But Eva couldn’t stop.
‘Poultry supervisor says must queue from four a.m. to guarantee getting a turkey. Stagger outside with bags, cannot find car, ring police to report stolen car, then remember just before police arrive that came by taxi, ring taxi firm for return journey, harassed-sounding man says, “Not a chance, we’re fully booked for office parties.” Ring friends, they have all had a drink, ring relatives, Ruby says, “It’s eleven thirty. How can I help? I haven’t got a car.” Phone runs out of battery, hurl it in temper into prickly car-park bush. Calm down and search for phone. Find phone but scratched and bleeding from search. Eventually husband reports you missing, police say they will keep an eye out, patrol car delivers you home at one thirty a.m. Snatch two hours’ sleep before driving car to Marks & Spencer to join queue. At four a.m. nineteenth in queue. Dressed turkey’s gone, no choice but to buy undressed turkey with head, neck and claws attached. Its eyes stare at you with unbearable sadness, you apologise to it – in your mind, you think. Actually, you have spoken aloud, and people around you think you are a madwoman because you said, “I’m so sorry, turkey, that you had to be murdered for the sake of tradition.”‘
Brian gave a deep sigh and said, ‘Eva, Eva, Eva.’
‘Are about to drive home when remember have to queue for latest device. Drive to Currys to find queue already snaking round car park. To join it or not – that is the question. While try to decide, fall asleep at wheel of car causing very slight damage to Renault in front of you. Renault driver reacts badly, as though you have injured his children and killed his dog Swap insurance details then realise insurance out of date. Decide to join queue and suffer the unbearable tension of wondering if Currys will run out of devices before you reach the front door. Manage to get to counter before must-have gadgets sell out. Try to pay, card rejected by machine, given lecture by twelve-year-old cashier who says, “If you keep it loose in your bag, it’s bound to get scratched. Why didn’t you keep it in the cardholder compartment in your purse?” Tell child that I will be as disorganised as I want to be. She says, “Do you have another card?” Say, ‘Yes,” and forage inside bra cups, searching for other card. Give it to cashier who says card is warm, won’t work until is cold. We wait and wait. People in queue behind protest loudly at delay. Shout at queue, queue shouts back, supervisor brings tray of mini mince pies to placate cold and tired customers. Man chokes on raisin inside mince pie. Eventually, card is cool enough to insert into machine and is declined for purchase of must-have gadgets.’
Eva started to cry.
Brian took her hand and said, ‘Eva, darling, I had no idea. Why didn’t you say? I didn’t want that bloody iPhone 4, it’s been in a drawer since Boxing Day.’
But Eva was inconsolable. ‘Beg cashier to try one more time. She does – but mutters under her breath – think she used the f-word, this against Currys policy. Tell her so, consider making formal complaint, but brain and mouth not working, so let it go. Machine accepts card, weep with relief. Drive home with turkey and must-have gadgets on passenger seat, held secure with seatbelt. Return home and, through fog of anxiety and sleep deprivation, unpack turkey, leave on kitchen table. Drag stepladder up cellar stairs, untangle fairy lights, drape along picture rails, start with artistic plan in head, end with fairy lights thrown over any ledge or surface. Bulbs go, search for replacements. Ask for help to decorate the tree. Twins and Brian traumatised by the sadness in turkey’s eyes and claim to be incapable of movement, swear they will never touch any kind of meat again. Cross pork joint and gammon off Christmas food list. Go into kitchen, find next-door’s cat mauling turkey’s head, turkey’s eyes expressing woes of world. For once don’t hit cat with wooden spoon but usher cat and turkey head outside. There are seventeen carrier bags on kitchen table. Bite into a carrot, pour tiny amount of whisky into small glass, take bite out of mince pie, arrange on a festive plate, bring through to sitting-room fireplace. Will I still be doing this when twins are thirty-five?’
‘Eva, I can see you’re tired. I can google the rest… There must be a Delia’s Christmas app -Eva said, ‘No, let me finish doing Christmas Day.
Cook full English breakfast. Drink toast with Buck’s Fizz. Open presents. Pick up wrapping paper, fold and place in recycling bin. Ring and thank relatives for presents. Change from dressing gown into sequinned cardigan and lace skirt, Brian says look like madam of whorehouse, change into jeans.’
Brian said, ‘Eva, that lace skirt barely covered your bum!’
‘Cook Christmas dinner, almost collapse after assembling food on table. Drink too much, ask Brian to help wash up, he says, “Later.” Twins gone somewhere, make Christmas tea, turkey sandwiches, trifle, Christmas cake. Twins come back, refuse to play games, play maths games with Brian. Refuse to watch Christmas TV, all three watch DVD lecture series on advanced topology from MIT. Eat half tin of Quality Street. Prepare supper. Drink self into stupor. Feel sick from Quality Street and vodka, go to bed.
‘So, that was my Christmas last year. You may find it useful,’ Eva concluded. ‘And, Brian, I am. Never. Doing. Christmas. Again.’
32
It was teatime on Christmas Eve and snow was still falling. Eva liked the snow – the beauty of it, the interruption it made to daily life – and she enjoyed the chaos it caused. She was looking out of the window for Stanley Crossley, who had sent a message that he wanted to talk to her. It was a meeting she dreaded. To divert herself she concentrated on the outside window sill, where flakes were settling and intermingling, all the time forming an even, white ledge.
It reminded her of the time she had thrown the ten-year-old twins out into the snow when they carried on bickering after she had asked them to stop. They had knocked on the sitting-room window and pleaded to be let back in while Eva pretended to read Vogue. A few minutes later, Brian had arrived home from work to find his son and daughter shivering, coatless in their school uniforms, while his wife sat by a crackling log fire reading a magazine, apparently oblivious to her children’s misery.
Brian had bellowed, ‘Our children could end up in the care of the local authority! You know how many social workers live around here.’
It was true – there were a disproportionate number of new-model Volkswagen Beetles parked in the surrounding streets.
Eva laughed aloud at the memory.
The twins had been forced to huddle together for warmth before Brian let them back inside the house. She told Brian that it had been a bonding exercise – and since he had only just returned from a team-building trip to the Brecon Beacons, where he had been forced to catch, skin, cook and eat a rabbit, he had believed her.
She saw Stanley approaching the house and watched as he hesitated at the gate. He was entirely coated in snow, from his trilby hat to his black brogues. She came away from the window and heard him stamping his feet in the porch. The doorbell rang as Eva got into bed and readied herself for whatever was coming. She had asked Brian to make sure that Poppy was out of the house.
Brian had said, ‘The only way I can guarantee that is to take her out somewhere myself. It will be a bloody nuisance, but I suppose I’ll have to do it.’