Page 6 of Secrets of Starshine
FIVE
I stare at the massive Christmas tree that has taken over my front room. It is huge, so vast that it looms over the entire space, its pine branches making me feel like I am living beneath the canopy of a rainforest. Seriously, David Attenborough could set one of his wildlife documentaries here, talking in reverent tones about the squawking cockatoos and long-tailed lemurs that make their home in its welcoming boughs.
It’s so big I had to chop the top off to make it fit, and the stumpy remnants of its peak are thrust against the ceiling, looking jagged and sullen. It completely blocks the window, and I had to move the TV into another room just to get it in. The sofa is still there, so maybe I can just sit and watch the Christmas tree shed its needles instead of Netflix.
I have made a mistake, I realise. I’m still not really sure how it happened, but here I am, staring up at it, wondering if I can get a refund. Probably not, I decide, looking at the way I’ve lopped it unevenly with a pair of pruning shears.
It didn’t look that big when I chose it. When I’d wandered the outdoor aisles of the garden centre, desperate to salvage a little bit of magic from what has been a tough few weeks. Jo had called, told me she’d decided to close until the first week of the new year, that I’d have holiday pay and shouldn’t worry and that I should “have a great Christmas”.
Somehow, that translated into “go to the nearest seller of trees and purchase the biggest one you can find”. I’d been quite excited about it until the guys dropped it off, and I dragged it inside, still in its netting. It was only when its full glory was unleashed that I realised that Houston, we have a problem.
Still, I tell myself, it’s here now – so I might as well try and make the best of it. I put some Christmas music on to try and get myself more into the mood, and sing along to Wham! as I prise open the big plastic box where we keep our decorations. I look from its contents to the wild old man of the pine woods in front of me, and realise I maybe have enough baubles to coat a quarter of it. I could buy more, but given my current form, I’m worried that if I go back into that garden centre right now, I’ll come home with a hot tub and a summer house.
I unpack the decorations onto the sofa, which takes much longer than it has any right to. It takes a while because every item I find seems to come with its own story: the glass angels that Mum bought for us one year; the pink tinsel that Sam also wore as a head-dress when he played a sparkly shepherd in the school nativity; the cardboard fairy he made in primary school, which has been our topper for over a decade, despite the fact that she is battered and bruised and only has one wing.
Usually, we would be doing this together, all three of us. We would be laughing and joking and taking it in turns to choose what went on next. Then, once the tree looked about as messy it could get, Sam would be given the job of grabbing up handfuls of shimmering multi-coloured lametta and throwing it all over the rest of the decorations. Tasteful we were not – but that was part of the ritual.
I’ve shouted for Sam to come down from his room, but haven’t even received the traditional annoyed grunt in return. I call him, but he doesn’t pick up. I message him, and he ignores it. The festive spirit is strong this year, it seems.
Eventually I yell up the stairs: “Come and do the tree with me, you lazy git!”, which admittedly isn’t very festive either.
After a few more minutes he rolls into the room, dressed to kill in a three-piece suit where all the pieces have come from different suits. The trousers are black, the waistcoat is light blue, and the jacket is deep grey linen. Somehow he pulls it off.
“Oooh,” I say, raising my eyebrows, “you look nice! Are you off out later?”
He doesn’t reply, which is fair enough – he is busy staring at the Monstrositree.
“What happened?” he says, shaking his head. “Has the house shrunk?”
“Erm…yeah. I know. I just thought it’d be nice to have a real one this year.”
“Did you steal it from Trafalgar Square?”
“No, the garden centre...not that I stole it. Think we might need some new deccos…”
“Really? You think?”
He gives me one of his trademarked “my mum’s a twat” looks, and glances at his phone.
“I’m off,” he announces, “going to town.”
“Oh. Don’t you want to do the tree?”
“I suspect there’ll be plenty left for me later. I’m meeting the gang for a drink.”
“Will Ollie be there?” I ask, putting down the one-winged fairy and focusing on Sam. Ollie is his ex, and I am really, really hoping that they’re not going to get back together. It’s been four weeks since Ollie dumped him, and they have not been an easy four weeks – but there is light at the end of the tunnel, and with every day that passes, I know it will get easier for him to deal with.
“I don’t know, Mum. It’s possible. Anyway, isn’t this part of that whole building up my immune system thing you like to bang on about?”
I had given Sam a talk about emotional resilience, comparing it to the immune system. Like with the body, I’d said, feeling wise, if you don’t get exposed to potentially damaging experiences early in life you never build up immunity – you never learn how to cope. He’d burst my “feeling wise” bubble by sarcastically telling me I had a bright future as a motivational speaker for idiots, and slammed his bedroom door in my face.
“I’m just worried about you, love,” I say, holding my hands out in a gesture of peace. “You don’t have to go out. You could stay in, and we could do the tree, and have a takeaway…”
“Mum, that is so tempting – but no thanks. You’ll have to watchThe Empire Strikes Backon your own this time.”
“Are you sure? I mean, if he is out, then you’ll be upset, and nervous, and then you’ll drink too much, and then you’ll end up going to that dodgy club that pretends to be a tiki bar and serves absinthe…”
He sighs, and straightens his waistcoat, and says: “Well, that’s my choice, isn’t it?”
