Why mummy drinks at chri.., p.9
Why Mummy Drinks at Christmas, page 9
We all stared at Jessica in horror. Mum and Dad exchanged the first mutual look that suggested they agreed on something since that Boxing Day she booted him out twenty odd years before.
‘No … drink?’ stammered Dad.
‘Do you just mean no spirits? Like no vodka or gin or cocktails, but wine’s OK?’ put in Jackie hopefully.
‘Yes,’ said Mum in relief. ‘Of course there’ll be wine, won’t there, Jessica? Wine’s not really drink drinking, is it?’
‘Neither’s beer!’ said Geoffrey heartily. ‘Well, not when it’s a real ale, anyway. I grant you those pissy foreign lagers in bottles that the Gays drink should be banned, but not a good British ale!’
Despite the horror, Simon and I exchanged a look, and I smirked. We’d had a bet on whether Geoffrey would go more for racist or homophobic slurs over the Christmas period, and I was pretty sure the presence of Jackie meant he’d go racist. But I’d backed the wild card and picked homophobia, because Geoffrey could be unpredictable, though not unpredictable enough to turn into a good person.
‘Gin too,’ Geoffrey carried on. ‘That’s medicinal. It can hardly be counted as drink! We’d never have built the Empire without G&Ts, especially the Raj. World would be a better place if we still ran the Raj and kept all those bloody P –’
Mum kicked him sharply in the ankle and he quickly piped down.
‘Still counts,’ Simon murmured. ‘A point to me. One all!’
‘Nothing,’ said Jessica firmly. ‘No booze at all. Think how lovely it will be, waking up with a clear head on Christmas morning instead of feeling all muzzy! Think how much less bloated you’ll feel after Christmas dinner when you’re not full of wine as well! You’ll enjoy it, I promise you.’
The dismayed faces suggested we didn’t share Jessica’s faith in sobriety. It wasn’t that we were all in desperate need of a drink, it just made the rest of the family more bearable. I pleaded this to Jessica as I was helping her get some bottles of ‘lovely sparkling organic non-alcoholic elderflower’ instead of champagne, which Jessica assured us was not only alcohol free but also packed with many health-giving properties, so that we’d all leave on Boxing Day without hangovers and glowing with well-being.
‘Think how much drink there was at Ty’r Ywen,’ I said hopefully.
‘We’ve tried plying them with drink before and it didn’t make them any better. In fact, it makes some of them even worse,’ Jessica pointed out. ‘I mean, I’m not sure I’ve ever spent any time with Geoffrey sober. He’s having a “snifter” of something from pretty much twelve o’clock onwards.’
‘I’d probably do the same if I lived with Mum.’
‘Well, she’s no better, on the sherry while she makes lunch, if she’s not found sufficient reason to start on the Buck’s Fizz at breakfast.’
‘Again, can you blame her, when she has to live with Geoffrey?’
‘And then everyone has too much to drink, and some people get overemotional and oversensitive, and other people become very insensitive and say things they really shouldn’t, and you in particular reach the point where you can no longer tell the difference between what’s only funny in your head and what’s funny said out loud.’
‘I do not! At least, I don’t need a drink to do that, I can do that perfectly well sober,’ I retorted crossly.
‘Anyway, my point is, I think this will be really good for all of us. A sort of reset, if you will. Maybe without the booze-fuelled acrimony, Mum and Dad will be able to get on like normal people. And Geoffrey might even be less offensive.’
‘Again, I really don’t think that’s the booze. He’s already made one racist and one homophobic crack, and he’s not had a drop. I think it’s just that the years of conditioning by the patriarchy and toxic masculinity have convinced him that as rich, white Western man he’s automatically superior to anyone else in the room who isn’t a rich, white Western man.’
‘Well, whatever, but let’s give it a chance! Anyway, you’ve got an infant – and a toddler. It’s hardly like you’d be mainlining the vodka from dawn to dusk, is it?’
‘No, but it’s the principle,’ I wailed. ‘It’s like when you’ve got loads of crisps in the cupboard and you know they’re there, and you can have crisps at any time, so you don’t really fancy crisps. But as soon as you run out of crisps, you just really want crisps.’
‘No wonder you’ve not got your figure back, with cupboards full of crisps,’ said Jessica disapprovingly. ‘And you’d have lost the weight much faster if you’d breastfed too.’
‘Don’t start, Jessica. You’re making us all have a dry Christmas so we get on and play Happy Families, so don’t start going on about breastfeeding and weight. Just because you have perfect babies who feed like a dream and a fast metabolism so you never have to worry about your weight!’
‘OK, OK. You’re right, whatever. Your baby, your choice. Your arse, your choice. Anyway, I’ve got to do this sober, so why shouldn’t all of you?’
‘Yes, but Jessica, that’s not fair. You knew you had to be sober when you insisted, you did, you insisted we all came to you for Christmas. I asked you eleventy billion fucking times if you were sure you wanted to do this and you said you were, but you knew what you were letting yourself in for. We didn’t! You lured us here under false pretences.’
‘I didn’t lure you,’ said Jessica indignantly. ‘I’m trying to do a nice thing. My therapist agrees. This might be the Christmas that finally heals our family, Ellen. This might be the year that the magic finally happens.’
‘Hurrumph,’ I said, both unconvinced by her plan and also seething at the thought that it might be Jessica who made the magic happen and not me. I wanted to be the Festive Fucking Queen, and if the magic happened on anyone’s watch, it should be mine.
We handed round the glasses of sparkling elderflower and everyone sipped despondently. Persephone and Jane caused a mild distraction when they tried to murder each other over a tasteful wooden train. Peter was duly admired by his grandparents, though they both stopped short of holding him. Geoffrey asked if he was meant to look like that, but a warning glare from Mum to Geoffrey and from Jessica to me defused the situation. Jackie nobly picked him up, but handed him back rapidly after he was sick on her cashmere jumper. The weather was discussed at some length.
Jessica’s plan seemed to working in a way, though, as although the room was split into two distinct factions, with Jessica and Neil and Mum and Geoffrey at one end, and Dad, Jackie, Simon and me at the other, with Persephone and Jane forming a sort of No Man’s Land in the middle, outright hostilities did seem to have been suspended. I overheard Geoffrey a few times droning on about National Service and how they should bring it back, and I’m pretty sure I heard him mention flogging, and I think they were eavesdropping on our end as well, because Geoffrey’s neck went more puce than usual when Jackie mentioned an article she had written for the Guardian. But Mum didn’t throw any mince pies at Dad, Dad didn’t threaten a restraining order and no one made Jackie (so far my favourite stepmother, and Dad had provided a good selection of them to pick from) cry, and Jessica and I didn’t cry, and Neil and Simon didn’t go to the pub to hide, so we counted it as a win. A very boring win, but a win nonetheless, being the first time in over twenty years that our parents had been able to be in the same room without trying to kill each other.
I had gone upstairs to check on Jane and Peter, who were sleeping peacefully (at least until the insatiable ravening maw of Peter awoke and demanded another fifteen gallons of milk. Jessica could tut over my lack of breastfeeding till she was blue in the face, but I’d been quite unable to satisfy Peter’s appetite myself, and I suspected that even an entire of herd of Friesians might have struggled), when my mother waylaid me on the landing.
‘Ellen,’ she hissed. ‘I can’t stand it. Have you got any tonic?’
‘Tonic?’ I repeated in confusion. ‘What sort of tonic? I packed some Infacol, if you’ve got indigestion?’
‘No! Tonic water. I’ve brought a bottle of gin. It was supposed to be a contribution to the Christmas drink, but there’s no point now, is there? So I need some tonic so Geoffrey and I can have a little drinky pinky poo.’
‘A drinky pinky poo?’
‘Yes. Oh, don’t worry, you can have one too, though I’m not sharing with your father and his mail-order bride.’
‘Jackie’s an award-winning journalist, Mum. Her family have been here for generations.’
‘Yes, well, whatever. Anyway, do you have any tonic?’
‘Why would I have tonic water? And Jessica has been quite clear, there’s no drink allowed.’
‘Jessica is clearly deranged with hormones and doesn’t know what she is doing. I cannot spend forty-eight hours stone cold sober with your father. Or with Geoffrey, for that matter. Can’t you send Simon to the shop?’
‘Why does Simon have to go the shop? Why can’t you?’
‘It’s raining. My hair.’
‘Why can’t Geoffrey go then?’
Mum gave her special laugh, the one she reserves for when she thinks you’ve said something especially stupid. ‘Geoffrey doesn’t go to shops. Well, apart from to buy a newspaper, and nipping into the wine shop. He says shopping is a Pink Job.’
‘What?’
‘Also, there was that incident in Waitrose when he was asked not to go back.’
‘What incident? What did he do?’
‘Nothing. It was all a big misunderstanding. He didn’t mean to show that woman his winky at all. She just got completely the wrong end of the stick!’
‘Not literally, I hope. Oh my God, Mother, are you telling me Geoffrey is a flasher on top of everything else?’
‘Of course not. Like I said, misunderstanding.’
‘Oh Mum, why do you stay with him? Is the Old Rectory and his pension and lording it over Cynthia and Margery really worth it? You could leave him, get a job and some self-respect?’
‘Ellen, you’re just being difficult. Now are you going to send Simon to the shop or not?’
‘No. Jessica’s trying really hard, we all are, so you’re not spoiling it for her.’
I stomped off downstairs, feeling extremely virtuous that I had taken a stand against Mum to preserve Jessica’s Vision, despite the thought of the delicious gin and tonic that would have been my reward. Virtue, I reminded myself, is its own reward, and enough people thwarted my Visions that helping Jessica realise hers seemed like the least I could do.
My virtue wavered somewhat, though, on the way to bed, when Dad opened his bedroom door and hissed, ‘Pssst. Ellen, in here. Yes, Simon too, quick, before anyone sees.’
Dad had four Emma Bridgewater mugs sitting on the dressing table and was busily unwrapping a package. Jackie was sitting on the bed, with a look of huge relief on her face.
‘I know Jessica is trying really hard, darling,’ he said, ‘but frankly that was a godawful evening. You’ve had a tough old year, what with Jane and having another baby, and I’m sure after all that you were looking forward to a little Christmas drinky.’
‘I was,’ I said sadly. ‘I know it sounds dreadful, but after nine months of pregnancy, and then Peter being so constantly starving that I’m a sleep-deprived zombie most of the time, I’ve only managed about two glasses of wine since he was born. It’s terrible, but I was hoping I might be able to relax and have a couple of drinks here, with Simon off work for a few days to help out more.’
‘Well,’ said Dad, ‘taaaadah!’ And he brandished a rather lovely bottle of 25-year-old Glenfarclas at me.
‘It was meant to be Neil’s Christmas present,’ he said. ‘But not much point since Jessica’s banned drink, and apparently even after Christmas Neil isn’t allowed to touch a drop until Gulliver is born, so it’s wasted on him, really. And I didn’t have any glasses, but the mugs were for Jessica, and then I saw she already has a set of twenty-four of them in her kitchen, so coals to Newcastle and all that. Clever Jackie here pretended she’d forgotten to print our boarding passes for when we escape on Boxing Day, so she borrowed Neil’s office to print out a gift voucher for some ghastly sounding couples’ pregnancy massage that Jessica was talking about, which means, my darling, we can regift their presents to ourselves and enjoy a dram or two! Isn’t that marvellous?’
‘It’s dreadfully disloyal to Jessica,’ I said.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Dad unrepentantly.
‘The way I look at it, Ellen,’ said Jackie, ‘is that as long as Jessica doesn’t know, it won’t hurt her, will it? And her plan has worked so far in that it’s kept your mum and Geoffrey sober so Yvonne doesn’t start hurling insults and baked goods round the place, and Geoffrey has only referred to “The Gays” and “The Blacks” once each, which apparently is quite good going for him, so as long as the peace is kept, everyone will be happy, won’t they? And since Ralph and I have no intention of knocking back a dozen whisky shots and going and picking a fight with Yvonne and Geoffrey, there really will be no harm done.’
Simon was already clutching a mug and sniffing at it appreciatively.
‘The thing is, Ellen,’ he said earnestly, ‘this is really good stuff. We’re drinking it to savour the taste, not just drinking for the sake of drinking, aren’t we? Also, we have two very small children and a large mortgage, so God knows when we’ll get to try something like this again. It would be rude not to. And it might help you relax. You know how stressed you get about everything, worrying if Peter’s had enough milk and if Jane’s getting scurvy and should their nappies be that colour.’
Jackie blanched at this, and Dad quickly changed the subject away from my children’s nappies.
‘Actually, I’ve got you a bottle too, Simon,’ said Dad, ‘so you’ll get to try it again soon, if you don’t want to lead Ellen astray?’
‘Oh, fuck it,’ I said, and took the mug Dad was brandishing at me, and sniffed. It smelled heavenly.
‘No,’ I said regretfully, handing it back. ‘It’s not fair. This means a lot to Jessica. Come on Dad, this isn’t fair.’
‘Your mother’s got a bottle of gin, I saw it sticking out of Geoffrey’s hold-all.’
‘So? She’s not got any tonic, though. And I think her standards do not permit her to glug neat gin from her toothmug. So if Mum can do it, you can do it. Come on, Simon, we better try to get some sleep before one of the kids wakes up.’
I staggered downstairs at 6.30 a.m. the next morning with Peter, rather regretting my noble gesture and thinking I might as well have had a drink, as Peter had woken up so often in the night, discombobulated to be in a strange place, that I felt as groggy and bleary-eyed as I’d have done with a hangover.
Jessica was already up and peered at me in horror as I started making Peter’s bottle.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked in concern.
‘Knackered. He didn’t sleep much. So neither did we.’
‘Didn’t Simon get up with him at all?’
‘A bit, but by the time I’ve woken him up and made him get up, and then he faffs about being fucking useless, half the time it’s easier to just get up myself.’
‘Haven’t you tried sleep training?’
‘Oh yes. But he declines to be trained. He clearly hasn’t read The Contented Little Bastarding Baby Book, has he?’
‘Well, think how much worse you’d feel if you’d been drinking,’ said Jessica smugly.
‘I don’t think I could feel much worse,’ I groaned. ‘Are you sure we can’t just have a little glass of wine with Christmas dinner?’
‘Yes! Look how well last night went!’
I didn’t dare tell Jessica about our parents’ attempts to flout her rules, and luckily Simon caused a distraction by coming in with Jane, shortly followed by Neil with Persephone. The girls happily spread porridge everywhere for some time, successfully rubbing it in their eyes, hair, ears and any other orifice they could find except their mouths, as we dutifully waited for their doting grandparents to appear to watch the magical spectacle of their grandchildren opening their Christmas stockings. When no grandparents appeared and the children were thoroughly caked in porridge and had been borne upstairs at arms’ length by their reluctant fathers to be bathed again, Jessica had had enough.
‘Where are they?’ she complained. ‘Right, I know how to sort this,’ and she slotted the Carols from King’s CD into Neil’s swanky sound system that had speakers wired up through the house. Next minute, the Herald Angels were Harking at full volume in every room.
‘That should do it,’ she said smugly, as Peter started wailing.
Within five minutes there were sounds of life and showers running from upstairs. The freshly washed and glowing toddlers, adorable in velvet party frocks that were sure to be ruined immediately by them smearing some sort of bodily fluid or matter over them, were installed by the Christmas tree, ready for Operation Stockings yet for the time being entranced by CBeebies, which I’d convinced Jessica would not stunt Persephone’s development. Peter was dressed in his Christmas Babygro and the children’s fathers were left in charge with strict instructions that no parcels were to be touched until the proceedings were lovingly observed by their grandparents. I was helping Jessica in the kitchen when Mum and Geoffrey and Dad and Jackie stumbled downstairs in search of coffee. Neither Mum’s Elizabeth Arden, Jackie’s Jo Malone, or Dad and Geoffrey’s Aramis and English Fern respectively were any match for Jessica’s super-sensitive pregnancy nose, which twitched suspiciously as they came in.
