five-year-old child can get over it, why can’t you?
‘How was Midnight Mass?’ Mrs O’Neill said as we gathered in their living room to open presents.
‘Same as usual,’ said Doll, straight out.
She’d always been much better at lying than me, keeping it simple, gambling on getting away with it, rather than making up a narrative to explain our absence in case any of the
congregation reported back on us.
I wondered if it was my guilt for going to the pub the previous evening instead of going to church that had subconsciously put the words into Mum’s mouth? Her presence still felt so
strong, I was strangely disorientated.
‘Which ones are my presents?’ asked Hope.
With money Dad had given me, I’d got Hope a CD player from him. I’d bought her a carol compilation. Santa Claus had got her a selection stocking, although he didn’t actually
visit our house or the O’Neills’ because we didn’t have chimneys: Hope was very literal-minded and the idea of a big man with a beard sneaking around at night frightened the life
out of her.
I’d got Dad some Homer Simpson socks from Hope and a bottle of Jameson’s from me, because that was the whiskey Mum always used to buy him. Dad seemed pleasantly surprised, as if he
hadn’t expected anything.
Then it was my turn to open the gift of dangly earrings from Accessorize that I’d bought from Hope for me.
‘Where’s your present for Tree?’ Hope asked Dad.
I probably should have realized I was meant to buy myself something from him too. I felt like an idiot for believing Mum’s exclamations of surprise when she opened his gift of cheap
perfume each year.
‘Well now,’ said my father, uncomfortably. ‘I didn’t really know what to get you, Tess, so you’ll be better off getting something for yourself.’
He stood up, took the money clip out of his back pocket and peeled off first five, then, aware of Mrs O’Neill watching him, a further five ten-pound notes, which was generous, but
I’d have preferred it if he’d thought of buying me a gift.
Mum always got me a diary, a normal A5 page-a-day from WHSmith which she customized with a fabric cover she embroidered with my name and the year. It was the first Christmas I hadn’t
received a diary since I was ten years old.
At lunch, there was a box of twelve crackers, which we never had at home because of the cost. After the shock of the initial bang, Hope became obsessed and went around the table insisting on
pulling every single one, collecting up all the little gifts in the pink handbag Doll had bought her, but allowing us, after a small debate, to keep our tissue crowns.
‘It’s what Christmas is all about, children, isn’t it?’ Mr O’Neill remarked, on several occasions, as if to remind himself.
Mrs O’Neill made turkey with all the trimmings, with extra little sausages for Hope, and, for dessert, her very own Ice Cream Factory, which was a tub of soft-scoop Cornish and a selection
of Smarties, jelly beans and chocolate buttons, because Mrs O’Neill had had enough little ones of her own to know that they didn’t always like Christmas pudding.
In the afternoon, Dad and Mr O’Neill went to the pub and Hope settled down with Mrs O’Neill in front of the big TV to watch the Disney film. After Doll and I had done the washing-up,
she suggested we go for a walk.
There was a pale, silver path across the water towards the wintry sun. When the colours were mistily muted like this, you could see why the town had attracted artists in its
heyday, including Turner himself. Nowadays, most of the Victorian villas where well-to-do Londoners used to enjoy their holidays had become old folk’s homes, or hostels for what everyone
referred to as ‘Care in the Community’, a motley collection of addicts and people with mental-health problems who wandered around the town during the day. Dingy loops of tinsel hung in
joyless windows.
There were a few other people out and about, walking off
‘How was Midnight Mass?’ Mrs O’Neill said as we gathered in their living room to open presents.
‘Same as usual,’ said Doll, straight out.
She’d always been much better at lying than me, keeping it simple, gambling on getting away with it, rather than making up a narrative to explain our absence in case any of the
congregation reported back on us.
I wondered if it was my guilt for going to the pub the previous evening instead of going to church that had subconsciously put the words into Mum’s mouth? Her presence still felt so
strong, I was strangely disorientated.
‘Which ones are my presents?’ asked Hope.
With money Dad had given me, I’d got Hope a CD player from him. I’d bought her a carol compilation. Santa Claus had got her a selection stocking, although he didn’t actually
visit our house or the O’Neills’ because we didn’t have chimneys: Hope was very literal-minded and the idea of a big man with a beard sneaking around at night frightened the life
out of her.
I’d got Dad some Homer Simpson socks from Hope and a bottle of Jameson’s from me, because that was the whiskey Mum always used to buy him. Dad seemed pleasantly surprised, as if he
hadn’t expected anything.
Then it was my turn to open the gift of dangly earrings from Accessorize that I’d bought from Hope for me.
‘Where’s your present for Tree?’ Hope asked Dad.
I probably should have realized I was meant to buy myself something from him too. I felt like an idiot for believing Mum’s exclamations of surprise when she opened his gift of cheap
perfume each year.
‘Well now,’ said my father, uncomfortably. ‘I didn’t really know what to get you, Tess, so you’ll be better off getting something for yourself.’
He stood up, took the money clip out of his back pocket and peeled off first five, then, aware of Mrs O’Neill watching him, a further five ten-pound notes, which was generous, but
I’d have preferred it if he’d thought of buying me a gift.
Mum always got me a diary, a normal A5 page-a-day from WHSmith which she customized with a fabric cover she embroidered with my name and the year. It was the first Christmas I hadn’t
received a diary since I was ten years old.
At lunch, there was a box of twelve crackers, which we never had at home because of the cost. After the shock of the initial bang, Hope became obsessed and went around the table insisting on
pulling every single one, collecting up all the little gifts in the pink handbag Doll had bought her, but allowing us, after a small debate, to keep our tissue crowns.
‘It’s what Christmas is all about, children, isn’t it?’ Mr O’Neill remarked, on several occasions, as if to remind himself.
Mrs O’Neill made turkey with all the trimmings, with extra little sausages for Hope, and, for dessert, her very own Ice Cream Factory, which was a tub of soft-scoop Cornish and a selection
of Smarties, jelly beans and chocolate buttons, because Mrs O’Neill had had enough little ones of her own to know that they didn’t always like Christmas pudding.
In the afternoon, Dad and Mr O’Neill went to the pub and Hope settled down with Mrs O’Neill in front of the big TV to watch the Disney film. After Doll and I had done the washing-up,
she suggested we go for a walk.
There was a pale, silver path across the water towards the wintry sun. When the colours were mistily muted like this, you could see why the town had attracted artists in its
heyday, including Turner himself. Nowadays, most of the Victorian villas where well-to-do Londoners used to enjoy their holidays had become old folk’s homes, or hostels for what everyone
referred to as ‘Care in the Community’, a motley collection of addicts and people with mental-health problems who wandered around the town during the day. Dingy loops of tinsel hung in
joyless windows.
There were a few other people out and about, walking off
Similar Books
