Page 76 of Where Do We Go From Here?
‘No, it’s not. Not really. It’s just space, really. Space and time, to think.’
Fiona looks away, out through the darkened window. ‘The cat’s outside,’ she says, and Wendy turns and sees Mittens peeping in. ‘Shall I let him in?’
‘You can try,’ Wendy says. ‘But he’s pretty skitty.’
Fiona crosses and opens the door, but as soon as she does so the cat runs away.
‘You could fix it if you wanted to,’ she says when she returns. ‘This isn’t my… It’s not fair, really. I mean, it’s not my role. Or it shouldn’t be, anyway. I’m, you know, the child. Not the marriage counsellor or whatever. But you could fix it if you wanted to. You just need to be a bit less…’
‘Less…?’
Fiona shrugs.
‘Less what, Fiona?’
‘I don’t know. Justless.’
Wendy smiles at this. ‘Right,’ she says. ‘Good to know. I might try that.’
‘You can smile, Mum, but it’s true.’
‘You know there are two people in this equation. It takes two to tango, and all that.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that your father may not want to make it work. I mean, I know you think he’s the bees’ knees and everything, and that’s good, that’s fine, that’s how it should be. But he may prefer… something… different… But you probably know more about that than I do.’
‘I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean,’ Fiona says.
‘Well,’ Wendy says, downing the remainder of her glass of port in search of courage. ‘It means?—’
But Fiona interrupts her. ‘Actually. Can we change the subject? This is all starting to make me feel a bit queasy.’
‘Sure,’ Wendy says. ‘Me, too.’
‘Cat’s back,’ Fiona says coldly, tipping her head toward the window.
‘Already!’ Wendy says, jumping up, feeling thankful to the cat for the distraction. ‘I’ll put some cat food in a bowl and you can try to give it to him.’
It’s Christmas morning. Wendy wakes up early and takes pleasure in lying still, listening to her daughter’s gentle breathing. Fiona had complained about both the hardnessandthe softness of the sofa after her first night, claiming that the mattress magically managed to combine both faults in a single bed. So, this time, they’ve shared the upstairs double and Wendy hasn’t slept so well in years. Memories have come flooding back of how the kids used to crawl in with them when they were little and scared or ill, or indeed simply fancied a cuddle.
She’d quite like to roll over and cuddle her daughter now, but that, she knows, would seem weird… It’s such a shame that happens, though, she thinks. As she dozes in and out of sleep she wonders if it’s that way in all cultures or just ours, before sliding from the bed to creep downstairs where, as quietly as she can, she stokes the fire.
It’s eight thirty and the sun is still hiding behind the mountains lighting the landscape in a strange almost monochrome tint, but she can tell it’s going to be a lovely day.
She puts a bowl of food out for Mittens – it’s not even particularly cold this morning – and makes herself a mug of tea which she nurses as the fire starts to flicker, and then roar.
She thinks of Christmases past, remembers the obscene piles of gifts they used to wrap for the kids, gifts for whichFather Christmas got all the credit. Again she wonders how they went from that warm united family to here and now, and feels sad. But then realising that she’s spoiling the moment, spoiling now by comparing it with the past, she forces herself to simply be grateful. Because this – Christmas alone with her daughter in France – is as unexpected as it’s delightful. She thinks how awful it would have been on her own and feels tearful with gratitude.
At ten, as the sun starts to creep across the floor of the cabin, Fiona wakes up and begs for tea, so Wendy makes a cup and takes it up to her. She sits on the edge of the bed and pushes her daughter’s hair from her face. ‘Merry Christmas, sleepy,’ she says.
‘Umh,’ Fiona says, rolling away. ‘Merry Crimbo to you too.’
By the time Fiona comes downstairs the cabin is bathed in sunlight and the sky is deepest blue. ‘Wow,’ she says. ‘Is every day sunny here?’
‘No, I told you, I got snowed in. It was dreadful. You’re one very lucky lass.’
‘Hard to believe, looking at that sky.’
