Gail Aldwin
egg nog
I
tie the cord of my dressing gown. I’ve grown so much the sleeves come right up
to my elbows. Mummy says it doesn’t matter that it’s a bit small, it’s not as
if I’m going to wear it outside for the neighbours to see. Walking down a
couple of stairs, I loop the fraying edge of the carpet around my toes. The
fourth step’s warm from the pipes underneath and I stand, listening for the
gurgle from the boiler. There’s a smell of burnt toast coming from the kitchen.
Mummy says bugger and the sash window judders – I bet she’s scraping the bread
and tipping the black crumbs outside. This happens quite often in our house.
There’s no school this week so me and
Paul are taking it easy. He’s reading a comic in bed but Mummy has to get up
because there’s Daddy to look after. It’s not long until he leaves for work. The
coins in his jacket clink as he swings it off the back on his chair and he
finds his coat hanging on the stand. He sees me on the stairs but he doesn’t
say anything – he nods at me and calls goodbye to Mummy. Now I know it’s safe
to go all the way down.
The door to the lounge is closed. This
is unusual, we don’t normally shut doors in our house. Grandma says we ought to
be ashamed of ourselves for all the heat we waste, but when she’s not around,
Mummy says it doesn’t matter and that they’re more important things to worry
about. I push the door and peak inside. The Christmas tree’s in the corner and
a few bits of foil twinkle. Switching on the light, I see the floor’s covered with
carrier bags, and tissue paper, ribbon and felt. There’s one green bag with
gold writing from Marks and Spencer. Lined up by the wall are a couple of baskets.
Paul is written in red letters on one, the other says Sus, that must be for me,
it’s meant to say Susan. There’s some folded clothes, it looks like a pink
jumper and there are two pairs of socks turned into balls. White socks, long
ones, they must be for me. I’ve been praying for white socks, I’m sick of
getting teased for wearing my brother’s old grey ones. My heart thumps in my
chest. I know I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be looking. There’s been some kind
of mistake. It isn’t Christmas for another two days. I swallow down the lump in
my throat and shut the door.
On the kitchen table, the toast rack’s
empty, but the cereal box is open. Yesterday Paul found the plastic toy but he
didn’t eat any crispies, he had porridge. I told Mummy it wasn’t fair, you’ve
got to eat the crispies to get the prize, but she said not to fuss and that
life’s not fair. Mummy’s sitting on a stool over by the oven and the door’s
wide open, making the room warm. The washing’s hanging from the ceiling on
something called a Sheila’s maid. I’m glad it’s not called a Susan’s maid. Mist
covers the windows and I draw a flower to decorate the space, drips running
down my finger.
‘Time for breakfast.’ Mummy closes
the book. ‘Go and get Paul. Tell him to come down right away.’
In our room, my bed is against the
short wall, and Paul’s is against the long wall. At night, light peeps through
the slit in the curtains and I can see him. Sometimes we whisper to each other,
if he’s awake and I’m awake. If there’s a row going on downstairs and you can’t
sleep through that. Mummy says it’s the drink that makes Daddy shout and when
that happens I curl-up like a snail, pull the covers around my neck and stare
into space. I like to know where my knees and my legs are, it doesn’t do to
spread. You don’t keep warm when you spread.
Paul throws back the cover and jumps
into his slippers now that there’s food to be had. He rushes downstairs still
reading his comic. I don’t know how he does that without bumping into something.
The door to the lounge is still closed, but Paul doesn’t notice there’s anything
strange. I’m sorry that I looked in. Mummy says when you’ve done something
wrong it’s best to own up but I’m not so sure. I usually keep quiet when
something’s gone wrong and I’m under suspicion. This makes Daddy angry and he
shakes his fist. When I cry Mummy hugs me and then she sends me off to bed with
a prod. It’s strange going to bed in the middle of the day.
In my bowl is a mountain of crispies
and a moat of milk. I pour sugar from the shaker and make a crust on top. Grandma
hisses whenever she sees how much sugar I take but Mummy says I’ve got a sweet
tooth, just like her. Paul’s still reading the comic, the pages shake when he
laughs and his shoulders go up and down. Swinging my legs, I tap the tiles on
the floor and try not to hit the cracks. The flower I drew on the window has
disappeared into a stripey mess.
I
finish my breakfast and I look around for Mummy but she’s not in the kitchen. I
slosh my empty dish around in the washing up water and lean across the sink to
reach for the mop with the shaggy head. Once I’ve finished, I turn the bowl
upside down on the draining board. I rub the spoon and check it’s clean by staring
into the shiny bit. In the reflection, I see
my cheeks are puffed like a gerbil’s, and my fringe covers my eyes.
‘You’re looking at yourself again.’ says
Paul.
‘No.’ I put the spoon in the cutlery drawer.
Mummy rushes into the room, the flares
on her trousers flapping. I wish I had a trouser suit like that. It’s purple
with a tunic that goes right up to her neck. Daddy ordered it from the
catalogue especially for Christmas, but he’s let her wear it a few times
already.
‘Have either of you been in the lounge
this morning?’ Mummy holds her forehead in her hand.
‘Not yet,’ says Paul. ‘But I want to
watch the telly later.’
I squeeze the dishcloth and the droplets
splatter.
‘What about you Susan?’
I get busy cleaning up.
‘Have you been into the front room?’
‘No.’ I look at the taps when I answer.
‘That’s good,’ she says. ‘Just give me a
few minutes, then you can watch telly all day if you want to. Special treat for
Christmas.’
‘Yippee,’ says Paul.
‘Oh.’ I wonder what has happened to all
the special things on the floor.
‘You better get dressed,’ says Mummy.
The lounge door’s open when we come back
downstairs and everything’s tidy. The curtains are open and the lights on the
tree flash. But there’s no clothes, no white socks anywhere. They’ve gone,
they’ve vanished. I hope I haven’t spoilt our Christmas and that they’ll be no
presents for anyone. Perhaps it’s my fault. I walk up the stairs, tears
dripping from my eyes. Beside my pillow I find Blue Ted, we sit on the floor
and I squeeze him so tight that I can’t breath.
Daddy’s in a good mood when he gets home.
He says he’s only got one more day to work until he has a well earned rest. Hugging
Mummy, he tucks his neck onto her shoulder and he dances with her, shuffling
from side to side. She giggles, his whiskers are tickling, she says. They
cuddle for a bit, then Daddy sees me staring, and he lets go of Mummy. They
stand holding hands, like they’re going to play ring-a-ring-a-roses.
‘I’ve got more good news for you Alan,’
Mummy says. ‘A card arrived from my mother today.’ She nods towards the one
with three camels on it. Daddy walks to the mantlepiece. He doesn’t even look
at the picture, he’s more interested in the piece of paper that falls out.
‘D’you think that’s enough to pay for everything?’ Daddy nods and puts the
paper in his wallet. ‘It’s a relief, isn’t it? Now we can enjoy Christmas
without worrying.’ Daddy says yes and
asks if the kettle’s boiled.
On Christmas morning, we’re not allowed
out of our room until its seven o’clock. Paul’s in charge of the time, and I
have to wait until he says it’s okay to look for our presents. I huddle in my
bed while Paul chatters about the Scalextric he hopes he’ll get. Maybe I
imagined seeing the room all covered with papers and the presents. Perhaps it
was a dream. My heart pumps as the hand
on the clock moves closer and when Paul shouts we race along the passage.
‘Wow,’ he says. ‘There’s a great big box
under the tree. I bet that’s for me.’
Mummy and Daddy follow us into the
lounge. We can open the gifts from Father Christmas, but not the ones under the
tree. Not yet, anyway. Mummy passes me a pink pillowcase and Paul has the blue
one. There’s lots of lumpy things inside, and I pull out the basket first. The
red letters say Susan, that’s better, I think.
‘What’s this for?’ Paul takes his out.
‘It’s a waste paper basket,’ says Mummy.
‘Not many children have their own, peronsalised waste paper basket. You can put
your rubbish in there. Drawings that you don’t want anymore, sweet wrappers,
things like that.’
‘That’ll be useful,’ says Paul.
Inside my basket there’s another present,
tied with ribbon. I undo the bow and the paper falls open. I see the socks. The
same ones from the other day. Long and white.
‘Do you like them?’ asks Mummy.
‘Yes.’
I cross my arms and hold them next to my heart. ‘They’re just what I
wanted.’
‘Funny how Father Christmas always knows
what you want,’ says Mummy. Daddy’s laughing and coughing at the same time. She
gives him a little tap on the wrist and he becomes quiet. I open another
present, and there’s my pink jumper. I’m pleased and confused. Nothing’s a
surprise.
‘What’s up?’ says Mummy. ‘You look sad.’
‘I’m not sad.’
‘She’s always been ungrateful, that
little cow,’ says Daddy.
I feel the tears coming and Mummy
strokes my cheek.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ she asks.
‘Nothing.’ I gulp. ‘But are you sure all
these things come from Father Christmas?’
