Christmas morning arrived in a flurry of peace and quiet. No grandchildren bounding into the bedroom at 5am to show us the contents of their stockings. No presents ripped opened in squeals of excitement, wrapping paper flying across the carpet. No last-minute panic about whether we had enough potatoes. Our son and daughter-in-law were going to her family this year so we’d given our gifts to them and our three grandchildren last weekend and had a lovely lunch. But it wasn’t the same as them actually spending the big day with them.
Instead, it was just the two of us, two mugs of tea, and – squatting in the fridge like an overweight troll – the massive turkey we’d forgotten to cancel.
‘It’ll be fine,’ Alan said, staring at the bird. ‘Turkey sandwiches tonight, curry tomorrow, fricassee on Saturday.’
‘You don’t even know what fricassee is, Alan. We’ll still be eating this bloody turkey next Christmas.’
Alan went to take Benny (our Labrador, who would have to step up his turkey eating skills in the coming days) for his walk whilst I tried to force the ginormous cardboard box that had contained the turkey into the recycling bin.
‘Hi Mary,’ came a voice from behind, making me jump. I turned to see our neighbour, who was supposed to be skiing in Italy, standing on her doorstep with her arm in a plaster and sling.
‘Slipped on the ice in Sainsbury’s car park,’ she said. ‘There was no point the others missing the holiday so I’m here on my own. Hopefully, I can use the microwave one handed.’
‘Don’t do that, Louise. Come to us. Honestly, the kids aren’t here this year and Alan forgot to cancel the turkey order – it’s a bloody twenty-five pounder.’
Louise laughed. ‘If you’re sure.’
Back inside, I’d barely wedged the bird into the oven before Alan reappeared, red-cheeked and smelling faintly of incense.
‘Good news!’ he said. ‘I think.’
‘You think it’s good news?’
‘Well, I’ve invited some people for lunch so we won’t have to eat all the turkey.’
‘How many is some?’
‘Well, Benny and I were walking through the churchyard as the morning service finished and Rev Andrews was supposed to be doing a Christmas lunch for a few parishioners in the church hall but the oven’s gone kaput. So, what else could I do but invite them here?’
‘Yes, but how many?’
‘Five. Or maybe six?’
A moment later, my phone pinged with a message from Sarah wishing us a Merry Christmas, even though she was all on her own as her doctor husband had been called into work. I invited her over. At this point, what difference would one more make?
Alan gallantly went to collect her, returning home with Sarah carrying a huge trifle that had slid worryingly to one side in the car, along with Diana from the corner shop and her son.
‘Alan, can you give me a hand in the kitchen, please?’
I stared at him with my eyebrows raised.
‘I saw Diana and Toby on the way home so I stopped to say hello. He was riding his new Christmas bike. He said his dad is with his new family and they’re having pasta for lunch because his mum was too sad to cook. What could I do?’
‘You know what? It’s absolutely fine,’ I said. And I meant it. ‘You’re a kind man, Alan Brown. If we had some mistletoe, you might even have got lucky.’
By half one, the table – extended, creaking, and with a camping table at one end – was surrounded by people who had absolutely not been part of the plan. Louise with her sling propped up on a cushion; five church regulars and Rev Andrews; Sarah texting her husband to see what time he could join us; Diana trying to stop Toby from feeding Benny pigs-in-blankets; and us, slightly flustered but happy hosts.
It was loud. It was chaotic. Toby spilled gravy on the carpet, Mrs Evermore from the church was halfway down a bottle of Baileys and Rev Amdrews gave an impromptu speech about community spirit. And somewhere between getting extra crackers from the emergency stash and making more brandy butter, I realised that this cobbled together, slightly disastrous Christmas was just perfect.
Half-way through lunch, the doorbell rang. I opened the door to find George, Miranda and three grandchildren on the doorstep. ‘Mum! I’ve been texting and calling you all day! Miranda’s mum and dad had a huge row and we couldn’t stay any longer. Are the beds made up?’
By evening, people were leaving with foil parcels of leftovers, Benny was sleeping off his gravy bender, and the house, once so quiet, buzzed with the warm echo of unexpected company. A Christmas for two had become a feast simply because we’d forgotten to cancel a turkey.
BARBED WORDS 