Page 30 of The Night Before Christmas
‘The thing about me is…’began Felicity, trying not to look at James in case she lost her train of thought altogether. ‘The thing is, I really don’t let people in easily. Normally, anyway,’ she added hastily, as she realised how short a time she’d known the man sitting opposite her. He smiled indulgently, waiting patiently for her to continue, his right hand flat on the table, his left thumb and forefinger around the base of his antique wine glass. Her mind began to drift.
He has nice hands.
Right.
Focus, Felicity.
It’s been a while since you told this story. And this time you need to keep it together.
She took another slow breath and began.
‘We grew up in a small community…’
She knew better than to mention where, at this stage, or it would end up being a tourist’s guide to The Island.
‘Quite a strange place, truth be told, where everyone knew your business and you had to keep up appearances, be the perfect family, if you know what I mean? That all went to pot when I was six, though, when my dad left us. He just walked outon my mum and my brother and me, and he did it…’ she took a deep breath, ‘on Boxing Day.’
James had been staring at the tablecloth as he listened, but he looked up sharply at this. A flash of something, empathy or pain perhaps, crossed his face but he stayed silent.
‘So that’s probably enough reason to hate Christmas right there,’ she went on, the tears threatening behind her eyes. She hated telling this story. ‘It was… rough… after that. My mum collapsed in a heap, and we had to fend for ourselves really. She just… imploded. I don’t know how else to describe it. Because of how close the community was, it wasn’t easy to hide but we got really, really good at pretending everything was okay at home.’
‘That must have been tough.’
Tears loomed, and she nodded. She hadn’t even realised she had been ripping a paper napkin apart with her fingers while she was talking. There were tiny pieces of shredded paper everywhere. Methodically, she began putting it all into a neat pile as she continued.
‘We had to grow up super quick as there was a lot of cleaning and cooking and general caring to do, not just for ourselves but for… for her too, and we were both so young. We managed, somehow, with the help of some family members, our grandparents, some neighbours I suppose, but we always dreaded Christmas most of all. That’s when we were always left alone with her for a few days, and we didn’t have the refuge of school to escape to.’
James put his hand over hers. It was warm and comforting. She laced her fingers between his and stifled a sob.
‘Don’t get me wrong, she never beat us or anything. It was more like, well, basically she liked to relive the experience every year, torturing herself endlessly, wondering what she’d done wrong, what had made Dad leave like that, going over and overit in her mind, out loud, too, and all the while she’d be drinking herself into a stupor. It was painful to watch.’
‘You were just kids,’ said James.
‘I know. I have no idea how you’re meant to process something like that at that age. I’m not sure we ever did. The real irony was that it wasn’t anything to do with her. He was just a total arsehole. By all accounts he walked out on us so he could start things up again with his childhood sweetheart and her three children. They got a new dad for Christmas, and we got… well, it was horrendous, frankly. We got a pure hatred for Christmas and each other. Thanks a lot, Santa.’
She took another breath, the tension lifting from her shoulders a little, the more she spoke.
‘Christmas was at best a non-event. At worst, it was the single most miserable day of the year. We never even got any presents after that, as far as I can recall, even when we were still young. No decorations. No Christmas dinner. No different from any other day, really. Maybe we got one or two pity presents from those who remembered but nothing from… her. Nothing from our own mother. She didn’t give a damn. It was like we’d left along with Dad. Like she’d… forgotten about us.’
James was watching her carefully. She liked that he wasn’t immediately giving her his opinion. Felicity took a mouthful of her (second helping of) Trinity cream and steadied herself for what was to come.
‘I always swore I would never be like him. I swore I would never ever treat anyone the way my mum was treated. It destroyed her completely. His cruelty ruined her life and ours… and so I decided I never wanted to be like him. But I am. It turns out I’m a carbon copy.’
‘That’s impossible,’ said James.
‘I’m serious. A few years back I was with… someone… for a long time. It was full-on, you know? We were talking aboutmarriage, kids, the works, and then one day I found a couple of texts on his phone from a random girl, and I jumped to conclusions. My mind just went to the worst possibility it could think of.’
‘He was cheating?’ said James.
‘That’s just it,’ she replied, her voice trembling a little, chest tightening with the shame. ‘I never stopped to find out. I just told him to pack his bags and get out. I kicked him straight out of the house, and I never even bothered to find out the truth. He was heartbroken, and I’ve spent three years racked with guilt at how I behaved. I’m just like Dad.’
A hot tear rolled down Felicity’s cheek and she wiped it away with the back of a trembling hand. For something to do she gathered a pile of the delicious custard onto her spoon, but her throat felt too constricted to eat. They both watched it wobbling for a long moment. Her hand was shaking. This was never going to work. She put the spoon down and sent up a silent prayer that he would be kind. That he would somehow understand.
Then, finally, he spoke. ‘You are nothing like him.’
‘How do you know that?’ said Felicity. ‘You never met my father.’
‘No,’ said James, his blue eyes lit with a new spark of intensity. ‘But I have met you. That’s enough for me.’
