The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year. Jenny Oliver
Jackie raised her eyebrows; Rachel narrowed her eyes back at her. She felt the PTA parents start to murmur and others look away, embarrassed, as if it certainly wasn’t meant to go this way. She watched the uncertain faces of her class, who couldn’t understand why their favourite teacher wasn’t laughing with delight. They’d clearly been prepped to expect some sort of party atmosphere. So as the silence fell around her Rachel did the only thing that she could so as not to disappoint: going against her every instinct, she swallowed, took a shaky breath and forced her best teacher smile.
‘Thanks,’ she said, waving the envelope of tickets so the kids could see. ‘Thanks so much. It’s really kind of you all. I can’t wait.’ Then she pointed at the stage. ‘What a fantastic banner.’
Mrs Pritchard took this as an obvious signal to start clapping and as she took the lead the other PTA parents joined in, unsure at first but gathering steam. Mr Swanson put down his drill and punched the air, triumphant. When the kids heard the cheers they tugged the banner as tight as they could so it pulled up high and just their smiling eyes poked out over the top. Then, when Jackie clicked her fingers, they all ran off the stage and swamped Rachel in a hug, so she was trapped in an island of five-year-olds unable to do anything but fake smile so hard her cheeks started to ache.
No way was she going to Paris. Back at her flat Rachel was stirring coq au vin on the stove with one hand while trying to pull baked potatoes out of the oven with the other. No way. Turning the dial on the oven down, she noted how clean and shiny it was, how she knew which hob worked and which didn’t light, how the cupboard to her left sometimes needed an extra shove to get the door to click shut—strangers staying in her flat wouldn’t know those things. Would she have to write them a list?
‘Do you want wine?’ her grandmother shouted from where she was sitting at the table, her big colourful scarf wrapped multiple times round her neck and the bracelets on her arm clacking together as she raised her hand.
‘I’m only just here, Gran, no need to shout.’ Rachel winced.
‘Sorry, was I shouting? I must be such an embarrassment to you.’ Her grandmother cocked her head and pulled a tight smile. ‘Do you know, Gran is such a terrible term. I’d really rather you called me Julie. What do you think, David?’ She turned to Rachel’s father, who was sitting quietly opposite her. ‘Don’t you just hate the term Dad?’
‘Sorry, what? I was miles away.’ Rachel’s dad had been staring into space and blinked himself back into the present.
‘Dad!’ Julie sighed. ‘Don’t you think it’s a dreadful word? A label. Wouldn’t you far rather Rachel called you David?’
‘I’ve never really thought about it,’ he said with a shrug.
Julie huffed a great sigh. ‘Well, think about it now! For pity’s sake, man, it’s just an opinion. He’s always been like this, darling, used to drive your mother up the wall.’
Rachel swung round too quickly at the mention of her mother, tried too late to shush her gran, and saw her dad visibly shrink back into his cardigan. She’d made it a point never to mention her mother in front of her dad; he always just clammed up immediately. When she caught her grandmother’s eye and gave her a ‘What did you have to say that for?’ look, Julie just shrugged as if she couldn’t see what the problem was.
‘I’m only talking about names, darling. I would just prefer to be known by my own name, not some generic term that half my bloody generation are known as.’
Rachel sighed, pausing with her hand on her hip to look back at her. ‘We’ve been through this. I can’t do it. It just won’t happen. When I try to it feels too weird. You’re my grandmother—that’s just the way it is.’ Julie made a face as Rachel turned away and slid the steaming potatoes from the baking tray into a terracotta bowl and carried them to the table.
Julie took the bowl from her. ‘Well, I don’t think things should always be the way they are. Who says that’s the way it should be? Do you have a mat to put these on? The bowl is very hot.’
Rachel slid a magazine over so her gran could put the bowl of potatoes down without marking the already pretty shabby table and went back to the stove; they had this conversation at least once every six weeks. ‘You know I don’t know the answer. I just can’t call you Julie. It’s weird. And …’ she paused, ran her tongue over her lips as it finally dawned on her why she clung to the name ‘… it reminds me that we’re related.’ She paused.
‘Maybe if your mother was still alive you wouldn’t mind so much,’ Julie said matter-of-factly. Rachel’s dad flinched again.
Rachel smacked the wooden spoon down on the counter. ‘Can we please talk about something else?’
Her gran narrowed her eyes and watched her for a moment, wondering perhaps whether to push this tiny crack in Rachel’s armour so it might widen and they’d all start talking. Rachel had already turned back to the coq au vin. ‘So I hear you’re off to Paris.’
‘Not that. Something other than that.’ Oven gloves on, she picked up the Le Creuset bubbling with stew and set it down in the centre of the table. ‘And by the way, I’m not going to Paris. It’s a ridiculous idea.’
‘Just so you know, I’ve volunteered to keep an eye on the lovely Australian couple.’
‘I’m not going.’
‘Why are you going to Paris?’ her father asked with vague interest.
‘I’m not,’ Rachel said quickly.
‘Oh, you must.’ Julie reached forward and grabbed a potato from the dish. ‘Gosh, this is hot,’ she said, slicing it open, forking up the fluffy insides and slathering it with butter. ‘David, she’s going to bake. Rachel, you must go,’ she said again, her mouth full of boiling potato. ‘This tastes divine. Divine as always. Mine are always so hard and the skin all soft and wrinkly—bloody microwave.’ She scooped up another forkful before carrying on about the impending trip to Paris. ‘Yes, you have to go.’ Then she waited a second before adding, ‘Your mum would have been so proud.’
It was Rachel’s turn to flinch; as she stirred the coq au vin she felt an unwanted lump rising in her throat. She pushed her fringe out of her eyes then redid her ponytail for something to do instead of answering.
She felt her grandmother watching her. ‘She would, you know.’
‘I didn’t think you baked any more,’ her father said, as if he’d missed something along the way, something that didn’t entirely please him.
‘I don’t,’ said Rachel, emphatically.
‘No. That should probably rest with your mother.’ Her father crossed his arms over his chest, and she stared at the holes on the cuffs of his shirt, the ones she remembered her mum darning.
‘Oh, don’t talk such tripe,’ Julie scoffed. ‘The last thing your mother would have wanted is you sitting around refusing to whisk a bit of flour and butter because she was good at it. For Christ’s sake, Rachel, I know you’re a very good teacher, but you were an excellent baker. You need to give it a chance. And, David, I’m sorry, but I can only say that your opinion on the matter is absolute bollocks. Rachel, you go to Paris, and, David, you go back to your bloody dream world and stay there. That’s the best option as far as I can see.’
‘I was only giving an opinion. I was asked for an opinion, Julie.’
Rachel watched her dad as he took his glasses out of his pocket, put them on and picked up the cycling magazine that he’d brought with him—watched him retreat back into his hobby so he wouldn’t have to face any more from her grandmother.
As Julie was about to reply Rachel cut in, saying, ‘I’ve forgotten