Dolly's Mixture (20 page)

William, an individualist, was, unfortunately for me, a traditionalist where Christmas was concerned. Chas and I would have been content to laze the holiday away – the clearing up of the shop, the domestic chores, would have seemed a rest-cure with the shop doors locked to the public for three whole days. The large stores and multiples closed early on the Christmas Eve afternoon and this made Scannells' busier than ever in the late afternoon, for it seemed so many households had forgotten important Christmas items. It was usually 7 p.m. before we crawled slowly up the stairs.

‘Let's have a family Christmas now Dad's home,' William had said, ‘like the ones
you
had when you were my age.' My maternal conscience, abnormally large, pricked me when I remembered the trouble our mothers, Chas's and mine, had gone to so that the family could remember for ever their childhood yuletides. Well, I would make the effort, for once. I decided to invite Amy and Jimmy; they were both marvellous guests, Jimmy co-operative in the games, Amy discovering new games and throwing herself heart, mind and body into them. ‘A marvellous idea of William's,' said Marjorie. ‘I've got a good idea. Let's have Christmas Day with you, Amy and Jimmy can sleep here, and then we'll have another Christmas dinner and fun at our place on Boxing Day. It'll be lovely, just a walk across the road, no worry about travelling home by transport in the early hours.'

Suddenly everyone was imbued with the spirit of Christmas. ‘I'll make a real Christmas cake,' said Susan (she had had a marvellous cookery mistress at school), ‘we don't want
anything
shop bought.' I felt guilty. Marjorie, in spite of being so busy, still made her mincemeat, puddings etc., whereas I just threw on to the stairs, so that they didn't get sold at Christmas, boxes of mince pies, a couple of puddings, nuts already shelled.

I phoned Amy. ‘Oh, Dolly, how lovely, we
shall
enjoy it. I've got a marvellous book of Christmas games, I'll bring plenty of paper and pencils' (and peep at the answers beforehand, I thought). I dismissed my unsisterly thoughts, for I knew, of all people, she would make a Christmas for William and, indeed, for us all. ‘We must have turkey, mum, it's traditional,' said William. ‘You know I don't really like turkey,' moaned Chas, ‘I can't eat the brown meat.' He gave me a look which insinuated that, when we had such a bird, I always forced the legs on him. ‘Well, all right,' agreed Chas, ‘I don't mind if it's a hen bird. Let me talk to the butcher.' The butcher laughed as he delivered a large bird to us, ‘specially for Charlie who tells me he likes large, white, breasts'.

‘Don't give me that awful sage and onion stuffing, it gives me terrible indigestion. My mother used to make her own stuffing, it was lovely, why can't you do it?' Chas was being awkward, for, although I'd made up my mind for this real Christmas, I had been scheming the easiest way to it, ‘Chestnut stuffing is traditional,' this from William again. ‘Oh, I'd like that, but I don't suppose your mother could do it.' ‘Why do you go about letting everyone think I'm helpless?' I reprimanded Chas. ‘If you want chestnut stuffing, you shall have chestnut stuffing. Don't say anything to Marjorie, let it come as a surprise.' ‘Well, make sure the turkey is cooked just right, follow the instructions in the cookery book.' In addition to the instructions in my cook book, the week before Christmas, our old-tyme family Christmas that was to be, Chas presented me with ‘turkey cooking times' cuttings from newspapers, and yelled for me every time a TV cook appeared on the screen to inform the ignorant public with correct oven temperatures, and I got thoroughly fed up with talking turkey. Susan's cake, already in a special tin in the sideboard, was a perfect creation, and I felt proud that my daughter could achieve such a miracle. I bought an expensive, specially designed frill to put round it when it had pride of place on the Christmas tea table.

I was a bit perturbed when our Christmas greengrocery order arrived. There seemed endless bags of chestnuts. ‘Oh, there's a lot of waste, and you need a lot of chestnuts for stuffing,' the greengrocer assured me. He also said, proudly, ‘These are the real English ones.' ‘Don't worry, mum,' said William, ‘I'll help you peel them.' We sat round the kitchen table at 9 p.m. on Christmas Eve. William started on the first chestnut. ‘Cor, it's ever so tough to cut, mum.' We had the shop boning knives, the ones with the short, sharp, sloping blades, razor-like points at the end. The English chestnuts were smaller than the foreign ones, and their skins clung to them tightly; there was no little air-mound underneath the shiny brown skins, in which one could stab first, then lift up. William tried again; out came a spurt of blood. I put a plaster on his finger. He retired from the operation. The table was covered with chestnuts waiting for surgery. ‘I'm tired,' said Chas, coming in from the lounge. ‘I've done the books, I'll just have some hot milk and go to bed, then I shall be fresh for tomorrow.' ‘You can't beat English nuts,' he called out as he went upstairs. ‘You won't have a bad one among them, I guarantee.'

At midnight I was still struggling with the chestnuts. Such a small pile in the saucepan, for, once I'd got the outer coat off, there was still a furry sort of brown skin inside which Chas had instructed ‘will
all
have to come off'. I wanted to throw the lot away, but I couldn't, I didn't even have the excuse that they were all bad. If only Chas and William hadn't known about the nuts, I could pop downstairs for a packet of you-know-what, have a nice cup of coffee and go to bed. At 3 a.m. I decided the chestnuts were good enough. I already had plasters on two cut fingers. I put them on to boil, the chestnuts that is. If I pounded them that night, any brown bits would be mixed in and Chas would be unable to inspect them. I cleared away the debris; the chestnuts seemed to be taking an unconscionable time to get soft and I decided, suddenly wide awake, I would be the first to celebrate the festive season. I would have a drink. I went to the sideboard and poured myself a large sherry. I saw the tin holding Susan's beautiful cake. It would cheer me up to have another peep at it. I drank the sherry and poured a second one. Then I lifted the lid of the cake tin. Oh, it was lovely, I knew it contained nuts and cherries, the marzipan was real, made with ground almonds. Such a pity, I thought, that people really don't appreciate lovely Christmas cake at tea time on Christmas Day, they are all too full up with turkey, pudding and nuts.

Some evil spirit was abroad that Christmas Eve. It must have been something more than the demon drink. I cut a slice of the lovely cake and sat by the fire with my third sherry. I'd eaten half the slice, from the bottom, before I realised what a monstrous act I was committing. I trimmed off the part where I had bitten, filled half the gap in the big cake with paper shavings, and placed my half-eaten slice on top. I gently squeezed the icing together. If I put the cake on the Christmas table and cut a slice quickly, ready for someone to take, no one would ever know. There was a bit of an indent in the large cake, but I must be sure I was the one to present it to the admiring audience.

I woke on Christmas Day with a splitting headache. The sherry of course. The stuffing looked horrible, a greyish-brown mass, but ‘all good stuff' I assured myself, and bunged it into the bird. The turkey was in the oven before Chas rose. He busied himself about the shop. Susan made the table look lovely. Chas went over to Marjorie's for a drink. Amy and Jimmy were already there. ‘Dolly won't come, she wants to make sure everything is perfect for our lunch.' I really don't know how I basted the bird, it was so heavy. In the end I smothered the floor with thick newspapers, and myself in a shop overall, for it was really a question of dropping it as gently as I could to the floor. I really needed a strong man to help me back with it but, although I made a bit of a mess, I did manage to get it back into the oven. It was very brown and crisp-looking; I was afraid it would be overdone and I lowered the gas to wait for my guests.

They arrived happy and laughing, all wearing funny hats. Not the usual hats one gets from crackers, but real toy hats Alf had bought for our Christmas ‘spirit'. Chas was wearing a tiny policeman's hat, a real miniature model. There was a ringing at the shop door. Oh dear, surely someone was not visiting at lunch time? We'd have to offer them a drink, the turkey would be done to a cinder. Chas came back after ten minutes, alone. It was Nellie No Roof. She'd forgotten her husband's ham, could she have two ounces! Chas, the boy scout, had gone to the trouble of doing this for her, and was laughing, for Nellie had said it would be a bit of extra business for us at Christmas.

The turkey was on the table, vegetables hot in their dishes, gravy steaming, the family all loving and happy. Oh, Christmas was lovely, I was so glad I had taken the trouble I had. Marjorie placed on my head a tiny gold crown. We were all laughing at nothing. Alf was always the carver. A calm, capable chappie, always methodical; the long shop knife perfect for a perfect turkey. We cheered as he made his first incision. From this golden-brown bird shot a stream of red liquid, it bubbled up from its breast like the hot water from those New Zealand geysers. Except this wasn't hot water or steam. I went quickly to the kitchen. Perhaps I'd left the oven alight. ‘Dorotheeee,' screamed Chas. ‘What's all there 'ere, then?' Silence. ‘The bloody thing's not cooked, it's raw,' he yelled. I came back from the kitchen. ‘There must be something wrong with my oven,' I began. As Chas began a further round of recriminations, Alf, still calm, said, ‘Now, now, don't let's spoil our Christmas over a little thing like this.' I knew Chas would choke at the ‘little' adjective. ‘I'm sure I can carve enough that is done,' and he began to carve on the outer edges of the bird. ‘The legs are perfect,' he soothed. ‘I like the legs best of all,' said sweet Jimmy. I knew Chas had made up his mind not to have brown meat. ‘Next year, we'll have something different,' promised, or threatened, Chas. ‘Well, there's still the stuffing, it's chestnut,' I announced. ‘Oh, that sounds marvellous,' said Alf, and exposed the bird at its stuffing area. ‘Ugh, I don't fancy chestnut stuffing after all,' said William. ‘I didn't know it would be that reddish colour.' ‘These roast potatoes are lovely, Dolly,' said Marjorie. ‘No one can roast potatoes like your mum,' she said to Susan.

The men washed up. ‘I've got so many lovely games,' said Amy, ‘we'll begin when the men have finished and we've had coffee.' ‘And liqueurs,' I surprised them. I went upstairs to change into my Christmas suit. I thought the television a bit noisy, but there, no one could hear it but us, people both sides were away. Amy came to the bedroom. ‘Can you speak to William? We are ready for games and he has got
Moby Dick
on the telly.' ‘Oh, Amy, I did promise he could see that.' She looked annoyed and, gazing at my back, she said, ‘What's that, Dolly?' ‘It's the same sort of lump as I have in my leg,' I said. She gave me a strange look and said, ‘Dolly, I am very wary of lumps, I don't like them at all.' She went downstairs. I sat on the bed, now thoroughly depressed. Because Amy had worked not only in a chemist's shop but also at a hospital, I had endowed her with medical knowledge. This was it, then; I had it. I went downstairs on this happy Christmas afternoon in a state of utter gloom.

We sat silently through
Moby Dick
. Amy was cross. The men were asleep. ‘I don't think they are ready for games in any case,' I said, excusing myself for not turning off
Moby Dick
. But at last he came to an end and Chas suggested we have tea and then games. ‘Perhaps that would be better,' said Amy. ‘We can stay up all night if we wish.' Chas looked a bit horror-stricken at this remark and I thought, Oh, dear, I hope he's not going to be the next fly in the ointment. I went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. There was a blood-curdling scream from Susan. Whatever could have happened to her? I flew into the lounge.

Of course, engrossed with the troubles of the day, not the least my lumps, I had forgotten my cake manoeuvre. My half-eaten slice had fallen out as she lifted the cake out of its tin. She said, ‘Mum, how
could
you!' She was in tears. The company, now all wide awake, gazed at me as though I had committed the crime of all crimes. Charlie said sadly, ‘Whatever compelled you to do such a thing to Susan?' He was still wearing his policeman's hat and, feeling thoroughly miserable and ashamed, not knowing why I had done such a dreadful deed, I giggled. ‘Oh mum,' moaned Susan, ‘you spoil everything.' Marjorie, always for Susan, put her arms round her. ‘I'm sorry, Sue,' I said. This brought Susan back to normal. ‘You're not a bit sorry, mum, else why are you smiling.' ‘It
was
a lovely cake, Sue.' ‘Ooo, mum,' said Susan, ‘this is one thing you have done which I shall never, ever forget.'

We played games.

At this time Marjorie and Alfred decided they should opt out of their busy shop life and remove to the suburbs. On house-hunting expeditions three explorers are always better than two, and I accompanied them on early-closing day, but I threw myself with such eagerness into their search that at one time Marjorie remarked, with hurt dignity, when Alf and I were discussing the pros and cons of a chosen bungalow, ‘One would think it was
you
and Alf who were moving here,
I
just don't seem to be included in the discussions and decisions.' But I have always had two weaknesses – looking at new houses and buying up remnants of material. No needlewoman I, but materials fascinate me and I was always convinced that one day, when I retired, I would make all sorts of beautiful garments from the pieces I acquired like a magpie. Of course I never did and the materials either turned into dusters or cushion covers with the stitching coming undone, or cluttered up the wardrobe space.