Jenny Downham Before I Die

Twenty-six

Dad sweeps a feather duster across the coffee table, over the mantelpiece and then across all four window ledges. He opens the curtains wider and switches on both lamps. It’s as if he’s trying to warn the dark away.

Mum, sitting next to me on the sofa, has a face shocked with the familiar. ‘I’d forgotten,’ she says.

‘What?’

‘The way you get in such a panic.’

He glares at her suspiciously. ‘Is that an insult?’

She takes the duster from him and hands him the glass of sherry she’s been swigging and re-filling since breakfast. ‘Here,’ she says. ‘You’ve got some catching up to do.’

I think she woke up drunk. She certainly woke up in Dad’s bed with him. Cal dragged me along the landing to look.

‘Number seven,’ I told him.

‘What?’

‘On my list. I was going to travel the world, but I swapped it for getting Mum and Dad back together.’

He grinned at me, as if it was all my doing, when actually they did it all by themselves. We opened our stockings and presents on their bedroom floor while they gazed sleepily down on us. It was like being in a time warp.

Dad goes over to the dining table now and shuffles forks and napkins about. He’s decorated the table with crackers and little snowmen made of cotton wool. He’s folded serviettes into origami lilies.

‘I told them one o’clock,’ he says.

Cal groans from behind his Beano annual. ‘I don’t know why you told them anything. They’re weird.’

‘Shush,’ Mum tells him. ‘Christmas spirit!’

‘Christmas stupid,’ he mumbles, and he rolls over on the carpet and stares mournfully up at her. ‘I wish it was just us.’

Mum nudges him with her shoe, but he won’t smile. She waves the feather duster at him. ‘Want some of this?’

‘Just try it!’ He leaps up, laughing, and dashes across the room to Dad. Mum races after him, but Dad protects him by standing in her way and batting her off with fake karate chops.

‘You’re going to knock something over,’ I tell them, but nobody listens. Instead, Mum shoves the feather duster between Dad’s legs and jiggles it about. He grabs it from her and sticks it down her blouse, then chases her round the table.

It’s odd how irritating I find it. I wanted them to get back together, but this isn’t quite what I meant. I thought they’d be deeper than this.

They’re making so much noise we miss the doorbell. There’s a sudden rap on the window.

‘Oops,’ Mum says. ‘Our guests are here!’ She looks giddy as she skips off to open the door. Dad adjusts his trousers. He’s still smiling as he and Cal follow her out to the hallway.

I stay just where I am on the sofa. I cross my legs. I uncross them. I pick up the TV guide and casually flip through the pages.

‘Look who’s here,’ Mum says as she steers Adam into the lounge. He’s wearing a shirt with buttons, and chinos instead of jeans. He’s combed his hair.

‘Happy Christmas,’ he says.

‘You too.’

‘I got you a card.’

Mum winks at me. ‘I’ll leave you two alone then.’

Which isn’t exactly subtle.

Adam sits on the arm of the chair opposite and watches me open the card. It has a cartoon reindeer on the front with holly wrapped around its antlers. Inside, he’s written, Have a good one! There are no kisses.