Ghosts in the Morning

Chapter 13



Bang!

The sudden explosion of the crackers made me jump, and I clutched the tray. It wouldn’t do to drop the turkey, all fourteen pounds of free-range Kelly Bronze.

‘Happy Christmas, Mum!’ shouted Simon, and kissed me on the cheek. I could smell lager on his breath. He had been to the pub with his brothers and Graham for a Christmas lunchtime drink, an annual tradition that extended only to the male members of our household. But I had welcomed the peace, it had allowed me space and time to get on with the Christmas dinner preparations.

‘Do they still give you a free pint at the pub? I’m sure they always used to on Christmas Day,’

‘No, Mum, unfortunately not, tight bastards these days,’ Daniel said, and then turned back to his task of trying to throw streamers into Ian’s long hair.

‘Right, come on you two, sit down and stop mucking about,’ Graham said, in a mock firm voice. ‘ Your Mum’s putting the lunch on. Simon, go and help your mother carry the plates in.’

‘Why me? What about those two, why do I have to be the maid, I mean, what are you implying?’

‘No, er, I didn’t mean that, I didn’t mean...’ There was an awkward pause by Graham. He had taken the news of Simon’s sexuality surprisingly well-‘oh, right, okay, so he’s gay? Is he sure, right okay, yes, no problem, of course that’s no big deal, not in this day and age, and I for one am certainly not homophobic, no way, besides we’re not really that surprised are we’-but unfortunately he was over-compensating his acceptance, as if to show that he really really was totally fine with it, to demonstrate that he truly was a modern man. He had even told Simon that he was more than happy for Simon to bring a ‘special friend’ to Christmas lunch if he wanted to. This just served to make Simon even more embarrassed.

‘I’m only messing with you, Dad,’ winked Simon, and Graham joined in the laughter with his sons.

Conversation over lunch was muted. Ian and Daniel gently teased Simon-‘Simon, you’d better make sure you have the pink paper hat’ and ‘oh look, a nail set in this cracker, that can be for Simon then’, but there was no malice. Simon smiled and looked a little sheepish, still coming to terms with his coming out, but beneath that I could detect his huge relief. He had spoken to his brothers only the day before, had gone himself into a bit of a state trying to work out how to tell them he was gay, but in the end it had been far easier than he had thought it would be. They had responded with simple shrug. ‘Not a big deal, Simon, mate, not a big deal. You’re our brother, for God’s sake, it’s not like we’re going to feel any different about you. Unless you start hitting on our mates, of course. Just joking, Si, just joking.’

‘Not really a great surprise, to be honest, was it Mum?’ Ian had quietly said to me afterwards.

I used to love Christmas when the boys were small. Their Christmas sacks, stuffed full with toys, would be waiting for them in the lounge, in front of the fireplace. An empty tumbler, that had held a shot of brandy and an ice cube the night before, would be sat on the mantlepiece–just a little one for Santa, kids, remember he has to drive his sleigh, we don’t want him crashing into any chimneys - together with the remnants of a mince pie. The carrot left for Rudolph would be gone, leaving only its sprouty green top. I always tried really hard to make Christmas morning as special as I could for the boys, perhaps I was trying to overcompensate for the distinct lack of Christmas spirit in my own childhood.

I had known from a very young age that Father Christmas didn’t exist, my Mum had made sure of that. ‘It’s no good you believing in all of that rubbish, Andrea, there is no Father Christmas, there never has been, so don’t go expecting lots of expensive presents for Christmas, ‘cos the only Santa is me and I can’t afford it. But don’t go telling any of your mates, though, ‘cos some people think it’s a good idea to keep up all the bullshit, they get annoyed when someone spoils it, so best leave them in the dark, right?’ I had nodded, strangely sad at finding out that there was no magic at Christmas, this large jolly man with the red coat the fluffy beard was just make-believe. I would have liked to believe, even for a short time.

I was determined that my boys would enjoy Christmas. Graham and I used to make them wait at the top of the stairs; they weren’t allowed to set one foot on those stairs until Graham and I linked hands and then rang our special Christmas bell. Graham would take his time getting his dressing gown on, pretending to fiddle with the belt, as the anticipation built to a frenzy until it seemed as if the boys would explode with excitement.

It wasn’t the same now, of course. Graham and I never linked hands now, and today, this Christmas Day, the boys-well, they were men now, I suppose - shuffled down late, with the evidence of a previous night’s boozing thick on their breath.

Graham was quiet during the lunch. He made sporadic efforts to join in with the boys’ banter, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was worried. Sulking too. We had spoken little during the last couple of days. He had spoken to Ollie, the lawyer, the day before, and Ollie had said he would make a few calls. A few hours later he had rung Graham back, said he had got in touch with Blud, delayed him. Ollie said that he and Graham could pop in to the police station after the Christmas period and square it all off. Graham had thanked Ollie profusely, kept up a facade of calm as he bade Ollie a happy Christmas and then he had vented the rage that had built inside him. The boys were, thankfully, out.

‘Pop in to the police station, he says, like it’s just some f*cking voluntary visit, like I want to spend my time f*cking popping into the police station. Like some common criminal. And then he says we’ll “square it all off”-I mean, who the f*ck uses language like that, he’s such a f*cking posh twat that Ollie, why can’t he speak like a normal human being, and what the f*ck does ‘square it all off’ mean anyway. I’ve practically been accused of...well...well...murder it seems, and we’re just going to “pop in and square it all off”. I don’t know what the f*ck this is all about Andrea, is there something you’re not telling me, there must be, I just-‘

‘Graham, I have told you, I have no idea what this is about.’ There was ice in my tone, but Graham didn’t hear it at first.

‘I mean, you drive that car most of the time, I usually use my convertible - ’

‘Graham,’ I said, slightly louder. This time he heard the menace, the underlying ferocity in my voice. ‘How dare you accuse me of knowing anything about this. If you think that you can try and blame me for any of your sordid little carryings-on with that tart, you’ve got another think coming. What’s even worse, is that I get told about it by hideous little copper with a smirk on his face. I’m standing there like some...like some...prat while Laurel and f*cking Hardy are laughing behind their hands at the fat stupid wife whose husband has been shagging around with this secretary.’

‘That’s not fair, that’s-’

‘Not fair! Not fair! I’ll tell you what’s not fair. Me sitting at home like some mug while you’re getting your rocks off with every bloody dolly bird you fancy. No, no, Graham.’ I held up a warning hand. ‘I don’t want to hear any more. Just piss off out of my sight.’ Graham had slunk off like a wounded fox, and had slept in the spare room that night.

I sighed as I finished washing up the larger bowls from Christmas lunch. All of the other plates were busy getting hosed in the large guaranteed-for-a-lifetime dishwasher, the second one of those we had had in seven years. I had refused all offers of help, I preferred to do it all myself. The boys would only be a hindrance, they would get under my feet – they would probably have played that silly game where they curled up the tea towels into what they called “rat’s tails” and then flicked these at each other’s buttocks, until one of them yelped in real pain. At which point, they would call the yelper a ‘complete wuss’. I thought I could live to be two hundred years old and still not understand why men couldn’t just grow up, why they never lost the shackles of their immaturity.

I topped up my wine glass and headed for the lounge. Graham was sprawled across the sofa like a beached seal, half-watching the television - it looked like a nature programme - and half-reading the Radio Times. We only ever bought the Christmas edition of the Radio Times. I often wondered how low its circulation must be during the rest of the year, did they even publish it any other month?

‘Where are the boys?’ I asked Graham. I saw him pick his nose, then roll his fingers together.

‘Ian and Daniel have gone out. Round to their friends, I suppose, I don’t think any of the pubs are open, so that’s my guess. Simon’s upstairs watching TV in his room.’ Graham flicked his index finger against his thumb. ‘He’s probably watching a makeover show, I guess that’s the sort of thing they watch, isn’t it?’

I stared at Graham and felt my teeth grinding. I winced briefly, my teeth were getting sensitive, perhaps I had ground down too much of the enamel. I saw that the nature programme had now finished and an advert was on, some Hollywood actress pouting and sighing, trying to entice viewers to buy a certain type of perfume. Graham stretched out an arm and pushed a button on the remote control. The screen flashed and then an announcer’s voice. ‘And now, if you’re already thinking of New Year’s Resolutions, then this is the place to be. Put the remote control down and your trainers on as we get ready to join fitness expert Chantal Whaley in “Fighting the Flab”’.

‘Whaley? Hardly the best name for a fitness expert,’ I mused.

Graham ignored me. ‘Perfect, she might be able to give me some tips. It’s about time I got a bit fitter.’

I stifled a laugh. ‘Fitter? Don’t you need to be fit first to be able to get fitter?’ I mumbled to myself.

‘What’s that?’ Graham snapped.

I shook my head. ‘Nothing.’

Graham frowned at me and turned back to the TV. A big-breasted, slim-waisted woman in fluorescent lycra was bouncing eagerly up and down on the spot like a hyperactive puppy. She didn’t stop jumping as she talked to the camera. ‘Hi, I’m Chantal Whaley and over the next few weeks, I am going to give you all the information you need to banish that unwanted flab. Forever!’ She spoke in one of those mid-Atlantic type accents that sounded pretentious, false. Obviously she was a Brit pretending to be an American as she believed it made her sound more cool.

‘Yes,’ Graham said. ‘Yes, that will be my New Year’s resolution. I need to start doing a regular schedule, I don’t know, maybe I’ll go lunchtimes or something.’

‘I thought you were going lunchtimes, already,’ I said, slyly.

Graham reddened. He guessed what I was insinuating. And now he had proved that my supposition was right. He hadn’t been going to the gym at lunchtimes, no, he had been with that tart, Nikki. ‘Well,er,’ he stuttered. ‘Yes, but, er, not regularly enough. Anyway, you should really think about getting to the gym, you’ve turned into a right fat cow.’ The words were spat from his mouth, struck me like spears. I could see from his face that he had shocked himself, he hadn’t meant to speak so harsh, but the damage was done.

‘Sod you, Graham, you can’t just say things like that, I am a real person you know, I’m not just some...some thing that you can just abuse, I do have feelings, you f*cker. I have self-esteem, okay so I’m not perfect like that tart Nikki, am I, no, I suppose Nikki’s body is all tight and firm and pert isn’t it? But it won’t last you know, it won’t last, just wait until she’s a bit older, you’ll see, wait until she’s had a few kids, yeah, then we really will see, it’ll happen to her too, you bastard.’

I stood there, quivering with rage, and I could feel the blood rushing, quickening again.