Читать книгу Christmas at the Comfort Food Cafe - Debbie Johnson, Debbie Johnson - Страница 8

December 25, 1987

Fizzy, the Twinkle-Eyed My Little Pony, is a rare and beautiful creature. She has a turquoise body and pink eyes and a silky-soft flowing mane. Fresh out of the box that morning, straight from Santa, she should be galloping across the matching My Little Pony duvet cover that is spread over Laura’s single bed.

She should be neighing and singing and giggling with her friends, Applejack and Lily and Starflower the Rainbow Pony.

Sadly, that isn’t happening. Partly because Applejack and Lily and Starflower are floating around in the toilet, with soggy loo paper clogged up around their manes, and partly because Fizzy – and her twinkly eyes – is currently being used as a weapon of mass destruction.

Laura’s little sister, Becca, is four. Laura, being a much more mature six years old, always tries to be patient, because that’s what her mum says she needs to be. And every time she’s patient, she gets an extra sticker on her star chart, and once it’s full, she will get a new Care Bear. Maybe the one with the rainbow hearts; she hasn’t decided yet.

Becca has a star chart too, but hers is empty. Mum says it should be in ‘negative numbers’, whatever that means.

Sometimes, Laura thinks, Becca is just… mean. And loud. And not very nice. Sometimes she makes it impossible to be patient. Like now, for example.

Now, she’s holding Fizzy in her chubby fist, and she’s trying to hit Laura in the face with her, hooves first. Fizzy might be rare and beautiful and have a silky-soft mane, but nothing else about her is soft. She’s made of plastic, and she really hurts when she’s poked in your eye.

Laura had come up here to play while Mum was cooking the Christmas dinner and Dad was having a ‘medicinal beer’. Becca had been crying and sulking all day, which he kept saying was because she was over-tired. He said it as though he felt sorry for her, and kept giving her hugs and carrying her around on his shoulders even when she was tearful and snotty.

Secretly, Laura didn’t feel sorry for her. It was her own fault she was tired – she waited up until way past midnight, when the church bells rang out, because she wanted to see Father Christmas and Rudolph, even though she’d been warned that if she saw them, they’d never come down their chimney again.

Staying up so late meant she was grumpy and angry when they finally managed to wake Mum and Dad up, jumping on their legs in bed until they agreed to go downstairs and see if he’d been.

He had, and he’d left them loads of stuff under the tree – so Becca mustn’t have seen him after all.

After everything was unwrapped, Becca had her own pile of toys – a Fisher Price kitchen and a koosh ball and a Play-Doh hairdresser set – but of course she didn’t want to play with them. She wanted to play with Laura’s. And when Laura said no, she screamed and grabbed a handful of the ponies off the bed, ran into the bathroom and threw them in the toilet.

She tried to flush them down but they wouldn’t go, even when she poked them with that spikey brush Mum used to clean the loo with.

When Laura chased after her and tried to stop her, Becca snatched Fizzy out of her hand and started whacking her across the head with it. And it really hurt.

She’d tried to be patient, and she’d tried to be nice, and she’d tried to talk to her. But Becca just won’t stop shouting and whacking, and Laura has had enough.

She grabs the shower attachment that is fixed to the bath with a big, bendy silver pipe, and turns on the cold tap. Not the hot one, because even if she is angry, she doesn’t want any burny water spraying out. She points it at her sister and lets it blast full-force into her scrunched-up, furious face.

Becca’s long brown hair is immediately plastered down over her cheeks, and the Strawberry Shortcake nightie she is wearing, the one that used to be Laura’s, goes dark as the water spreads over it.

Her mouth is gaping open in shock, and her eyes are screwed closed against the spray. She drops Fizzy straight away and starts to scream. And scream. And scream.

Laura hears the kitchen door open downstairs and music wafting up from the radio that Mum always listens to when she’s cooking. That song about China in your Hand.

There is a pause, and she knows Mum is standing at the bottom of the stairs listening to Becca screaming. Then the sound of footsteps coming up, and the door to the bathroom slamming open. By that point, Laura has dropped the shower head back into the bath, where it lies, twisting like a snake, sprinkling upwards into the sky.

She looks at her mum, guilt written all over her face, and feels tears sting the back of her eyes.

Her mum has tinsel wrapped around her head like a crown, and is wearing an apron in the shape of a fat Santa’s body. There is a big wooden spoon in her hand, and she waves it threateningly in the air, as though she might use it like a sword at any moment. Her cheeks are red from the cooker, and there is dusty flour on her fingers.

‘Can’t you two play nicely for five minutes, for goodness sake?’ she says, sounding as annoyed as she looks. ‘All those new toys downstairs and you’re up here arguing and fighting? It’s not very Christmassy, is it?’

‘Sorry Mummy,’ says Laura, staring at her feet and trying not to cry.

‘Aaaaaaaggh!’ screams Becca, soaking wet and almost hysterical.

‘I HATE Christmas!’ she yells, pushing past her mum and her sister and squelching her way out into the hallway.

December 25, 1991

Laura decides that her mum is a bit drunk. Or ‘merry’, as her dad describes it, as they dance around the living room together, loudly singing along with ‘I’m Too Sexy’ by Right Said Fred. They are doing actions as well, pretending they are models strutting on a catwalk, and driving a car. Maybe Dad is a bit ‘merry’ as well, she thinks, watching as he tells the world that he is even too sexy for his shirt.

At the age of ten, Laura isn’t quite sure what constitutes ‘sexy’ – but she hopes her dad isn’t it. She also hopes they don’t get so merry they collide with the Christmas tree, because the living room isn’t really that big, and they don’t seem to be entirely in control of their legs.

Becca sits in the corner of the couch, sulking as usual, rolling her eyes in a way that makes her look a bit like she’s having some kind of seizure, and making gestures of glug-glug-glug with an invisible glass while she points at Mum.

That’s because Mum had a bottle of wine open while she was cooking the Christmas lunch this afternoon, and said she needed it because ‘the dragon-in-law’ was visiting.

That’s her nickname for Laura and Becca’s grandma. She says she means it ‘in a nice way’, but she never says it to Nan’s face, so Laura’s not altogether sure she does. Plus she stayed in the kitchen for ages, saying she was busy, but every time Laura went in she was just sitting at the table, muttering to herself, and pouring another glass. Grown-ups, she’d decided with David, were weird.

She wishes that David could have come over, but his parents have taken him away to Wales. Which is a whole different country and everything. She misses him, and hasn’t even been able to speak to him on the phone to see what he got for Christmas.

He’d been hoping for a Gameboy, and had even carried on pretending he believed in Santa because he thought it would give him a better chance at getting one. Laura is also still pretending she believes in Santa, just because she thinks it makes her parents happy to think she does.

It had been harder this year, because Becca had finally decided that it was all made up. She stayed awake throughout the entire night, and all she heard, she said, was Mum and Dad going up and down the stairs, next door’s cat yowling, and some random drunk people going past very late and setting off a car alarm.

Plus, Christopher Eccles at school – who had three big brothers – had laughed at her when she even mentioned Father Christmas. Becca wasn’t keen on being laughed at, especially by Christopher Eccles, and she’d punched him in the face and run off to hide in the bike shed.

So now, Becca is mega-tired and in a mega-bad mood. Nan and Granddad have gone home, and Mum and Dad have decided to have a party of their own, and she’s really annoyed that she got a Girl’s World styling head and a Polly Pocket Country Cottage playset when she’d actually asked for nothing apart from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toys – she’d drawn circles around them in the Argos catalogue and everything.

Laura has decided that the most sensible thing to do is ignore Becca and carry on making friendship bracelets from the set she got for Christmas. She plans to make one for David and one for Danielle and Sarah out of her class, and maybe – maybe – one for Becca too. Because leaving her out would be mean.

The music has changed and that Dizzy song is on now. Mum and Dad are whirling around, shouting about how their heads are spinning, and laughing out loud. Dad comes over and tugs Laura up by the hands, spilling her bracelets on the floor.

‘Come on, join in!’ he says, starting to spin her. ‘It’s Christmas! And it’s you girl, making me spin now…’

Mum spins her way over to Becca, and tries to pull her to her feet as well. Becca doesn’t want to join in, though, and instead she wriggles out of Mum’s grasp and runs off up to her bedroom.

Laura doesn’t hear it, because of the music and the dancing and the laughing, but she knows there will have been a door slam. Even at eight, Becca is really good at door-slamming.

By the time the song finishes and all three of them collapse onto the sofa, a bit sweaty and a lot happy, Becca storms back into the room.

‘I didn’t want this!’ she yells, lobbing her Girls’ World head onto the carpet. It rolls around for a bit, like a decapitated blonde, until it comes to rest beneath the Christmas tree, where it totters, red lips facing the ceiling. Laura sees that most of the shiny synthetic hair has been brutally hacked off, leaving bits sticking out in tufts, and that there are now just gaping holes where the eyes should be.

Becca stands in the doorway, hands on her hips, hair wild and tangled, brown eyes full of angry tears. She probably expected more of a reaction, but in reality, Mum and Dad are a bit too ‘merry’ to blow their top at her, even if she is behaving like a brat. A brat who likes killing blondes.

‘Crikey,’ says Dad, his chest puffing up and down after all the dancing. ‘That’ll be a good story to tell at your wedding.’

‘I’m never getting married! And Santa doesn’t exist, because if he did, he’d have brought me turtle stuff! And I HATE Christmas!’

December 25, 2000

There has been a lot of dancing in the Fletcher home this Christmas. The kids are older, and the fridge is well stocked with giant pork pies and Black Forest gateaux and multiple packs of lager, nestled next to Mum’s Baileys.

Nobody gets out of bed at 5am to check for presents any more, and Dad doesn’t have to spend the first half of the day with a screwdriver in his hand, searching for yet another pack of Triple A batteries.

The girls have their own rooms, so there is less fighting, and Laura has her own fiancé, which is a whole different story. David – the fiancé in question – has been at the house all day, with his Labrador, Jambo the Second. Even Jambo got in on the party, jumping up and down and woofing along to ‘Who Let The Dogs Out?’

David and Laura did lots of joke-dancing to S Club 7 songs, and a smoochy to ‘Never Had A Dream Come True’, and Mum and Dad did mock line-dancing to ‘Man I Feel Like A Woman’, and everyone leapt around to Robbie Williams being a Rock DJ.

Everyone apart from Becca, that is. Becca had had a tough time recently. She’d split up with her boyfriend Shaun, and taken it hard. Nobody else in the family could quite figure out why she’d taken it so hard, as they’d only been together for a few months and always seemed to be arguing anyway. Even Laura couldn’t get anything out of her, apart from a mouthful of bad language and a bedroom door slammed in her face.

But since the split, Becca had been sulky and sullen and had apparently forgotten how to operate a shower or use shampoo. Her skin was blotchy and sore-looking, her hair glued to her head with grease, and she spent as much time as she possibly could either asleep, pretending to be asleep, or, Laura suspected, indulging in substances – some legal, some not – that would help her sleep.

She’d been dragged out of bed by their mum for Christmas lunch, and had sat at the table in her stained Eminem T-shirt, pushing her food around the plate and not actually eating any of it. She managed to drink, though – quite a lot.

By the time the dancing started, she was halfway to hammered, and she’d had enough. Of everything. Looking at Mum and Dad and Laura and David and even the bloody adorably cute dog was all just too much for her. They were like a scene from a film about happy families at Christmas, and she was the only one who didn’t fit in. She was the evil Gremlin.

Becca didn’t feel merry or jolly or thankful or festive. She barely even felt alive, and often wished she wasn’t. It was like she was trapped in a bubble, on her own, completely isolated, even though she was in a room full of people who she knew loved her. In fact, watching them, seeing their happiness and their silliness, yet being unable to feel it herself, made everything so much worse.

She snuck out of the house mid-afternoon – seeing her dad gear up to do his rendition of Tom Jones’ ‘Sex Bomb’ pushed her over the edge. She’d told Laura she was going round to her friend Lucy’s house and she’d be back in a few hours.

She never made it to Lucy’s house. She never intended to. She stopped off in the kitchen to raid the lager stash and headed on out without even getting her coat. That, she realised as soon as she made it outside, was bloody stupid – there was snow everywhere. Laura and David had been so delighted with it, Mr and Mrs Perfect, yammering on about how pretty it was and laughing at Jambo snuffling in it and building snowmen together and having snowball fights like characters in some lame rom com.

They were just disgustingly good together, and it made Becca feel even more dysfunctional. Even more lonely. The coat, she decided, wasn’t worth going back for. Not if it meant another dose of that kind of medicine.

Back inside the house, the party meandered its way through the rest of the day. There was more singing. More dancing. More eating. More drinking.

Laura texted her sister on her little Nokia mobile phone, and got a reply saying she was fine and would be back later. She wasn’t completely happy with her being gone, but what could she do? Becca was seventeen. If she said she was fine, she had to believe her.

It wasn’t until just after six in the evening that the bell rang.

Mum – a little the worse for wear after all her Baileys – answers the door, a glass in one hand and a slice of pork pie in the other. She’s wearing a bright-green paper crown from a cracker, draped over her head at a wonky angle, drooping down to cover one eye.

The other eye can see perfectly, though. And what it sees isn’t pretty.

There is a police car parked by the pavement at the end of the drive, its tracks perfectly clear on the snow-covered road. The flakes are still falling and the evening air is so chilly that Mum’s breath makes a big, steaming cloud as she gasps out her shock.

One police officer is standing on the step, blowing into her hands in an attempt to warm them up, and another is walking towards them along the icy path. She has an arm around Becca’s shoulders, and is half-walking, half-carrying her.

Mum rushes outside, lucky not to slip, and tries to help. There is a kind of tussle, where there are too many arms and legs flying around, and Becca is eventually safely deposited into the hallway, where she leans back against the wall and slides right down it until she is sitting on her bottom, legs splayed out in front of her.

‘She’s fine,’ says the dark-haired policewoman, smiling through chattering lips. ‘Just had a few too many, as well as being too cold. We found her in the park, sitting at the top of the slide. We put her in the back of the car to warm up and gave her a check-over in case she needed to go to A&E, but… well, who wants to go there at Christmas, right? We thought you’d probably prefer it if we brought her home instead.’

Mum nods her thanks, and Dad – who has made his way through to see what all the fuss is about, along with Laura and David and the dog – manages actual words. Mum mainly looks worried and Dad looks a bit angry.

‘Don’t be too hard on her,’ says the police lady as she turns to leave. ‘We were all young and stupid once, weren’t we?’

Mum closes the door behind her and turns to look at her younger daughter. Her big, stompy black boots are soggy and there is a distinct cigarette burn in her jeans that wasn’t there before. Her eyes are half-closed, and Eminem’s face is covered in what looks suspiciously like vomit.

Laura leans down towards her, strokes a strand of chilled hair away from her face, where it has become crusted to her cheek in some kind of lager-sick combo.

‘Are you all right, Becs?’ she asks, frowning in concern.

Becca slaps her hand away and belches loudly at her face. She turns her head, unsteadily, and manages to both sneer and cry at the same time. Bizarrely, the sound of a Christmas music show is wafting in from the living room, playing that year’s number-one smash – ‘Can We Fix It’ by Bob the Builder.

Tears rolling down her blotchy skin, she lies on the carpet and curls up into a smelly, sad, fetal ball.

‘Go away,’ she says, through her sniffling. ‘Just leave me alone. I hate you all. And I fucking well hate Christmas!’