Whiskey tango foxtrot, p.20
Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, page 20
Chris Rea’s Driving Home for Christmas drifted down stairs from Ella’s bedroom, accompanied by the odd thump on the ceiling which made the light rattle in its fixings.
“Think it might be a chippy tea tonight Joe, I desperately need to do a shop.” I waited for a reply. “Joe!”
He appeared in the doorway, dishevelled with in imprint of the cushion fabric on his cheek. “What my little love pudding?”
“Chippy tea?”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly, I mean, look at this physique, it’s not built on pork pies and kebabs you know.” He laughed loudly, wrapping his arms around my waist dancing me around the kitchen. “Go on then, you’ve twisted my arm, special fried rice, portion of chips and a cup of curry, nothing too big mind!”
I shoved a ten pound note in his hand. “You can go, just give Ella a shout, see what she wants but I’ve got a feeling she’s still trying to lose weight for the wedding.”
“Are we okay for bread? She might fancy a chip butty, I can pick some up whilst I’m out.” He started doing the same routine that I’d just completed, opening and closing each cupboard door, checking the shelves. “Jeez Mave, we’re a bit low on the old grub, definitely need a big shop this week, we can incorporate the Christmas food too.”
I gave him a sheepish grin. “Looking like this...” I pointed to my face, “…I don’t think so, I still look like Quasimodo!”
He ushered me into the lounge, plumping up the cushions, beckoning for me to sit down. “Now, now - you’ll always be beautiful to me, you can wear a balaclava, nobody will notice.” he giggled like a stupid school boy.
“Don’t mention balaclavas, doughnuts or bikes, it’s still a bit raw.” I picked up the magnifying mirror and flopped down next to him. “Still can’t believe I lost him, bet he never expected his ‘victim’ to have a go either. Fancy picking on an off-duty bizzy too, what are the chances hey?”
“I still can’t believe that you tried to tackle him, on your own AND off duty, just wait until I get my hands on him, he’ll feel my Welsh Death Grip around his throat with his last breath!”
I hit him with the cushion, the static from the impact making his hair stand on end. “Oh my hero, I’d rather you used your Welsh Death Grip on the ruddy child-proof cap of this…” I lobbed the bottle of paracetamol to him.
Whilst he struggled with the cap, I gave myself a once over in the mirror. Even in the soft amber glow of the Christmas tree lights, I still looked dreadful. The little souvenir from my run-in with our Dodgy Doughnutter was still very evident.
The pain had quickly subsided but the swelling and bruising around my eyes would’ve made Rocky Balboa proud. Inflicting my good looks in our local Tesco’s wouldn’t endear me to the masses on a Sunday afternoon. I only needed to shove my tongue in my cheek and start shouting ‘Esmerelda, the bells,’ whilst dragging one foot behind me along the freezer aisle to ensure everyone would scatter and provide me with a place right at the front of the checkout queue. I clattered the mirror onto the coffee table and picked up one of the tree decorations.
“Can’t believe it’s all come around so quickly, seems like five minutes since we were shoving these back in the loft and now we’ve only got a week until we do it all over again.” I held the golden thread between my thumb and forefinger and twirled the bright red bauble, watching it catch the light.
“Yep, think you’ll find it’s roughly 365 days since the last one, Mave.”
“Dumbass.”
“Love you too, Einstein...!”
“Whilst Joe’s on a late shift, I think I’ll brave the supermarket, it might be less busy after sevenish.” I waited for a response from Ella. Sitting with her feet curled up beneath her on the sofa, she was avidly watching Miracle On 34th Street. Her head jerked up to look at me, her eyes popping in horror.
“Oh for goodness sake Mum, you can’t go out looking like that, what if my friends see you, I’ll die of embarrassment.” She animatedly pointed at my face. “Please don’t, you look like you’ve gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson!”
“Err, thanks for the vote of confidence, don’t tell me you’re going to suggest a bloody balaclava too?”
Ella laughed. “Just do it on the internet, Abigail’s mum does all hers on-line. She’s such a snob and hates mixing with poor people, so she stays at home and gets it delivered, she’s doing all of her Christmas that way this year.” She grinned and pulled a snooty looking face which I assumed was to mimic Abigail’s mummy and her distaste of ordinary folk.
I had visions of her elegantly dressed, red lipstick carefully applied, with her Jimmy Choo heels deftly poised and pointing, whilst she draped her dangly baubles over the upper branches of her specially imported tree with Abigail looking on in admiration. I shuddered.
Ella picked the laptop up from the table, tapped her fingers deftly across the keyboard and handed it to me. “Here you go, Tesco up and running, all you’ve got to do is set up an account and away you go!” She looked at me expectantly.
“Blimey, I’m an internet virgin, I haven’t got a clue what I’m supposed to do….” I hesitantly pressed the enter key and waited, “…just don’t expect miracles, will you?”
The screen burst into life showing me I was connected to Tesco dot com. A flurry of onscreen instructions begged me to follow them, to hit the keys, to enter the information they wanted. I was hooked. Excitement slowly began to manifest itself with butterflies in my stomach as my personal shopping account was created. This part was akin to foreplay. Soon I would no longer be a frightened techie-virgin, I would be a full blooded, marginally experienced…
“Oh wow look, I’ve booked a delivery slot!” I was over the moon, I’d done something important without faarking it up and getting it sent to some remote Hebridean island!
Ella tutted and rolled her eyes… I on the other hand was just simply on a roll.
Fruit, vegetables, meat, frozen food, toiletries; the list was endless, how exciting and all without leaving the comfort of my own home. With a flourish of my index finger, I ordered several bottles of Merlot, a bottle of Bailey’s and a dozen mince pies for Joe and was just about to press ‘go to checkout’ when Ella intervened. “Don’t forget the sprouts Mum, Nan always did sprouts, it wouldn’t be a Christmas Dinner without them.” She stuck her hands on her hips and gave a huge grin.
Great, sprouts!
I grimaced at the thought. “Oh my, how could I forget?” I sarcastically spat. “Can’t wait to have another year of Dad farting to the opening titles of Only Fools and Horses!” I took another sip from my mug, wiping my sleeve across my chin to catch the dribble of tea that had sneakily escaped. “Couldn’t we just make do with carrots and peas?”
She shrugged. “Nope! It just wouldn’t be Christmas without them would it? Besides, I love sprouts…” She pinched her nose with her thumb and forefinger whilst dancing around Cat. “…. just do this mum and breathe through your mouth when Granddad’s around!”
I laughed and shook my head. She had an answer for everything. Reluctantly I checked back. Subconsciously or otherwise, I had forgotten the Christmas sprouts. Working out how many would be here for dinner, I carefully calculated who liked sprouts and who didn’t and how many sprouts each person would probably eat. Coming up with a nice round figure of sixty I sat there clicking the ‘in-basket’ key sixty times. I’d already ordered twenty-five carrots and two turnips, so sixty didn’t seem too far off the mark for the sprouts.
“Jeez, all you need to do is type the number you want in the box, Mum. It’s not bloody Morse Code you know! Tap, tap, tap, it’s annoying as hell.” She buried her head in the flocked red cushion on the sofa.
I quietly chuckled to myself. If she thought that was annoying, I couldn’t wait to see her face when she realised that she was going to be the one washing and peeling all sixty sprouts on Christmas morning. I had a feeling they wouldn’t be so high up on her menu next year.
Later that night, content in the knowledge that Christmas was accounted for thanks to Tesco dot com, I made my way up to bed. I couldn’t wait to tell Joe what I’d done, he’d be so proud of me. Particularly as it now meant he wouldn’t have to be dragged kicking and screaming along the aisles pushing a trolley with wonky wheels, whilst avidly avoiding the Derby & Joan brigade clacking their dentures in time to the piped music.
Plumping up my pillow, I sank softly down under the duvet, counting off the hours until my goodies would arrive.
“It’s here Mum, the Tesco van’s here.” Ella threw the front door open in anticipation.
Quickly swapping my fluffy slippers for a pair of navy ballet pumps, I popped my head out of the front door to have a sneaky look around, desperately hoping the neighbours would see that I had joined the elite ranks of the Internetters and as such, I was now on par with Abigail’s mummy. I might not have Jimmy Choo’s or a shagpile, but I could almost boast a slightly threadbare 1970’s orange flat-weave rug and a pair of platform clogs teamed with a pretty nifty set of Oxford Bag trousers at the back of the wardrobe.
“Morning, got a delivery for Upton-Blackwell, is it okay to start bringing it in?” He flashed a bright smile.
Feeling all breathless and somewhat decadent, I quickly beckoned him inside, like a wanton woman greeting her illicit lover. I excitedly watched as blue crate after blue crate was brought into the kitchen, carrier bags spilling over the edges, threatening to fall, as he deftly juggled a split bag of potatoes whilst sidestepping the pedal bin, Ella’s discarded trainers and Cat.
“Bloody hell Mum, are we feeding the five thousand?”
I shrugged and feigned apathy, although deep down I was a little concerned. Surely I hadn’t ordered THAT much; but the bags kept coming in.
He happily dropped the last crate on the floor and unloaded the carriers bags. “Your’s has been the biggest delivery so far today,” he puffed, offering me the clipboard to sign for my spoils as he winced and straightened out his back. Quickly scribbling my name, I ushered him out of the kitchen and shut the front door behind him, desperate to examine my spoils.
Rubbing my hands together in excitement, I skipped down the hall back to the kitchen. Savouring the moment before starting to unpack my groceries, I wistfully looked out of the window as the trees gently swayed in the wind, a 2lb bag of pasta in my hot, sweaty hand.
Jeez, I really should get out more if this was what sent me into ecstatic raptures.
Twenty minutes later it was out, exposed, unpacked, de-bagged, whatever you want to call it. My first ever internet shop.
“Oh for fecks sake! How the sodding hell have I managed to do that?” I dropped to the floor and sat cross legged, rubbing my fingers across my forehead as an absolute avalanche of sprouts rolled across the lino, threatening to bury Cat. He hissed and jumped up onto the window ledge out of harm’s way.
“I’ve got a bloody …well…I’ve just got, oh …what the hell am I going to do with all of these?” I wailed.
Ella, hearing my groans of despair, lolloped down the stairs and stuck her head around the kitchen door. Her eyes as wide as saucers gave way to a huge smirk, which only confirmed my rapidly unfolding catastrophe.
“I can’t believe you’ve done this. Didn’t you look at the picture first?” She picked up a green netted bundle, dangled it from her finger and swung it around in front of her in triumph. “You don’t order sprouts individually like carrots, what on earth were you thinking, Mum? The picture shows you how they come, in this case they’re in bags!”
I at least had the decency to look suitably embarrassed as she waved her arms in an exaggerated fashion at the rolling mass on the floor. I was also lost for words as she began counting.
“Sixty!” she huffed. “Sixty large BAGS of bloody sprouts mum, I mean, come on…. sixty BAGS!” she let out a snort of laughter.
Grimacing at her verbal emphasis on the word bags I shrugged my shoulders and stared open mouthed at the massive pile of bagged sprouts spread out on the floor. I began to gather them up into a more acceptably neat pile, which was quickly proving futile as they momentarily held and then collapsed again, spilling a solo sprout which rolled across the kitchen and disappeared under the fridge.
“Have an internet shop she said, it’ll be easy she said…anyone can do it… Abigail’s mummy standing on the shagpile can do it… the bloody world can do it……. except me! Well Ho Ho Ho….. Happy Christmas!” My voice stepped up an octave with each sentence.
And then suddenly, amidst my disaster, I had what I can only call the most brilliant of eureka moments.
“Presents Ella, they’ll make excellent presents. Who wouldn’t want a bag of sprouts for Christmas?” I flung open the kitchen cupboard and pulled out a glittering roll of wrapping paper, sellotape and tags. Pouring a large glass of Merlot, I grabbed a handful of sprout bags and carefully ensconced myself down on the floor in front of the fire.
Ella followed and plonked herself down beside me. “Well, it’s odds on you’ve probably caused a shortage by now so there’ll be some that’ll be grateful I suppose.” She crammed a handful of crisps in her mouth, brushed the crumbs from her jumper and handed me the scissors.
I carefully folded over the end of the first package, tucked a rogue sprout that had escaped from the mesh bag back inside, and grinned. “Essence of Sprout! I’m just wondering how many granddads are going to get the blame for that stench once these have festered under a few Christmas trees in ignorance!”
“You are absolutely nuts Mum…” she threw her arms around me, squeezing me tight, “…. but I really do love you, sprouts and all.”
46
Here’s You Hat, Here’s Your Coat…
I pushed the bright pink paper hat out of my eyes but not before I’d missed Ella’s plate with the peas. They scattered and rolled across the tablecloth. I tried to bat them back with the spoon, sending one or two stray ones over the edge and onto her knee. Standard issue Christmas cracker hats came in one size only… big! Looking around the table it was obvious that I wasn’t the only one with a problem. Joe’s was perched on the top of his head threatening to fall off as he made a grab for the roast potatoes.
Ella was far from impressed having to wear hers. She’d demanded a red one, but for some reason this year they were orange, green, pink and purple with not a red one in sight, despite pulling every cracker we had. Dad’s hat was set at a jaunty angle, more by mistake than design, and Luke had already torn his trying to get it to fit.
“Oh for goodness sake Dad!” I shook my head in despair. “What?” He gave a toothless grin, a shred of turkey hanging from his bottom lip.
“Your dentures, where are they?”
“In the glass with me name on, this one.” He held up the large wine goblet that had a place card clipped to the rim. His teeth sat snugly inside. “I don’t like getting the mint sauce bits stuck in ‘em, dead handy having a special glass for me ivories, Mave.”
Ella pretended to wretch, giving me a pleading look. She’d begged me not to sit her next to Dad because of his awful table manners, but sitting opposite him was actually proving to be far worse.
“That’s for your wine, Dad. You know, to toast Christmas with, not for putting your teeth in. Besides if you don’t chew your food properly, you might choke.” I had visions of him sucking instead of chewing and getting one of my famous sprouts wedged in his throat, with me or Joe having to carry out the Heimlich manoeuvre on him. Under no circumstances would that be a good idea as lately he’d been experiencing terrible bouts of sudden uncontrollable flatulence. The last thing either of us needed was to be standing behind him giving him a sharp, upwards thrust at the same time as he chose to let one rip. He nodded and reluctantly put them back in, hastily holding out his glass for the promised wine. I felt a little mean keeping my thumb over the non-alcoholic wording on the label as I filled his goblet.
“Cheers everyone, or as we used to say at sea ‘get it down yer laddo’.” He held the glass high. “You know Mave, I’d love to feel the sea beneath me again, taste the salt on me lips, feel the wind whistling through me breeches.”
His eyes suddenly filled with a mixture of sadness and nostalgia as he drifted off into one of his moments, moments that were becoming increasingly more frequent these days. I caught Joe’s attention. He set his lips in a thin line and raised his eyebrows, he knew how much I was struggling to accept Dad’s recent deterioration. He had no words of comfort to offer accept to reach across the table and gently squeeze my hand.
Feeling the first sting of tears, I quickly checked myself, raising my glass too. “Happy Christmas everyone!”
“Happy Christmas, Mum.”
Ella chinked my glass with hers, followed by Luke and then Joe.
There was no fifth glass to complete the toast.
Dad was lost in his own little world. One of high seas, crashing waves and far off lands.
“Don’t put it on there, yer melt!” Degsy knocked Petey’s hat from the top of the stove in the night kitchen, but not quick enough. The residue of heat from the electric ring, which had only seconds before warmed Bob’s chicken soup, was enough to make the black patent leather peak warp.
Petey tried to smooth out the shiny plastic with his hand. “Oh bloody hell, look at the state of it, what am I going to tell the Sarge, they’re not giving out any uniform chits until the New Year.” He frisbeed it across the table where it came to an abrupt halt wedged up against the biscuit tin.
“I’ve got a spare you can borrow…” Bob rattled his spoon back into the bowl, “… but I want it back in one piece, I’ve only just obtained it from B Division’s carrier in the yard.”
I took a slurp of my tea, holding the mug tightly in both hands. “Obtained… don’t you mean purloined?”
