Widows & Orphans (28 page)

‘Those kids must be really sick if they thought you were Father Christmas.'

‘I remember when you were young –'

‘Oh no!' Jamie said, pulling a pillow over his face.

‘You must have been five or six,' Duncan said, gently lifting off Jamie's fingers. ‘Some bright spark at primary school had told you that Father Christmas was a made-up person – at least that was how you put it to us later. We managed to convince you he was wrong.'

‘See, you were lying to me even then!'

‘But the next morning when you opened your presents, you looked at your mother wide-eyed and asked: “Why does Father Christmas use the same wrapping paper as you?”'

‘I'm tired, Dad. What does it matter?'

‘It matters because you're my son. I like to remember the funny things you used to say.'

‘Get a life!'

Duncan felt a rush of gratitude that Jamie was here with him and not in Antigua or, worse, the Princess Royal. He bent to kiss the crown of his head and for once Jamie didn't flinch. Bone-weary, he prepared for bed where, despite telling himself that Christmas was not a time for introspection, he was tormented by the thought of everything that he might have done to preserve the
Mercury
for his son. Sleep, when it finally came, brought no relief since he was plunged into a nightmare where the money tree in his office shot up like a pantomime beanstalk, filling the entire building and forcing him to transfer the archives to Geoffrey's sex museum on the pier. In order to consult them, he had to stand in a line of seedy-looking men, only to be told on reaching the turnstile that he could not be admitted until he was eighteen. ‘I'm forty-eight!' he protested in an unconvincing treble. The next moment the museum was engulfed in flames and he woke up trembling. Since it was almost seven, he crept into the kitchen where he sat with a pot of Earl Grey, listening to Berlioz's
L'Enfance du Christ
on the radio. At 8.30 Jamie walked in, the buttons of his pyjama jacket touchingly misaligned, and gave him his first unsolicited kiss in years.

‘Orange juice?' Duncan asked, not trusting himself to say more.

‘Presents!' Jamie replied, a child again if only for one day.

‘Just a moment.' Duncan went to his bedroom, returning with a parcel that he handed to Jamie, who ripped it open, indifferent to the inept wrapping.

‘But these are the ones, Dad!' he said, rubbing a pair of trainers against his cheeks. ‘The new Lebron X. You're a star!'

‘You're very welcome.'

‘They cost a shitload of cash.' Jamie looked anxious. ‘Are you sure you can afford them?'

‘I've kept the receipt. If it were me, I'd get a refund, buy a cheaper pair and spend the difference on something else.'

‘No way! These are the best. Just wait till I text Craig.' He rushed to his room, returning not with the expected phone but with a parcel. ‘This is for you.'

‘Thanks very much. You're a far better wrapper than I am.' Jamie laughed. Duncan pulled the paper off a small book, struggling to sustain his smile as he read out the title. ‘
Le Mot Juste
.'

‘Have you got it already?'

‘No, not at all. I'm delighted.'

‘It's a dictionary of loads of foreign and old-fashioned phrases. Mum suggested it.'

‘I thought so,' Duncan said, wondering if she had meant it as a joke or a rebuke. ‘She told me you'd set your heart on the trainers too, so she's done us both a favour.'

At 11.30, with Jamie proudly wearing his new trainers, they drove to Ridgemount to be greeted by Chris, flaunting a flashing bow tie and a Michelangelo's
David
apron, the muscular torso taut across his flabby chest. Duncan handed him a bottle of whisky and nudged Jamie to do the same with the box of chocolates that he had bought on his behalf.

‘Happy Christmas,' Jamie said, looking at his feet.

‘I didn't expect … You shouldn't have spent your money on me. I'm sorry,' Chris said, rubbing his eyes. ‘Too much cooking sherry!' He scurried back to the kitchen.

‘Was he crying?'

‘He was touched. What did I tell you?'

‘What a dork!'

They entered the sitting room where Duncan curbed an impulse to switch off the lights, which were all on despite the clear blue sky and string of Victorian lanterns on the Christmas tree. The tree, neatly trimmed with woodland fairies and red-and-gold glass baubles, was the only seasonal decoration apart from a solitary row of cards, two of which came from his mother's hairdresser and dentist, the latter instantly identifiable by the sketch of Santa drilling Rudolph's teeth.
Chastened by the reminder of her dwindling acquaintance, he planted a kiss on her forehead and gave her his present, which, after effusive thanks, she asked him to place under the tree, where it was dwarfed in both size and splendour by the elegant packages from Alison, Malcolm and their sons.

‘Happy Christmas, Granny,' Jamie said, brushing his lips against a cheek that he had just described as ‘soggy', and handing her his gift.

‘Is this for me, darling? How naughty! I told you last week that having you here for Christmas was the only present I wanted. Now I have a little something for you.' She gave them each an envelope.

Jamie tore his open as if expecting a cheque. ‘A book token! That's great, Granny … Will you buy it off me?' he mouthed at Duncan.

‘I think I've got one too,' Duncan said quickly. ‘No, what is it?' He took out a card. ‘An IOU?'

‘You're always so impossible to buy for. I'd rather you chose something special for yourself. On my account.'

‘Thank you, Mother.'

While Duncan poured drinks and Jamie inspected the pile of parcels, Adele relayed greetings from Alison and Malcolm, who were spending the day with their neighbours in Oxfordshire, one of whom, as she never tired of repeating, used to play polo with the Prince of Wales. Duncan passed Jamie a bowl of peanuts, which he proceeded to toss in the air and catch in his mouth, until Adele asked with glacial sweetness if he were training for a job in the circus.

‘Maybe.'

‘Why are you sitting so far away? Come somewhere I can see you!' Jamie lumbered across the ancient carpet to a chair by her side. ‘That's better. Now be honest. Wouldn't you rather be here than halfway across the world? A barbecue at Christmas isn't natural.'

‘It's great,' Jamie muttered.

‘So tell your old Granny all the exciting things you've been doing.'

‘None.'

‘God blessed you with the power of speech, darling. You needn't be so monosyllabic.'

‘Antidisestablishmentarianism.'

‘What?'

‘Saved by the bell!' Duncan said, as a sharp ring interrupted the exchange. ‘That'll be them. Now remember both of you, best behaviour!'

‘That's telling us,' Adele said.

‘They're the guests. They're the ones who should behave,' Jamie said.

Duncan hurried into the hall, narrowly missing Chris. ‘I'll get it. I hope you'll join us for a drink before lunch.'

‘A woman's work is never done.' Chris scratched a sculpted pectoral as he returned to the kitchen.

Duncan opened the front door to reveal Ellen, with Barbara and Neil on the step below. Refusing to let her mother's presence inhibit him, he kissed Ellen full on the lips. ‘You look lovely,' he said, charmed by the blush on her cold cheeks.

‘Happy Christmas,' she said, the blush spreading.

‘How are you, Neil?' he asked, squeezing his shoulder. ‘Happy Christmas.'

‘Can I come inside?' Neil said gruffly.

‘Yes of course,' Duncan replied, taken aback.

‘He's missing his sister,' Ellen said.

‘I am not! It's so not fair that she's in Antigua while I'm stuck here.'

‘You should talk to Jamie,' Duncan said, eager to foster any bond between them, however negative. ‘Hello, I'm Duncan.' He held out a hand to Barbara, who ponderously removed a mitten to shake it.

‘Barbara,' she replied curtly.

‘Delighted to meet you,' he said, determined to allay her
remaining doubts about his motives. ‘Please come in.' He led them into the sitting room, trusting that his mother would not notice or, at any rate, comment on the pink streak in Barbara's raven hair.

‘It's very kind of you to ask us,' Barbara said on being introduced to Adele. ‘I'm sure you'd rather have been alone with your family.'

‘Not at all. We have a long tradition of inviting waifs and strays. Lovely to see you again, my dear,' Adele said to Ellen. ‘It's the first time Duncan has brought one of his lady friends here since Linda.'

‘No pressure there then,' Duncan said.

‘I'll take it as a compliment,' Ellen said to Adele.

‘This is Neil, Mother.'

‘A pleasure. Oh, what icy hands! Are you a friend of Jamie's?'

‘No,' Jamie and Neil replied in involuntary unison.

Barbara extracted a small picture from her shopping bag and gave it to Adele. ‘I've brought you this. I don't believe in wrapping. Did you know that in Britain alone we produced 40,000 tons of extra paper waste last Christmas?'

Duncan shot a glance at Ellen, who raised her eyebrows.

‘A painting! How exciting,' Adele replied, oblivious to Barbara's indignation. ‘Where are my glasses?' She picked them up off her work basket. ‘It's a cliff.'

‘Durdle Door in Dorset.'

‘And it's on glass. How unusual! Have you seen, Duncan?'

‘Yes, Mother. It's beautiful.'

‘It's one of mine,' Barbara said.

‘Really? But won't you miss it? Or are you, in that wretched phrase, “downsizing”?'

‘I painted it!' Barbara replied fiercely.

‘You did? How silly of me! You never told me we had an artist coming, Duncan.'

‘Barbara has a gallery,' Neil said.

‘Who's Barbara? Oh yes, of course. He calls you Barbara?'

‘It's my name. What else should he call me?'

‘Granny.'

‘That's not a name; it's a label.'

‘Oh dear. I'm afraid I'm an old stick-in-the-mud but I rather like labels, don't I, darling?' Adele appealed to Jamie.

‘Yes, Granny.'

‘Won't you all sit down while I see to drinks?' Duncan asked, suspecting that his fears about the two boys' animosity would have been better directed at their grandmothers.

‘I have presents for you and Neil,' he told Ellen, as he poured her a glass of sherry.

‘I hope you've stuck to the £10 rule.'

‘Not entirely,' he admitted, picturing the lavish perfume bottle in his bag.

‘Me neither,' she said with a smile.

‘Have you always been an artist?' Adele asked Barbara.

‘That's another label I try to avoid. I believe we're all artists. Just that some of us are lucky enough to be given the opportunities.'

‘And the talent,' Adele replied tartly.

‘Barbara used to be a hippie,' Neil said.

‘Really?' Adele said. ‘You warned me that she was a vegetarian, Duncan. I'd no idea she had so many other distinctions.'

‘You make it sound like play-acting,' Barbara said to Neil. ‘I was part of a Utopian community. We were out to create a new world. It was the late Sixties.' She turned back to Adele. ‘You'll remember: Grow your own; make your own; build your own! The personal is political.'

‘Not in Francombe,' Adele replied with a shudder.

‘Very wise,' Ellen said. ‘Like every other Utopia, somebody always ends up left out.' Duncan wondered whether she were alluding to her father or herself.

‘Sometimes I see my parents in you so clearly,' Barbara said.

‘For those of you who don't know, that's a bad thing,' Ellen
explained. ‘Moving swiftly on, did Rose get off all right, Jamie?'

‘Expect so.'

‘Such a brave little thing,' Adele said. ‘I don't know how I'd have managed if she'd been mine.'

‘You'd have put her in a home, Mother,' Duncan said, to his instant regret.

‘You can be very hard, Duncan,' Adele replied. ‘Jamie, please don't monopolise those nuts.'

‘Her mum's put her in a home,' Neil said. ‘She's taken my sister instead.'

‘That's not true!' Jamie said. ‘The journey's too much for Rose. Any case, my mum needs a rest.'

‘She didn't take you either,' Neil said to Jamie.

‘I wanted to stay with my dad.'

‘That's not what I heard.'

‘That's enough now, Neil,' Ellen said. ‘I don't know what's got into you. It's Christmas.'

‘You mustn't blame him,' Adele said smoothly. ‘Christmas can be so hard when your parents are divorced. Divided loyalties. Having to choose who to spend it with.'

‘Neil doesn't have much choice,' Jamie said.

‘Jamie…' Duncan warned him.

‘It's a time when all the problems of a broken marriage come to a head,' Adele said, leaving Duncan uncertain whether she had conveniently forgotten her own parents' divorce or held that her father's genius made it a special case. ‘My husband and I were together for twenty-five years. He died two months before our silver wedding anniversary. Of course we had our ups and downs. Who doesn't? But we worked through them. Nowadays, marriage is as instantly disposable as everything else. We might as well be Jews – or is it Arabs? – “I divorce thee; I divorce thee; I divorce thee.” And it's the children who suffer. No continuity in their lives; no real sense of their place in the world.' She turned to Jamie and Neil. ‘My heart bleeds for you both.'

‘Stop it, Granny, please,' Jamie said, squirming.

‘Yes, stop it, Mother,' Duncan said. ‘Surely it's better for children to grow up seeing their parents happy than stuck in a miserable marriage for the sake of appearances?'