why we split up, because I didn’t tell them. I think Mum had thought we’d have an emotional reunion by the gravestones. Well, yet again I was going to have to disappoint her. I went back towards the kitchen, looking for Tom. As I passed the study I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye and peered through the gap between the door and the frame, where the wood had warped. Rosalie was sitting at my father’s desk, still in her coat, with an open box file, scribbling notes furiously on a pad.
What was she doing? Why was she in there? I turned to go upstairs, and Mike was standing behind me. I jumped, and heard rustling in the study. ‘What are you doing there?’ he asked. ‘You look like you’re in a world of your own.’
‘N-nothing,’ I stammered. ‘Is Tom in there?’ I gestured towards the study.
His eyes flicked to the door. ‘No, that’s Rosalie. Hey, did you find the Sellotape? We were looking for some earlier and I’ve got one last present to wrap. Ah! Hello, gorgeous, any luck?’
‘Yes, here it is!’ said Rosalie, emerging from the study, holding a dispenser. ‘Hey, Lizzy, how are you?’ She slid an arm round Mike. ‘Shall I run upstairs and do that last one?’
I couldn’t tell if she’d worked out I’d seen her. Or if Mike knew I’d seen her, or if he even knew what she was doing, going through Dad’s stuff.
‘A wife and a present-wrapper, rolled into one. What more could a chap ask for?’ Mike dropped a kiss on her shoulder.
‘I’m going upstairs to get Tom,’ I announced in a loud, peculiarly am-dram way. ‘See you later.’ I stomped upstairs thinking the world was going mad.
On the landing I paused to look out of the leaded window across the valley. What was David doing now? Was he with Alice and Miles, having a drink and opening presents? Was he pacing the floors, dashing tears from his eyes because of his stupid behaviour and thwarted love for me, like the Marquis of Vidal in Devil’s Cub?
Ha. I gave a mirthless laugh, like a world-weary torch singer. I knocked on Tom’s door. There was no answer, so I opened it slowly and looked in. Tom was lying on his bed, staring into space. ‘Tom, darling,’ I said, and sat down next to him. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Go away,’ he said dully. The old iron bedstead creaked beneath us. ‘I don’t feel well.’
‘Is it your dad?’ I said, putting my arm round his bony shoulders.
‘What do you mean?’ he said, shrugging me off.
‘Well, it’s Christmas Day and all that. It must be sad.’
Tom turned back to look at me without expression. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘But…’ I didn’t want to sound stupid. ‘We visit his grave every year, why are you so upset this time?’
‘I just am, that’s all. It’s different this year.’
‘But why?’
‘I’ve been thinking about something you said in the car yesterday. And about Mike and stuff.’
‘Oh, God, what?’ I said, alarmed that something I’d said and couldn’t remember should send Tom into a decline.
‘Nothing, just about us all in general. It’s not a big deal, and it’s none of your business. Go away and stop being so nosy.’
Downstairs I heard Mum shout, ‘Change of plan! Lunch is ready! Presents afterwards!’ followed by the dull clang of the bell. I didn’t know what to say. Tom is more than a cousin to me: he’s like my brother – but I often feel I don’t know him very well. I went to his birthday party last year, in a wine bar in the City, and I knew lots of his friends but he seemed…different. More relaxed, happier. And I suppose sometimes the people who know you best are the ones you want to run away from most.
I stroked his arm again. ‘Tom, whatever it is, I want to help. You know that, don’t you?’
There was no answer so I got up and opened the door. Then Tom said, in a muffled voice, ‘I’ll see you downstairs, Lizzy. Thanks.’
‘And the glory, the glory of the Lord…’ boomed the CD player, as I went downstairs. I could hear Dad sharpening the carving knife in time to The Messiah and rushed into the dining room. The table was set, the fire burned in the grate, and the smell of Christmas lunch was drifting through the kitchen door. Mum and Kate were giggling: in a few short hours Gibbo had twisted them round his little finger, and I could see why. If I’d caught him rifling through Dad’s desk I’d have told him to take what he wanted.
One by one we sat down and the dishes came forth from the kitchen. Slices of stuffing, sausage and chestnut, bread sauce, cranberry sauce, Brussels sprouts, and a huge platter of roast potatoes. And finally, with a flourish, in came Mum with the turkey. I sat on my hands to stop myself picking at anything.
Tom appeared at last, a grim expression on his face, and proceeded to down a glass of red wine.
As Dad finally sat down, we raised our glasses and said, ‘Happy Christmas.’
I looked round at all of us and thought what a pickle we were in, even though we appeared to be a normal happy family enjoying Christmas. I wondered what Georgy, Ash and my other friends were doing. Were they as confused by their own family Christmas as I was? Whoever had said that each family was barking insane in its own way was right. Just look at the evidence:
I’m sure our ancestors were all scavenging peasantry because I’ve never known anyone like my family when it comes to attacking a meal with gusto. Silence reigned as we ploughed through the mountains of food in front of us, with only Rosalie making an attempt at conversation.
‘These are beautiful, Suzy,’ she’d say, picking at a crumb of roast potato.
‘Mmm,’ my mother would answer, as her nearest and dearest guzzled, pausing only to open another bottle of wine. conversation broke out. I must say we were rather knocking back the wine but as they say, Christmas comes but once a year, and it is the season to be merry. It was probably nearing teatime but, just as at weddings, where one has nothing to eat for hours and then lunch at 6pm, we’d lost all sense of time.
After the pudding and mince pies, we had toasts where – yes! – we all propose toasts. When we were younger we found the adults desperately tedious by this stage: they were clearly drunk, found the oddest things hilarious, and would hug us, breathing fume-laden declarations of affection into our faces.
‘Lizzy goes first,’ said Chin, giving me a shove.
‘I’d like to toast Mr and Mrs Franks, and Tommy the dog,’ I said, getting up and downing the rest of my wine.
‘Hurray!’ said the others, except Gibbo and Rosalie.
‘They live in the village in Norfolk where we go on holidays. They’re gorgeous,’ said Chin. ‘You’ll meet them there this summer. It’s wonderful.’
Gibbo and Rosalie, bound together by fear of the unknown and the solidarity of the outsider, shot each other a look of trepidation.
‘Jess, you next!’ Tom yelled, prodding her in the thigh.
‘I want to toast Mr and Mrs Franks too,’ said Jess, determinedly.
‘You can’t,’ I said. ‘That was my idea. Think of someone else.’
‘I miss them,’ said Jess, her lower lip wobbling. Jess cries more easily than anyone I know, especially after wine.
‘Me too,’ said Chin, gazing into her glass. ‘I hope Mr Franks’s hip is OK.’
‘My turn,’ said Mike, standing up straight and holding his glass high