Page 112 of Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?
‘Keep the soap.’ I hear a little girl run into the room, singing.
‘I’ll see you later.’
She hangs up and I lie down on the floor. Joe rests his head on my belly which if anything makes for a good pillow. Stroking his head, I look at the lights blinking on and off and I pick up my phone.
Merry Christmas, Yasmin. Love from me and Joe. I know you’re with family today but if you need us then just give us a bell x
I press send and see Joe looking up at the underside of my phone. I put it down. How do I make this more Christmassy for you? Should I sing? There is a light knock on the door. Joe and I both stare at it.
‘What do you think, fella?’
It could be Santa. Hopefully, not budget Santa. Or it could be your dad. Maybe he’s brought coffee. But nothing will be open so it’ll have come from the petrol station machine.
I feel my heart race as I walk towards it, Joe in my arms. Maybe this is the Christmas miracle I need. I open the door.
‘Hello.’
‘Mrs Siddiqui.’
It’s the lady from the flat upstairs. The corridors of this place are always quite chilly so over her light, patterned dress is a heavy-duty winter coat.
‘I’m sorry, did I disturb you? I know it’s early,’ I say, apologetically.
‘No, I thought you might be up. I just wanted to bring you this before you headed out for the day.’
She takes a gift out of a shopping bag.
‘I saw this for your boy in the shops a long time ago and I never knew how to give it to you. I thought Christmas might be a good time.’
I stand back from her, shocked. ‘That’s so sweet, thank you.’ I take the impeccably wrapped package.
‘And I am sorry, I walk with a cane now. Up and down, up and down all night sometimes. I must make a lot of noise. I am sorry if I wake the baby?’
I smile, thinking about that banging noise we used to hear, assuming it was her voicing her complaints.
‘Oh no, not at all. We’re always worried we wake you? The baby crying and up all hours.’
‘My love, I’m deaf. I can’t hear a thing.’
We both laugh.
‘Can I offer you anything? A cup of tea?’
She shakes her head but grabs a good wedge of Joe’s cheeks.
‘Beautiful like your mama. Can I hold him? I don’t meet a lot of babies.’
I smile and nod. ‘Of course you can. Come in, it’s cold out there. This is Joe.’
By the time I get to Mum and Dad’s, all the clan have already descended on the house and I hear a symphony of high-pitched squeals when I ring the doorbell.
‘IT’S AUNTY BETH! IT’S AUNTY BETH!’
There’s a clamour of tiny footsteps coming down the stairs and the fuzzy outlines of red, pink and purple in the frosted window as it opens and four little faces preened to velveteen perfection look up to greet me.
‘Hello, girls! Merry Christmas! Say hello, Joe.’
The Callaghan family home has been the same house in East Sheen for the last thirty-seven years. A terraced house with giant bay windows, slap bang in the middle of one of those busy narrow streets where the need to parallel park and label your bins correctly is imperative. The house grew with the family – more daughters saw my parents knock space into the roof and out into the back. I always remember bare walls that slowly filled up with photos and prints, piles of Mum’s psychology books that now exist as part of the foundations, and Dad’s shabby old piano that he only uses to belt out Billy Joel covers and Christmas songs. Since we’ve all flown the nest and created our new homes, it’s always been a place to regroup, to eat, to Christmas.
