Merry Christmas, Everybody

***

Looking out at the empty swings and slide in her garden, Faith felt her heart sink to the floor. A morass of wet, brown leaves had gathered at the foot of the slide, and the swings hung motionless, desolate – as though they hadn’t been used in months. Transfixed, she took in every detail of the wintry scene, the objective correlative of the purest emotion she had perhaps ever experience — dread. Later, in years of elderly self-reflection, she would pinpoint this as the moment when all the vague fears and worries of recent months became crystalline, when she realised that if she did nothing she would never see her two granddaughters again.

A lone magpie swooped low over the garden, breaking her terrible reverie. She waited for the second to appear, but the kettle on the stove came to the boil and reluctantly she gave it up. One, for sorrow. She peeled off her rubber dishwashing gloves and poured boiling water into the two mugs standing on the draining board. Then, abruptly, she emptied one of them away into the sink.

Her husband Tom, lost in his crossword, didn’t look up when she entered the room and so failed to notice the slight tremor in her hand as she delivered him his tea. She perched herself birdlike on the arm of the settee, as if poised for flight in any direction. His face even in unguarded repose struck her as fixed into the semblance of a permanent frown, almost a scowl. At least that old redness in his cheeks, so evident before the stroke, had now faded completely. So much of his recovery was down to her, she knew, all her work this last year. The thought of risking all that again filled her with a paralysing anxiety. But —

Her heart fluttered as the telephone rang suddenly. She flapped across the room and took up the receiver in a welter of emotion–dread, hope, resignation–that she couldn’t begin to articulate. As usual, all this high feeling vanished, until next time, in the instant Faith knew for sure that the person on the line wasn’t her eldest son, Simon. This time it was only Edie, Tom’s sister.

She mouthed as much to him and, perceptibly, his frown deepened. He looked down again at his crossword. No, there was no rousing him these days unless it was a trip to the golf club, and that was more habit then ambition. He seldom played even the back nine anymore. She observed him as he felt for the mug of tea on the table and, finding it, brought it to his lips. A spasm of shock and guilt shook her when she noticed, as though for the first time, the legend “World’s Greatest Dad” on the mug. For a moment it was all she could do to prevent herself from snatching the tea off him and dashing the cup into the fire.

“Yes,” she repeated to Edie at regular intervals. “Yes.”

She stared off into the fireplace, trying not to imagine the cup lying shattered on the hearth. Her eye drifted to the burnt-edged hole in her rug and she remembered–wincingly–how she had blamed it on Narinda, Simon’s wife. He was sure to have told her. Not that it hardly mattered now.

She felt torn, her stomach knotted.

She wanted to say so much– that, yes, Simon was unforgivably in the wrong, how if they didn’t try to mend the rift they would never see the girls again, that she was going to ring Simon, today, now.

But, a few minutes later when the call was over and she had replaced the receiver, all that came out was that she was driving over to Edie’s later this morning to have her hair done– did he remember?

He looked up at her vaguely, and the moment was lost.

A long half-hour later, queuing in her car to pay the Dartford toll, Faith told herself to think about something else – or to try at least – if only for the few hours she would be at Edie’s. Through her windscreen the sky looked overcast, the tall southbound bridge arching high into the leaden greyness of the morning. Rain. In the boot of her car was a black bin-liner full of Christmas presents, mostly for Edie’s own granddaughter, Chloe, who was a dear little thing.

Not unlike Jade and Alaya at that age in some ways.

It was hard. Faith hadn’t seen either of the girls for over a year; almost fifteen months, in fact, if she didn’t count waving goodbye at the airport.

She craned her neck to look directly overhead. Rain, definitely. The newspaper had predicted snow, but she wouldn’t believe it. There hadn’t been a white Christmas since the boys were young, not one that she could remember anyway. Winter was scarcely winter anymore.

Jade, in particular of the girls, loved snow.

She smiled to herself as she replayed the tremendous fun Jade had making that tiny snowman in the garden with Tom that time. Ah, but yes, who could forget the row Narinda had made afterwards — she always had to spoil anything to do with the girls that didn’t involve herself.

And in the end, they’d put the little snowman in the freezer–next to the fish-fingers, Jade had insisted. They’d kept him for months!

Laughing, Faith pulled up close to the car ahead. Yet another car was indicating to cut in. Slightly irritated, she glanced at the clock on the dashboard, hoping Edie’s hairdresser friend would wait. Didn’t Narinda always drive like that, pushing up along the outside? But someone lets you in, Mum, she used to say in her patronising way.

So full of herself.

She was going to be a barrister but failed all her exams. Twice.

Everything in Malaysia was always better than everything in England. Well, it would be. So, why come here if it was so bloody wonderful there?

A car horn honked loud behind her and, stirring in a sudden flush, obediently, Faith pulled forward again. She didn’t like driving, although she’d had to do a lot more of it herself this last year, rather than habitually be Tom’s passenger. The first specks of rain hit the windscreen.

Think about something else.

She tried the radio but immediately switched it off. Pop music.

She opened the window just a little at the top and felt cold spots of rain strike her on the cheek. Slowly the car ahead moved forward again in the queue, advancing–she imagined for a moment – like the tide on that grey rainy beach. Margate, where they’d all gone for the day once years ago.

Oh, they had tried, really, in the beginning; even Tom had made the effort for a time. But right from the first Narinda was just, well, impossible.

Can’t do this; can’t do that. Can’t Buy The Girls Christmas Presents Because They’re Not Christian. That was the very worst of it.

A blustery swathe of rain fell all at once over the car. Faith wound down the window fully as she pulled alongside the tollbooth, feeling the cold, wet air gust around her. In haste, she dropped the coin as she reached up to pay and had to scrabble around for it in her lap, conscious of the tollbooth man’s impatient eyes on her, or so she imagined.

She retrieved the coin at last; the barrier lifted.

Slightly recklessly, in a piece of driving Tom might have appreciated, she darted through into lane for the northbound tunnel. Flushed, her anxiety began to recede as she slipped into the stream of traffic. She had a sense of moving forward, of problems falling away. There were no difficult choices in the tunnel, no hazards; you simply had to follow the car in front. For the first time that day, her mood lightened.

One way or another, Christmas was coming.

By the time Faith reached Edie’s house the rain was – in the words of Tom’s standard joke – really persisting down. Head down, the wet wind swirling in her face, she struggled up the back-garden path carrying the black bin-liner full of Christmas presents. Her hands felt desperately chilled. Catching sight of Edie through the kitchen window, she rapped on the glass of the door and pulled it open. At once Lucy, the ancient Labrador, not fully awake, rose up out of the dog-basket by the door, stretched her front legs, tail wagging.

“Oh hello,” Edie called out. “You made it.”

“I really was beginning to think I wouldn’t,” Faith said, wiping her feet. “The traffic at Dartford was just, you know, well, terrible. – Oh, I’ve brought these,” she added, remembering the presents. “They’re all mostly for little Chloe.”

Edie, concealed up to the neck by a black hairdresser’s cape, got up from her stool. “She’ll think you’re Father Christmas come early if she sees those. – Down, Lucy. Oh, thank you, love. ”

Taking the kiss, Faith began to wrestle herself out of her wet coat. Through the open kitchen door the sudden sight of the lounge, heavy with Christmas decorations, struck her with a pang of regret. She and Tom hadn’t even thought to put up a tree this year – or last, for that matter. Though last year had been understandable.

“You’ve done well,” Faith said.

Edie took her coat. “Well, we thought we’d make the effort, since this is first Christmas our little Madam has, you know, really any idea what’s going on. She’s so excited, it’s something to see. – Janet’s just looking in on her nap.”

Faith started. “Chloe’s here?”

“Sue had to work,” Edie said, turning away. “So we’ve got her.”

An awkward silence fell and lingered, much to either woman’s – but
especially Faith’s – discomfort. She noticed Janet coming through the
lounge, and positioned herself on one of the tall stools at the breakfast
bar. Although they’d never met before, Faith realised with a flush that she
knew more about Janet than she had a right to know – about her IVF
treatments and the adoption problems, and she expected the
reverse was probably true.

“That’s lovely,” Faith managed at last.

“She’s right out,” Janet said in her breathy voice. “Completely sparko.”

“Hello,” they both said together. “Edie’s told me –.”

There was a moment of recognition between the pair, and the ice was broken. “Here’s the tea,” Edie said, setting two mugs on the breakfast bar. “So, how is my big brother–the same?”

“Oh, you know Tom.” Faith tried hard not to let her face appear either long-suffering or brave. “No, he’s doing much better, really. Physically, anyway, he’s right as ninepence.”

“You’ve had such a year of it,” Edie said. “The pair of you. Honestly.”

“I didn’t think I’d get through it,” Janet said, “at times.”

She was gathering together her hairdressing paraphernalia.

“Janet’s just had some news,” Edie explained. “Two lots, actually.”

This announcement, for all its informality, hung expectantly in the silence that followed. Faith waited, still a little chilled, watching Janet as she set out her things. Even though slight herself, she couldn’t help but think that Edie’s friend looked worryingly thin.

“I suppose you know,” Janet began at last, nervously, “about all this adoption stuff I’ve been going through this year?”

Faith nodded. “Some of it, I think.”

Janet took a breath. “Well, you wouldn’t believe it if I told you, you really wouldn’t. Everything we’ve been through. Social Services. The interviews, and how bloody intrusive all that was. Just heartbreaking, every step.”

Edie pulled a stool round to the breakfast bar. “You’ve had to fight every step of the way. You and Dave.”

Though well intentioned, this statement seemed to trip Janet up, break her stride. Faith noticed–in the way that she blinked flutteringly, hesitated, blinked again – that it cost her some effort to continue.

“The thing is,” she went on, “well, not to make any bones about it, we wanted a baby. That’s all, nothing else.”

“And you couldn’t get an English baby, could you? After all you’d been through with everything.”

Janet shook her head. “No, there was absolutely no way. That’s what they told us. Not a hope. You can’t imagine how we felt then, not unless you’d been through it. You really can’t.”

Faith knew this much already and looked over at Edie, who, almost as an afterthought, was divesting herself of the black cape. “That’s when you decided to go down, you know, the Chinese route, my love, wasn’t it?” Edie said, passing the cape back to Janet. “And you had to go through it all again. The English Social Services, their process–all that stuff. You know, they look all into your relationship with your partner and everything. How tidy your house is, even.”

“I know someone who was turned down because their house was too tidy,” Janet said. “You really would not believe it.”

Faith shook her head sympathetically.

“Well,” Edie said, “you got through that and, then, there was all the Chinese side of it–and that was even worse.”

“In some ways,” Janet said. “I mean, it’s been a paper exercise to this point. But I keep having to get things, documents and what-not, translated to and from Chinese. And I had to find someone myself who could translate things–me! I didn’t know where to start.”

“Right, where would you start with something like that, really?” Edie said, looking at Faith. “Worst bit, love, was they kept changing the rules, didn’t they? You think you’d done everything they’d asked for and then they’d say there was something else. It was just, I don’t know, heartbreaking, every step. I don’t know how you kept on going with it all, I really don’t.”

“I’d just think, there are all these babies nobody wants, and I want a baby so much. That kept me going. That’s what it was.”

Faith sipped her tea, warming her hands on the cup. She could sympathise with the yearning. The sight of the Christmas tree drew another pang from her. Outside, the rain hammered suddenly on the kitchen windows with the intensity of hail. She shivered.

“Listen to that,” Edie said.

“You think it might wake Chloe?” Faith said.

“Ted’s upstairs. He’ll see to her if she does.”

“Anyway,” Janet said, “I got involved in the end with this support group – Inter-Country Adoption? Well, they helped me a lot, really.” She looked away and back again, her eyes fluttering once more. “And, so, last week we heard–at last – the Chinese adoption people had accepted us, me and Dave, and we can travel to China to see about a baby. After Christmas, that is; we can go.”

“But… that’s wonderful,” said Faith, smiling.

Edie and Janet glanced at each other. They seemed less enthusiastic than Faith had expected.

“The thing is,” Edie said shortly, “this week Social Services got back in touch – you wouldn’t believe the timing – and said, well, there were some English babies, you know, available. So, right this minute, my love, you’re not really absolutely sure what to do now, are you?”

Janet shook her head. She sighed a long, weary sigh. “I had my heart set on a Chinese baby. That’s where I am now emotionally. It’s nothing to do with the expense or anything like that. I just think there’s this baby girl thousands of miles away in China nobody wants. Nobody comes to her when she cries. Nobody wipes the grunge off her face all day long–and, you know, worse. And she’s been picked out for me, all these miles away, to be her Mum. I didn’t need this complication.”

The three women were startled by the sudden, inexplicably loud cry of a child, seemingly in the room. Their heads turned as one in the direction of the baby monitor plugged into the wall, flashing its single red light.

Later, as the wintry darkness enveloped her car on the ride home, Faith felt the fears and worries of the morning press upon her again. They’d talked quite a bit in the end – much more than she’d wanted to, really–about the whole thing with Tom and Simon, all that business again. No doubt she’d heard it all from Edie already, anyway. That poor woman. She’d looked suitably scandalised in any case when she heard Simon hadn’t been in touch once in the year since his father’s stroke, not even now they were back in the country. Tom might have thrown Simon out, but that was in anger–soon forgotten. This long silence was cold, mean. Faith was absolutely certain she knew who was behind it really. Then, there were the girls, caught in the middle. Always her thoughts came back to that.

Seeing little Chloe hadn’t been as hard as she’d feared. Ted had brought her down and she’d been shy with them both at first, just coming round. Ted was so good with little ones, always had been. You could hear them laughing and playing away in the next room. Faith smiled to herself as she clutched the wheel in the darkness, the wide empty road illuminated only by the arc of her headlights. And a just a little bit later, when Chloe had rolled in under her own steam, repeating over and over in her funny little child’s sing-song voice, “Merry Christmas Everybody! Merry Christmas Everybody!” Faith had recognised the glimpse of longing on Janet’s face as the desperation she felt in her own heart. Now, she was driving home to Tom, who would be sitting alone in the house in his armchair, most likely with all the lights off, as was his depressing habit these winter nights. Faith’s car was climbing the high Dartford Bridge seemingly into the sky. At the apex of the bridge she had an almost tangible sense of the darkness – the nothingness – stretching away beneath her for miles in every direction, of being but temporarily suspended above it. She had a choice to make tonight, she knew. Simon, the girls–or Tom?

On Christmas day, a week later, Simon had brought the children round as Faith had asked finally, but wouldn’t come in himself. He delivered them to the door and returned to sit outside the house in the car. This was expected, but Faith had hoped he would weaken and change his mind when the moment actually arrived. Then, she caught a glimpse of Narinda in the passenger seat, riding shotgun.

They had an hour.

The girls came in quietly and sat closely together on the couch. They looked like taller, slimmer versions of themselves, but more beautiful even than Faith remembered–Jade’s jet-black hair reached her waist now.

They answered questions about themselves politely, sometimes looking at each other shyly before responding. They declined the offer of Coca Cola or juice, before finally accepting water. There were some small presents for them under the tree but these too–after another exchange of hesitant glances–were declined politely. As though talking to a child Jade explained to Tom that, as Muslims, they really didn’t celebrate Christmas.

Angrily Faith sensed their mother’s coaching at work behind the scenes. Do this, do that. Say only this. To look at the pair of them now, so ill at ease, you wouldn’t imagine that they’d virtually grown up in this same room. None of that–the years – might ever have happened.

But also, gradually, as Faith realised, watching them, what an ordeal this was for the girls themselves, her anger gave way to something else. Halfway through the hour, she went into her kitchen and stood looking out at her garden as she had the week before. When the tears came, it felt as though they would never stop.

***

About the Author

Malcolm Dixon is originally from Liverpool but now lives in Kent. His fiction has appeared in numerous literary venues, most recently in Grain (Canada) and Bravado (New Zealand). His ambition is to publish a collection of stories before his beard turns entirely white. That it will be touch and go at this rate, he is the first to admit.