finds herself at a loss as to how to switch the talk away from religion. Even Edith looks surprised by her friend’s behaviour.
‘Time to sit down,’ she says loudly. Edith waves a glass in the direction of the table.
‘Must dash,’ says Wendy, ‘got to earn my keep. You know, help with the dinner.’ She vanishes to the kitchen, accompanied by Orla, the Nichols’ daughter-in-law, whom Fay also thinks is odd.
They shuffle around finding chairs. Place names would have been a help, Fay thinks, pleased to have something to get her teeth into. It is hard to see how they will arrange themselves and, just as she expected, they are all sitting down according to couples. Joan and Arch’s two children are a lumpy pair. Sally looks sullen; she has been seeing a young man with whom she had expected to spend Christmas, but his family haven’t invited her. Her brother, John, looks simple, Fay thinks.
Finally, most of them are seated — the Nichols, the Cooksleys, the Vances, and Wendy. One place is unoccupied.
‘Who’s sitting there, Mum?’ asks Roberta.
Edith looks perplexed. ‘Well, for the life of me I can’t think, dear. I must have set one place too many.’
‘Shall I take it away?’ Roberta asks. ‘Make more room?’
‘You do take up room enough for two,’ cries Joan, and everyone laughs. Roberta is flushed and heavy, as if the baby is much closer than its expected arrival date in late February.
Orla and Wendy are bringing out dishes of roast vegetables — kumara and pumpkin and new potatoes — and small green peas, along with the accompaniments, as Orla calls them, the gravy and cranberry sauce, placing them around the table among the sprigs of holly. Real holly.
Now is the moment for Orla to appear with the turkey, so large that it looks more like a pig off a spit. It is garnished with chipolata sausages. Fay makes a mental note of this to describe to her friends.
‘I’m glad it’s your turn, Edith,’ says Joan. ‘Just you wait, girls,’ she says, addressing Sally and Roberta, ‘sooner or later every housewife and mother has to cook the Christmas turkey.’
There is a commotion outside, and voices on the verandah.
‘That’s Kaye,’ says Glass. ‘What’s she doing here?’
‘Oh my goodness, so it is,’ says Edith. ‘Well, it’s just as well we hadn’t started. She must have brought Dorothy.’
‘I thought Dorothy was going to Kaye and Frank’s,’ says Glass sharply. Kaye and Frank are another Nichols sister and brother- in-law , a couple with whom they never share Christmas.
‘No, I did ask her, I think.’
‘There is a flurry as the men are ordered out to help bring up Dorothy’s wheelchair. Dorothy tries to manoeuvre herself up the steps, but she can’t lift her legs high enough. Eventually, somebody brings her a chair, and Bernard and John lift her, sitting up straight, into the dining room.
‘Well,’ says Edith, when they are all seated again, ‘Fancy that. Happy Christmas, Dorothy. I knew I must have put that place there for somebody, but I’m blowed if I could think who it was.’
This is so calculated an insult that nobody can miss it except, mercifully, Dorothy herself. She is so pleased to be out of her resthome for the day that she doesn’t seem to notice.
‘The stuffing’s made with chestnuts,’ says Edith. She reaches over, picks at a small piece oozing from beneath the parson’s nose and tries it. ‘Mmmm,’ she pronounces, ‘you’ll like this. Pass me the wine, someone, and let’s drink to Christmas.’
Glass, his lips tight, picks up the knife, and begins to carve the turkey.
I HAVE THIS image of my family, the last time we were all together for Christmas.
My mother, indifferent and unreachable, sits leaning her head on one hand, thin silver bracelets dangling from her wrist, an empty glass hanging by its stem from her other hand. Michael is there, the brother I love best. My father, in an almost feminine way, is carving pieces of
‘Time to sit down,’ she says loudly. Edith waves a glass in the direction of the table.
‘Must dash,’ says Wendy, ‘got to earn my keep. You know, help with the dinner.’ She vanishes to the kitchen, accompanied by Orla, the Nichols’ daughter-in-law, whom Fay also thinks is odd.
They shuffle around finding chairs. Place names would have been a help, Fay thinks, pleased to have something to get her teeth into. It is hard to see how they will arrange themselves and, just as she expected, they are all sitting down according to couples. Joan and Arch’s two children are a lumpy pair. Sally looks sullen; she has been seeing a young man with whom she had expected to spend Christmas, but his family haven’t invited her. Her brother, John, looks simple, Fay thinks.
Finally, most of them are seated — the Nichols, the Cooksleys, the Vances, and Wendy. One place is unoccupied.
‘Who’s sitting there, Mum?’ asks Roberta.
Edith looks perplexed. ‘Well, for the life of me I can’t think, dear. I must have set one place too many.’
‘Shall I take it away?’ Roberta asks. ‘Make more room?’
‘You do take up room enough for two,’ cries Joan, and everyone laughs. Roberta is flushed and heavy, as if the baby is much closer than its expected arrival date in late February.
Orla and Wendy are bringing out dishes of roast vegetables — kumara and pumpkin and new potatoes — and small green peas, along with the accompaniments, as Orla calls them, the gravy and cranberry sauce, placing them around the table among the sprigs of holly. Real holly.
Now is the moment for Orla to appear with the turkey, so large that it looks more like a pig off a spit. It is garnished with chipolata sausages. Fay makes a mental note of this to describe to her friends.
‘I’m glad it’s your turn, Edith,’ says Joan. ‘Just you wait, girls,’ she says, addressing Sally and Roberta, ‘sooner or later every housewife and mother has to cook the Christmas turkey.’
There is a commotion outside, and voices on the verandah.
‘That’s Kaye,’ says Glass. ‘What’s she doing here?’
‘Oh my goodness, so it is,’ says Edith. ‘Well, it’s just as well we hadn’t started. She must have brought Dorothy.’
‘I thought Dorothy was going to Kaye and Frank’s,’ says Glass sharply. Kaye and Frank are another Nichols sister and brother- in-law , a couple with whom they never share Christmas.
‘No, I did ask her, I think.’
‘There is a flurry as the men are ordered out to help bring up Dorothy’s wheelchair. Dorothy tries to manoeuvre herself up the steps, but she can’t lift her legs high enough. Eventually, somebody brings her a chair, and Bernard and John lift her, sitting up straight, into the dining room.
‘Well,’ says Edith, when they are all seated again, ‘Fancy that. Happy Christmas, Dorothy. I knew I must have put that place there for somebody, but I’m blowed if I could think who it was.’
This is so calculated an insult that nobody can miss it except, mercifully, Dorothy herself. She is so pleased to be out of her resthome for the day that she doesn’t seem to notice.
‘The stuffing’s made with chestnuts,’ says Edith. She reaches over, picks at a small piece oozing from beneath the parson’s nose and tries it. ‘Mmmm,’ she pronounces, ‘you’ll like this. Pass me the wine, someone, and let’s drink to Christmas.’
Glass, his lips tight, picks up the knife, and begins to carve the turkey.
I HAVE THIS image of my family, the last time we were all together for Christmas.
My mother, indifferent and unreachable, sits leaning her head on one hand, thin silver bracelets dangling from her wrist, an empty glass hanging by its stem from her other hand. Michael is there, the brother I love best. My father, in an almost feminine way, is carving pieces of
Similar Books
