Late for Christmas

Late for Christmas

For us, the celebration of Christmas was never about religious observance. It was a time of gift-giving and receiving, of eating and drinking.

I wake early, keen to get my hands on all the goodies under the tree with my name on them. As the only grandchild, I always had plenty.

Despite being early risers, Christmas Day is the one day of the year they can’t get out of bed. The only day when TV showed nothing but programs to worship the birth of Christ, so I couldn’t even be distracted by the idiot box.

Finally this day in 1968, I hear them stirring. They come out in various forms of bed attire - in nighties that have faded and lost their shape and in creased pyjamas with missing buttons. They yawn and stretch, and my grandfather undertakes his usual belly scratch tugging at the opening and drawing the top up.

‘Merry Christmas’, he says has he scratches.

‘Yes, Merry Christmas’, my aunt and grandmother say in unison.

‘Merry Christmas everyone!’, I say in reply.

As they take their places in the loungeroom, I dutifully play Santa and deposit presents on their laps and at their feet.

One pile of wrapped presents remains under the tree. Glancing at it, the first of many excuses rattle off their sleep-addled tongues. ‘She’ll be here soon,’ followed by, ‘as if your mother would miss you opening your presents’.

The silence that follows is deafening just awkward looks back and forth with ears straining willing her to arrive on the front porch.

I peek at them all whilst fidgeting until I can wait no more. I start to tug at the parcels and after a fierce few minutes of ripping, I have a healthy pile of dolls, games, and clothes including a brand-new Christmas Day dress with a white top and seersucker skirt of green, red, and gold.

Now that I have finished, they unwrap their none-to-extravagant presents with lots of smiles and thanks. As they do this, I tell myself I don’t care that she is not there and instead admire Cindy, the most wanted doll of that Christmas. Even she cannot fill the void in my heart.

Trying not to notice the presents still under the tree, my grandmother pushes herself up from the sofa and starts to complain about everything she must do to get lunch on the table.

Her whinging is my aunt’s signal that a pot of tea is in order. Tea: the balm that soothes our fractured home.

Tea could never be taken on the run in our house: it was a ritual. It was made in a pot with insides heavily coated in tannin. Loose leaves on the bottom piled high and covered in scalding water. The lid fastened tightly followed by clockwise swooshes to start the fusion. A brightly coloured crochet woollen cover popped over the pot and placed on a coaster in the middle of the table to signal the beginning of the fastidiously executed five minutes of drawing time.

Amid the brewing, I’m watching the peeler in Nan’s hands going to work at speed on the old potatoes. Upon completion, she washes their dirty nakedness and sits down at the table wiping her hands on a rarely used apron fastened at her waist.

First the mug selection from the centre of the table - the one that is only right for you - then a bit of milk – only a splash - then the pouring of the tea while marvelling at its colour and heat. A brief stir is followed by sitting back to enjoy the first satisfying sip followed by a contented sign.

My mug of choice is baby blue with a rabbit with very large teeth and ears embossed on it. First, I add plenty of milk, then the tea, making sure to half fill the mug before adding several heaped teaspoons of sugar. I stir and stir to work the sugar in. I eagerly sip as the tea tastes sweet and milky. I drink until I reach the bottom and pick up my spoon again to dredge out the sugar to get every grain.

Slamming the mug down, I hop off my chair, adjust my nightie and return to my spoils. Those left at the table are drawing from the first cigarettes of the day followed by hearty coughs and another log draw.

Another heave from her chair, and my grandmother returns to her labours carrying an ashtray with her lit cigarette, its smoke curls, and furls toward the ceiling.

If Italians consider food as the outpouring of love, in our deeply Anglo house it never was anything but the output of the smallest amount of effort in which to sustain us.

Uncomfortable in the kitchen, cooking makes my grandmother stressed and from the kitchen we hear her frequent curses which we ignore in favour of trying on our new clothes and unpacking boxes and assembling gifts.

Followed by a morning of sweating and swearing, my grandmother’s face is flushed as she places the food, which is mostly brown and beige with pops of green and orange, on platters. She delivers them to the table with little flourish, all her energy drained.

Seated in our usual spots with my grandfather at the head of the table, we burst our crackers and put on coloured paper hats, ogle at miniature toys, and read out silly jokes.

As the meal progresses, I find it difficult to swallow the dried turkey meat, the undercooked potatoes, the soggy beans, and tasteless carrots. I gulp lemonade and stretch my throat to help the food go down. I’m not mollified by the excuses that continue for her no-show which are delivered in overly jolly tones.

The crooning of Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald provided the backdrop during the meal, but as the tidying progress, an awkward silence descends.

The table is cleared at the expense of the kitchen which was filled with dirty pots and pans and haphazardly placed plates of leftover food swimming in congealed gravy that are likely to topple over should one of our errant cats’ pounce scrounging for an extra meal.

As the sun sinks low on the horizon and everyone had verbalised every plausible and non-plausible excuse they could think of, we hear her heels and slightly shrill voice responding to a man with a deep tone.

‘At last!’, my grandmother says as if she had witnessed the second coming right then and there. She adjusts her hair and wipes a dirty and crumpled tea towel across her sweaty brow preparing for their arrival in the now tidied dining room.

I notice she bypasses the Christmas tree on her way through the loungeroom to where she now stands centre of attention.

She and he bring a flurry of activity including the pouring of the other salve: cold beer. My mother is pulling out all stops to impress her new beau. Upbeat she talks about their day, the presents she had received and the friends she has called. Every word burns at my soul. Throughout this he smiles and nods frequently but doesn’t sit until asked to.

She and I do not make eye contact and she furtively avoids the space where I sit on a stool swinging my legs impatiently.

The spotlight shines on me when he turns and asks what I got from Santa. It is then her eyes find mine and I meet her gaze head-on until she looks away.

Politely turning to face him, I answer his question by dutifully cataloguing my riches.

His voice is warm as he responds with ‘What a lucky girl you are’. When I don’t fall under his spell, he glances in her direction and she furrows her brow, conveying that she had already told him how difficult I was.

The assembled group chat idly and before long she announces ‘Well, we better get going’.

Each word quickens my breath and reddens my cheeks. What does she mean they are going? She has barely arrived!

Her father glares at her, which she chooses to ignore, and faces her mother who immediately fills the awkwardness with bright chatter. They move along the hallway towards the door with ‘nice to meet you’ and ‘hope to see you again soon’, bantered back and forth.

Despite trying to get ahead of them, I am outmanoeuvred and still at the back of the pack when they reach the door.

Goodbyes are said again. He reaches back placing his hand on my head, ruffling my long straight hair and smiles but I don’t return the gesture.

Within seconds she is on the street walking towards his car. My chest hurts, emotions are ready to burst.

My eyes sting with tears as I make a run for it. My family call for me to come back.

I reach her just before she gets to the car, tugging on her dress I look up. My hazel eyes plead with her to stay. She swats my hand away and says through a pursed mouth, ‘Stop making a spectacle of yourself. Go back inside’. I walk backwards for a few steps and the glowing streetlight illuminates her sneer.

At this, I turn away and run back towards the house and into the waiting arms of my grandfather. Tall and strong, he picks me up and holds me close.

My aunt looks at me with pity, and shrugs as if to say, ‘This is the way it will always be’.

My grandmother bustles about doing and saying nothing in particular, trying to stave off the coming argument.

My grandfather keeps me in his embrace stroking my back and rocking me gently both to calm me and quell his fury.

On this Christmas Day - my fifth, it has been made clear - he is my only ally.