Christmas At Leo's - Memoirs Of A Houseboy (8 page)

The train intercom system cut off my memory flow, crackling into action with the announcement my stop was approaching. I got to my feet.

Chapter Three - Birds Trifle

There was a flower stall near the station exit, reminding me of Shane’s directive to buy mum a Christmas arrangement. Shit! I cursed inwardly. I’d forgotten to pick up the money from the chest of drawers. He’d left fifty quid. I didn’t have enough cash on me to cover the purchase of a fancy bouquet and nor did I have enough left in my current account to draw on. My December wages hadn’t yet gone in and my modest overdraft facility was at capacity. I’d have to use my credit card and pocket the cash when I got home. I’d bank it and pay it off my credit card bill when it came in. I was beginning to build up a veritable MasterCard debt again. I’d been using plastic to buy mum regular treats of flowers, lunches and little gifts when I visited her. I liked seeing her face when I presented her with something nice. She looked pleased and also proud, like I’d made good. I suppose it boosted my ego.

Nothing took my fancy on the flower stall, so I walked into town to look for a florist shop. I found one, choosing a fabulous water box arrangement of big cream roses, white spider chrysanthemums, glittered holly and ivy, wrapped in layers of gold tissue and sparkling cellophane. It looked gorgeous. I paid the forty-seven pounds asking price, smiling as the robber baron florist made a comment about my girlfriend or wife being a lucky lady.

Afterwards, I walked down the High Street, glancing at the shop windows, those that weren’t shuttered or boarded up. The recession was biting hard. Businesses were dropping like pine needles from a moribund Christmas tree. The shops still trading were offering discounts to try and tempt customers into parting with brass they didn’t have.

The place I grew up in has never been affluent as such. It’s one of a group of working class towns in a working class region where the key industries have been in decline for decades. Thatcher’s Tory administration set the canker in the eighties, and now it had taken over. I felt an ache of sadness. This small town, like so many up and down the country, had an air of miserable dejection that no amount of festive glitter could disguise. The fairy lights were on, but there was no magic to them.

I paused to look at an array of gifts in a jeweller’s window, catching sight of myself in a mirror set in the lid of a cheap trinket box. I looked anxious. I was always anxious when coming home, perhaps because it wasn’t home in a positive sense. Coming out as gay had alienated me from it, even before I physically left. You cease to fit when you come out as gay. You might be lucky and have loyal friends and family supporters, but the wider community closes ranks against you. You have to find enclaves to hide out in with your own kind. Threat becomes a constant aspect of your life. You’re the boy or girl everyone whispers about because you’re
‘one of those.’
People who once smiled at you avert their eyes.

Turning away from my reflection, I caught sight of one of my own loyal friends. It was Dave, Lee’s brother. He was walking ahead of me, hand in hand with a girl. It was the fluffy blonde he’d met at Lee’s engagement party. I knew because Lee had told me he was dating her. I couldn’t resist. Putting my thumb and forefinger in my mouth, I blasted out a piercing wolf whistle. I was proud of my finger whistle. It had taken me ages and several buckets of spit to perfect. It made a few people turn round, including Dave. A look of mild annoyance gave way to a grin of amused recognition. He hailed me.

I was formally introduced to his lady friend, Sara. She smiled and made a comment about my flowers saying how gorgeous they were.

They were heading for ‘The Rat’ a dilapidated, but popular local pub. Its real name was The Sheraton, but most of the plastic letters making up the name had fallen off over time leaving only ‘The’ and ‘rat’ clearly visible above its entrance portal. It was an old-fashioned working class boozer with shabby carpets and cigarette burned tables. It made up for its cosmetic defects with a great jukebox and a good beer cellar. Dave issued an invitation.

“Come with us, Gil. Have a few Christmas bevies. We’ll have a beaut laugh.”

“I’d love to, Dave, but I can’t. I’m going to see my mam. She’s expecting me.”

“After then. We’ll be in there all day. Our Lee will be coming down later when he gets off work. Ben too. We’ll have a party.”

I utilised a phrase my mother used to placate me with when I was a kid and wanting something she had no intention of giving me. “We’ll see.”

I walked with them, taking my leave outside of the pub before heading for my mother’s house. I would have liked nothing better than to have gone into the pub with Dave and Sara, to sit with a pint and take in the festive buzz while getting to know Sara a little better. It was, or used to be, one of the best bits about the run up to Christmas, the getting together with friends at inappropriate times of the day to drink and have a chat and a laugh.

My heart sank as I approached my mother’s place and saw a small, smart Ford Fiesta parked outside. Frank drove a battered old Nissan Bluebird, so I knew it wasn’t his car. Besides, I knew he was at work. I offered a silent prayer for it not to be Frank’s stepdaughter Kelly. Mum had recently mentioned she had gotten a new car. I didn’t relish the prospect of my visit being overshadowed by Kelly fussing around mum, making me feel superfluous.

I knocked on the door before opening it and calling. “It’s only me.” I put the roses and my bag down on the stairs before going into the front room.

Mum wasn’t alone, but it wasn’t Kelly with her. It was a Macmillan nurse. Mum had mentioned she had been getting some home support. Jesus! I tried not to look alarmed as the nurse got to her feet. She was an Amazon. She looked like she could strangle a cow with one hand tied behind her back. If the FF was hers, then how the hell did she fit in it? She must fold her body like a piece of human origami.

“I’m Sandra.” She held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Gilli. Your mum has told me all about you.”

“Hi, nice to meet you too.” I smiled and took her hand, trying not to grimace as she shook it so hard I feared whiplash injuries to my neck and shoulder.

“Don’t look so anxious. Mum’s fine. We’ve been having a nice chat. I’ll be off now you’re here to keep her company.”

She gave mum a hug goodbye. I saw her to the front door, craning back my head to look at her face. “Is mum really okay? She looks like she’s lost more weight.”

“Weight loss is common in final stage patients. Her doctor has prescribed supplementary drinks. They’re in the fridge. Encourage her to have one. They’ll help keep her strength up.”

I must have looked stricken because she touched a hand to my face. “Try not to distress yourself. The best thing you can do for your mum is stay cheerful.” She caught sight of the flowers on the stairs, drawing a breath of admiration. “I wish someone would treat me to flowers like those. They’ll bring a smile to her face for sure. She boasts to everyone about the flowers you bring her, and that beautiful Christmas card you sent had her in raptures.”

I waved her off and then picked up the bouquet and my carrier bag, taking them into the front room. Nurse Sandra was right. Mum gave a gasp of delight, her face lighting up at sight of the arrangement.

“Oh, Gilli, they’re beautiful. They must have cost a small fortune. You shouldn’t spend so much.”

“They’re from all of us. Shane and Dick send their best wishes.”

“So kind, when they hardly know me. Be sure to thank them for me.”

“I will. Where do you want them?”

“By the side of the hearth where I can look at them.”

I did as she asked.

“I’ll make you a hot drink. You looked nithered when you came in.” She struggled to get to her feet. “Do you want tea or coffee?”

“Sit down, mum. I’ll make it.”

She didn’t argue. “Thanks, love. I am a bit tired today. Didn’t sleep so well last night. Don’t make tea for me. I’ve just had one with Sandra.”

“You never said she was built like a brick outhouse.”

Mum gave a laugh. “She’s a big woman all right, big heart too. She always cheers me up.” She settled down in her chair, leaning back and closing her eyes, as if the effort of moving had exhausted her.

I studied her. There’d been a definite deterioration in her condition in the days since I’d last seen her in the flesh. As well as losing weight, her skin was yellowy, jaundiced looking. Whenever I spoke to her on the phone, she claimed to be fine. She wasn’t. She had exit signs written all over her, metaphorically. I went into the kitchen, feeling as if my Adam’s apple was choking me. I took a couple of slow, deep breaths to calm myself.

I made a mug of tea, going to the fridge to get out the milk. There was a carton of Birds Strawberry Trifle mix sitting on top of the fridge. I picked it up, examining the colourful illustration, smiling as childhood memory surfaced. Mum had always made a Birds Trifle at Christmas. It was a tradition. I used to help her make it on Christmas Eve. It was a lengthy process building up the constituent layers of the trifle: first the sponge and jelly, sometimes tinned fruit would be added, then the custard and finally the cream topping. I could still recall the sweet smell of the jelly crystals dissolving in the hot water and the creamy scent of the custard. I couldn’t wait for the decorative sprinkle bit at the end of the process. Mum would cut open the little packet and I’d carefully shake the chocolate sugar strands over the Dream Topping, a kind of synthetic cream. It would be put in the fridge ready to be served at teatime on Christmas Day. We’d sit on the couch, mum and me, eating it in front of the telly, watching whatever Christmas film was showing.

After Frank, the tradition changed. The trifle was relegated to Boxing Day. It never tasted the same somehow.

Putting the box down I opened the fridge. My brows pushed up in surprise. Champagne! Two bottles. Champagne hadn’t been a festive tradition, not one I recalled anyway. Mum had never been much of a drinker. Obviously traditions had changed in the years since I’d last spent a Christmas at home.

I spotted the drinks the nurse had mentioned, little cartons of vitamin and calorie enriched milkshake style concoctions. I chose a strawberry flavour one, shook it and inserted the little straw it came with.

Mum grimaced when I held out the carton. “Those things are revolting. Try.”

I obliged, taking a small sip, suppressing a shudder. “Delicious, like a MacDonald’s shake.”

“Liar.”

I wiggled the carton. “It’s disgusting, but you need it. It’s for your own good. Drink it down fast to get it over with.”

Smiling, she took the drink. “I used to say that to you when you were little and had to have medicine.”

She drank the shake while I sipped at my tea. I glanced around the small front room, noting the festive decorations. “I see you’ve put up the old plaggy.”

“Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without it.” She laughed. “Frank hates it. He keeps nagging me to chuck it and get a new one, but I won’t.”

The ‘plaggy’ is an artificial Christmas tree. It had been part of the festivities ever since I could remember. It was made of individual plastic ‘plaggy’ fir branches that had to be slotted into the plastic trunk in a particular order to make a perfect pyramid shaped tree. It was pretty in an obvious fake way. I used to get so excited when the box it lived in was brought down from the loft in early December. I’d beg for it to be brought down earlier, sometimes in October, but mum always held out until December.

“You used to love dressing it, Gilli, do you remember?”

“Yeah,” I grinned, “and then you’d redress it when I’d gone to bed.”

“I tweaked, that’s all. You used to put all the tinsel on the same branch. It drove me mad. I’ve still got all the tree decorations you made when you were small. You loved making things, especially at Christmas. When I picked you up from school you’d be covered in paint and glitter.”

“I remember making a cardboard star. I wanted to put red glitter on it, but Adam Pitt had used it all, so I had to use blue glitter. I got into trouble for daubing glue in his hair in revenge.”

She groaned. “You could be so naughty at times. I used to dread seeing your teacher heading across the playground to talk to me. I could always tell by the look on her face that you’d been up to something. The star is on the tree. Look.” She pointed. “At the bottom. You were six when you made it. You couldn’t wait to show me. You came running across the playground waving it in the air. It made me smile when I was hanging it, and sad, because this is the last year I’ll get to have that memory and all the other memories of when you were little.”

I quickly changed the subject, asking if she was looking forward to Christmas. Frank’s mother passed away a few years ago, but him and mum still spend the day with his family. His brother’s roof had become the host roof for the annual Morrison blowout. Mum’s reply hit me like a punch.

“We’re staying home this year. Frank thought it would be nice for us to have a quiet family Christmas together, just us with Kelly and Mike. He’s bought champagne to make it really special.”

Jealousy burst into the room like a ninja assassin assaulting me with memories of the last ‘family’ Christmas I’d spent at home. There’d been nothing special about it. Even as I spoke I hated myself for the petty words that spilled out of my mouth. “Kelly isn’t family, not really.”