‘We’ll all have a cup of tea, Mum.’
‘Oh.’
‘Here, you’re done up all higgledy-piggledy.’ I go to her and she tries to stare me down while I rebutton her cardigan.
‘You do fuss, Juliet.’
‘That’s better.’ I resist the urge to untangle her hair.
Rick rolls his eyes at me and I shrug back. My mum’s not herself. I blame her trip to Australia. She’s never been quite the same since. When she turned seventy, she dumped my true and faithful father, who had stood by her stoically despite her being a fairly miserable and demanding wife. She moved in with me and Rick, uninvited. My husband was not impressed, but what could I do? She had to live somewhere and no matter how we tried to cajole her, she wouldn’t go home to Dad. Then, to make matters worse, she took up with a pensioner toy boy, Arnold. We had to endure weeks of them ‘doing it’ in our back bedroom, which our daughter had been required to vacate to accommodate her. It was horrendous. The only way I could get any sleep was to clamp a pillow over my head. They’d only been together for five minutes when she and Arnold decided that they wanted to see the world. At the age of seventy, I ask you. Before you could say hip replacement they went out, booked two tickets to Australia, rented a camper van and set off touring in the outback.
I was beside myself. She’d never even been abroad before; now she was going to Australia for the foreseeable future with a man she barely knew. I thought it was children who were supposed to give their parents problems! Isn’t that the way it happens? Rick was delighted, as he thought we’d seen the back of her for good. He was sure that in Australia, being the continent with the most venomous and lethal animals, she’d come to some great harm. No such luck. He hadn’t reckoned on my mother’s tenacity. After six months she was back, bronzed and broke, and poor Arnold had disappeared into the wilderness never to be seen again. I am distraught that Arnold, an elderly and rather pleasant gentleman, is missing in a strange land. My mother, however, doesn’t seem too bothered by this turn of events. Rick thinks that the hapless Arnold most likely threw himself to a pack of wild dingos in an attempt to get away from my mother. He has a point. After spending six months in a glorified caravan with her, I’m sure anyone would feel the same.
Rick is rooting through the carrier bags. ‘Panettone?’ he says. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s like a cake or bread. A bit of both. You’ve had it before.’
‘Really? I don’t remember.’
‘We all like it,’ I assure him.
‘I don’t,’ my mum adds helpfully.
‘Dad does.’
‘Your father has gone all foreign,’ she counters.
Which, I have to say, is partly true. Frank Britten was, until my mother abandoned him, the most unadventurous man on the planet. His comfort zone was never more than a foot away from his armchair. My dad, a man who, until he was seventytwo, thought that anything other than a half of bitter was for ‘nancy boys’, decided he’d been gay all along. Then he met Samuel, a charming bookseller who is younger than both myself and Rick, who has made his life infinitely more colourful. No one was more surprised than me when they moved in together. Well, except perhaps for my mother. I’m still not sure that she fully grasps the nature of their relationship. Anyway, now that Dad is a fully paid-up and enthusiastic member of the ‘nancy boys’ club, thanks to Samuel, his tastes have become distinctly more adventurous – and not just in ‘that’ department. He loves foreign food, foreign travel, enjoys good wine, speaks a smattering of several languages, plays chess, knocks up meals from Jamie Oliver and Nigel Slater cookbooks and is generally very lovely to be around. It’s taken him a long time to discover domestic bliss, but I’m so pleased that he has.
‘Your dad phoned to say that he’s coming round later with Samuel,’ Rick says.
‘Oh, that’s nice. There are some bits for them in one of the other carrier bags. They can take them home with them.’
‘I thought they were coming here for Christmas?’
‘They are.’
‘So why are you buying them Christmas food?’
‘Christmas isn’t just one day, Rick.’
‘No,’ he mutters. ‘It’s from bloody August onwards.’ He stamps out to get the other bags.
‘Are we having a cup of tea, or what?’ Mum asks.
I sigh to myself. Now Mum is back for good, she is currently ensconced in Chloe’s bedroom once again, much to the consternation of my daughter. Chloe had moved out when she accidentally fell pregnant with her first child and was renting a flat in the town with her partner, Mitch – the father of baby Jaden and a man she barely knew. Not surprisingly, they’ve now split up and she’s also back at home with Jaden in tow. But I can hardly wag my finger at her as, all those years ago, Rick and I tied the knot rather hastily when I fell pregnant with Chloe.
Chloe won’t ever really say what went wrong in their relationship. I guess it comes from having a baby with someone whose favourite drink, film and holiday destination are a total mystery to you. The pressure on them both was enormous. Right from the start she was coming home every two weeks over some row or other. Rick said we should have turned her round and sent her straight back to deal with it, but I couldn’t. That’s what my mother would have done to me, and I couldn’t watch Chloe suffer. I know she found it hard that Mitch was working long hours and, instead of being out partying, she was sitting at home every night with a baby. Then last month, with no justifiable explanation, she flounced home, supposedly for good. Mitch appeared on the doorstep every night for two weeks begging her to go back to him, but she wouldn’t listen.
She’s just had difficulty adjusting to being a responsible adult with a young child to care for. The fact that responsibility has been thrust on her rather than it being of her choosing must have something to do with it too, a case of too much too soon. Chloe has always been selfish, and still tends to think only of what she wants. Mitch, on the other hand, seems saintly. I know it’s different when you live with someone – you see all their little foibles in sharp relief. But I don’t know what else she could want in a man. Yet only Chloe can decide that. I can only be here for her, help her and hope that one day she’ll realise what she might lose and she’ll grow up, and sooner rather than later.
Table of Contents
Also by Carole Matthews
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Acknowledgements
In Conversation with Carole Matthews and Helen Rochfort
A Beginner’s Guide to Designing a Handbag by Helen Rochfort
EXCLUSIVE Excerpt from With Love at Christmas