Joy,” I mumbled through numb lips when I reached the office. I tried to turn my computer on, but my fingers just wouldn’t work.
“Hurry up, Morten,” Joy snapped, impatiently. “You’re late and we’re short on bodies today, so get yourself logged in and pick up some of these calls.”
“Is someone off sick?” I asked Tim, who was playing online golf and eating a mince pie.
“I should imagine Sky’s feeling pretty sick,” he replied. “She’s been suspended.”
“What?” I gasped, shocked beyond belief. “Why?”
“They believe she’s the whistle-blower! Jackie sits next to the meeting room and heard the whole thing. Kate accused Sky of bringing the company into disrepute and breaching security procedures. Sky strongly denied it of course, but Kate was having none of it and marched her out the door.”
“I can’t believe it.” My first call of the day bleeped in my ear, as my turret told me they had been waiting for twenty-three minutes, but my stiff fingers missed the ‘Answer’ button and hit ‘Release’ instead. Oh dear. Hopefully they’d call back again. “Surely there must be some mistake; Sky wouldn’t say awful things about the company - I can’t imagine who would.”
“Can’t you?” asked Tim. “Can’t you really?”
“No! How dreadful for her, and on Christmas Eve! But what about all her stuff, you know, her crystals and cards-”
“Chuck ‘em, they’re obviously faulty - I mean, she didn’t see that one coming, did she?”
I felt terrible for Sky and although Tim said we weren’t allowed to contact her, I popped one of the leaflets the Scientologists had given me into the post for her. I thought she might find it comforting to know that ‘difficulties with nagging insecurities, self-doubt and despair can be overcome as man innately possesses the potential to be free of these’. I added the letters ‘wo’ in front of ‘man’ with my biro as I thought Sky would appreciate that; she once told me she didn’t shave her armpits as a protest against men’s oppression. I planned to talk to Myra over Christmas about giving birth silently, when she was in a more relaxed mood. I’d asked Barry if he thought it was a good idea to do it silently, without all the agonised wailing and screaming, but he’d assumed I was talking about the conception.
Although I was shocked and upset for Sky, I couldn’t help feeling excited about Christmas. I updated Facebook and Twitter with seasons greetings while I waited for a man with a stutter to explain his complaint to me; he took so long I managed to write all my Christmas cards as well.
The food bank parcel had arrived last night, delivered by a very nice man who stayed and had a glass of wine with Mum. He must have forgotten something because I saw him walking out of our gate this morning when I drew my curtains. How kind of him to come all the way back on Christmas morning! Such wonderful dedication to duty. Downstairs, the turkey was almost defrosted, so I helped Mum run it under the hot tap while the oven was getting up to temperature. “Do you think it’s big enough for all of us, Mum?” I asked, doubtfully.
“We’ll just have to fill up the plates with chipolatas,” said Mum. “There’s bloody hundreds of those.”
“Well, you did tell the food bank man that you were partial to a nice hot sausage,” I laughed. “So he must have slipped you an extra large portion!”
“That’s debatable.”
“Shall I start peeling the potatoes? Gosh, they’re bright green! Are they supposed to be that colour?”
“He said they came from Greenland. It’s next to Iceland, apparently.”
“A new name on the high street! And they say we’re in a recession!” I picked up the peeler. “What do you think Dad’s doing today?”
Mum scrolled through her Christmas playlist and selected ‘Fairy Tale of New York’. She said it always reminded her of Dad. “I don’t really know what he’ll be doing, son. Slopping out, I expect.”
“You mean slobbing out, Mum! He always likes to relax on Christmas Day, doesn’t he? Do you remember that year he spent the entire day asleep on the sofa? We even pulled crackers and party poppers all round him and he didn’t stir!”
“Yes, I remember.” Mum was thrusting her hand inside the turkey rather violently and I looked at her in alarm; she always got a little stressed preparing Christmas lunch for everyone, and I hoped we wouldn’t have a repeat of last year when she’d smashed her fist into the Christmas pudding just because Myra asked her what time we would be eating. We were still coming across bits of candied peel stuck around the kitchen.
The doorbell rang and Mum groaned. “Oh God, that will be your Gran. Bloody lunchtime, I told her - it’s only half past nine! Get your garlic and crucifix, son and let her in. And hide the brandy in your room, would you - she’s sussed out the cistern safe-place. Nose like a bloodhound.”
The kitchen was filled with happy chatter and lovely roast dinner smells. Auntie Trisha was filling everyone’s glasses with more sparkling wine, except for her wife’s: Biffa only drank Guinness. The food bank mince pies had been opened - well, they’d arrived that way - but I couldn’t eat another thing. Myra had her foot up on the table showing off her new scull toe-ring that her mother had given her and I was showing Biffa what the foetus would look like from the app on my iPhone. “Do you want to look too, Gran?” I asked. “See - your great-grandchild looks just like a peanut at the moment!”
Granny Pattern sniffed. “It looks like a bastard peanut to me.” She pointed a bony finger at Myra. “It would never have been tolerated in my day, never! The shame would have been enough to kill a person, but now these brazen hussies just flaunt it in your face everywhere you go. I have to fight a path through semi-naked teenagers and pushchairs just to get into Lidls.”
“Things are a bit different now Mum, thank Christ!” laughed Auntie Trisha, planting a kiss on the top of Biffa’s new crew cut. “I mean, just look at us!”
Granny Pattern clutched at her throat. “What would my Arthur say?” she wailed. “His family, torn apart by infidelity and riddled with debauchery, his only grandchild-” she fixed me with her beady eyes “led astray by a wanton strumpet, his chastity corrupted-”
“Have I strayed into Iran?” asked Mum, who’d been having a cigarette in the garden. “What’s that ghastly thing on your toe, Myra? You shouldn’t be wasting your money on that sort of rubbish, not with a baby on the way. Raising children is extremely expensive, you know.”
Myra bristled. “Yes it is, Pam, and as Foggy will want to provide for his child, he won’t be able to give you as much house-keeping as he does now.”
“Why, you little-” Mum caught herself. “You’ll get a small fortune in benefits-”
“Like you get a small fortune in house-keeping? It’s outrageous the amount he has to give you-”
“Woah - time out!” called Auntie Trisha, making a T sign with her hands. “No arguing at Christmas, that’s the rule! Come on, let’s open the presents.”
Yay - presents! The best part of the whole day. We all went into the lounge, apart from Granny Pattern who said she was going to the toilet to “give things a go”; she thought that Mum’s giblet pâté might have loosened her up a bit. I loved opening presents but not as much as I loved watching others open theirs. I received a Sainsbury’s giftcard from Mum (she didn’t have time to get to Halfords) and a Brut soap-on-the-rope from Gran. Myra got me a mini carpet golf set, in case I ever took up golf, which was really thoughtful of her, and there was a present from Dad under the tree! He always sent me something. I opened up the brown packet, my fingers trembling with excitement. I unwrapped a large wooden fork and then a rather wonky wooden spoon. I held them up, mystified.
“Salad servers,” explained Auntie Trisha. “By the look of them, I’d say they were home-made.”
Wow! Dad had actually made me a present, how wonderful. I turned them over and over in my hands, marvelling at his craftsmanship. Dad really could turn his hand t
o anything! “What have you got for Myra?” Mum asked me. I smiled conspiratorially at Myra.
“I chose some very special presents for Myra, as this has been such an amazing year.” I picked up her presents and placed them in her lap. She looked a little disappointed.
“None of these look big enough to be the leather bondage platform boots I asked for, Foggy.” She started to unwrap one with a sigh, and then squealed with delight as she recognised the Chucky DVD box set. “Stick one of these on, Pam!” she cried. “Anything’s better than that old bat droning on about the Commonwealth.” She unwrapped the next present to reveal a tiny, white babygro. “Oh, er, right. Thanks.”
“Turn it over Myra!” I urged. She held it up to reveal ‘FOGGY JUNIOR’ printed on the back. Everyone went “Awww” and Myra seemed completely overcome; she was unable to speak. She slowly unwrapped her third present, clearly savouring the moment, and found a pink china mug. It had ‘World’s Best Mum’ written on it. She stared at it for a moment and then burst into tears. “Hormones,” everyone said in unison. Granny Pattern reappeared.
“No luck, Pam,” she announced. “Pass us those salad servers and I’ll give it another go.”
Boxing Night
Everyone had gone to The White Horse, as was the tradition on Boxing Day, but I decided to stay home to make sure I was fresh for tonight’s performance. I wrote a letter to Dad