Authors: Laura Elliot
T
he twins
, their peachy skin bleached by the chill of an Irish winter, are the first to arrive home.
They radiate energy and purposefulness in their tight jeans and runners, ribbed tops showing off their flat, muscular stomachs.
Ali, wrapped in faux furs and Uggs, follows a day later.
Brian arrives late on Christmas Eve.
He’s grown a beard and his hands feel abrasive, as if clay has lodged deep in the pores.
Our house emerges from its tomblike silence.
It’s filled with voices, laughter, music, the clatter of footsteps, phones ringing.
My family are happy to be together again.
They seem possessed of a manic but joyous energy as they wrap presents and dash in and out from each other’s rooms to borrow wrapping paper, gift tags and glitter bobbins.
They play CD’s of Christmas carols and outdo each other in their choice of gaudy festive jumpers.
How will they react when we tell them?
How have they not picked up on the nervousness between myself and Jake?
When they were younger they could sense a shift in our moods by holding a finger in the air.
These days, I suspect, we’d need to attack each other with axes before they’d notice.
For years the seating arrangement around our table on Christmas Day never changed.
Four generations gathered together, the six of us joined by Eleanor, Rosanna and my uncles, Donal and Stuart.
This year Donal, my father’s brother, is the only one of the older generation to join us.
Stuart, my mother’s brother, is remaining in London.
Six months ago he was diagnosed with cancer.
He’s positive and upbeat, convinced of a good outcome, but his chemo has been tough so he’s staying close to home with friends.
We’ll miss our beloved Rosanna and Eleanor – who always endured rather than enjoyed this noisy and often boisterous family meal – is spending Christmas in Wicklow with friends from First Affiliation.
I tried not to look relieved when she told us.
The dreaded moment postponed.
Presents are exchanged on Christmas morning.
No squabbles, sulks or disappointed silences.
Each gift is judged to be the perfect one.
Brian gives us pieces of pottery.
I receive a decorative ceramic box from his new Willow Passion collection.
It’s shaped like a heart, the lid split down the middle in a gentle curve.
Can he possibly suspect… but, no.
His eyes are guileless as he waits for me to comment on it.
The glaze is subtle.
Weeping willows hazed in mist, two figures glimpsed within the pale-green fronds.
The position of their bodies hint at secret dalliances, stolen moments, but the image is so delicately drawn that it adds to rather than diminishes their sexual vigour.
Their happy mood continues throughout the day.
I’ve never known them to be so civilised, pleasant and entertaining.
They burst into applause when the turkey is carried to the table and Jake brandishes the carving knife.
They heap their plates and talk about their childhood with the bittersweet nostalgia of octogenarians.
Flash bulb memories, all of them zooming in on their old house in Oakdale Terrace.
Jake demands to know if they’re talking about the house where they constantly complained about swallowing each other’s air?
The house where warfare broke out over who should enter the bathroom first in the morning?
They laugh and insist it was all part of its charm.
‘A toast to the best parents in the world,’ Ali’s brown eyes shine with appreciation.
Donal raises his glass in a salute and says, as he always does,’
Is féidir linn a bheith go léir le chéile ag an am seo an bhliain seo chugainn,’
‘I agree.’
Samantha leans towards him and clinks glasses.
‘May we all be together at this time next year.’
‘Cool,’ agrees Sam.
‘What’s all this about?’
Jake clasps his chest and pretends to topple from his chair.
‘No one’s getting an increase in their living allowance and that’s that.’
‘Oh, Dad, stop being such a cynic.’
Samantha slaps his hand and cries out, ‘Merry Christmas to one and all.’
What will next Christmas bring?
Is there a protocol for separated couples?
Where will we gather to feast and be merry?
Jake’s mews?
My place?
I keep changing my mind about where I want to live.
A cottage or a small, terraced townhouse, mellowed with memories?
A smart city centre apartment with a balcony and good light for painting?
We wave Donal off in a taxi and settle down to play Scrabble.
Jake takes out his guitar and we sing the same Christmas songs we’ve sung since they were children.
He plays some of his own songs, something he’s never done before.
They listen appreciatively then Ali says, ‘they’re brilliant, Dad.
Now play ‘Frosty the Snowman.’’
J
ake is first
into the kitchen this morning.
He cooks a fry-up for breakfast and they come to the table without having to be coaxed from their beds.
They’re fully dressed, instead of slouching, dead-eyed and baleful in onesies or pyjamas.
They epitomise the perfect family as they tuck into rashers and sausages, pass toast and various bottles of ketchup to each other.
My heart fails me when I look around the table at their happy faces.
I want them to turn savage, to rain insults on each other as they once did without the slightest provocation.
Anything to ease my guilt.
But they continue to laugh at each other’s jokes, listen to each other’s opinions and discuss the planned hill-walking expedition we will take later in the week, weather permitting.
It’s late evening and they’re lolling in armchairs, eating cold turkey and chocolates, when Jake switches off the television.
Now that the moment has arrived I’m consumed by panic.
This is a dreadful mistake.
How have I allowed my desire for a different life to obscure the value of the one I have?
Why do I have this urge to strike out on my own and discover the person I could have been if things had worked out differently?
It’s such a puny, selfish reason.
I could have controlled it…would have controlled it if that business card had not fallen from his wallet.
He met her on that flight and never thought to mention her to me.
His casual indifference astonished me.
And with it came the anger.
But I’m calmer now… surely it’s not too late to pull back from the brink?
I gaze across at Jake.
He’ll read my mind and understand that we must stop this madness now.
His eyes meet mine, fixed, grey, steely.
‘We’ve something important to discuss with you,’ he says.
The gravity of his tone silences them.
Samantha moves closer on the sofa to Sam.
Brian stops searching for the box of Trivial Pursuit and sits back on his heels.
‘We want… we’re going to….’
Jake’s carefully rehearsed words falter before their expectant faces.
I press my hands against my stomach and lean forward.
Jake, aware of my panic, pats my shoulder.
‘Oh my God, Mum!’
A horrified expression sweeps across Ali’s face.
‘You’re going to have a baby!’
My breath explodes outwards.
‘How can I be pregnant when your father has had – ’
Jake coughs warningly.
His vasectomy is something he never intends discussing with his children.
‘No, Ali, I’m not pregnant,’ I reply in what I hope is a reassuring tone.
‘We want to talk to you about some… some important changes we intend to make.’
‘Like what?’
Brian looks from Jake to me.
‘We’re going to sell the house.’
Jake finds his voice again.
‘It’s too big for us, now that you’ve all left home.’
‘It was always too big for us,’ Samantha agrees.
‘We should never have left Oakdale.
Do you remember the time – ’
‘Selling it is an excellent idea.’
Ali cuts short another trip down memory lane.
‘You said
changes
.
What else?’
‘We’re also selling Tõnality.’
Jake examines his thumb then folds it into a fist.
‘We’ve decided to do something different with our lives.’
‘
Different
?’
Samantha sounds astonished.
‘I’m hoping to enrol as a mature student and study art,’ I reply.
‘I’m looking at options,’ says Jake.
‘I’m thinking of setting up a recording studio and reforming Shard.’
‘Cool,’ Sam exclaims through a mouthful of Ferrero Rocher but Ali looks equally horrified by this possibility.
‘Reforming Shard at your age, Dad?
That’s
so
embarrassing.’
She gazes sternly at us.
‘This is serious mid-life crisis stuff.
Are you going through the change, Mum?’
‘First I’m pregnant and now I’m menopausal.’
It’s important to remain calm.
‘Make up your mind, Ali.’
‘I’m
sorry
,’ she shrugs.
‘I just figured… you’re at that age.’
‘At
our
age we still have lives to lead and that’s why we’ve decided…’ Jake falters once again before continuing, ‘We’ve come to an agreement… we’ve decided to separate.’
‘Separate what?’
asks Samantha.
‘Separate from each other,’ he replies.
‘You’re leaving Mum?’
Brian stares disbelievingly at his father.
‘
Dad,
’ Ali shrills.
‘You
can’t
!
This is
too
awful.’
Samantha and Sam fix accusatory eyes on Jake.
‘After everything she’s done for you?’
says Samantha.
‘Is that all the thanks she gets?
It’s not fair, Dad.
It just
isn’t
.’
She dashes to my chair and flings her arms around me.
‘Too right,’ Sam agrees.
I prise my head loose from Samantha’s fierce embrace and speak with as much composure as possible.
‘Your father and I came to a mutual decision.
We’re going to lead our own lives but that won’t make any difference whatsoever to
your
lives.
We’ll have family days together, celebrations, Christmas.
Whatever comes up we’ll be together to share it with you.
This will be a perfect divorce.’
‘A
perfect
divorce.’
Brian snorts in disbelief.
‘That’s a paradox if ever I heard one.’
‘You’ll end up hating each other.’
Ali’s voice shakes dangerously.
‘That’s how it always works out.’
‘No, you’re wrong,’ says Jake.
‘This doesn’t mean we stop liking each other or anything ridiculous like that.
But we’re still young enough – ’
‘
Young
?’
The twins, speaking in unison, appear stunned by this notion.
Brian shoves the box of Trivial Pursuits back into the press and Ali shrills, ‘Thanks, folks, for making this the
jolliest
Christmas ever.’
T
hey go to bed early
, close their doors quietly.
The atmosphere in the house has changed.
The lights on the Christmas tree are too bright, the bedecked garlands mocking this season of good cheer.
My earlier panic has eased now that we’ve told them the truth.
I shake my head when Jake asks if I’d like a drink.
I don’t want to talk about what we’ve done.
He pours a measure of whiskey but leaves it sitting on the arm of his chair.
He, too, seems reluctant to talk.
What is left to say?
The following day my children treat me with an eggshell caution, convinced I’ll crack and splatter them with my grief.
‘I’ll talk to Dad,’ Ali says when we’re alone in the kitchen.
‘He always listens to me.
I can’t bear to think of you being left on your own.’
‘This is what I want, Ali.
It’s a mutual decision.’
‘So you keep saying.
But you’re allowed to be upset.
Leave the stiff upper lip to the Brits.’