Why mummy drinks at chri.., p.17
Why Mummy Drinks at Christmas, page 17
The more I thought about it, though, the more I liked the idea. They would be all dressed up from their dance, so the house would be full of glitteringly beautiful girls in evening dresses and handsome boys in dinner jackets, trooping through the door, cheeks pink from dancing so merrily, arriving to sip on … eggnog? Would eggnog be appropriately festive? Perhaps I could organise party games? A jovial round of Blind Man’s Bluff or something. I could hear the jolly laughter echoing already.
The delightful children who attended would talk of it for years. ‘Of course, this a good Christmas party, but do you remember the party Peter Russell had? That was the best Christmas party ever. His mother Ellen is truly the spirit of Christmas. Even when I’m old and grey, I will remember how joyfully we sang carols round the piano, our clear voices sounding out across the snowy fields, guiding weary travellers home to rest.’ Oh yes. I was going to show these callow youths the TRUE meaning of Christmas. Maybe not eggnog. Might be a bit rich, late at night? Perhaps some sort of champagne cocktail? Not too strong, and not champagne either but cheap Prosecco, but the sentiment would be there. Could I persuade Simon into his ancient and possibly slightly mouldy DJ for the occasion? I’d do a supper, of course. A cold buffet, but maybe some kedgeree? I’d need a playlist, obviously, and a new dress, possibly involving taffeta. I do adore taffeta and mourn its loss from modern fashion – the girls of today don’t know what they’re missing, never having gone out in a frock with a taffeta bow on their bum! Oh yes! It would be glorious, My Vision, of some sort of fin-de-siècle Christmas extravaganza crossed with a Roaring Twenties party vibe. By the time I discussed it with Simon it was a done deal, and his objections fell upon deaf ears.
Needless to say, Peter vetoed the carols, the eggnog, the cocktails, the Blind Man’s Bluff, the playlist, the true meaning of Christmas and especially the supper, the kedgeree in particular. I tried arguing for the HAPPY MEMORIES these things would create and the joyous tales that would be told by many a fireside in years to come, but he was having absolutely none of it. Meanwhile, Simon vetoed the taffeta dress, crushingly informing me that the nineties would never be that back.
I did find it hard to part with at least the cocktail part of my plan, but Peter said it was a Bit Much and also Quite Wanky, and could I not just get a load of Kopparberg and Corona in, like any normal person.
‘What about the girls?’ I objected.
‘Can’t they drink the Kopparberg and the beers?’
‘I don’t know. Jane drinks Kopparberg, but maybe these girls have more sophisticated tastes. Shall I get some gin? They might fancy a G&T.’
‘We don’t drink gin and tonics, that’s for well old people. Just some beers and ciders will be fine. And maybe some vodka. Everyone likes vodka. Oooh, tequila might be good?’
‘I’m not getting you vodka – that encourages irresponsible drinking. And definitely not tequila. You’re not doing shots.’
‘You are, like, sooooo hypocritical. Two minutes ago you were offering gin. Vodka’s no stronger than gin. And last week you went out and did shots with Hannah and Sam, and I found you in the kitchen trying to butter a piece of kitchen roll while you wiped down the counter with your toast!’
‘That is different.’ I attempted a dignified stand. ‘I’m an adult.’
‘So are we, technically.’
‘Yes, but I’m a grown-up. I know what I’m doing and when to stop when it comes to shots.’
‘Usually when you fall over,’ Peter muttered.
‘Anyway, you won’t all be eighteen,’ I pointed out. ‘So I definitely shouldn’t be encouraging drinking spirits.’
‘Oh chill, Mother, it’ll be fine. Anyway,’ he cunningly tried to change the subject, ‘it’ll be nice for you and Dad to have, like, a night away, won’t it? Where are you going?’
‘What? We’re not going anywhere, Peter. If you have this party, we’re going to be here.’
‘But you can’t. That’s like mega-embarrassing, Mum. No one has their parents at a gaff. That’s, like, the whole point of a gaff. No parents.’
‘I think you’ll find it’s the other way round, darling. No parents, no gaff! Sorry, but this is non-negotiable.’
Despite Peter’s best Kevin the Teenager impression about the ruination of his life, I stood firm. The party was the next day now, so short of cancelling it – and thus being a total loser – he had little option but to go along with it.
Simon duly dropped Peter off at Millie Evans house for the pre’s and came home to help me prepare for the Gaff. I was enjoying quite a nice glass of red when he returned.
‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’ he said doubtfully. ‘I mean, should we be drinking, if we’re going to be in charge of other people’s children?’
‘Well, they keep insisting they’re not children, so why not? It’s only a tiny glass of Rioja, darling. Here, have one, it’s jolly nice. I did get some Prosecco for the girls, I thought they might like it. And I’m going to make a fruit cup.’
‘Punch?’
‘No, a fruit cup.’
‘Alcoholic?’
‘Only a tiny bit.’
‘A tiny bit. A tiny bit alcoholic “fruit cup” is a punch, Ellen. I remember the last time you made punch. In your flat in Edinburgh, not long after we’d started going out. Well, actually I don’t remember, that’s the problem. No one does, everyone was shitfaced in the first ten minutes of getting to the party. Amy Benson was drunk for three days. Andy Stevens snogged a postbox on the way home at 6 a.m., thinking he’d pulled, and then tried to fight a postman he accused of “looking at his bird”. We only even know that because Annoying Shelley was out for an early run and saw him and told everyone. Andy had no recollection at all. So I really don’t think your “fruit cup” is a good idea.’
‘Nonsense,’ I told him airily. ‘I found a recipe on the internet. It won’t be like last time when we just emptied every variety of booze we could find into the washing-up bowl and topped it up with Um Bongo and Capri-Suns.’
‘I think Um Bongo’s banned now, I’m not sure whether because of the name or the E numbers.’
‘Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? Because look, I’m using fresh orange juice, pomegranate juice, Malibu and just a hint of vodka, with lovely strawberries and blueberries in it. Oooh, I’ve got some Cointreau, look, will I put a splash of that in? Nope … it still needs something else … maybe a dash more Malibu? Oh yes, that’s damn fine, if I do say so myself. And doesn’t it look lovely in my punch bowl?’
‘Where did that come from?’ asked Simon dubiously.
‘Home Bargains,’ I told him proudly. ‘So many bargains for your home that you didn’t know you needed!’
‘I thought we talked about this? If you didn’t know you needed something, then you didn’t need it, however much of a bargain it was.’
‘Oh tish. Anyway, I did need a punch bowl, didn’t I? Because of the punch. I mean fruit cup. So there!’ I responded cheerily. The fruit cup was very cheering, I reflected. And so fruity and healthy. The moppets would be delighted by my cleverness, I decided.
‘Oh God, are you getting belligerent already? How much of that have you had?’
‘Not belligerent, actually,’ I said crossly. ‘Just ver’ happy with my luffly punchy cup. You should have some. Make you happy too!’
‘Oh fuck it, why not?’
After that we had to go for a little nighty bed before the revellers returned at midnight. We woke up on the sofa with very dry mouths as they all came trooping in. I leapt up like a good hostess and began dispensing fruit cup, with a little glass for myself, just on account of the dry mouth. The boys were more interested in beer, but the girls were most thrilled.
‘See, darling!’ I said to Peter. ‘I knew this was a good idea. Gosh, there’s a lot of you, aren’t there? Is that more people arriving? How many do you think are coming?’
‘About, like, a hundred?’ said Peter breezily.
‘Well, I’d better make some more fruit cup then.’
Alas, I’d forgotten the exact recipe for the fruit cup, but I improvised and it was also delicious. I’d run out of strawberries, but I cleverly chopped up a carrot and popped that in. So cunning. No one would notice. Was practically a strawberry. Maybe some tomatoes? Tomatoes were a fruit? No, Ellen, I chided myself, that would be silly.
The boys had now taken notice of the fact that the pretty pink girly fruit cup was considerably stronger than their beers and had also started knocking it back, so I hastily made a third batch. I had no more fruit juice, but I found some cartons of gazpacho soup at the back of the cupboard. ‘Tomato is a fruit,’ I reminded myself, as I emptied them into the bowl, along with a bottle of vodka, some brandy, a doubtful bottle of port that I also found at the back of the cupboard, and grated some nutmeg on the top, to be ‘festive’. There!
I served it up with panache and tottered outside for a lil’ cigarette. Half the party was now outside too, and I surveyed them with concern. The girls were all so pretty, lovely things with masses of swishy hair but their dresses were so very small! They would surely all catch a chill on their kidneys, for none of them wore tights. You didn’t have that worry with taffeta. Nice an’ warm you were with taffeta. Kidneys quite safe. I collapsed on the bench outside the back door and lit up. There was a youth there, vaping away. I tutted at him.
‘S’very bad for you,’ I chided. ‘Why you vaping? Smoking s’much better!’
‘Are you Peter’s mum?’
‘Yesh.’
‘Can I have a fag then, if you think smoking’s better for me than vaping?’
‘Fine.’
‘Wow. You’re really cool, Peter’s mum.’
‘Why thank you!’
The Youth drained the rest of his fruit cup and squinted at me. ‘An’ you’re hot too. Hey! Pedro!’ he bellowed at Peter, who was just coming out the back door with a blonde girl who seemed to have forgotten most of her skirt. I sighed for her kidneys. ‘Pedro, you never told us your mum was such a MILF.’
Peter looked distinctly unimpressed with this statement.
‘What are you doing, Mother?’ he hissed. ‘Dad’s gone to bed, don’t you think you should go too?’
‘No, no,’ I said sternly, remembering my responsibilities. ‘Need to supervise, yeah? Can’t go bed!’
‘Yeah, Pete, leave your mum,’ said my new Youth Friend. ‘She’s a fucking legend.’
I beamed smugly at Peter. A fucking legend MILF, that was me. Although I should really have been offended by such a sexist objectification, there’s something shamefully delightful as a middle-aged woman to realise that perhaps you do still have some sort of sex appeal and are more than a dried husk who does the laundry and makes dinner, that you can still cause a stir in a young man’s loins. Even if, I thought guiltily, that young man was quite literally young enough to be your son.
‘Would you care for another cigarette?’ I asked the Youth generously.
‘Mum, smoking’s bad for you,’ grumbled Peter.
‘Not as bad as vaping,’ I insisted. ‘Peter, darling, are you going to introduce your friend to Mummy?’
‘This is Poppy,’ said Peter miserably.
‘Hi, Mrs Russell,’ said Poppy.
What a nice polite young lady, I thought, she’d make an excellent future daughter-in-law.
‘Are you having a nice time?’ I enquired.
‘Yeah, great party,’ enthused Polite Poppy.
‘Get you anything? More fruit cup? Perhaps, some shots?’ I suggested, ever the good hostess.
‘Oooh, shots!’ Polite Poppy’s eyes lit up.
‘And you?’ I turned to my new bestie, who was happily puffing away on one of my Camel Blues. ‘I don’t think I caught your name.’
‘Aidan,’ he grinned, ‘but they call me Donkey because –’
‘Because he’s an ASS!’ interrupted a beetroot Peter. ‘That’s why, no other reason.’
Donkey winked at me. I suspected the other reason, but was too much of a lady to say.
‘So, Aidan. Or do you prefer Donkey? Shots?’
‘Fuck yeah!’
‘Come on then. I hid the tequila in the shed. And the sambuca. Shots are such fun!’
After three shots each in the shed with my new besties Polite Poppy and Donkey, we were back in the house.
Peter had abandoned Poppy at some point and had been last seen heading outside with a brunette with an even skimpier dress on than Poppy. I decided it was probably best if I didn’t look for him too hard, lest my delicate maternal sensibilities be offended – just as long as he didn’t do anything stupid and cause me to have grandmaternal sensibilities. I’d given him a packet of condoms before the dance, much to his chagrin and embarrassment, as I exhorted to him to remember to be careful, as the alternatives were kids or the clap, and he didn’t want either yet. Well, ever, in the case of the clap. It was December, though, I reflected and probably therefore too cold outside for there to be any call for such things.
Donkey had taken charge of the music, turned off Peter’s carefully chosen cool playlist, and at my behest was playing Blondie at full volume.
‘Come and dance, Peter’s Mum,’ he yelled.
There were many youths dancing now, to my astonishment, as I’d have thought they would have decreed Blondie to be sad old-people’s music, but they all seemed to be having a marvellous time.
I’d forgotten how much I loved dancing. We used to dance all the time – Hannah and me, Simon and me, the children and me, when they were little, though their choice in tunage had been dubious but even so, on days when I had to admit it was too wet for the park and I couldn’t stand another episode of Bala-bastarding-mory, we’d stick the music on and just dance round the sitting room. Once they started school, though, dancing with their mother was not cool anymore. Doing anything with their mother was not cool anymore. So I was astonished and delighted when Peter appeared, minus the brunette, and joined the dancing, with his arm round Polite Poppy.
‘Let’s have more shots!’ shouted Donkey.
‘We can’t,’ I protested. ‘We drank it all.’
‘I got some,’ Donkey revealed proudly, and lurched out the room to return with, of all things, a bottle of Buckfast Tonic Wine.
I looked at it very dubiously.
‘No,’ I said firmly.
‘It’s fine, Mum,’ said Peter, who appeared to have given up being embarrassed by me and was going for a ‘if you can’t beat them, join them’ approach.
‘We do shots of it all the time, it’s really nice,’ beamed Donkey.
‘S’ok, Mrs Russell, it’s well lush,’ Poppy assured me.
‘There you go, Peter’s Mum,’ said Donkey (I did wish he’d stop calling me ‘Peter’s Mum’, it didn’t really fit with my image of being A Fucking Legend MILF to be constantly reminded that I was in fact old enough to be everyone here’s mother). ‘Get it down you.’
I sniffed it doubtfully. It actually didn’t smell as terrible as I’d expected. Sort of aromatic and herbally. After all, I said to myself, it was made by monks. Holy Men of God. Surely it would go against their vows to make something horrible that would kill people? I took a deep breath and knocked it back. It was really very palatable. Donkey insisted we all had to have another one, and Peter grabbed the bottle and thrust it at me.
‘Here, Mum, need a photo of you with it!’
Unfortunately, to take the photo, he had to let go of Poppy, who had been clinging to him rather precariously, and now she developed a distinct list to starboard.
‘Are you all right, Poppy?’ I asked anxiously.
‘S’fine,’ she mumbled. ‘I jus’ feel lil bit –’ She retched alarmingly.
‘DON’T PANIC!’ I yelled, panicking about my carpets. ‘I’m on it!’ I grabbed the punchbowl and flung the contents out the window. This would have been an excellent plan, if only the windows had been open. Still, I reasoned, better gazpacho up the walls before it had seen the inside of Poppy’s stomach than after.
‘Hold her hair,’ I ordered Donkey, as I proffered the punch bowl in the nick of time and Poppy heaved mightily into it. Peter regarded the scene with some dismay.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ he said furiously. ‘I was in there.’
‘Well, I hope you don’t think you are now, she’s in no fit state for anything.’
‘Obviously not!’
‘Peter’s Mum?’ piped up a pea-green Donkey. ‘Peter’s Mum, I don’ feel ver’ well either.’
‘Oh Christ!’ I couldn’t move as I was still holding the punch bowl under Poppy, who continued to do an excellent re-enactment of the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in the medium of Malibu and strawberries. ‘Peter, get him outside! Outside now!’
Peter grabbed Donkey and flung him out the French windows into the garden. Unlike his mother, he had the foresight to open them first.
‘Sorry,’ whimpered Poppy. ‘I’s been bit sick. I go ni’night now.’
‘Nooooo!’ I howled as Poppy curled up on the floor. ‘You can’t go to sleep here, darling. Up. Up! Come on, hey YOU!’ I grabbed a large passing youth. ‘Help me with Poppy, she can go to bed in my daughter’s room. PETER! Come and help too, Donkey will be fine in the lavender.’
‘Where does she live?’ I demanded of Peter, who didn’t look too clever himself but insisted it was just all the sicky sick making him feel sick.
‘Her mum and dad are away, and she was meant to be staying at Maisie’s, with Olivia and Ruby.’
‘Well, find Maisie and tell her Poppy’s staying here now, and make it clear that she’s staying in Jane’s room, OK?’
I put Poppy to bed, propped on her side in the recovery position with many pillows and realised she was absolutely comatose. I had possibly been irresponsible enough for one evening, I decided, and I’d have to stay with Poppy and make sure she was OK.
