Going Home. Harriet Evans
at base camp, the forty-eighth day after settling here by the graveside, are poor,’ intoned Tom. ‘Tom Walter had a simple wish, merely to visit his father’s grave. But he was to be plunged into a horrifyingly tedious wait that no modern Briton should be expected to endure. In freezing temperatures, he was forced to watch as his cousin flew into a strop with a tall dark stranger from her past and screamed obscenities in a way that brings shame not only on herself but also on her family and friends. Are Britain’s young women binge-drinking? Are they descending into a spiral of drink and drugs hell? Are they—’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Kate. ‘Come on, let’s get this over with.’
Since we were really only there to pay our respects and she was the one who’d brought the flowers, none of us was quite sure what to do next. There was a silence. Eventually Mike touched the headstone. ‘We miss you, old man. Happy Christmas.’
‘Happy Christmas,’ we murmured softly. Each year on Christmas morning, Mum and Kate unpick the wreath of holly, ivy and mistletoe that hangs over the front door at Keeper House, and make it into a bunch of greenery to lay on Uncle Tony’s grave. Now Kate picked it up from the grass where she’d left it and put it on the grave. ‘Happy Christmas, Tony,’ she whispered. Mike put his arm round her and kissed her hair. Tom’s head was bowed and his lips were moving, as if he was praying. Neither of us remembered his father – when Tony died, Tom was a barely toddling two-year-old – but the loss had affected us badly. I slid my arm through his, and we walked away from the grave.
The wind was biting cold and cut into our skin, but the sight of the house across the field, its windows glittering in the winter sun, was calming. Mum, Dad and Rosalie walked together, chatting quietly, while Mike strode along behind them, his arm round Kate, who occasionally laughed at him. Chin, Tom, Jess and I brought up the rear.
‘So, David Eliot, Lizzy,’ said Chin, and I could tell she was trying to take Tom’s mind off Uncle Tony’s grave.
‘Yes?’ I answered.
‘What were you talking about? It looked from where we were standing as if the two of you were about to fight.’
‘We almost did,’ I said. ‘I’d forgotten how…’ passionate he was, I wanted to say, but that sounded so corny ‘…worked up he got about things. Weirdo. Idiot. Jeez.’
‘I don’t understand him,’ said Jess. ‘Why’s he so cross with you? He’s the one who slept with your friend, for God’s sake.’
‘I know!’
‘He broke your heart. You didn’t go out of the flat for a week and you wore those pyjama bottoms through in the bum,’ Tom chimed in. ‘He really has got a nerve, acting like you dumped him.’
I had trained myself to harden my heart against David after he’d sent me that email and since the terrible, short phone call when we’d decided to split up. I couldn’t think about him without sadness, so I tried not to think about him at all. Early on I used to dream about him every night, tortuously realistic dreams where none of it had happened, then wake up and cry because it wasn’t my real life. Then grit my teeth and get ready for work.
I’d just have to do that again now – forget how lovely he was, and how he had seemed generally perfect to me in the departments of height, looks, taste in things like films and TV and, finally, sex. I nodded at Tom, with tears in my eyes, cursing my selfishness and wishing I hadn’t seen David today of all days.
Then I remembered something I’d learned on a slightly dubious self-motivational course at work which is that whether or not you have a good day is mainly up to you. So, I would enjoy the rest of Christmas and not let this ruin it. I tugged some ivy off a tree next to the path. The leaves were green, glossy and thick. I twisted them into a little crown and put it on Tom’s head as we walked. ‘I hate men – except you, of course, Thomas.’
‘Thank you, Elizabeth.’ He squeezed my hand. ‘Good grief, what is he doing?’
We were still a little way from the house, and as we caught up with the others we could see a smallish figure emerging from the front gate, trousers and hair flapping in the wind. It was Gibbo, and as we got nearer it became apparent he was carrying a tray loaded with glasses of champagne. ‘Happy Christmas, people!’ we heard him cry, as he came towards us. ‘Hurry up, it’s good stuff here and I don’t want to drop the tray.’
‘You crazy man,’ Chin shouted. ‘Put some proper shoes on! I can’t believe you’re wearing those horrible old flip-flops!’
‘Love me, love my thongs, woman,’ Gibbo said, as we reached him.
‘I think you might be a contender for the title of Greatest Living Australian, Gibbo,’ said Mike, as he took a glass. ‘Chin, I love your boyfriend, in an American, warm and fuzzy way.’
‘Me too,’ said Rosalie. ‘You’re a class act, Gibbo.’
‘Thanks, Rozzer.’ Gibbo handed her a flute. ‘Here you go – take one, Suze.’ I don’t think anyone’s called my mother ‘Suze’ since she was about fourteen. ‘Get stuck in, everyone. Lunch is totally under control – you don’t have to worry about a thing. I’ve been a bit experimental too, Suze, hope you don’t mind.’
I love Gibbo.
As we entered the house there was a warm reassuring smell of something good happening in the kitchen, and Mum breathed a sigh of relief. Despite her passion for experimentation, she’s still a megalomaniac when it comes to culinary matters. There was a brief but tense stand-off over ownership of the oven gloves (the kitchen equivalent of the remote control), but Gibbo emerged victorious and proceeded unchecked towards the Aga. Mum leaned against the doorframe, looking pale.
‘Come on, Suzy, finish off your champagne,’ said Kate, bustling in behind her. ‘Gibbo, do you need a hand?’
‘No, everything’s under control,’ said Gibbo. ‘No worries, go and relax.’
‘But I can’t!’ wailed my mother, grinding her teeth. ‘You’ve disenfranchised me. What shall I do?’
‘I can’t believe you’re a doctor and you’re allowed to be so irrational, Suze.’
‘You’re quite right,’ said my father, appearing behind me. ‘Come on, darling, you can be my helper. We’re going to hand out the presents in a minute.’
‘Do I get to wear the hat?’ asked Mum hopefully. ‘I’ll do it if I can wear the hat.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Dad, patting her shoulder like he used to pat our ancient Labrador, Jockey, towards the end when he was old and confused.
We always open our presents after church on Christmas morning, and Dad is always Santa, with Tom as his helper. Long ago our grandmother knitted Dad and Tom bright red bobble hats to wear as they were giving out the presents. Dad’s still has a white pompom, but Tom’s fell off ages ago, and they’re both rather lopsided and uneven because she was quite short-sighted when she made them.
I followed my parents into the sitting room, where Mike was on his knees lighting the fire, and watched my father trying to wedge Tom’s hat on Mum’s head. I wondered where its owner was. Tom was the only person I’d ever really talked to about David, and I wanted a debrief with him now.
‘Are you OK, darling?’ Mum asked.
‘Yep, thanks, Mum,’ I said. She snatched the better Santa hat away from Dad. ‘We should have realised David would be there, I’m sorry.’
I was outraged that they’d known David was back and had said nothing about it, but I merely smiled. ‘Mum, it’s fine. He didn’t kidnap and torture me, we split up. I can cope with seeing him for a few minutes each