Three things scare me witless. Crowds, shopping, and crowded Christmas shopping. This year was to be different. It was, I’d left it even later. In fact, it turned out Christmas Eve wasn’t crowded at all. Slight panic – maybe the shops were just about to close.
Na, they’d just opened. Shops don’t open for just an hour and a half. Do they? I snatched up a box of Black Magic chocolates, one size up from the smallest, and headed for the till. Easy, I thought. Cracked it. It’s taken 46 years but, no matter. Now, keep going, head down, don’t look at anything else. Don’t look anyone in the eye.
“Present for mum?” Hilary Atkins, village preying mantis, swoops down, spearing me in her claws.
“Nope. Private consumption, you ugly old nose,” I didn’t say.
“Er yes, Hilary, last minute crisis of conscience. How are you?”
Half hour later, less box of chocolates, she lets me go, broken, mentally raped and racked with guilt.
“Get her something special,” she booms across the store.
Quick double strength expresso and I’m back on the case. Scarf. Always worked before. Remember the yellow and blue shiny thing with the funny green circles? She wore it to Rosie’s Christening. Made the priest epileptic. But mum wasn’t one to disappoint one of her brood, even when there got to be six of us and dad.
Teasmaid? Now she’s getting on, extra hour in bed praps? Used the one we got at the jumble sale, year dad was took ill. Was the only one of us could make it work. You’d hear it spitting and hissing like two old cats at a bowl, while she got our breakfast ready. Then off to hospital to see dad, before getting to work, late. Boss didn’t like. Told boss to live with it. She didn’t like him for that matter. Glad I wasn’t there. Mum could get a bit personal with outsiders.
Right, that’s it. Cheese plant. Great, big, ugly, awkward, expensive, impossible to carry. No greater sacrifice than this, can a boy make for the mum he loves. Still got Marlane’s spider plant from her first school fete, took it with her when they moved to Belgium.
Pie dish? Got one. Hell, got cupboard full. She’d knock pies out without thinking, while washing up and listening to Rosie and her boyfriend troubles. Bloody good too, mums meat pies.
Shopping bag? Christ, she’s seventy. Wheels the shopping to her car in a trolley. Not like the day we moved into new house. Middle of winter, raw cold and no heating. Just an empty grate to stare at. Coal man wouldn’t come round either. “Well sods this” she said, in her funny English, and walked round to his yard with two shopping bags.
Flowers. Classic gift of guilt and neglect, and she’d be right. Haven’t rung her for months. Haven’t written since I was twelve, staying six weeks with her relatives, miserable and homesick. Used to send me comics over to cheer me up. Beano, Dandy, Victor. Read them a million times. Never used to at home.
Where’d she find all that time for us? I should write to her. Tell her things, before it’s too late. Get in touch with my emotions. That’s what they said at marriage guidance. Christ though, not what they said at boys grammar school. Monday 2nd September 1963. Day I lost touch with emotions. Didn’t pay to have any there. Or touch them come to that.
Crockery? Remember that old tea set we bought for their anniversary? Saw the cream jug last time I was over there. Keeps her teeth in it.
Roses lime juice. Had a thing about that. Can’t get it over there apparently. Not sure what Hilary Atkins would say, though. “Yes Hils, splashed out on a bottle of squash in the end.”
Perfume. A bloody great bucket of the stuff. To say I love her. Doesn’t use it though. Only Nivea. Can still smell her hands, when she used to kiss me goodbye and straighten my school tie. “Have you washed your neck?” she’d holler across the road. “Not yet” I’d answer.
Food processor. Got one. Never used it. Too handy with a knife. Years of making do.
Clothes? Impossible.
Special soap? Possible.
So whada we got? Bar of soap and a bottle of juice. For the woman you found, one sunny morning, crying at the sink. For the woman who trusted your good sense, all of nine years old, and sent you off into town to pay a months mortgage, cash. Say, nine hundred pounds now? For the woman who dragged the doctor out, three times in the dead of the night. Didn’t even have a phone then. Just colic, he said, first two times. Acute appendicitis, hospital, he said, third time. Told her I wanted to die. Don’t be daft, she said.
Take her out for a meal? See a show? Painting. Balloon ride. Lampshade. Anything. Just get something. Christ, I don’t know. And why ask him anyway? Haven’t done religion since the Sunday I told her I wasn’t going to church anymore. Bloody great row. Never been since. Funny thing is, neither has she. Never said why.
Holiday? Too busy. Too busy even to take the wife. Why there is no wife now.
Videos. One foot in the grave. Steptoe and Son. Likes that. Doesn’t get the BBC over there anymore, she told me.
Remember time, dad put his wages on top of the waste bin, just for a joke, and forgot to tell her. Mum burnt the lot. She didn’t laugh much, either, when he remembered. Nearly clocked him one. Ran up the garden and poked about with the fish slice. Been going for hours by then. Came back with bits of five charred serial numbers. Straight up the bank next day. Got it back in the end. Special dispensation from the Bank of England. Showed me the letter.
Right that’s it. Bar of soap, juice and a bowl of fruit to bulk it out. No bad apples though, or she’ll take them back. Bloody would too. Told our greengrocer once, if he ever slipped her another rotten onion she’d slip it back where it hurt. He laughed but, even we could see, it was a bit of a strain. But she’d had it bad in Germany, right after the war. Raging inflation, just her and her mum. And the Russians. Had to count the spuds then. Even the bad ones.
Phone box. Ring her up? A present? Thought I’d just ring you up for your Christmas present this year, mum. That’s nice dear.
Liege. Just another eighty miles now. Just made the last ferry before they stopped for Christmas day. Quite relaxing, driving this time of night. Time to think and smile. Now, which exit was it. God, just remembered I haven’t got her address or phone number with me. Doesn’t matter. Just curl up somewhere if I have to, and wait till it gets light. There’s the church. Next sharp right.
I ring the bell. It’s still dark. There’s a light on inside. Ring again. Third ring and I see her through the dappled glass, coming down the stairs. “It’s me mum, Jim. Surprise visit. Check you’re still doing the dusting, all regular like. Merry Christmas Mum. Got you a present.
She gives me a quick hug and pulls me in. Makes me some tea then unwraps her present. “A box of Black Magic, my favourite. “Two favourites for Christmas, now.”
“Yeah well, left it a bit late mum, had to get them on the boat in the end.” She doesn’t say much. Just a smile and a few tears. Two of a kind, really.
Godfrey Powell
25 Nov 98