Читать книгу Going Home - Harriet Evans - Страница 13

As we entered the house there was a warm reassuring smell of something good happening in the kitchen, and Mum breathed a sigh of relief. Despite her passion for experimentation, she’s still a megalomaniac when it comes to culinary matters. There was a brief but tense stand-off over ownership of the oven gloves (the kitchen equivalent of the remote control), but Gibbo emerged victorious and proceeded unchecked towards the Aga. Mum leaned against the doorframe, looking pale.

‘Come on, Suzy, finish off your champagne,’ said Kate, bustling in behind her. ‘Gibbo, do you need a hand?’

‘No, everything’s under control,’ said Gibbo. ‘No worries, go and relax.’

‘But I can’t!’ wailed my mother, grinding her teeth. ‘You’ve disenfranchised me. What shall I do?’

‘I can’t believe you’re a doctor and you’re allowed to be so irrational, Suze.’

‘You’re quite right,’ said my father, appearing behind me. ‘Come on, darling, you can be my helper. We’re going to hand out the presents in a minute.’

‘Do I get to wear the hat?’ asked Mum hopefully. ‘I’ll do it if I can wear the hat.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Dad, patting her shoulder like he used to pat our ancient Labrador, Jockey, towards the end when he was old and confused.

We always open our presents after church on Christmas morning, and Dad is always Santa, with Tom as his helper. Long ago our grandmother knitted Dad and Tom bright red bobble hats to wear as they were giving out the presents. Dad’s still has a white pompom, but Tom’s fell off ages ago, and they’re both rather lopsided and uneven because she was quite short-sighted when she made them.

I followed my parents into the sitting room, where Mike was on his knees lighting the fire, and watched my father trying to wedge Tom’s hat on Mum’s head. I wondered where its owner was. Tom was the only person I’d ever really talked to about David, and I wanted a debrief with him now.

‘Are you OK, darling?’ Mum asked.

‘Yep, thanks, Mum,’ I said. She snatched the better Santa hat away from Dad. ‘We should have realised David would be there, I’m sorry.’

I was outraged that they’d known David was back and had said nothing about it, but I merely smiled. ‘Mum, it’s fine. He didn’t kidnap and torture me, we split up. I can cope with seeing him for a few minutes each year, you know.’

‘Did—’ Mum began, but Dad tapped her shoulder and solemnly removed the Santa hat from her grasp.

I felt depressed. Both my parents had loved David, and neither of them understood why we split up, because I didn’t tell them. I think Mum had thought we’d have an emotional reunion by the gravestones. Well, yet again I was going to have to disappoint her. I went back towards the kitchen, looking for Tom. As I passed the study I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye and peered through the gap between the door and the frame, where the wood had warped. Rosalie was sitting at my father’s desk, still in her coat, with an open box file, scribbling notes furiously on a pad.

What was she doing? Why was she in there? I turned to go upstairs, and Mike was standing behind me. I jumped, and heard rustling in the study. ‘What are you doing there?’ he asked. ‘You look like you’re in a world of your own.’

‘N-nothing,’ I stammered. ‘Is Tom in there?’ I gestured towards the study.

His eyes flicked to the door. ‘No, that’s Rosalie. Hey, did you find the Sellotape? We were looking for some earlier and I’ve got one last present to wrap. Ah! Hello, gorgeous, any luck?’

‘Yes, here it is!’ said Rosalie, emerging from the study, holding a dispenser. ‘Hey, Lizzy, how are you?’ She slid an arm round Mike. ‘Shall I run upstairs and do that last one?’

I couldn’t tell if she’d worked out I’d seen her. Or if Mike knew I’d seen her, or if he even knew what she was doing, going through Dad’s stuff.

‘A wife and a present-wrapper, rolled into one. What more could a chap ask for?’ Mike dropped a kiss on her shoulder.

‘I’m going upstairs to get Tom,’ I announced in a loud, peculiarly am-dram way. ‘See you later.’ I stomped upstairs thinking the world was going mad.

On the landing I paused to look out of the leaded window across the valley. What was David doing now? Was he with Alice and Miles, having a drink and opening presents? Was he pacing the floors, dashing tears from his eyes because of his stupid behaviour and thwarted love for me, like the Marquis of Vidal in Devil’s Cub?

Ha. I gave a mirthless laugh, like a world-weary torch singer. I knocked on Tom’s door. There was no answer, so I opened it slowly and looked in. Tom was lying on his bed, staring into space. ‘Tom, darling,’ I said, and sat down next to him. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Go away,’ he said dully. The old iron bedstead creaked beneath us. ‘I don’t feel well.’

‘Is it your dad?’ I said, putting my arm round his bony shoulders.

‘What do you mean?’ he said, shrugging me off.

‘Well, it’s Christmas Day and all that. It must be sad.’

Tom turned back to look at me without expression. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘But…’ I didn’t want to sound stupid. ‘We visit his grave every year, why are you so upset this time?’

‘I just am, that’s all. It’s different this year.’

‘But why?’

‘I’ve been thinking about something you said in the car yesterday. And about Mike and stuff.’

‘Oh, God, what?’ I said, alarmed that something I’d said and couldn’t remember should send Tom into a decline.

‘Nothing, just about us all in general. It’s not a big deal, and it’s none of your business. Go away and stop being so nosy.’

Downstairs I heard Mum shout, ‘Change of plan! Lunch is ready! Presents afterwards!’ followed by the dull clang of the bell. I didn’t know what to say. Tom is more than a cousin to me: he’s like my brother – but I often feel I don’t know him very well. I went to his birthday party last year, in a wine bar in the City, and I knew lots of his friends but he seemed…different. More relaxed, happier. And I suppose sometimes the people who know you best are the ones you want to run away from most.

I stroked his arm again. ‘Tom, whatever it is, I want to help. You know that, don’t you?’

There was no answer so I got up and opened the door. Then Tom said, in a muffled voice, ‘I’ll see you downstairs, Lizzy. Thanks.’

‘And the glory, the glory of the Lord…’ boomed the CD player, as I went downstairs. I could hear Dad sharpening the carving knife in time to The Messiah and rushed into the dining room. The table was set, the fire burned in the grate, and the smell of Christmas lunch was drifting through the kitchen door. Mum and Kate were giggling: in a few short hours Gibbo had twisted them round his little finger, and I could see why. If I’d caught him rifling through Dad’s desk I’d have told him to take what he wanted.

One by one we sat down and the dishes came forth from the kitchen. Slices of stuffing, sausage and chestnut, bread sauce, cranberry sauce, Brussels sprouts, and a huge platter of roast potatoes. And finally, with a flourish, in came Mum with the turkey. I sat on my hands to stop myself picking at anything.

Tom appeared at last, a grim expression on his face, and proceeded to down a glass of red wine.

As Dad finally sat down, we raised our glasses and said, ‘Happy Christmas.’

I looked round at all of us and thought what a pickle we were in, even though we appeared to be a normal happy family enjoying Christmas. I wondered what Georgy, Ash and my other friends were doing. Were they as confused by their own family Christmas as I was? Whoever had said that each family was barking insane in its own way was right. Just look at the evidence:

I’m sure our ancestors were all scavenging peasantry because I’ve never known anyone like my family when it comes to attacking a meal with gusto. Silence reigned as we ploughed through the mountains of food in front of us, with only Rosalie making an attempt at conversation.

‘These are beautiful, Suzy,’ she’d say, picking at a crumb of roast potato.

‘Mmm,’ my mother would answer, as her nearest and dearest guzzled, pausing only to open another bottle of wine. conversation broke out. I must say we were rather knocking back the wine but as they say, Christmas comes but once a year, and it is the season to be merry. It was probably nearing teatime but, just as at weddings, where one has nothing to eat for hours and then lunch at 6pm, we’d lost all sense of time.

After the pudding and mince pies, we had toasts where – yes! – we all propose toasts. When we were younger we found the adults desperately tedious by this stage: they were clearly drunk, found the oddest things hilarious, and would hug us, breathing fume-laden declarations of affection into our faces.

‘Lizzy goes first,’ said Chin, giving me a shove.

‘I’d like to toast Mr and Mrs Franks, and Tommy the dog,’ I said, getting up and downing the rest of my wine.

‘Hurray!’ said the others, except Gibbo and Rosalie.

‘They live in the village in Norfolk where we go on holidays. They’re gorgeous,’ said Chin. ‘You’ll meet them there this summer. It’s wonderful.’

Gibbo and Rosalie, bound together by fear of the unknown and the solidarity of the outsider, shot each other a look of trepidation.

‘Jess, you next!’ Tom yelled, prodding her in the thigh.

‘I want to toast Mr and Mrs Franks too,’ said Jess, determinedly.

‘You can’t,’ I said. ‘That was my idea. Think of someone else.’

‘I miss them,’ said Jess, her lower lip wobbling. Jess cries more easily than anyone I know, especially after wine.

‘Me too,’ said Chin, gazing into her glass. ‘I hope Mr Franks’s hip is OK.’

‘My turn,’ said Mike, standing up straight and holding his glass high in the air. ‘To…to Mr and Mrs Franks and Tommy the dog.’

We all fell about laughing, except Jess. ‘Mike! Be serious.’ She glared at him.

‘I stand by my toast,’ said Mike. ‘I send waves of love and vibes of massage to them, especially Mr Franks and his hip.’

‘Oh, Mike,’ said Jess, ‘don’t take the p-piss. You are mean.’

‘Sorry, darling,’ said Mike. ‘I change my toast. To my lovely new wife.’

‘To Mike’s lovely new wife,’ we all chorused. Rosalie beamed up at him.

Mum got up next. ‘I would like to toast Kate,’ she said quietly. ‘It was thirty-three years ago this week that Tony met her and we always remember him today, but I want Kate to know we all…Anyway, we do. To Kate.’

‘To Kate,’ we echoed, and Kate looked embarrassed and buried her face in her glass.

Mike opened another bottle as Dad stood up. ‘To the district council and their planning department,’ he said darkly, and drained his glass.

Jess and I rolled our eyes. Dad is always embroiled in some dispute over the field next to our little orchard, which is owned by the local council. They’re always threatening to chop down the trees opposite the house, or remove the lovely old hedgerow that flanks it and similarly stupid things.

‘The district council,’ came the weary reply.

It was Tom’s turn. He stood up slowly and surveyed the room. I noticed then, with a sense of unease, that he had a red wine smile: the corners of his mouth were stained with Sainsbury’s Cabernet Sauvignon. ‘The time has come…’ he began, and stopped. He swayed a little, and fell backwards into his seat. We all roared with laughter and raised our glasses to him. Somehow he got up again. ‘The time has come,’ he repeated, glazed eyes sweeping the room. ‘I want to tell you all something. I want to be honest with you.’

Kate looked alarmed. ‘What is it, darling?’ she asked, balling her napkin in one hand.

Tom waved his arm in a grandiloquent gesture. ‘You all think you know me, yes? You don’. None of you. Why don’t we tell the truth here? I’m not Tom.’

‘What’s he talking about?’ Rosalie whispered, horrified, to Mike. He shushed her.

‘I’m not the Tom you think I am, that Tom,’ said Tom, and licked his lips. ‘None of us tells the truth. Listen to me. Please.’

And this time we did.

‘I want to tell you all. You should know now. Listen, happy Christmas. But you should know, I can’t lie any more to you.’

‘Tom,’ I said, as the cold light of realisation broke over me and I suddenly saw what he’d been going on about. ‘Tom, tell us.’

‘I don’t think we’re honest with each other,’ he went on. ‘None of us. I think we should all tell each other the truth more. So I’m going to start. I’m gay. I’m Tom. I’m gay.’

The old clock on the wall behind him ticked loudly, erratically, as it must have done for over a hundred years. I gazed into my lap, then looked up to find everyone else doing the same. Someone had to say something, but I didn’t know what.

Then, from beside my father, Rosalie spoke: ‘Honey, is that all?’ she asked, reaching for a cracker. ‘You doll. I knew that the moment I laid eyes on you.’

Another silence.

‘Well, come on,’ said Rosalie. ‘Did any of you guys really not know?’

Kate cleared her throat and pouted. Tom was staring at her, with what seemed to be terror in his eyes. ‘I have to say I’ve always thought you might be, darling,’ she said. She reached across the table for his hand.

‘Er…me too,’ said Chin, and my mother nodded.

‘And me,’ Jess added, her lip wobbling again. ‘I love you, Tom.’

‘Oh, do be quiet, you fantastically wet girl,’ said Tom. A tear plopped on to Jess’s plate.

‘Good on you, mate,’ said Gibbo.

‘Come on, Mike,’ Rosalie appealed to her husband. ‘Didn’t you wonder?’

‘I must say I did,’ muttered Dad, which says it all, really. If Kate and Dad – people who think ‘friend of Dorothy’ refers to someone who is acquainted with Maisie Laughton’s sister in the next village – can be aware of Tom’s sexuality, then who had he thought he was kidding?

Tom looked discomfited. It must be awful to get seriously drunk and reveal your darkest secret to your family, only to discover that they knew it already.

‘What about you, Lizzy?’ said Tom. ‘Didn’t you wonder why I never talked about girls? Or boys?’

‘Not really,’ I said. ‘I just thought you might be and you’d tell me if you wanted to.’

Mike agreed. ‘I always wondered, Tom, you know. You asked for that velvet eye-mask for your twenty-first. I wondered then whether you were going through a Maurice phase. Jolly brave of you, must have been nerve-racking telling us today. I cancel my toast to Rosalie. Stand up, everyone.’

Our chairs scraped on the old floorboards. ‘To Tom,’ he said. ‘You know…we’re proud of you. Er. You know. For being your way. Here’s to Tom.’

‘You’re proud of me for being my way?’ said Tom, incredulously. ‘Good grief! This is like being on Oprah.’

‘Shut up, Tom,’ I said. We raised our glasses and intoned, ‘To Tom,’ and sat down again.

‘Well,’ said my mother. ‘Does anyone have room for another mince pie?’