Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful (8 page)

“There's my sugarplum fairy!” It's already twenty-five degrees outside and thirty-two in the kitchen, but Dad's wearing his traditional Santa hat and beard.

“And about time,” says Mum, her candy cane earrings shaking as she stirs a pot on the stove. “I need you to iron the Christmas tablecloth and napkins, please.”

For non-religious people, my parents really love Christmas. Not the presents side of things so much (which has really fallen by the wayside since Ziggy stupidly announced he was too old for Santa to come any more) but the family traditions, like using the tablecloth they bought for their first Christmas together, and listening to the carol service from St Andrew's on the radio, and wearing the wonky paper hats from the bonbons the whole way through lunch. Every year we have the same meal, too: turkey with bacon and chestnut stuffing, roast veg and salads, followed by Christmas pudding and custard. And every year we all stagger to the living room, groaning from overeating, to finally open our gifts.

It used to drive me mental having to wait till after lunch for my presents, but either I'm becoming more mature or years of disappointing gifts have taken their toll because this year Ziggy's the only one nagging to get on with it. He races from the table as soon as the last bowl's been cleared and begins rifling through the packages under the tree.

We take it in turns to open our gifts. Mum loves the new detective novel I got her, and Dad is excited by the Bach CD, even though I just bought the one he asked for. Even Ziggy seems to like his present, a graphic novel recommended by the cute guy in Mags & Zines (where Vicky makes me go every time we're in the city because she's got a thing for him).

My hopes of getting something suitable to re-gift to Dan quickly disappear. My main present from Mum and Dad is a new quilt for my bed. It's actually pretty cool by their standards, made out of blocks of Japanese fabrics in various shades of blue and green and infinitely better than the pink floral number I've had on my bed since I was eight, but not something I can pass on without it being missed. Ziggy's gift – a cheap rip-off of a designer perfume that smells suspiciously similar to the air freshener they pump into the loos at the Metro – is out of the question.

The gift pile is even smaller than usual this year because Mum and Dad have decided to take each other away for a weekend when Mum's better, so pretty soon there are just three packages left. Ziggy tosses me a small wrapped box and picks up an identical one with his name on it. Mum and Dad watch intently as I untie the ribbon and carefully peel back the sticky tape. I get the distinct feeling that they really want me to like whatever is inside this box, so I prepare myself to smile no matter how lame its contents turn out to be. When I finally get the wrapping paper off I'm speechless.

“It's your locket,” I say to Mum, turning over the filigreed silver oval in my hand.

She nods. “I know you've always wanted it and I hardly wear it these days, so I thought …”

I've always loved this locket. Mum got it from her parents for her twenty-first birthday. When I was little she still wore it on a long chain around her neck almost every day; one of the first memories I have is of the locket swinging towards me when she leaned over my cot to kiss me goodnight. She's occasionally let me borrow it for special occasions, but whenever I've hinted that I might like to take permanent possession of it, she always says, “It'll come to you one day.” I'd assumed that might be on my own twenty-first, at the earliest.

Before I can speak (or rather, while I'm trying to work out how to speak without wailing), Ziggy rips the paper off his box, opens it and exclaims, “Sweet!” before pulling out a medal hanging from a green-and-orange striped ribbon.

“It's my dad's medal from World War Two,” says Mum, smiling as she watches Ziggy pin it onto his T-shirt. Then, as if she can read my mind, she adds, “I don't want you two to get the wrong idea. I'm not giving you these things now because I think this will be my last chance. It's just that I've been cleaning out my drawers this week and I think you're both mature enough to look after them.”

I nod but I don't believe her. If there's one lesson I've learned from made-for-TV movies, it's that people giving their most precious possessions away can only mean one thing.

“Only one present left,” says Dad, eyeing the large brown-papered package still sitting where I dumped it the other day. “Who's feeling brave?”

“I'll do it,” sighs Mum. “She is my mother, after all.”

It takes Mum five minutes of wrestling with the tightly wound packing tape to get the parcel open.

“Dear Genie, Terence, Bloss and Poss,” she reads from the card inside the box. “I hope you'll enjoy these over the coming festive season. In case you can't guess, this year's theme is Bush Christmas. Lots of love, Mum/Thelma/Grandma.”

“Bush Christmas?” says Dad. “Perhaps it's native flowers.”

“No such luck,” says Mum. She holds up an enormous yellow jumper with a kangaroo dressed as Santa on it. “I think this one's yours.” While Dad studies his gift with horror, Mum unpacks the rest.

“I assume this is for you,” she says, passing me a cardigan with a red-nosed wombat on it. “Which means the parakeet in a Christmas tree is mine, and the possum in the holly bush is Ziggy's.”

“Oh no. Nonononono!” says Ziggy. He crosses his arms to avoid even touching the jumper that Mum's holding out to him.

Dad pulls his jumper over his head. “Come on, Zig. You only have to put it on for the photo and then we'll stick it in the attic with last year's.”

Ziggy makes a big show of struggling to get his jumper on, which is more understandable when I see that the sleeves end five centimetres above his wrists and the possum's tail looks like it's tickling his bellybutton.

“I guess I forgot to tell Mum about your growth spurt,” says Mum. “Never mind, you can stand behind Freia for the photo. Your gran'll never know the difference.”

“Let's just get this over with,” he says, tugging at the jumper's neck as if it's constricting his breathing.

Dad's still trying to remember how to use the camera's autotimer function when the doorbell rings.

“I'll get it,” I say, which is Ziggy's cue to race to the front door.

He mustn't have managed to take his jumper off on his way because the first thing Dan says is, “Nice look, Zig. Kind of sensitive-metrosexual-meets-the-Hulk.”

“They made me wear it,” says Ziggy, defensively.

“You don't need to make excuses for–” Dan cuts himself off when he enters the living room and sees the three of us. “Oh, wow. Fray said there'd be knitted goods, but I didn't realise they'd be so …”

“Seasonal?” suggests Mum.

“Hideous,” I correct her.

“Ah, just the fellow we need,” says Dad, holding out the camera to Dan. “Can you take a quick family portrait?”

We line up and plaster suitably cheesy grins on our faces. Usually, if family photos are being taken, I demand to see them and delete any in which I have my eyes closed, my mouth open or look like I've just smelled one of Ziggy's burger-fuelled farts. Right now I just want to get it over with so I can spend some time with Dan. No one'll see it except Gran, anyway.

“Do you want to go to the park?” asks Dan once Mum and Dad have tactfully left the room, dragging Ziggy with them.

After what he said on the phone, I'd assumed we'd exchange presents straightaway, but Dan doesn't seem to be in any hurry and I'm keen to put off giving him the mug for as long as possible, even though I know it's only an interim gift until I've sold enough brownies to get that
Star Wars
box set. I undo the gumnut-shaped buttons of my cardigan and throw it on the pile of discarded knitwear on the couch.

“Be back by sunset,” calls Mum when I yell that we're going for a walk.

It's still sunny when we get to the park and the walking path is packed with kids showing off on their new bikes and skateboards. Unencumbered by our bikes for once, we walk hand in hand across the grass.

“I hope you're not too disappointed not to see me in my polo shirt,” says Dan. “I
accidentally
spilled beetroot salad and half a bowl of cherry trifle on it. Auntie Bev doesn't think the stains will ever come out.”

“I'd call that a win for you. What does that take the score to?”

“Dan: 97, Dr Phil: 12. I scored another point during lunch when Auntie Caz was admiring Dad's hair and I told her he's been having hair replacement therapy.”

“Dan! Your dad must've been ropeable. I'm surprised you lived to tell the tale.”

Dan laughs. “He was pretty narked, but then all the aunties started hassling their husbands about how they should take better care of their looks, so he couldn't do his nut about it.”

“I take it they let you sit with the grown-ups, then?”

“Yep. And I've demanded to go back to the kids' table next year. Compared to listening to my uncles go on about their golf swings and the size of their mortgages, the little kids are fascinating.” He comes to an abrupt stop and I pull up sharply next to him. “Close your eyes.”

Only after I've clamped my eyelids tightly shut do I ask why.

“So I can give you your present,” he says, leading me by the hand. “It's too big to wrap.”

For some reason, I immediately think of a labrador. A gorgeous golden labbie puppy, lolloping about on the grass with a red ribbon around its neck. But Dan would never get me an animal; he's heard Dad's rant about how a cat as sensitive as Boris has to be an only pet. I try to think of something else large and outdoors-y but none of the things that come to mind (a tent, a surfboard, a picnic table) seem feasible.

“Okay,” says Dan when we come to a stop, “you can open them.”

We're standing in front of Our Tree. I look around but I can't see anything that isn't usually in the park. I turn back to Dan. “Umm … you're giving me the tree?”

“I, uh …” he mumbles shyly, taking a step closer to the tree and gesturing at the spot where he usually leans.

Then I see it. Carved into the bark between “Elsie” and “Sara” is a new message: “DTF + FL”.

“I know it's not a real present,” he says before I can say anything. “I didn't know what to get you and I thought–”

“It's perfect.” And it is. If Siouxsie was here, she'd give Dan a lecture about eco-vandalism, but all I can think is that this is the most romantic thing that's ever happened to me. And that there's no way I can give Dan Santa-Darth now. “I couldn't find the right present for you, either. I mean, I could, but I couldn't get it in time for Christmas and then I tried to find you something for today, but everything at the Metro was so crap and then Belinda was there and …”

Dan puts a finger to my lips to stop me talking. “I don't care about presents, Fray,” he says as he leans back against the tree, pulling me with him. “This is all I want for Christmas.”

We stay at the tree until the sky is tinged pink and orange and the last of the picnickers are packing up. When we get back to my place we kiss one last time before Dan unchains his bike from the front fence. I wait until he's out of sight before turning my key in the door, calling out that I'm home then heading to my room.

Boris is sleeping off his dinner. I lay my head next to his on the pillow. “I think I'm officially in love,” I whisper in his ear.

Boris flicks his tail in response. He's never been in love, so he can't possibly understand what I'm talking about, but suddenly it's very clear to me. When I saw Dan's present it was as if a switch deep inside me flicked on for the first time and I was flooded by the realisation that this was IT.

I almost told him, too, right then and there at Our Tree. But then I caught sight of our initials, separated by a +, not a heart or a declaration in words. A + could mean so many things, and not necessarily what I was thinking, and I decided not to risk ruining the moment by saying it out loud. For now, it's enough for
me
to know.