Page 15 of Sisters Making Mischief
‘Come on, let’s go back and finish lunch,’ I said, ‘the girls will be missing you.’
‘No, they won’t, I bet they are just arguing. That’s all they do these days,’ Sara said, her voice giving a little sad catch.
‘They’re teenagers, that’s what they do,’ I said, hugging her. ‘Remember what you and John were like?’
‘We weren’t as bad as them. And put the four of them together and it’s ten times worse.’
‘At least none of them have set fire to the curtains, like you did.’
Sara clicked her tongue in exasperation. ‘I’ve told you so many times, I was just a kid and that was anaccident.’
‘You were fifteen and you were smoking, and you left a fag end on John’s windowsill.’
‘Oh, bring it all up, why don’t you? No wonder my husband had an affair if I am such a trial to everyone. That’s what you’re saying, aren’t you?’
I sighed. ‘No, I’m not saying that at all. Look, come back into the dining room, let’s have a lovely lunch together and then afterwards we can play charades. Or something. You were always good at that.’
‘Yes, the way I’m feeling at the moment, I could knock a couple of my teeth out and cut my own hair with the kitchen scissors and doLes Misérableswith no difficulty.’
‘Sara, stop it,’ I said. ‘Come on. Cheer up, for the girls if not for me. I’ve tried so hard to make things nice for you all.’
Sara dropped her face into her hands and took a deep breath.
‘Okay, I will. Sorry. But sometimes I just wonder what’s the point? What’s the bloody point of all this? Of me?’
Welcome to my world,I thought.
‘You have everything to look forward to. You’re only thirty-six, you probably haven’t even got to the halfway point in your life. Look at me, I’m sixty-three, I’m on the downhill slope to old age and dementia.’
‘You’d better not be,’ Sara said fiercely, ‘I’m going to need you to look after the girls if I have to go back to work. I bet Marty will leave me with nothing, and every alimony cheque will be late, and when he takes the girls out for the weekend, he’ll send them back high on sugar and additives. It’s going to be a nightmare.’
I was a bit taken aback by this. Love them as I did, the prospect of being press-ganged into Sara’s parenting schedulewasn’t something I had ever considered. I’d done the occasional sleepover and babysitting, but that had been enough for me. I had always been convinced that if anything happened to either Poppy or Mia, it would be on my watch and my fault. And Stephen had been even more resistant. He and small babies didn’t ever get on, he said they were like horses; expensive, dangerous at both ends and remembering Poppy’s three-month colic and projectile vomiting, he possibly had a point.
On television the chef produces a fabulous meal and then friends/family come around to eat it. And they are all appreciative, with complimentary and witty conversation and no one gets drunk, argues or pulls a face when presented with beautifully cooked vegetables as Bunny did because the ‘parsnips were in the same dish as the carrots.’
I’d put all the vegetables and side dishes out on the sideboard, too, so that everyone could help themselves. This was a mistake as the pigs in blankets were snaffled up in seconds, leaving only one for Poppy. Of course, this provoked some hissing disagreement from all four girls, when they were asked to share a bit more generously. Even Jasmine’s supposed vegetarianism didn’t stretch that far, as she ‘was allowed to have six because she wasn’t eating the dead bird.’
‘But you’ll eat two sorts of dead pig,’ Mia said heatedly, ‘what’s the difference?’
‘I don’t like pigs as much as I like birds,’ Jasmine said.
‘We did a project in school about pigs, and they are very clean and friendly and just as intelligent as some people. That’s what Mrs Spencer said,’ Bunny said, sticking her chin out and looking belligerent.
Her face a tight scowl, Poppy looked at her lone pig in a blanket, and turned towards Sara, who was reading one of the cracker jokes and evidently not finding it funny. Honestly, I might just as well have saved my money and got twelve from the supermarket. At least one of them might have had a moving cellophane fish to show how sexy I was. Or wasn’t.
‘Mum,tell her…’
Sara and I exchanged a look as though she was hoping I would sort it all out, and I shrugged, stood up, went out to the kitchen to refill the gravy jug and left her to it.
I had looked forward to this day so much, and even I, with my considerable reserves of patience was getting a bit fed up with the endless bickering and dissatisfaction from my family. I loved them all, and this was my way of showing it. And my thanks to them for their support since their father had bailed out, I couldn’t have put a price on that.
What would it take, I wondered, to have the sort of family gathering that Nigella had? Children smiling, grandchildren rosy-cheeked and happy? Everybody laughing like crazy and probably talking about how lucky they were.
Why was it that it had taken me hours, if not days, to produce this meal, and my family were apparently speed-eating as though they had something better to do. I had hoped that my granddaughters would be talking excitedly about Christmas, their days in school, then going off to play with their new toys or games, or at least, eyeshadow.
Instead, everyone was looking miserable, and my four granddaughters were glowering across the table at each other, deliberately not laughing at the jokes in the crackers, not answering my questions with anything other than monosyllables and generally being – dare I say it? – rather rude. And there seemed to be little or no parental involvement, which wasstrange because Vanessa was usually first to spring to Jasmine or Bunny’s defence.
I looked across at her, marvelling at how stylish and pristine she was, picking at her food daintily. I looked down at my trousers, which despite the stout apron I had been wearing when I was cooking, had been splattered with turkey fat and flour. Vanessa took a tiny sip of white wine.
