Authors: Doris Davidson
A harassed old lady appeared now, with two plastic carrier bags filled to overflowing. As she passed Leila, she had to bend to pick up a small parcel that had fallen out, and as she did so other packages slid and dropped to the floor.
‘Oh, thank you.’ She said breathlessly, as Leila helped her to gather these together. ‘Isn’t this a terrible crush, and everything’s so dear. Christmas is so commercialised nowadays, isn’t it?’
Leila nodded and smiled as the woman passed out of sight. Yes, she mused, there’s none of the old-fashioned Christmas spirit about any more. Each of the faces she could see was set and strained due, no doubt, to money worries and the nagging doubt that someone special had been forgotten in the rush; or the what-on-earth-can-I-buy-her-she-has-everything problem.
It was then that she spotted the young couple. Very young, they looked, surely not old enough to be married. But, of course, boys and girls did everything together now, even their Christmas shopping. As they came nearer, she heard the girl say, ‘Isn’t it fun, darling? Our baby’s first Christmas. I can hardly wait to see his face when he opens his stocking.’
The boy’s look of sheer adoration as he smiled back at his young wife made a lump come into Leila’s throat. A Christmas stocking; how many memories that brought back.
First of all, had been the filling. Down into the toe had gone an apple, then a packet of sweets, a little colouring book, a square of the Swiss milk toffee she always used to make, some crayons, perhaps, then a tangerine and lastly, the present. It was usually a large parcel and was laid on the floor - always opened first. She could recall dolls, a doll’s house, a cot and a nurse’s outfit for Helen over the years, and a tricycle, a cowboy outfit, a fire engine and a football at different times for Michael.
Money had always been in short supply when the children were small, but Alan and she had always managed to fill the stockings, buying little items throughout the year when they could afford them. There was one year, though, when they had bought, at a jumble sale in September, the space suit that Michael wanted, but hadn’t been able to get the desk that Helen had asked Santa to bring.
Alan had said, ‘Don’t worry, dear, I’ll make one for her’, and had put together a beautifully sturdy desk with spaces for pens and paper and things like that, working at it every night after Helen went to bed. Leila smiled at the memory of what came next. Alan had painted it white, and had to varnish it on Christmas Eve, but he’d had to use the cheapest brand, which hadn’t been dry by the time they were acting Santa.
They had carried the desk from their bedroom, where it had been hidden from prying eyes, and stood it in front of the coal fire in the living room to dry more quickly. They had been sitting there, talking quietly when they heard Helen coming downstairs. Leila laughed out loud as she recalled how they had jumped up in confusion and placed themselves in front of the desk to screen it from its owner.
‘Mummy, I just wondered if Santa had been yet,’ she had murmured sleepily.
‘No, darling, he doesn’t come until well after midnight. I told you, remember?’
‘Remember to lay out the Christmas pies you bought for him - and a glass of milk,’ and the six-year-old had gone back to bed, quite unaware that her shattered parents had collapsed on the settee in hysterics.
Christmas mornings had been fun, too; noisy fun, with two drowsy adults being shocked into consciousness by an avalanche that descended on them about five or six a.m.
The stockings were always carried up and emptied in the main bedroom, wrappings and boxes being strewn all over the floor; it kept the living room free from rubbish. Oh, the excitement, the laughter, the love!
The house had been full of love in those days, Leila reflected, and excitement and laughter. Now, though, with Helen married and living so far away, and Michael a rather difficult eighteen-year-old, the atmosphere was different. There was little excitement, except when Michael argued with his father, and she could do without that; laughter only now and then, and certainly no show of love. She supposed that it still must be there, somewhere, under their veneer of middle age.
Sighing deeply, she raised her head and met the anxious gaze of the young couple who had started her thoughts wandering. ‘Are you all right?’ asked the girl. ‘You were standing there as if you were miles away. There’s nothing wrong, I hope?’
‘No, there’s nothing wrong, thank you,’ Leila smiled. ‘I was years away, not miles.’
She turned, to move off but the girl came after her. ‘You don’t look all right, you know. Come round to our flat, it’s just round the corner, and I’ll give you a cup of tea to revive you. I always think tea’s the best medicine in the world.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t,’ Leila protested.
‘It’s no bother, really. We’ll be needing one ourselves and my mum’ll likely have the kettle boiling. She’s looking after our baby.’
Leila looked at the girl’s lovely face, and at the boy smiling in agreement with her. How deeply in love they were; she wished that Helen and Harry were as happy as that. Her daughter and son-in-law had no time for enjoyment; they were too busy making money. Helen was a dedicated career girl and had said, more than once, ‘We don’t want to start a family until we have everything we need for our home.’
Leila often thought that they’d be less self-centred if they did have a baby; it would make them content with what they had, but she couldn’t tell Helen that. Realising that the young couple were still regarding her with some concern, she smiled at the girl. ‘Thank you, my dear, but I must finish my shopping, and my husband is expecting me home.’
‘You look tired, dear,’ Alan said, taking her shopping bags from her. ‘Sit down and I’ll bring you a cup of coffee. I switched on the percolator a few minutes ago.’
Leila sank down thankfully into her armchair and kicked off her shoes. Her feet were throbbing. She would have to reduce her weight a bit.
‘There’s a Christmas service at eleven forty-five tonight,’ Alan remarked when he returned with two steaming mugs. ‘I was remembering how we always used to go when the kids were younger.’
She looked at him, his dear curly hair almost white, but his eyes still deeply twinkling blue. ‘I’ve been remembering those times past, as well.’ The thought of having to go out again was not a pleasant one, but she said, quickly, ‘Would you like to go, Alan? It would be like the old days again, wouldn’t it?’ It would be a pity to disappoint him and she could put her feet up until nearer the time.
He looked surprised that she had suggested it. ‘Yes, Leila, I would like to go, as a matter of fact, but are you sure you’re feeling up to it?’
‘Of course I am, and I want to go. We always used to come home from the midnight service feeling at peace with the world, remember?’
They returned to the house at five minutes to one and, as he closed the door behind him, Alan took his wife in his arms and kissed her. ‘Happy Christmas, darling.’
It was a long time since he’d kissed her like that - it was generally just a quick peck on the cheek nowadays, if that. She sighed happily. ‘It
is
like old times, isn’t it? At any minute I’ll be shouting to the children to stop making a noise and get to bed at once.’
At that moment, the door burst open, almost sending them flying. ‘Ha! Caught you, you two old lovebirds.’ Michael wagged a finger at them. ‘What’s this, then? Snogging behind the door at your age?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Alan laughed. ‘We just got home from the Christmas Eve service and I felt like kissing your mother. There’s nothing wrong in that, is there? What have you been up to tonight?’
‘You’re not going to believe this, Dad, but I’ve met a girl I’m sure you’ll approve of - for a change.’
The weird girlfriends he brought home had long been a bone of contention with his parents, and were often the cause of heated arguments with his father. ‘She’s a medical student but she lives in the nurses’ home because she can’t travel in and out from her own home every day. I’ve invited her here for Christmas dinner … if that’s OK, Mum?’
Leila pulled a face, then grinned. ‘That’s OK, Michael.’ The peace she had found in the church made her feel happily contented. The hall telephone shrilled at that moment and she turned to lift the receiver.
‘Hi, Mum, I’m just phoning to give you our news.’ Helen’s excited voice came over the line, bubbling with happiness.
‘But … aren’t you coming home tomorrow - I mean today?’ Disappointment clutched at the pit of Leila’s stomach.
‘Yes, of course we are, but I couldn’t keep this to myself any longer. We’re going to have a baby, Mum. What do you think of that?’
‘Oh, Helen, I’m so pleased. That’s the best Christmas present you could have given me.’ Tears were streaming down Leila’s cheeks, and she turned to explain hem to her husband. ‘Helen’s going to have a baby.’
Her daughter was still speaking. ‘I found out for sure this afternoon, but we’d been invited out to dinner and we’ve just arrived home, so this is the first chance I’ve had to phone. We’ll be leaving shortly, Harry thinks it’s best to drive overnight when there’s less traffic. See you when we arrive, Grandma. Bye.’
Grandma! Leila laid down the receiver and held her hands out to her husband and son. ‘What a wonderful time Christmas always is.’
***
Word count 1863
Sent to
People’s Friend
31.7.86 - rejected 10.9.86
Sent to the
Sunday Post
6.10.86 - rejected 17.10.86
This journal belongs to:
Paula Inglis, Date of Birth: 12 June 1969
14 Jamaica Close, Colour of Hair: Reddish brown
Forest Hill, Colour of Eyes: Blue
Aberfithie, Height: 5 feet 2 inches
Scotland, (in bare feet)
Great Britain,
Europe,
The World.
MONDAY 27th
I swear to keep this journal written up every day, in the hope that it will give future generations an insight into the life of a teenager in 1986. Not that anything exciting ever happens to me, but I keep hoping.
At the moment, I’m absolutely cheesed off with never getting out at nights, and that’s why I started writing this - to give me something to do. Mum hates being in the house by herself, and invents all kinds of excuses to make me stay at home.
For instance: ‘Why don’t you stay in tonight, Paula, and we can have a dressmaking session? There’s still that length of blue polyester we got at Milligan’s sale, remember?’
Or another for instance: ‘I’d be grateful for a hand to clean out some of the kitchen units. Would you mind … ?’
Or another for instance. ‘Could you sort out your wardrobe tonight, dear? The scouts are having a jumble sale and they’re collecting tomorrow.’
That’s the kind of thing, multiplied by dozens. I got so guilty about leaving her on her own that I started putting my friends off, and now they never ask me to go out with them, not even Tim. He’s my boyfriend, at least he was until he lost interest because I never knew if I’d be able to meet him or not. Mostly not. My social life has ground to a dismal halt.
If only Mum would start to go out again. But she won’t. She just says, ‘When I went to other people’s houses, it was always couples, and I felt the odd man out.’
I sympathise with her in a way. I can understand how she must feel, because Dad was a great one for socialising, and they went everywhere together. He was always there when Mike’s pals dropped in, or when my friends came round. He was young at heart and great fun, so they all used to enjoy an evening at our house.
I don’t know what went wrong between him and Mum. I was only fourteen when they were divorced, and Mum never speaks about it, but over the past three years I’ve watched her retreating further and further inside herself. It’s very sad, really.
My brother - that’s Mike, full name Michael - comes round every week with his wife, and they try to shake Mum out of her seclusion by asking her to their house to meet their friends, but she always says, ‘You don’t want an old fogey like me putting a damper on things.’ And she’s not that old - only just over forty.
Mike even brought Mr Dunne, his boss, round a few months ago. He’s an eligible bachelor; eligible because he’s in his forties, too, but she suspected Mike of matchmaking, and was quite offhand with the poor man. I’m pretty sure he likes her, though, because he comes round occasionally, and phones to ask her out, but she always refuses.
Back to my own life. I met Tim Reynolds this afternoon as I was coming home from work, and he told me there’s a former pupils’ disco on Friday. He asked if I would like to be his partner, though he must know I can’t. Mum would hate being left alone for so long. But it would have been fab dancing with Tim again.
I thought of asking someone to ‘Mum-sit’, but Mike and Lorraine have a dinner dance the same night, and they’re the only people who come here these days - except Mr Dunne, of course. When he calls, to cheer Mum up he says, I take the chance to slip along to Kerry’s for a chat, but she’s often out and I end up sitting with
her
mum. Not much of a change, is it?
TUESDAY 28th
Tried to talk to Mum last night about the disco, but she changed the subject before I got round to asking if I could go, just as if she knew what I was going to say. If I could only stand up for myself and make the break, she might accept it and untie the apron strings, or sever her lifeline, or whatever it is that makes her depend on me the way she does. The trouble is, it feels more like a heavy chain to me.
Every time I’ve ever suggested having a night out with Kerry, Mum looks at me with that pitiful, hurt expression that makes me feel like a monster, so I give up. I suppose I’m a coward, but I can’t cause her any more unhappiness than she’s had already.
I had a look at some gorgeous outfits in Milligan’s at lunchtime. If I walk to work the rest of the month, and take sandwiches instead of going to the little cafe next door to the office, I might just manage to afford the green seersucker pants and top. Kerry said that it would really suit me with my creamy skin and reddish hair. She’s my best friend, but I must admit I feel slightly jealous of her at times, out nearly every other night with one boy or another. She can’t really understand my problem.