The beginning of everyth.., p.9
The Beginning of Everything, page 9
I pull out the chair and sit down. Okay, breakfast first; them’s the rules. I take an arty photo of my breakfast with the presents and plant in the background, fetchingly out of focus, and then another, reversed, where it’s the bacon and eggs that are blurry. I’ve got a new Instagram; basically, all my followers are from the restaurant. I upload the pictures and watch as the likes ping up from people scrolling their phones before they get up for family Christmas.
Then I eat my food, trying not to keep looking at the presents.
For three days, earlier in the week, there was a box in the hall with Gethin’s gifts for his family in it. We didn’t discuss presents for each other; I bought him a bottle of whisky, which was expensive, but I know it’s a good one because I asked Maura for advice. He doesn’t drink a lot, but occasionally he likes a malt. We talked about this, at some point, so I know it won’t be a waste of money. I also made him a gift—because I didn’t really know what to get, and obviously I can’t spend much. I wanted to get something more personal, though, because booze is an easy, generic gift, and I wanted to…I don’t know, demonstrate my gratitude, I suppose.
I bought some supplies from the art shop on Victoria Street—art stuff is an investment, isn’t it, so reasonably justifiable—pencils, a box of acrylics, and some paper and brushes. I haven’t done any drawing for ages, and I had to have about five goes before I managed something I was reasonably happy with. I bought a secondhand frame, which was filthy, and consequently cheap. It cleaned up okay though, when I took it apart. Anyway, it’s not a brilliant example of the “house portrait,” but I thought it was recognizably Sunnyside. I painted the front door the exact shade of cornflower blue that we’ve chosen but not yet applied, so in some ways, it’s a picture of the future. I wrapped it up and put it, and the whisky, in the gift box, hoping he wouldn’t notice them until he was unpacking it at his mum’s, which would be too late, I thought, for him to get me anything in return. I definitely don’t need presents, when he’s already given me somewhere to live.
I look again at the stocking. I haven’t had a stocking for more than thirty years, and I’m stupidly excited to see what’s in it.
My phone buzzes. A message from Gethin.
OH MY GOD DID YOU DRAW THIS??
And then another:
Merry Christmas btw
I did, yes. Merry Christmas.
Thank you so much. It’s brilliant. And thanks for the whisky, that’s very kind of you.
You’re welcome. And thank you for mine, I haven’t opened them yet, did you sneak in this morning?
I think FATHER CHRISTMAS will have brought anything you might have found this morning.
Oh yeah, of course. Well, if you see him, thank him for me.
If you haven’t opened them, you should keep your thanks, what if you don’t like them?
I’m much too polite to say so.
Ha ha! Happy Christmas, anyway. x
I open the first parcel, which is a box of nine vintage Christmas tree decorations, delicate glass baubles, three round and six drop shapes. The box is the original, with the price written on it in old money. They’re beautiful, in scarlet and blue and gold and green. Perfect. Then there’s a small box of very fancy chocolates. The gift tag says Sorry this is a bit dull, but they look amazing, so I’m pretty sure they won’t be. I turn the baubles in their box. What a lovely, thoughtful gift. My eyes are misty. I’ll hang these on our miniature tree in a moment and keep the box for them to live in for the eleven months of the year that it’s not Christmas.
I get up to fetch my stocking. I close my eyes and remove things from it one at a time.
A packet of gel pens in sparkly purple.
A very old wooden matchbox that, when I open it, I find contains an amazingly iridescent beetle, nestled on cotton wool.
A Sherbet Fountain.
A glossy navy-blue mug with my initial in gold.
Some tiny LED fairy lights on copper wire.
One of those wooden toys where you press the button underneath and the cow (in this case) collapses as the strings that hold it upright are released.
A key ring with a red and silver tassel.
A bottle of bubble-blowing liquid.
A Fortune Teller Miracle Fish, the packaging surely identical to the ones of my youth.
An orange (traditional).
I look at my gifts, spread out on the table. I think this might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. I don’t know what to do with myself. I take a picture of everything and send it to Gethin with a message.
THANK YOU SO MUCH THIS IS AMAZING. x
You’re totally welcome.
THANK YOU. (I’ll stop shouting now.) Seriously though this is the best Christmas. I might be crying.
Oh God, I didn’t mean to make you cry, he says.
It’s okay. Tears of joy. (I add a blush-cheeked emoji to make this less…intense.)
* * *
I have two other presents, too—although they’re Amazon vouchers from Lizzie and Noosha, so not something I have to unwrap. Natalie says she’ll send something when I give her my address—which is fair—and I rarely get anything from Mum unless I go to hers. I spoke to her last week, anyway, and she seems fine about not seeing me. I’ll call her later. I sent her some clothes, as she’s terrible at buying anything and will wear stuff until it’s in literal rags.
* * *
I have a very enjoyable Christmas Day by myself. There’s fancy nut loaf for lunch—yes, I’m so tired of turkey I don’t even want any meat—with roast potatoes and tiny baby sprouts and spinach with garlic. I make enough veg that I can have bubble and squeak for my supper tomorrow. This forward planning makes me feel smug and comfortable. I watch Mary Poppins, and have an afternoon nap, and in the evening I have a bath with bubbles and a glass of wine. It all feels very luxurious.
Noosha phones, although not for long, as her Christmases are complicated and full of people. It’s good to speak to her, though. I don’t tell her about Gethin’s gifts, although I couldn’t exactly tell you why. Maybe if we’d had a longer conversation, I would have got round to it. Lizzie and Marcus are away, in a tiny cottage somewhere with no Wi-Fi, so I send her a message she won’t receive. I get a video message from my niece and nephew, to whom I sent toys and chocolate. They sing me a song, which is cute, and Natalie (she also got chocolates) appears at the end to thank me. All in all, I feel it’s been a very successful day, and I go to bed happily at ten o’clock, where I listen to Simon Slater reading Wolf Hall until I fall asleep.
* * *
At work, Boxing Day lunch, everyone seems a little jaded. Now we’re ramping up for New Year’s, before what they promise me will be a much quieter January as everyone attempts to recover.
When I get home at half past three, the car’s back in the drive and Gethin’s slumped on the sofa in the front room, flicking idly through the channels.
“You’re back early.”
“Too many people,” he says. “Or…not that many, I suppose. But tiring anyway. Didn’t sleep that well. I told Mum she needs to buy a new mattress for the spare bed, but I’m pretty sure I’ve said that before. How was work?”
“Yeah, it was okay. Busy.” I smile at him. “Amazed at how many people go out on Boxing Day, to be honest. Thank you again for my presents. I haven’t had a stocking since I was a kid.”
“It’s always good to get a stocking.”
I nod enthusiastically. “That beetle’s amazing. Where on earth did you get that?”
“At the flea market. Appropriately. I wasn’t sure if you’d like it. I stood there for ages dithering.”
“Oh no, it’s beautiful. Thank you.”
“I was thinking about magnolias, sort of. But…bit weird to buy someone a dead beetle?”
I laugh. “No. Well, maybe. But I love it. I loved everything.”
“Good.” He smiles at me. “I like buying presents. I like getting them, too; I’m going to put your picture in my bedroom, is that okay?”
“Sure, if you like.”
“It’s brilliant. I didn’t know you could draw. I mean, why would I? But what a great idea. You could probably sell those.”
“Yeah,” I say, amused. “Not sure I could. I’m not really very good at drawing. The ones you see on the internet are properly brilliant.”
“Well, I love it. Thank you.”
We smile at each other, warm with festive cheer.
“I was thinking…you know you said you’d like a job where you can sit down?”
“One day, yes. I’m not getting any younger.” I pull a face.
“Only I just remembered that when I went out the other night, I saw Bruce Cadogan—he’s a friend of Vanessa’s mum’s, actually. Anyway, he said he was looking for someone to do his admin. I wasn’t really paying any attention, but…d’you think you’d like to do something like that?”
I sit down in the armchair. “What does he do, then?”
“He’s got a building supplies firm. Got an office in town, and another one at the yard. Employs quite a few people, I think. Does okay, anyway—or appears to; he drives a very nice vintage Jag. Want me to give him a ring?”
“Probably not on Boxing Day,” I object.
“Oh, I shouldn’t think he’d mind. I can message him if you like.”
“Is it full-time?”
“Can’t remember. I’ll message him. What else do you need to know?” he asks, getting his phone out.
“Um. Hours. Pay. Er, paid holidays, I suppose. And the scope of the role, if that very HR phrase is appropriate.”
“I imagine it’s a bit of everything. I think there’s an office manager though, so you wouldn’t be in charge, I’m afraid.”
“Yeah, I don’t care about that.”
He texts rapidly. “There. Sent.”
“Thanks. Soon you’ll have solved all my problems,” I joke, “and then what will I do?”
“Well, I’d love to be able to do that, but I suspect it might be a bit beyond me.”
“What are you saying?” I ask, mock outraged.
“Just that…nothing…I’m not saying anything—”
I laugh at his expression of horror.
Chapter Nine
The new sofa arrives at the beginning of January. Two men come and fit the folding doors in the dining room—very quick and efficient, which is good, because it’s cold. Gethin wants to have his mum round to see the house, and we’ve discussed what this might involve, but the kitchen is coming on Monday, which means by the end of January everything will be done, so we may as well wait, right? I have no particular opinion about this. He wants me to meet her, which is disconcerting. Although I suppose I don’t really have any choice. I think they’re quite close, so she’s bound to come here, isn’t she? I find myself hoping the kitchen will take ages, even though, logically, that would be a pain in the arse. Anyway, it doesn’t take ages; it’s not quite three weeks before it’s done. It looks fantastic.
There’s no putting it off any longer: Everything’s finished. She’s coming on Friday evening. We plan the menu together, although he’s determined to do most of the work himself. Which I support. She’s not my mum, after all.
Something impressive but not too difficult, was my suggestion. “Soup?”
“I’ve never made soup.”
“What, never?”
“Well, heated it up from a tin—obviously I’ve done that.”
“Soup is very easy to make. If you did French onion soup, that looks impressive. Is your mum funny about food?” She’s nearly eighty; it seems sensible to check.
“Not really. I mean, she’s been abroad,” he says, “and her teeth are okay. If that’s what you’re asking.”
“Ha. Well, French onion soup, and some kind of fruit pie or crumble for dessert.”
“Oh, crumble, yes! I love crumble.”
“Wrong time of year for rhubarb, but we could have apple. Do you want to go mad and make custard from scratch?”
He stares at me. “With powder?”
“No, you heathen. With eggs and cream.”
“Oh. Is that how you make custard? I’ve never thought about it. Is that why it’s yellow, because of the eggs?”
I nod. “But not if you make it with custard powder. Mr. Bird—the man who invented custard powder—his wife was allergic to eggs. That’s why he invented it. So no eggs in custard powder.”
Sometimes I almost hate myself for knowing so much useless information. I’m not sure why though, because mostly the people I’ve known have quite liked this about me. It’s only Mitch who thought it was pointless, and that I was an idiot for caring about stuff like this. I don’t think Gethin thinks it’s pointless though; he’s willing to engage in discussions about basically anything. He smiles at me.
“Ah. That’s lovely. That he invented it for his wife.”
“It is, isn’t it?” I agree.
“I like the fancy stuff in a tub.”
“That’s definitely easier than making it; it can be a bit unpredictable. Crumble, on the other hand, is very easy.”
* * *
When I get in from work on Friday—the first week of my new job, working for Bruce, complete—I go upstairs immediately to get changed. I still don’t have many clothes, and most of what I do have leans heavily toward “practical,” so I don’t have many options when it comes to choosing something to make Gethin’s mum think I’m a nice person. Black skinny jeans and a black long-sleeved top with a ballet neck. I have a cardigan in a very dark red with a waterfall front—it’s a bit big but it was only a fiver from the Heart Foundation shop. I don’t like to spend more than five pounds on clothes at the moment. I dress quickly and comb my hair. It’s good to have found a hairdresser—well, a barber. I have it cut very short, usually, but before Christmas it was getting quite out of hand. It grows quickly, but I didn’t know where to go, or even whether I should maybe change the style. I did think about shaving it all off—Gethin has some clippers—but I worried I might look like I’d escaped from a secure unit somewhere. Anyway, Maura recommended me a barber when I said I didn’t like salons, so I look like myself again. I even think, sometimes, that I feel like myself.
Downstairs it smells deliciously of onion soup. I stand for a moment in the hallway, listening to the voices from the sitting room. It’s silly to be nervous about meeting an old lady who has nothing to do with me. I take a deep breath and push open the door.
“Ah, here she is,” says Gethin, as they both get up. “Mum, this is Jess; Jess, this is Marian.”
“How lovely to meet you at last,” she says, coming toward me and offering both hands. She’s perhaps half a head shorter than I am, with curly gray hair and very twinkly eyes, dressed in a long dark skirt and a cream silk shirt under a navy cardigan that looks like cashmere to me. Like her son, she has good skin, and could easily pass for seventy.
“Everything’s looking so wonderful,” she goes on, as we all sit down. “I’ve been telling Gethin how impressed I am at how much you’ve managed to do, between you.”
“We’ve had plenty of help.” I smile at her. “We didn’t really do it all ourselves.”
“Oh, but I know you did lots of it! Even stripping wallpaper is such a big job.”
“It’s not difficult, though—just time-consuming. And I don’t mind,” I say. “I quite like decorating. I couldn’t manage all the landing though.”
“Oh, the stairwell drop!” she says. “The most terrifying part of any house, isn’t it? I hear you had Richard Vaughan’s boy do that,” she adds. “How was he?”
“Yeah, he was good. Very quiet. I think he was embarrassed that I wanted to talk to him.”
“He’s always been very shy,” she says. “I wasn’t sure he’d be able to cope with meeting people all the time. You have to be quite chatty, don’t you, in that sort of work?”
“I don’t see it matters,” says Gethin. “No one’s employing a painter and decorator for his banter.”
This makes me laugh. “No, but it’s easier for him if he doesn’t find the whole thing utterly excruciating.”
“He did a good job, anyway,” says Gethin, “very neat. How was work, Jess?”
“Oh, it was fine. Getting my head round it all. It’s nice to sit down. I miss everyone though, from the restaurant.”
“Ah, yes,” says Marian, “you were working at Cenhinen Bedr before, Gethin said.”
“Mum’s always in there, aren’t you?”
She nods. “I often go for lunch with my friend Joyce.”
Gethin has told me about Joyce. She lives opposite his mum, and since Marian was widowed, they spend a lot of time together. She’s extremely dull, according to him, but I say that’s not really his problem.
“Yes, it certainly seems to be very popular,” I agree. “Always very busy.”
“But now you work for Bruce? That seems like a better use of your talents.”
Unconvinced, I say, “I don’t know that I have any talents.”
“Oh now, I’m sure that’s nonsense.”
“You could project-manage people’s houses,” says Gethin, which makes me laugh.
“I doubt I have the vision for that. Anyway, they’d all come out like this,” I say, looking round, “because I can only pick things I like.”
“What did you do before?”
“Jess used to do antiques fairs,” says Gethin. “Didn’t you?”
“Really? Selling things? I’ve always thought that must be fun. But isn’t it cold?”
