Once More into the Breach
Christmas is always a battle, especially if you live alone and have four sons coming to stay. It seems I’ve only just put away last year’s decorations but in a few weeks’ time up they’ll go again. There’s all the tinsel and two tufted birds to go on the tree, one a chaffinch, the other a robin, both predating the eldest boy, now twenty-seven. The youngest is nineteen, the other two in between. They will all turn up sometime on Christmas Eve, stay for a week and then join their mother and her new bloke for New Year’s Eve celebrations. Since the separation and divorce, they have joined me for this major festivity every year.
It’s odd, really, my having sired four offspring, for I am by nature an isolate and perhaps should never have married in the first place. Taking Dr Johnson’s advice, I have not repeated the error, instead remained single and have recently retired from full-time employment.
The boys were still children when I first had them alone for Christmas and it amazed me how well it all went. Despite the hard work on the day itself, every year was a success and they enjoyed the repeats. The tough bit has always been the preparation, especially choice of presents. Each boy had at least twelve small items in his stocking and then four or five more substantial ones under the tree, to be opened after attendance at church. They tucked into the feast, traditional fare, with gusto and later played games, including cards, with me. In the evening, we’d watch a spot of Telly, usually a film.
Because they were memorable and quite uncomplicated times, all four still come, possibly in the hope of prolonging their childhood happiness. Nowadays, it’s less simple, despite my having convinced them that the stocking ritual can go. There are still plenty of presents under the tree but the major gift is now a personal cheque and much welcomed since three are impecunious students, only the eldest in full-time, paid employment. Even he likes being given a cheque, despite earning a good salary.
Working and living in London, with his current girl friend, he spends every penny he earns on having what he describes as a good time. It pleases me that they still come, possibly turning up with more separate selves than was the case in their innocent childhoods. Each his own man, they have become more than my equals.
If their arriving together separately is an oxymoron, they actually came with excess baggage last year. The eldest brought his partner, Annie, and a pet cat, which left a mess for me to clear up on Christmas morning. It wasn’t the only mess. Before very long, personal belongings were strewn all over the house. When I wander into the bedroom they occupy, to open windows and air the place, I have to tread very carefully for fear of stamping on possessions tipped carelessly out of suitcases.
In the bathroom, toiletries are lined up on every flat surface, like dandified soldiers in some exotic war. An array of sinuously shaped bottles and cans containing every kind of unguent, cream and scented liquid imaginable surround my solitary shaving bowl. As the days pass, I trail through the house collecting their refuse, scattered in the most unlikely places: apple cores and tangerine skins under the bed, even an empty French letter packet. Annie drinks coffee all day, half full cups left all over the house, one I found on top of the lavatory cistern. She chews chocolates non-stop, the wrappers let fall where they will. The box, with the lid off, bites taken out of a few in the collection, looks as if it has been rifled by a mouse.
The other boys enjoy Annie’s company and are sorry when both leave after Boxing Day to spend a few days in Paris, the cat remaining in my care. Son No 2 will also leave a day later, to visit his girl friend in Surrey. I haven’t met her but the others have, and don’t approve. They say she’s skinny – they mean flat-chested – but what they most dislike is her “posh” voice, preferring Essex glottal stops to RP English. Son No 3 told me that he has a girl friend, Meg, and she will also be visiting and staying, after Boxing Day. Like him, she’s a second year medical student.
She comes, is plump, rather quiet and retiring. In fact, although she stayed for three days, I didn’t see much of her or him, since they disappeared into any vacant room or place whenever they could get away from the rest of us. Finally, son No 4 announces that his girl, Becky, will turn up for lunch during the week. She’s still at school, in her final year and will become an undergraduate, like him in the autumn. This will be the first time I’ve seen her but have heard good things from the others, that she’s direct, lively and “original”.
When we meet, I am surprised to discover a shy schoolgirl who looks and acts rather like my own youngest offspring. They both have short, cropped and dyed hair. He wears an ear-ring, she has one like it plugged into her nose. The girl also wears big boots, laced well up to the ankles. This youngest lad plays the guitar rather well and has been “punk” for a few weeks, so their dress style strikes me as fairly normal. They have become vegetarian, along with Meg, so I prepare them a nut roast for lunch, a great success.
The cat owners return from Paris, mollifying me with a bottle of brandy for looking after the cat. Everyone seems to get on fine, a good time had by all. When they leave, I can’t say I am too sorry. I love it while they’re with me, a great festive atmosphere, but by myself I can listen to the music I like, read quietly and generally relax without having to think about the needs of the hordes. And that was last year.
The headache of buying presents and organising everything for their arrival is once more upon me. I always leave everything to the last minute but spend weeks worrying fruitlessly about how I am going to do it all. This time round, the eldest boy will not be here, for he’s gone to work in San Paulo, Brazil, having broken up with Annie. Son No 2 will be here with another girl called Marie. They are to marry next year. No 3 says he’ll arrive by himself, the youngest will bring Becky again. Let ‘em all come, provided they leave before epiphany. They can come when they like and do so on a fairly regular basis, and keep in touch at other times.
Son No 1 phoned me a few nights back, at 2 a.m., asking what he should do about sun burnt shoulders. Take an aspirin, I advised. I believe Christmas is special yet in the run up to it often wish it never happened. What is it going to be like when there are grandchildren! Only when it’s over do I fully appreciate its significance, but am glad it won’t happen again for at least twelve months.
