Fern Britton Summer Collection: New Beginnings, Hidden Treasures, The Holiday Home, The Stolen Weekend. Fern Britton
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in the cool of the newly repaired conservatory so the space could be filled with everything they’d prepared. There, done.
At last, they all dispersed to wrap the remainder of their presents, Libby and Fred giggling and whispering together. Christie went to her study to find the kitten curled up asleep on her favourite cardigan. She’d kept the radio on to drown the sound of any miaowing that might spoil the surprise, but the little thing seemed blissfully content, his black and grey tiger-stripes rising and falling with his rhythmic breathing. Christie sat in the old leather armchair that had once belonged to her father, heaving a sigh of satisfaction. She half tucked the offending page of the News down the side of the cushion, wishing she could forget its contents while telling herself to dismiss them as just a hiccup in proceedings. Maybe, just maybe, this evening was going to be all right after all.
Half an hour later, she was woken by Mel tapping on the door.
‘Chris! Can I come in?’ She twisted round the door, careful that the kitten shouldn’t escape, holding a blue and grey silk head square. ‘Do you think Mum will like this?’ She flicked it in half, put it over her head and tied it under her chin.
‘I shouldn’t think so for a moment.’ Christie yawned, stretching her arms above her head. ‘But it is lovely. Beautiful colours. What about this?’ She pointed towards a pot containing a few apparently moribund stems.
Mel pulled out the label and read aloud, ‘“Sweet Dream, a small apricot-coloured rose bush, double bloomed and lightly scented, perfect for the patio”.’ A pause, then: ‘Christine! It’s very pretty,’ she mimicked, snorting with laughter, ‘but I’ve decided that all the flowers on the patio this year are going to be white. Ted might like it, though.’
‘You’re joking?’ Christie sat up. ‘She hasn’t?’
‘No, not really. But I wouldn’t put it past her.’ She picked up a pencil and began waving it in front of the kitten, which stretched out a lazy paw to trap it. ‘Libby’s so going to love you, though.’
Every year, Christie and Mel went through the same ritual of trying to second-guess their mother but, however hard they tried, they never got her quite the present she wanted. Brooches were the wrong shape, gloves not the right colour, clothes inevitably the wrong size, Champagne too extravagant, chocolates too fattening, and candles smelt too strong, too sweet, too flowery. They both knew that the scarf would somehow fail to meet her expectations, as would the rose Christie had once been so sure was the perfect gift.
They heard Fred shout from downstairs. Carefully shutting the study door behind them, they barged each other out of the way, like schoolgirls, racing along the corridor and down the stairs to find him in the sitting room, trying to attach an old rugby sock of Nick’s to the mantelpiece with Sellotape. ‘Every time I put it up, it just falls off,’ he complained.
‘I’ve got a better idea.’ Mel took the sock and hung it over the fifties wooden clothes horse that Libby had pulled out of the loft to hang her Christmas cards on. ‘That way, Father Christmas can’t miss it. Suppose he comes down the chimney and forgets to look up. He might not see it on there.’
‘S’pose not.’ Fred looked doubtful.
After supper they sat together watching Home Alone (yet again). Fred lay sprawled across Christie’s lap, helpless with laughter, while Libby sat by Mel’s feet, casting the odd withering glance at him and smiling when she thought no one was watching. But Christie was. They were surrounded by their usual Christmas decorations: the over-decorated tree in the window; cards pegged unevenly to red ribbons pinned across the two alcoves on either side of the fireplace; pieces of holly just beginning to dry out and curl over the picture frames; paper chains made by Maureen and the kids criss-crossing the ceiling in two vast swags, held up in the centre by a rainbow-coloured tissue-paper ball. On top of the bookcase stood a green fabric wind-up Christmas tree that sported pink high-heeled button boots and wriggled and sang ‘Santa Baby’ on demand. Abandon taste, all ye who enter here, thought Christie wryly. But she wouldn’t have had it any other way. This was what family life should be: togetherness and time-honoured pleasures. If only she could maintain the status quo through the next ten years. She caught Fred’s hand sneaking towards the Christmas tin of Celebrations. ‘Enough, Freddie. You’ll be sick.’
At last the film was over, the brandy, carrot and mince pie left out for Father Christmas and Rudolph, an over-excited Fred had been packed off to bed and Libby, playing it cool this year, had followed soon after. Mel and Christie quietly filled Fred’s sock and Libby’s fishnet stocking, then made a pile of presents under the tree before turning the lights out, checking the kitten for the last time, then kissing one another good night.
*
A grey dawn was stealing through the gap in her curtains when Christie was suddenly woken by the icy touch of Fred’s feet on her leg.
‘Mum!’ he hissed, his mouth over her ear. ‘Can I go downstairs?’
She groaned, rolled towards him and reached out an arm for him to snuggle under. ‘Stay here and let’s wait for Libby.’
With a sigh of disappointment, he curled into her but for the next half-hour wriggled and fidgeted so much that by the time Libby came in Christie was well and truly awake. As dictated by family tradition, the kids fetched their stockings, and when the bed was buried under a mound of ripped wrapping paper and presents, it was time to get up.
They found Mel already in the kitchen making coffee. Christie pulled out a chair, wishing she’d had another hour’s sleep. ‘Oh, Libs, I’ve just remembered. I think I left the radio on in my study last night. You wouldn’t switch it off for me?’ She kissed the top of her daughter’s head. ‘I’m dying for this coffee.’
‘If I must.’ They heard her tramping upstairs and, as her footsteps sounded down the corridor, they tiptoed after her, shushing a puzzled Fred. The study door clicked open, and then they heard Libby’s huge gasp. ‘Mum!’
Christie took the remainder of the stairs two at a time to find Libby walking towards her, cradling the kitten, her face alight with joy and disbelief. ‘Is he really for me?’
‘He really is.’ Christie put her arm around her shoulders. ‘Now all you have to do is think of a name – oh, and bring the litter tray down with you.’
‘What about me?’ piped up Fred, engulfed by a sense of unfairness.
‘Don’t worry, Fred. It’s your turn now.’ She took him by the hand leaving Libby to debate names with Mel. From under the tree she pulled out a box and watched the excitement in his face fade. He picked at the paper, his eye on the other presents as if hoping another pet was going to materialise from one of them. Then his eyes widened and he gave Christie a grin that almost split his face in half.
‘A Wii! That’s wicked, Mum. Can I phone Olly and tell him now?’
‘No, he can see it later. Let’s have some breakfast, then Mel can help you set it up while I get lunch on the go so we’re ready when everyone arrives.’
‘Gee, thanks, sis.’ Mel laughed.
The rest of the morning sped by, Fred and Libby occupied with their presents while she laid the table and got on with lunch, and Mel zipped back and forth between the three of them. As Christie prepared the meal, she couldn’t stop her thoughts circling round as she anticipated everyone’s arrival. She was still annoyed with herself for feeling jealous over Mel and Richard’s new friendship and for being miffed that Mel hadn’t said anything even though she hadn’t exactly been upfront herself. Still disheartened over his reaction to her kiss, she reassured herself again that they could at least be good friends if nothing else.
‘Anyone in?’ The sound of her mother’s voice brought her back to the here and now. Christie glanced up at the old station clock at the far end of the kitchen. One thirty already. The smell of the roasting turkey, sausages and bacon, potatoes and parsnips filled the kitchen. On the Aga, the pans of water were coming to the boil, steaming up the window over the sink. At the other end of the room,