meat with the precision of a surgeon and laying them down so that the slivers fan out against the fine white plates, the same ones that are on the table today. He doesn’t look at my mother or at Michael, who is in disgrace again, lonely and defiant.
‘I won’t come back again,’ he said, that day, and he hasn’t been back since, not even for my wedding. The strange thing is that my father and Michael are not unlike. What would my father have been like if he had not accepted, in the end, the weight of expectations that had been laid on him?
I look around the table and wonder if we are going to make it through today. Beside me, Paul is looking resigned. I see him catch his mother’s eye across the table, and they each raise a brow, in a delicate fashion.
B ERNARD HAS HAD little to say. His wife sits down beside him, at last. She is dressed in a white acrylic jersey and pants in honour of the day, but her top is splattered with grease from the turkey. He watches his father carving the bird, his hands itching to help, but he doesn’t dare make the offer.
‘What’s this?’ says his father, and holds up a little bubbling plastic bag on the tip of his knife.
‘Oh my God,’ says Edith, ‘the giblets, how did I forget those?’
‘Oh nooo,’ shrieks Joan. ‘It’ll be tainted.’
Bernard is glad that it’s not him who has discovered this; it almost makes him feel happy.
The turkey is edible, they all agree; really, if they hadn’t known, they’d never have guessed. They pass the wine, they make jokes, they pull crackers and find treasures and funny hats, which they put on. Edith’s Christmas pudding is what she describes as Very Old Christmas Pud, stiff with brandy and rum. It’s the kind that can be fried up and eaten with ice cream for a week or more afterwards.
The heat is rising, and the fan that Edith has provided is working hard to keep the temperature bearable.
‘Shouldn’t we drink a toast to Paul and Roberta’s baby?’
‘We’ve drunk enough toasts, if you ask me,’ says Glass.
‘One more or less won’t hurt,’ says Bernard. ‘Who votes on a toast for the baby?’
The room goes quiet, divided between father and son.
‘I reckon we should have a toast,’ says John Vance. ‘Yeah, let’s have a toast.’
Dorothy bangs her glass up and down on the table. Bernard fills her and John’s glasses and then, because it would be churlish to refuse, they all allow him to top them up.
‘To the baby,’ says Bernard.
‘To the baby,’ they echo, all except Roberta, who is holding her hands against her stomach in a nervous way, as if to protect the child. Wendy, sitting beside her, pats her arm, as if they know each other well. Roberta recoils from her touch. She has had nothing to say to Wendy all day.
‘You two can teach us a thing or two,’ says Bernard. ‘Eh, Orla? Have to tell us how it’s done.’
Roberta’s hand flutters to her throat.
‘We wondered if you’d be godparents,’ she says to Bernard and Orla, hoping that they will accept the compliment.
‘So there is going to be a christening,’ says Milton. There is another difficult silence.
Orla looks down at her plate. Milton laughs loudly to cover his embarrassment at his unintended gaffe.
‘You could have one for us, eh, Rob?’ Bernard says. ‘If it’s that easy.’ He flashes her one of his rare white smiles.
‘Stop it, Bernard,’ Orla whispers. ‘Please.’
‘Yes, stop it, Bernard,’ says Edith, ‘you’re embarrassing our guests.’
Orla pushes her chair back from the table, trying to escape, but she is hemmed in by Dorothy’s wheelchair. Trembling with rage, Glass brings his fists down in front of him, spilling red wine across the bright white linen.
That’s enough,’ he says. ‘That’s enough of all this.’
M ILTON AND F AY leave when they think nobody will notice, but Wendy does, following them out, chattering about the garden, the heat, about the lovely dinner they have all had,
‘I won’t come back again,’ he said, that day, and he hasn’t been back since, not even for my wedding. The strange thing is that my father and Michael are not unlike. What would my father have been like if he had not accepted, in the end, the weight of expectations that had been laid on him?
I look around the table and wonder if we are going to make it through today. Beside me, Paul is looking resigned. I see him catch his mother’s eye across the table, and they each raise a brow, in a delicate fashion.
B ERNARD HAS HAD little to say. His wife sits down beside him, at last. She is dressed in a white acrylic jersey and pants in honour of the day, but her top is splattered with grease from the turkey. He watches his father carving the bird, his hands itching to help, but he doesn’t dare make the offer.
‘What’s this?’ says his father, and holds up a little bubbling plastic bag on the tip of his knife.
‘Oh my God,’ says Edith, ‘the giblets, how did I forget those?’
‘Oh nooo,’ shrieks Joan. ‘It’ll be tainted.’
Bernard is glad that it’s not him who has discovered this; it almost makes him feel happy.
The turkey is edible, they all agree; really, if they hadn’t known, they’d never have guessed. They pass the wine, they make jokes, they pull crackers and find treasures and funny hats, which they put on. Edith’s Christmas pudding is what she describes as Very Old Christmas Pud, stiff with brandy and rum. It’s the kind that can be fried up and eaten with ice cream for a week or more afterwards.
The heat is rising, and the fan that Edith has provided is working hard to keep the temperature bearable.
‘Shouldn’t we drink a toast to Paul and Roberta’s baby?’
‘We’ve drunk enough toasts, if you ask me,’ says Glass.
‘One more or less won’t hurt,’ says Bernard. ‘Who votes on a toast for the baby?’
The room goes quiet, divided between father and son.
‘I reckon we should have a toast,’ says John Vance. ‘Yeah, let’s have a toast.’
Dorothy bangs her glass up and down on the table. Bernard fills her and John’s glasses and then, because it would be churlish to refuse, they all allow him to top them up.
‘To the baby,’ says Bernard.
‘To the baby,’ they echo, all except Roberta, who is holding her hands against her stomach in a nervous way, as if to protect the child. Wendy, sitting beside her, pats her arm, as if they know each other well. Roberta recoils from her touch. She has had nothing to say to Wendy all day.
‘You two can teach us a thing or two,’ says Bernard. ‘Eh, Orla? Have to tell us how it’s done.’
Roberta’s hand flutters to her throat.
‘We wondered if you’d be godparents,’ she says to Bernard and Orla, hoping that they will accept the compliment.
‘So there is going to be a christening,’ says Milton. There is another difficult silence.
Orla looks down at her plate. Milton laughs loudly to cover his embarrassment at his unintended gaffe.
‘You could have one for us, eh, Rob?’ Bernard says. ‘If it’s that easy.’ He flashes her one of his rare white smiles.
‘Stop it, Bernard,’ Orla whispers. ‘Please.’
‘Yes, stop it, Bernard,’ says Edith, ‘you’re embarrassing our guests.’
Orla pushes her chair back from the table, trying to escape, but she is hemmed in by Dorothy’s wheelchair. Trembling with rage, Glass brings his fists down in front of him, spilling red wine across the bright white linen.
That’s enough,’ he says. ‘That’s enough of all this.’
M ILTON AND F AY leave when they think nobody will notice, but Wendy does, following them out, chattering about the garden, the heat, about the lovely dinner they have all had,
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