for Christmas at all, and feeling that my flat – even though the only food in it was those white beans you have to soak overnight so you never get round to cooking them – would be a lovely place to spend Christmas with a bottle of wine for company.

‘Erm, well, here’s to Mike and Rosalie,’ Dad said, in a rush, drank and sat down. It was his shortest speech ever, but at what a bitter price: the sacrifice of my favourite uncle to a fake-bosomed troll who was, at that very moment, studying the cutlery to see if it was silver-plated.

‘Thank you, John,’ said Mike. He stood up, ruffling his hair with his hands – he always did that. ‘Thanks very much.’ He gave us such a big grin I thought his face might explode. ‘God, it’s fantastic to be at home again. Ahm – just want to say it means more to me than you can possibly know,’ he said, swallowed and looked rather wildly up and down the table. ‘Here we all are. It’s Christmas Eve…’ We waited, politely, for so long that I wondered if he was seeking confirmation of the date or had something else to say. Then his eyes came to rest on Rosalie and he gave her his sappiest smile. ‘Happy Christmas, everyone,’ he said.

Supper took on a dreamlike quality, as if we were all being filmed for a reality TV show.

The side of beef was delicious, as was the mash, but Mum’s Christmas Eve speciality, her mini Yorkshire puddings, had fallen by the wayside. I’d seen them earlier, all ready to go into the Aga in their little cups, but they never appeared on the table. Either they’d gone horribly wrong or we were two short and Mum had thrown them away rather than make Rosalie and Mike feel guilty. Hm. I watched Rosalie through slitted eyes as she munched happily away.

After supper, Mum and Kate had the usual stand-off about who was going to do the washing-up.

‘Go and sit down, Suzy, you’ve done quite enough this evening.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Kate. You had to work today, you should be relaxing.’

‘Not at all. I won’t hear of it! Move out of the way!’

‘No, you move out of the way.’

‘Ow, you’re hurting me!’

‘Stop pushing!’

‘God, this is ridiculous,’ said Chin, from the doorway. ‘Both of you, go and sit down in the other room. Why don’t you get started on the sprouts for tomorrow? I’ll bring you through some coffee and we’ll do the clearing up.’

Tom and I looked at each other. ‘Jeez, thanks a lot, Auntie,’ said Tom, but he went into the kitchen and started loading the dishwasher.

Kate dragged a sack of sprouts out of the larder, and she and Mum disappeared into the side-room, with the TV and comfy chairs. It was where we ate when we weren’t having formal meals, lovely and sunny in daytime but surprisingly cosy at night too, with a big open fireplace, shelves of magazines, videos, gardening guides, reference books, photos of the family and postcards from around the world – lots from Mike especially. It was one of my favourite rooms in the house – we’d transformed it from what had been the servants’ hall into what Americans would call a den.

The kettle whistled and I poured water into the cafetière as Tom plucked mugs off hooks. I could hear Rosalie gabbling in the hallway to Mike. Gibbo appeared and asked if we wanted any help.

‘Don’t worry, hon,’ said Chin.

He whipped the tea-towel out of her hand and kissed her. ‘Come on, gorgeous,’ he said into her ear. ‘Time for bed.’

Tom and I exchanged a glance of mock outrage.

‘It’s Christmas Eve. I’m not going to bed yet, even if it is with you, you…’ Chin murmured something that made Gibbo stand up straight, blush and give a little cough. She patted his arm and went back to the drying-up.

‘I’ll be with the others, then. See you in there,’ he mumbled.

‘No fear. I want to watch a bit of TV – I’ve had enough family chats for one night,’ said Chin.

‘Oh.’ Gibbo scratched his cheek. ‘Rosalie’s watching TV. Apparently her favourite film’s on, so she asked Mum and Kate if they wouldn’t mind watching it too.’

‘Urgh,’ said Tom. ‘She’s such a muscler-inner! I wonder what it is – Weekend at Bernie’s? Pretty in Pink?’

‘Pretty Woman,’ I suggested. ‘No, Risky Business. No! Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves!’

‘I’ve got it,’ Chin yelled. ‘Showgirls! In a tie with Top Gun!’

‘Actually,’ said a voice from the door, ‘it’s Some Like It Hot, and it’s on now.’

We turned. There was Rosalie again. The world’s quietest walker. Damn. There was total silence.

Then Rosalie spoke: ‘Hey, where’s that coffee? I bought some chocolates, and your dad says there are chips in the cupboard bit at the back of the kitchen…’ She bustled through to the larder. ‘Here, yeah,’ she said, emerging with two big bags of crisps. ‘I’ll see you in there, but hurry up. Tony and Jack have just nearly been shot – they’ll be getting to Florida any minute.’ She walked out and we gazed after her in astonishment.

‘Is she all bad?’ Chin wondered aloud. ‘Clearly not. And yet, my friends, it is easier to hate her than to like her, no?

‘I say you’re all horrible people,’ said Gibbo, picking up the milk jug and bending over to kiss Chin again. ‘Come on, let’s go and join them.’

Mike appeared in the hall as Tom and I were negotiating our way to the side-room with the mugs and the cafetière. ‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘Let me get the door. Hey, Titch, isn’t that the mug you painted for me in that stupid craft class you used to go to after school?’

‘It wasn’t stupid,’ said Tom, defensively. ‘It was really interesting. And you said it was the best present you’d ever had.’

Mike picked it up and considered it. ‘I dare say. It’s got a dent in the middle, though, hasn’t it? Look.’ He held up Tom’s masterwork, fashioned in blue with ‘Unkle Mike’ in a childish, uneven script. As a drinking vessel it wasn’t an unqualified success – goodness knows why we still used it. It sloped on one side and the handle bent in on itself, which made it difficult to hold. ‘Looks as if it’s had one or two too many, if you ask me. Can I take it back to New York?’

‘Of course you can,’ Tom said, rather chuffed. ‘Sorry I forgot to wrap it.’

‘So that’s the way the land lies, is it?’ Mike said. ‘Très charmant. No presents, after I come all this way.’ His head drooped. ‘Oh, well…’ He brightened, taking the cafetière out of my hands. ‘I haven’t got you chaps anything either, so we’re evens. But Rosalie and I are going to stop off in London before we fly back. We’re staying at Claridges. How about we take you shopping, get you each a present, then treat you to dinner? Jess too.’

‘Oh, do Jess and Lizzy have to come?’ Tom asked. I kicked him. ‘Ouch! Blimey, Mike, that’s really kind of you. Are you sure? Claridges, eh?’

‘Well, in for a penny, in for a pound,’ Mike said. ‘Can’t do these things by halves, can you? Let’s give the coffee to the thirsty troops. And ssh – don’t mention it to the others. It’s a surprise for Rosalie and I don’t want her to find out.’

If you’d told me eight hours previously that I’d spend the rest of Christmas Eve watching the World’s Greatest Film with Mike’s new wife, I’d have said you were mad. But that was what happened. Rosalie hadn’t made a very good first impression – unless a brunette version of Anna Nicole Smith in a twin-set is your idea of a good first impression – but I had to admit she might turn out to be not too ghastly.

She helped with the sprouts and adopted the Walter tried and trusted technique – remove the outer leaves and cut a cross in the base, which helps them cook better. I love sprouts. Rather unsociably, Dad and Mike had disappeared into the study for a catch-up. I bet you any money you like that at no time did Dad say, ‘So who on earth is she, bro?’ No, they’d have been talking about some shares of Grandfather’s that were currently worth zero, and whether the wall in the kitchen garden needed rebuttressing.

‘So,’ Rosalie said, toned thighs clamped round a bowl as we all sat in the side-room, intermittently roaring with laughter at the film, ‘Suzy, you’re a doctor, right? Where?’

‘I’m a GP at the local surgery,’ said Mum, deftly whisking off a rogue stalk.

‘I’m sorry?’ said Rosalie, looking blank.

‘She’s a family doctor at a clinic,’ said Tom. He had performed a remarkable volte-face and become Rosalie’s new best friend. He was even speaking with a semi-American accent.

‘Wow,’ said Rosalie. ‘That’s hard work, right?’

‘Right,’ said Mum. ‘I’m lucky, though, I’ve got three days off for Christmas.’

‘Gaahd!’ screeched Rosalie. ‘I don’t know how you do it. I have such admiration for doctors and nurses and those who help.’

My mother and Kate shifted closer to each other on the sofa.

‘Er, yes,’ said Kate. She cleared her throat. ‘So, Rosalie, what about you? What do you do?’

‘Me? Oh, gosh, nothing real interesting. I’m an attorney with Wright Jordan Folland. That’s how I met Mike. I head up their commercial property arm,’ Rosalie said casually, tossing a pile of uncropped sprouts into her lap.

‘Really?’ we said in unison.

‘Are you serious?’ Chin said.

‘Sure, why?’ said Rosalie.

‘I just…’ mumbled Chin. ‘No reason.’

‘Well, that must be a much more stressful job than mine,’ said Mum. ‘Good grief, you’ve done so well to get so far, and you’re so young! How old are you?’

‘Oh, my God, my favourite bit!’ yelled Rosalie, neatly deflecting the question as Tony Curtis cycled towards the hotel after a night spent kissing Marilyn Monroe.

‘He’s brilliant,’ said Tom.

‘Creep,’ I muttered under my breath.

‘Tony Curtis! What a man!’ Tom continued, unabashed.

‘I was his attorney a few years ago when I was living in California,’ Rosalie said. ‘Nice guy. Some asshole was trying to screw him around on the money and I guess I ironed things out. He gave me one of his paintings.’

‘Oh, my God!’ said Tom. ‘You met him?’

‘All part of the job, honey,’ said Rosalie, tossing her hair off her face and putting the bowl on the floor. She smiled at me as she looked up again and I smiled back, unable to resist her. ‘So Lizzy,’ she said suddenly, ‘I want to know more about you. You got a boyfriend?’

The room fell silent – apart from the rise and fall of Gibbo’s breathing as he dozed in the corner.

‘No,’ I said.

‘But what about that David guy? Doesn’t he live round here?’

‘David?’ I asked. How did she know about David?

‘Mike and I met him for a drink in New York. I liked him.’

The atmosphere was as thick as stew.

‘You met David?’ breathed Jess. ‘You saw him?

‘David…Lizzy’s—’ Mum broke off. ‘David Eliot?’ She made it sound as if she barely knew him.

‘I’m sure that was his name.’ Rosalie looked confused. ‘You guys dated, right? Journalist? Kinda cute, short brown hair, real tall?’

‘Argh!’ I said, in a kind of strangulated scream.

Chin sat up straight. ‘Well, actually, Rosalie, we don’t talk about him any more. Do we, Lizzy?’ she said.

‘No, we do not,’ I said, as firmly as I could, though the mere mention of his name made me feel as if someone had scooped out my insides.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Rosalie. ‘Hey, Lizzy, I hope I didn’t—’

I raised my hand. ‘Don’t worry. David and I finished last year. He went to New York but his mother lives just over there,’ I said, gesturing towards the window, ‘in the village.’

His mother has a little orchard where David had kissed me in spring, surrounded by gnarled little apple trees, festooned with white blossom, and told me he was going to New York.

‘Right. I’m sorry. Is that how you met? Down here?’ said Rosalie.

‘Yes,’ I replied, plaiting my fingers in my lap.

Although I’d known his younger brother Miles for a while, I hadn’t met David until he ran over my bike in his car after I’d left it outside the post office on a baking hot summer’s day. When I’d heard the crumple of steel and loud swearing, I’d appeared at the doorway with an ice lolly to see it buckled round David’s bumper. He took me for a drink to say sorry. We ended up spending the night in a room above the pub and the next four days together.

‘Why did you split up?’

‘Ask him,’ I said flatly.

‘I did,’ said Rosalie. ‘But he went kinda weird and said I had to ask you.’

I’d deleted the email Miles had sent me, only four months ago, confirming that in New York David had slept with Lisa, a friend of mine from university. I didn’t want it in my computer: I knew the temptation would be to come back to it, like picking a scab. My best friend Georgy still has it, though, and has said she’ll forward it to me if I need to read it again.

‘Ha,’ I said bitterly. ‘Ha. No disrespect to newly-weds, Rosalie, but all men are bastards.’

‘You’d better believe it,’ said Rosalie. ‘Apart from your uncle, honey – that man is good through and through. My first husband though. My gosh, that man was bad. Turned out he only married me so I couldn’t testify at his trial. There. All done.’

‘Blimey,’ said Kate, recovering her poise before the rest of us. ‘Er. thanks for doing those, Rosalie.’

‘My pleasure,’ said Rosalie, stretching herself on the sofa and patting my hand. ‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out, honey. But look at you – so pretty. You’ll find someone much better. I did.’ The irony was lost on Rosalie but not on us. ‘Come on, let’s watch this darned film,’ she said.

Dad and Mike appeared, rather flushed, as Geraldine, Daphne, Sugar and Osgood were sailing away. Mum stood up and went over to them. ‘OK?’ she asked.

‘Absolutely,’ said Mike. He dropped into the armchair next to me and yawned. ‘I’m shattered, though. Er…Rosalie?’ he said, as if he wasn’t sure that was her name.

‘Heigh-lo,’ said Rosalie.

‘You all right, old girl?’

‘I’m just fine, Michael darling.’

‘I’m pretty tired,’ said Dad. He took my mother’s hand and held it. ‘Look at the sky,’ Mike said. ‘It’s clear as you like, look at the stars.’

Mum turned off the overhead light. I always forget how many more stars you can see outside London, and there was a new moon, the thinnest sliver of a bright white crescent in the sky. ‘It’s Christmas Day,’ she whispered. ‘Happy Christmas, everyone.’

‘Happy Christmas,’ we murmured back.

‘I’m off to bed,’ she said, and padded out of the room. As I turned away from the window, I caught Rosalie gazing at Mike. I’ve never seen such naked, all-consuming love on anyone else’s face. It lit hers, but there was something unsettling about it, which I couldn’t put my finger on. When I told Tom on our way up to bed, he said, ‘But they’ve just got married. Of course she’s in love with him, you strange girl.’

But that didn’t explain why it had been scary.

I stopped by the old bookshelf, picked out a Georgette Heyer I hadn’t read for years, then went to my room, undressed and got into bed. How lovely it was to sit in bed, to feel my feet push down, along the clean, smooth sheets, to feel as snug and warm as anything in my new fleecy pyjamas, and not to have to worry about work, about crazy Jaden, about my boiler, which was on its last legs, about tidying the flat, about making sure Ash at work was all right. It was Christmas Day. I was at home. All I had to do was enjoy being here, in my bedroom, which smelt of lavender, with the presents I’d half wrapped scattered across the floor and Devil’s Cub on my knee.

I started to read: ‘There was only one occupant of the coach, a gentleman who sprawled very much at his ease, with his legs stretched out before him, and his hands dug deep in the capacious pockets of his greatcoat…’ But my eyes were growing heavier and heavier, and I must have fallen asleep, because in the middle of the night I woke up and had to turn the light off, and the book was still on my lap.

FOUR

When I woke again, bright sunlight was flooding into my room and I could smell cinnamon. I pulled back the faded curtains and my heart leaped. It was a bright blue day, and the view to the village was as fresh and clear as it was on a spring morning, but coated with the glittering frost of winter.

I showered and dressed in the clanking old bathroom, singing ‘Hark the Herald Angels’ very loudly, and rushed downstairs, eager for some pre-church bonding with my family. But everyone was already in the hall, putting on their coats.

Mum appeared with a plate and thrust it under my nose. ‘Grab one of those muffins and let’s move it,’ she said, then pulled on her gloves like a member of the A-Team. I declined: I’m of the strong opinion that, when it comes to breakfast, if it doesn’t have Marmite on it, it ain’t worth it.

Jess came down the stairs, rubbing her eyes. ‘Come on, Jess, we’ll be late,’ said Mum testily.

Every year my relatives get themselves into a frenzy about being late for church. I have no idea why. It’s a twenty-minute walk, and we always leave with half an hour to spare. Now, short of a hurricane, driving snow, frogs dropping from the sky, we would be sitting in our pew with ten minutes to spare while every other member of the congregation rocks up fifteen minutes late, and stand in the aisles chatting and exchanging pleasantries.

Old habits die hard, and we set out straight away, crunching across the terrace flagstones. Dad opened the gate and Gibbo appeared barefoot in the doorway, trousers trailing on the ground, hair whipped up into a storm around his face. He wasn’t coming to church, he said. It made him fall asleep. ‘Bye, you guys,’ he called, and waved, a piece of toast in his hand.

‘What’s he going to do?’ asked Jess, a little enviously.

‘He’s a great cook,’ said Chin. ‘He’s sorted it with your mum. He’ll start the Christmas lunch so it’s all ready to go when we get back.’

I doubted that Gibbo could start a fire with a can of petrol and a match, let alone a Christmas lunch for ten people, but I kept quiet.

It was a beautiful walk, along the well-worn path through the fields. We owned the first, and the rest of the land before the church was the village common, a long sloping expanse of meadow with a stream at the bottom. This morning it was frozen at the edges, though a little water trickled through the centre and a forlorn-looking robin hopped from branch to branch.

Mike was just ahead of me, humming, Rosalie’s arm tucked through his. They made a comforting picture, his checked wool scarf wound tightly round his neck, Rosalie in her beautiful pale coat, little heels clicking on the hard ground alongside him. The crown of his head showed beneath his thinning hair and I felt a rush of affection for him, with a kind of protectiveness. He and Rosalie stopped and turned. I caught up with them and Mike put his arm round my shoulders. ‘It’s lovely to see you, Lizzy,’ he said. ‘God, it’s nice to be home again, you know?’

‘It’s great to have you back,’ I said. ‘I wish you’d come over more often. Can’t you go part-time and supplement your income with bar work over here?’

‘Good idea,’ said Mike. ‘Bar work. Haven’t been back for ages, you know.’

‘A year,’ I said.

‘Pah! Not a year – I came back at Easter.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ I said. ‘You were going to, for Dad’s birthday party, but you had to cancel.’

Mike appeared to be in the grip of some unpleasant memory. ‘You’re right, Titch. Matheson deal. Phones ringing off the hook. Screaming. I don’t think I left the office for three days…’

‘Ooh, Mike,’ I said, ‘you’re so important and hardworking, aren’t you?’

Mike had been supposed to make the speech at Dad’s party, which had also celebrated my parents’ silver wedding anniversary (I know! You do the maths…) but, typical Mike, at the last minute he had to cancel his trip and Chin made the speech. The party was good, but Chin was a bit of a flop, drunk and rambling. And, besides, she wasn’t Mike, who would have told a story, played the kazoo, got the audience to sing along, then probably slipped over and lain, with aplomb, on the floor unconscious for the rest of the evening.

‘Well, you’re back now,’ I continued, seeing that he was looking rather depressed.

His face twitched into a smile. ‘And I can’t imagine how I stayed away so long. I could give it all up and live in the shed in the garden just to be near the old place. Does that make sense or sound completely crazy?’