Kerry Fisher - The Island Escape

Normally, Charlie would laugh and say, ‘Oh Nanna, get real,’ but this year, a huge bellow of ‘Jesus Christ, we’re not in the 1950s’ came echoing through to the kitchen. A door slam followed.

I poked my head through the hatch and saw my mother rear up like a meerkat on its look-out mound, turning from Jonathan faffing about with the precise angle of the serviettes, to me, waiting to see how we were going to deal with – shock, horror – God’s name being taken in vain on Christmas Day.

Jonathan rolled his eyes and went back to straightening the knives and forks that Polly had thrown down in a slapdash manner. I tried Roberta’s New Age bollocks of visualising lying in a hammock in Barbados, but discovered that only a hiss at the husband would do.

‘Jonathan, do you think you could go and deal with Charlie, please, while I finish off lunch?’ I probably sounded calm to the casual listener but sixteen years of marriage had taught him to recognise the meaningful ‘—CCCHHH’ on the end of that sentence. With one last tweak of the table mats, he made his way upstairs.

I shouted through to Polly. ‘Come and take through the cranberry sauce for me, love.’

No answer. I shouted again.

‘In a minute.’

‘No, now, we’re nearly ready to sit down.’

‘I’m just finishing this game.’

I bit back a bellow of ‘Come now!’ Never mind a flipping virgin birth, my kids doing what they were told the first time I asked them would be the true miracle of Christmas.

Instead of Polly appearing, Immi came into the kitchen instead. ‘My tummy hurts. I don’t want any lunch.’

Honestly, next year I’d just do beans on toast.

‘It’ll make you feel better if you have something to eat. I’ve made your favourite, cauliflower cheese.’ I stroked her strawberry-blonde curls.

‘I’m not hungry. I already ate all my selection box. Do you want to know what I had? I had a Curly Wurly, a Mars bar, a Milky Way, a Twix – I’ve got one stick of that left – and a packet of jelly babies.’

At this rate, we’d need an appointment with the emergency dentist. ‘I thought Dad said you could only have one thing.’

‘He did, but then when I asked him if I could eat the rest, he just went “hmm” and carried on reading his book, so I thought it was OK.’

I could feel a bit of a Jesus Christ incident coming on myself.

‘I gave the Maltesers and Revels to Stan, though. I wasn’t that greedy.’

‘You shouldn’t give chocolate to dogs. It’s bad for them. Anyway, never mind.’ I turned back to stirring the gravy, which had now gone all lumpy.

I took a deep breath and called through to the front room. ‘Mum, it’s ready. Can I pass you these things through the hatch?’

Mum scurried over and busied herself with the food, just as Jonathan reappeared.

‘Charlie won’t come down.’ There was something pathetic in his tone, a waiting for me to get it sorted.

The food was getting cold, which made me want to have my own tantrum. It was definitely early-onset middle age – more bothered about chilly carrots than my son having a Yuletide meltdown. Not for the first time, I mourned the era of spending every holiday backpacking on a diet of beer and crisps. I trudged up the stairs, shouting ‘Start serving’ in the general direction of Mum and Jonathan in the hope that between them they might summon up the initiative required to get a few Brussels on plates without me.

‘Go away.’ Charlie was nose-down in his pillow.

‘Please don’t spoil the day, darling. I know Nanna’s irritating. She irritates me as well and no doubt, when I’m old, you’ll bin my false teeth so you can’t hear what I’m saying either.’

‘I hate Christmas.’

‘So do I.’ And I really meant it.

That made Charlie sit up. ‘How can you hate Christmas?’

‘How can you?’ I smiled, trying not to think of my gravy getting a skin on it. ‘Come on, love, help me out here.’

He got to his feet, torn between wanting a hug and wanting to be bolshie. ‘OK. Sorry.’

I squeezed his hand, or rather the cuff of his sweatshirt. At fifteen, Charlie didn’t seem to have hands any more. He scuffed down the stairs, still my little boy under that gangly mini-man.

In the dining room, I jollied everyone along, praying that Mum wouldn’t choose right now to need an apology. ‘Let’s pull the crackers.’ Polly snatched the fat end of the cracker from Immi, claiming ownership of some plastic earrings. Immi burst into tears and slid under the table, refusing to come out even when Polly handed them over.

As I slopped the chipolatas wrapped in bacon onto plates, I heard Stan throwing up his honeycomb centres in the kitchen. Season of festive fun, my worn-out old arse.

I wondered when I’d last enjoyed Christmas.

An image of peeling off wetsuits, dragging a windsurf up a deserted beach and huddling round a fire with a couple of beers and some prawns on skewers rushed into my mind. I could almost smell the Mediterranean maquis that grew along the seashore. My twenty-one-year-old self, with pink hair, toe rings and a penchant for batik, would be hard-pressed to recognise me now.

The age-old longing that I kept buried, occasionally bunging another layer of earth on top, caught me off-guard. I wondered if he ever thought about me.

Christmas Day in the Green household was a day for singing twee Australian songs. This year, I clung to the ritual as proof that we were still a family, rooted in our customs and traditions. I closed my eyes as I sat in the passenger seat, marvelling at Scott who was blasting out ‘Waltzing Matilda’ as though he were off to Bondi Beach with no more on his mind than the state of the surf. Despite Alicia’s entreaties, I couldn’t join in.

When we arrived at the hotel, I prayed that I’d made a good choice this year. I wasn’t sure I could face one of Scott’s forensic investigations into why they’d run out of red cabbage today. Scott strode in, making himself known to the staff, booming a big Happy Christmas to all. Alicia was right behind, light on her feet in her silver sandals, as wispy and delicate as Adele was stocky and stout. Granddaughter and grandmother linked arms together, pointing out the tree covered in glittery hearts and crimson ribbons. I glanced around at the other families and wondered if any of their smiles camouflaged upset so intense that they could feel it trembling in their chests.

Staff in black and white uniforms offered us Buck’s Fizz at the door to the wood-panelled dining room. Scott picked two from the tray. As we sat down, he handed one to Alicia.

‘She’s under eighteen. She can’t drink that in here,’ I said.

‘Lighten up. It’s Christmas, for God’s sake. Bloody British licensing laws. They’re not going to chuck us out. It’s only like a bit of lemonade and orange juice.’

Alicia looked at me, not knowing which way to jump. She’d been pretty subdued since my return from the police station and I hated her having to be the peacemaker, in the impossible position of trying to protect me without angering Scott. I put on a smile. ‘I’m sure Daddy’s right. Just don’t draw attention to it.’ She glanced round and took a big gulp.

Adele was cooing over the log fire. ‘In all these years I’ve never got used to Christmas in the sunshine.’ Off she went on her usual discussion about what it would mean to move back to Scotland now, but with all her brothers dead, and barely knowing her nieces and nephews, except that wee Caitlin who would keep coming out and staying for months on end …

Scott yawned and beckoned for some more drinks. Alicia started texting God knows who. Adele paused just long enough to order her meal then continued to reel off a never-ending list of relatives with respective geographical locations. ‘My cousin Archie is still in Aberdeen, but his wife, Siobhan, she passed away in 1999. No, let me think. Not 1999. It must have been 2000, because it was the year Sydney had the Olympics …’