It was less than eight weeks after my mum had unexpectedly and very suddenly died that Christmas rolled around. None of us were up to shopping, cooking or hosting a big Yuletide feast, but my aunt and uncle bravely stepped up to the not-inconsiderable task of hosting six sad, teary bereft extras and a King Charles Spaniel for Christmas lunch. I was basically on autopilot at that time but looking back now, I see just how generous it was of them to share their Christmas with a new widower, four grieving teenage/early twenties siblings, a boyfriend who tagged along for the day and a dog of a nervous disposition.
At that time my dad had a Ford Escort van, so my brothers, boyfriend, dog and I piled into the back – health and safety being a mere after thought in the early nineties, although my dad did chuck in some cushions to act as low-tech air bags in the event of a crash. My sister as the youngest claimed the passenger seat.
We arrived at my aunt and uncle’s house in a subdued mood, not sure if we should even be celebrating Christmas without my mum there. We’d bought presents for my young cousin and plenty of food and drink for the hosts, but it wasn’t the usual day of excitement and jolliness that my mum had always conjured up. We exchanged gifts and tried to make conversation so as not to drag them down with us as we waited for lunch.
The meal was the traditional fare with huge servings of turkey, stuffing, potatoes and several types of vegetables, all topped off with gravy and cranberry sauce. Grief hadn’t impinged on our appetites so we tucked in with gusto. We were a pretty free and easy family who would ordinarily find it hilarious to let rip as the sprouts began to take effect. However, my aunt and uncle were slightly more refined and we didn’t think it appropriate in their lovely house, sitting at their beautifully decorated dining table, to behave in quite the same way. Instead, for the first Christmas ever, we held it in. By the time we’d had tea and a slice of Christmas cake before heading off, my stomach was fit to explode.
We settled back into the van for the thirty-minute journey home. Thirty minutes of eye-watering, nose-hair burning, throat clogging internment as the van filled with noxious fumes and the sound of trumps drowned out the Christmas classics on the radio.
Soon our eyes were streaming tears of laugher rather than methane poisoning. Every time one of us farted, we’d be set off again, howling as we pictured the looks on my aunt and uncle’s faces if they saw us now.
We couldn’t have imagined that in the midst of our grief, we’d be able to find any moments of amusement or joy. Incredibly, we were able to come together in that festive fart-filled van, and understand that, however painful it was, even when one of us was no longer there, we were still a family.
BARBED WORDS 