Page 1 of Sisters Making Mischief
1
I’d spent weeks getting everything ready and I was very excited. I had spent the last three Christmases at other people’s houses; this time my family were coming to me. I’d felt rather lost over the last few years after everything that had happened, things had not been as ordered or predictable as they used to be. This year it would be different.
I started buying presents in September and had wrapped and labelled them by October. I’d even found the packs of Christmas cards I’d bought in the January sales – for once I had not put them in a really safe place where I wouldn’t find them until I had bought some replacements – and I spent some dark November evenings in front of the fire, writing and addressing them. I’d even, in a particularly festive moment, waited until the new Christmas stamps were out so that I could finish off the job properly with a nod to the joys of the Yuletide season.
For the first time in many years, I could see that it was possible to organise my life but now perhaps to my own satisfaction, and not just worry about what my ex-husband Stephen would say or think or want.
I’d been stockpiling all the food my granddaughters liked, woken up at the crack of dawn to bag a Christmas delivery slot with the supermarket, and ordered two cases of wine from the man Stephen had always used. Which was, in retrospect, a step too far. Stephen had always been able to have meaningful, rather pompous, chats about wine and south-facing slopes with Mr Truman, whereas I would just pick out the nicest label. Still, it gave me a certain satisfaction to see the wine rack filled for once. How long twenty-four bottles would last was anyone’s guess. Knowing my lot, not long.
Going by the rather difficult atmosphere of their last visit, my daughter Sara would be looking for gin the moment she arrived while her husband Martin stood in the hall, wearing a Christmas sweater that was so subdued that it wouldn’t really count. He would be jingling the car keys in his pocket as though he wanted to be off again, waiting for the moment when he could make some acerbic comment about consumerism.
I could almost hear him. ‘Very nice, Mrs Chandler,’(he never would call me Joy as I’d suggested),‘but don’t you think your decorations are a bit over the top?’
And of course, this year, they definitely were.
Their twins, Poppy and Mia, would probably be head-down on their electronic devices, looking up only briefly to take in the fact that the car had stopped, and they had arrived at Grandma’s house, and then they would be off to the attic room to bag the best beds by the window before John and Vanessa arrived with their two daughters, Jasmine and Elizabeth, or Bunny as she was always known.
It had seemed a good idea to put their four beds in one room. When we were married, Stephen clung to the misty and completely false illusion that the four cousins would bond up there, enjoying some fun times together, that there would be laughter and the occasional midnight feast. Being more practicaland having actually had a sister, I knew that it would just lead to shouting, thumping footsteps overhead at all hours, and a lot of plaintive cries of ‘Mum, tell her…’coming down the stairs. But, as always, Stephen would not be told.
During the bright days of summer, I liked to imagine the winter evenings as something warm and cosy, the curtains closed against the snowy landscape, the wood burner glowing, chestnuts roasting on an open fire, all that stuff. My daughter and son would be coming home again, bringing their families with them, all of us in good spirits, hugs and laughter, excited faces in the afternoon candlelight of the Christmas Day feast.
I don’t know why because it had never really been like that.
There had always been some drama or other, Martin – or rather Marty as he now wished to be called because he thought it made him sound cooler – my son-in-law, having to arrive late and leave early allegedly because of work. Vanessa, John’s wife worrying about some imagined ailment or danger to one of their daughters. And then Stephen stamping off to his study with a glass of whisky after lunch when our family had delighted him enough for one day, leaving me to sort out the carnage that was the rest of the house, before he saw it and blew a gasket.
That first Christmas after Stephen had left, Sara and her family had already booked to go skiing, and John had taken his lot to Centre Parcs. And to be honest it had been good to get away from their endless worrying about me.
Yes, I was apprehensive then about the future, about everything really. They had probably needed a break from me as well. Stephen had been such a dominating presence in all our lives and his departure had not been easy for any of us. I don’t think anyone believed I would be able to cope without him. I don’t think I had either, not at first. But there I was four years later, still standing, still managing.
I’d spent last Christmas with Sara and Marty in Cheltenham and the one before that with John and Vanessa in nearby Worcester. That first solo year I had escaped for a week from all the outrage and family fussing to my sister Isabel’s place in Brittany where we had done a lot of loafing about on her sofa, eating chocolate, drinking Peartinis, thoroughly trashing Stephen and tearfully watching sentimental Christmas films. Plus, enjoying her annual Christmas party when all the neighbours and a lot of the customers from her husband’s bookshop had been round. After eight months of ploughing through all the legalese and paperwork after Stephen left, it had been a welcome change to be somewhere different, to meet some new people, even though it was sometimes so chaotic and noisy in Isabel’s house.
This year I was determined to do everything perfectly. To make it – dare I say it – magical.
‘Don’t go to any trouble,’ Sara had said, ‘just do as much as you feel comfortable with. And don’t worry, we’ll all muck in to help.’
My son had said much the same thing. ‘Don’t wear yourself out, Mum. We’re all quite capable of helping. Did I mention I think Jasmine’s going off meat? Well, everything except bacon sandwiches, she doesn’t seem to have a problem with those. I’ll let you know.’
It was the day before Christmas Eve, and I was ready for my guests to arrive. And I really was looking forward to it. The beds were all made up, I’d put flowers in the rooms and plenty of towels. I’d decorated the Christmas tree and in a spurt of unexpected enthusiasm got out all the other decorations, hoarded over the years, to cover every surface with little light-up houses, candles, and ornaments. Stephen hadn’t approved of a lot of them, he said it made the place look tacky, and it probably did but I didn’t have to worry about his opinion any longer.
I’d put a small Christmas tree in the attic bedroom for the girls and decorated the staircase, which looked marvellous with a swag of artificial greenery, some fairy lights, and festive ribbons and under the tree an exciting pile of presents all beautifully wrapped and decorated. Even Marty, who had once voiced the opinion that sticky tape was not needed on a properly wrapped gift, couldn’t fail to be impressed.
I went to open the fridge door, to have a last look at all the things in there. A very pleasing collection of lidded boxes neatly stacked up. I had even bought a pineapple, some goat’s cheese, and fresh figs, and I can’t stand any of those things. Then I went on to the pantry to admire the stocks of emergency gin and Baileys, and the monstrous turkey that had been soaking in brine and spices for two days.
I took a deep breath. Everything was ready and, courtesy of the big bowl of potpourri on the hall table, the house smelled of Yuletide cheer. I felt a little bubble of happiness and hope well up inside me. I’d been through some dark times over the last few years, but now perhaps I had got a grip of my life again, and I was ready to show it to my family.
My mobile rang. It was my daughter.
‘Sara! Merry Christmas Eve eve! I’ve just been looking around the house, and I think it looks great. Everything’s ready for tomorrow, I’ve even got that whisky Marty drinks and the pigs-in-blanket crisps the girls like. I can’t wait to see you all.’
There was a strange pause on the other end of the line. At last, my daughter spoke, her voice giving a funny little croak.
‘Is it okay if we come early?’
‘Yes, of course. I’m usually up by six anyway, so anytime really.’
‘I meant now,’ she said, rather brusque.
I was a bit startled for a moment. This was totally out of character. Sara and Marty were well known for their timetables and rigid adherence to them.
