Why mummy drinks at chri.., p.16
Why Mummy Drinks at Christmas, page 16
‘Oh Julia,’ I said. ‘I always went to Poundland too. If you’re that worried about needing fancy soap for Suzie, my knicker drawer is full of nice bars of soap I can’t resist buying from museum gift shops and never get round to using so I stick them in the drawer so my pants smell nice. I’ll get you some for the Unfortunates’ Shoeboxes.’
‘Less Fortunate,’ Julia corrected me. ‘Suzie says we mustn’t call them “unfortunate”.’
‘Anyway, Mad Bitch Suzie will never know about the knicker soap. And you can point out that bars of soap are actually much more sustainable and last longer than even the fanciest shower gel, so FUCK YOU, Suzie, and you’ve saved a polar bear! Also, if you really want to one-up Suzie, get the boys to write a note to the Less Fortunate Children, wishing them a Merry Christmas.’
‘They can’t write, they’re in Reception. Ollie ate a felt tip last week.’
‘Well, you write it with your left hand then. It gets major smug points, and if Suzie hasn’t thought of it she’ll be furious, and even if she has she’ll still be outraged that her gesture is now not a unique one. Fiona Montague did it for the shoeboxes one year, and it got right on Perfect Lucy Atkinson’s Mummy’s tits. More to the point, Julia, remember that this too shall pass. In the meantime, I need to give you one very important piece of advice. Listen to me. Never, whatever you do, whatever emotional blackmail is laid upon you, however guilty you’re made to feel, NEVER join the PTA. That way lies madness, especially with people like Suzie. She’s the sort of person who won’t ever actually join the PTA, but thinks all the events should be run according to her say-so, and then won’t even show up to them, because she’s “busy”. Help at coffee mornings, donate tombola prizes, but DON’T join.
‘It was nearly the end of me. Peter was in danger of a full-blown gambling addiction at the age of eight, due to the hours he’d spend playing the tombola while I was making tea and finding napkins and trying to stop well-meaning volunteers putting the pistachio cupcakes on the allergy-free table, and Jane had to go through MAOM withdrawal after every school fête. You’ll be OK. You can do this. Here, let’s finish the bottle, and by the time you go home, Steve should’ve put the boys to bed!’
Julia tottered off into the night, clutching two shoeboxes, which had sadly left my treasured pairs of (sales bargains, but still) LK Bennetts homeless. I hadn’t felt I could let her face Natalie and the famous Prada boot box with only an Office box to show. I felt most wise and elder stateswoman-like, though, after being in a position to proffer advice for once. I collapsed on the sofa next to Simon.
‘All sorted?’ he asked tentatively.
‘Yes, thank God. Do you know, I think Julia was an Omen?’
‘An Omen? An Omen you should get pissed on a Sunday night?’
‘No, an Omen that I should count my blessings.’
‘All right, Pollyanna.’
‘No, seriously. I’d forgotten, until I was talking to Julia, how miserably busy December used to be – all the carol services and Christmas concerts and nativities and Christmas jumper days and school parties and everything. I’d convinced myself how magical it all was.’
‘Really? You did nothing but moan about it at the time?’
‘I know. But I’d somehow turned it into this fairytale time, of apple-cheeked moppets and carol singing.’
‘You only took them carol singing once. Someone threatened to call the police because Jane went off piste and banged on an old lady’s door and menacingly bellowed “Once in Royal David’s City” through the letterbox before shouting she was to give her some money now. She omitted to mention the bit about how she was with the Brownies and they were collecting for Oxfam.’
‘Enough. That’s what I’m trying to say. Part of me is a bit sad it’s all over, because I realised there was never any time to enjoy any of the school Christmas stuff with the children. It just felt like an endless round of demands from people for things. I’d forgotten how hideous the class WhatsApp turns at Christmas too, though fuck knows it was bad most of the year. So I’m also feeling very very relieved that I’m freed of the tyranny of Christmas jumpers and bastard shoeboxes and listening to thirty out-of-tune nine-year-olds sing “When Santa Got Stuck up the Chimney” and not sniggering at the line “There’s soot on my sack”, or keeping a straight face in the nice school church carol service when the angel tells Mary that she’ll get knocked up because the Holy Ghost will come upon her …’
‘I mean that’s not even anatomically possible,’ mused Simon. ‘Upon her wouldn’t do much, would it? As an archangel, Gabriel didn’t really understand human biology.’
‘Well, I suppose if he tried to wipe it off and got some on his hand and then … you know, she could get pregnant?’ I offered. ‘Just Seventeen was always warning us of the perils of that. As far as they were concerned, so much as a drop of jizz splashed within a ninety-metre radius of us, and we could be gymslip mothers before you could say “Immaculate Conception”. And I don’t think anyone else would manage to be as convincing as Mary about the whole Virgin Birth thing – that’s a one-time-only excuse.’
‘So what you’re saying is, Mary basically explained away being pregnant by telling Joseph she only got fingered by the Holy Ghost, and everyone knows fingering doesn’t really count and so that’s what happened, and then God said he had to marry her because she was up the duff?’
I started laughing. ‘Only you would put it quite like that,’ I said affectionately. ‘I mean, that’s not quite what I said. I only said Just Seventeen said it was still possible to get pregnant even if you didn’t actually do it do it. I don’t think you’ve missed your calling as a theologian. Anyway, I’m going to have a bath, and relax and enjoy my phone not blowing up with eleventy fucking billion WhatsApps about Prada bootboxes and three-legged alpacas.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind, darling.’
In the bath, I decided to see if I could have a tiny Instagram stalk of my children, as Jane was still refusing to reply to my texts and Peter’s only response was an occasional thumbs-up emoji. They had both blocked me long ago, and Jane declared Instagram to now just be for old people and it was all about TikTok. Peter was oddly fond of the old-fashioned technology of the ’Gram though, and occasionally unblocked me to have a little stalk of his own, and if I happened by luck to chance on one of those brief windows, I could have a rare glimpse into his life. I lived in hope of Jane doing the same, but she never did. Somewhat to my chagrin, she’d once informed me that she hadn’t bothered to block me on TikTok, because she knew I couldn’t use it.
Embarrassingly, she was right. Despite my best efforts to master the app, I ended up defeated every time. Once in a while one of them would send me a TikTok video they thought was ‘funny’ and I’d finally manage to open it and get the sound on, only to be entirely baffled by what the ‘joke’ was supposed to be. I had to check myself from taking the last step into Aging Ludditedom and referring to it as ‘The TikTok’, mainly because every time I nearly called it ‘The TikTok’ I could already hear my precious moppets’ derisive laughter ringing in my ears.
Oh, HAPPY day. Peter had me unblocked. I scrolled hastily, as these opportunities did not last long before he hit the block button again. What was he doing? He was on a beach. That girl’s bikini was very skimpy and she’d better hope there were no jellyfish in the sea, as she could be stung somewhere very unpleasant with so little fabric covering her. And, oh, another photo with Miss Jellyfish. What … what was she doing to my darling? Oh, sinful Jezebel! Not, it had to be said, that my darling appeared to be objecting, and possibly, I squinted, may have instigated it.
Who was in this one? My darling Peter and Hannah’s Lucas, a child who was practically my own as well, clinking shot glasses. He wasn’t a child though, I reminded myself. He was young, and that is what you do when you are young. You kiss unsuitable people wearing insufficient clothing and drink ridiculous things like Aftershock and, what was Peter holding in this photo of Lucas and Toby and him? A roll-up cigarette, I was sure. Terrible that he was smoking, but definitely just a roll-up ciggy. It must be, as didn’t they behead people for drugs in Thailand? Or was that the Middle East? Either way, I was sure the authorities would take a very dim view of it. Was it a roll-up, though? I screenshot it, and sent it to Hannah and Sam to be sure.
Hannah: Oh God, what are they doing? They’re smoking drugs, aren’t they? When was this taken? I haven’t heard from Lucas in two weeks and I was starting to think he was dead. Maybe he is? Maybe he’s in a Thai jail? My baby!
Sam: I’m pretty sure that’s just a roll-up.
Ellen: Please tell me it is.
Sam: Yeah, it’s definitely a roll-up, chill out, girls.
Hannah: They’re in jail, aren’t they? That’s why we’ve not heard from them, because they’re rotting in a Thai jail. Should we fly out and rescue them?
Sam: If they were in jail, someone would have told us.
Hannah: Do they get a phone call? Like here? Maybe they were too scared to call us, in case we were angry.
Sam: They’re British citizens, if they were in jail, the embassy or consulate or something would’ve been informed, and they would have told us. They’re fucking idiots, but they’re not in jail.
Ellen: Yet. They’re not in jail YET! They could be arrested at any time. What are they thinking, doing DRUGS?
Sam: It’s a roll-up. And even if it’s not, it’s only a spliff. Not a very good one though, hardly worth the trouble of rolling that, if it’s not just tobacco. Anyway, cannabis is legal in Thailand, I checked before they went.
Ellen: Is it? But it’s a GATEWAY DRUG! I read a Telegraph article about it. They could be opium fiends by now!
Hannah: What IS an opium fiend? How is it better than just being an addict?
Ellen: I don’t know.
Sam: I think you’re both overreacting, calm down.
Ellen: Our children could be drug fiends and you’re telling us to calm down.
Sam: The boys aren’t stupid. The photos are all pretty tame, they know better than to put photos of them with drugs or anything else on their socials, give them some credit.
Ellen: True. But they’re SMOKING, Sam.
Hannah: Our babies.
Sam: For Christ’s sake, we all smoke. You more than any of us Ellen.
Hannah: I don’t smoke.
Sam: You always nick a fag off me after the fourth glass of wine.
Hannah: It doesn’t count if you’re drinking.
Sam: Well, they’re drinking.
Ellen: Are you SURE it’s only tobacco and not a special cigarette?
Sam: No. How the fuck can I be sure if I’m not there? But it’s unlikely. And worst case scenario – youths smoke a joint at a beach party. Didn’t either of you try it when you were that age?
…
…
…
…
Ellen: I didn’t inhale.
Hannah: It was the NINETIES. It didn’t count in the nineties.
Sam: I rest my case. Just try and let them be young, without pushing them away by being neurotic and overprotective, OK?
Hannah: I know, but it’s so hard, especially now Lucas has said he’s not coming home for Christmas either.
Ellen: Has he definitely decided?
Hannah: Yes, he’s going to ‘hang’ at this party with Peter. And their opium fiend friends no doubt.
Sam: Well, try and look on the positive side my little Mary Whitehouses – at least if your boys are in Thailand, they’ll be puking and causing carnage on a beach somewhere, and not over Ellen’s sitting room, like last year when Peter persuaded her to have the after-party for the school prom at her house. Because that was fun, wasn’t it, Ellen?
Ellen: Ugh. Don’t remind me. Do you know, I spent half of tonight reassuring Julia next door that it gets easier as they get older, and now I’m worrying about Peter and drugs and thinking about that night of the party!
Sam: You’re welcome. Seriously though, the boys aren’t daft, they’ll be fine.
Hannah: Oh God, I hope you’re right.
Sam: Call it father’s intuition.
Hannah: I can’t believe I’m going to have go through all this again in fifteen years with Edward.
Sam: Poor you.
Ellen: Maybe he’ll be different. Maybe he’ll be an angel child, who never wishes to leave his dear mama’s side.
Hannah: Ha. What is the emoji for a hollow laugh?
Ellen: I better go. I’m in the bath and the water’s gone cold and I’ve turned into a prune, and I was wrinkled enough to start with.
Sam: What a lovely image.
I got out of the bath and dripped through to the bedroom. Simon was already in bed with Flora.
‘She was cold,’ he insisted when I raised my eyebrows.
‘Do you remember Peter’s party, last Christmas?’ I asked.
Simon shuddered. ‘I try not to. I still sometimes think I can smell gazpacho and Malibu puke in the sitting room on a warm summer’s day.’
One year ago
It all started just before Peter’s Sixth Form Christmas Prom. For weeks all I’d heard was who was going with who, who was having pre’s where, the significance of that in the school social pecking order, and scandalised tales of brutal break-ups only days before the Prom, meaning that the whole pre’s system had had to be rejigged to accommodate broken teenage hearts. I still insisted it was the height of laziness that the Youth referred to the gatherings before the dance as ‘pre’s’ and not ‘pre-dance drinks’, and had also railed hard against the deplorable American tradition of renaming the school Christmas dance the ‘Prom’, as if we were all in a John Hughes film (though secretly I’d have quite liked to live in a John Hughes film where all teenage angst was solved by a nice frock and a snog with Andrew McCarthy), but my complaints fell on deaf ears, and the pre’s and the Prom they remained.
Everything finally seemed to be settling down. Lucy Walker and Dan Letterby had both been suspended over Snapchatting their naked photos of each other to the rest of the year, after Lucy dumped Dan to go to the Prom with Findlay Atherton, and I had mostly been feeling very glad that I was no longer a teenager with the immensely intense and complicated love life that entailed, when two days before the dance (they can call them Proms all they like but they CAN’T MAKE ME, HA), Peter slouched into the sitting room and opened the conversation with a long drawn out ‘Muuuuuuuuuum?’ There were at least six syllables in that ‘Mum’ and I instantly tensed, as every mother knows that the more syllables there are when your child says ‘Mum’, the more outlandish the request to follow will be.
‘Yes?’ I said warily.
‘Well, like, the thing is, Mum, like, you see, like.’
‘Peter, spit it out, for Christ’s sake. Whatever you’re wanting, I’m not going to be more likely to say yes to it the longer I’ve got to listen to you prevaricate. Also, please, must every second word be “like”?’
‘It’s, like, not, like every second word, though, like, is it? You, like, totally exaggerate!’
‘You’ve just said “like” four times. In five seconds! I’ll make a deal with you – if you can put your entire request to me, without using the word “like” one single time, you can have whatever it is that you want.’
Oh, how I’d come to regret that rash offer. It turned out Peter was capable of constructing a sentence without using that fucking word, and what he wished to ask his dear and darling aged Mama was whether she’d extend her generous hospitality to hosting the after-party that was supposed to have been at Jake Anderson’s, except his parents had peremptorily cancelled it after coming home unexpectedly early from a Christmas night out to find Jake bonking his girlfriend in their bed.
‘Which was totally unfair, because Jake doesn’t even have a double bed, and they were being safe, but they’re really pissed off and said since Jake does not seem to respect their boundaries, he definitely can’t have a gaff, so I thought they could all come here, Mum?’
‘What the devil is a “gaff”?’ I demanded in confusion. ‘I thought you wanted a party? Is it some sort of rave?’
‘Oh my God, Mother! A gaff is a party! Like everybody knows that, how sad are you that you don’t know that? And like, no one says “rave” anymore?’
‘I’m not sad, I can’t help it that the Youth wilfully misuse the English language, can I?’
‘Like, whatever, but can I, Mum? Please? Can I have a gaff after the Prom?’
I desperately stalled for time, saying, ‘I’ll have to talk to your father,’ and Peter grumbled, ‘But you said, if I could tell you what I wanted without saying “like” I could have it,’ and I countered that I’d thought we were talking about a lift into town, or a ludicrously expensive shirt from Flannels, not to have the whole year back for a massive gaff. (I felt most hip and youthful as I proclaimed the word ‘gaff’, and also secretly pleased that at least they were mangling British English and not using yet another Americanism.)
‘It won’t be massive,’ he pleaded. ‘Not everyone goes on to the after-party. Hardly anyone. Come on, Mum, pleeeeease! Everyone’s really upset there’s no after-party now, and no one else’s mum and dad are letting them do it at short notice –’
‘Yes, there’s probably a reason for that.’
‘So it would be super-cool if I was the one who saved the night. Please?’
‘I said, I’ll need to talk to your father.’
