“Yes, thank you. Sorry to put you in such a position. I promise not to start telling you everything that’s wrong with your son.”
“Whatever he’s done, I’m sure he’ll be sorry directly,” said the Major. “I mean, it’s Christmas Eve.”
“It won’t matter, anyway. I won’t be here when he gets back,” she said. “I was just taping up a couple of boxes of my stuff to be sent on later.”
“You’re leaving?” he said.
“I’m driving back to London tonight and flying home to the States tomorrow.”
“But you can’t leave now,” he said. “It’s Christmas.” She smiled at him and he saw that her eyeliner had run. It was probably now all over his handkerchief.
“Funny, isn’t it, how people insist on hanging on through the holidays,” she said. “Can’t have an empty seat at the dinner table—think of the kids. Can’t dump him before New Year’s because you must have someone to kiss at midnight?”
“It’s hard to be alone during Christmas,” he said. “Can’t you stay and work things out?”
“It’s not so hard,” she said and he saw, as a flicker across her face, that there had been other Christmases alone. “There will always be a fabulous party to go to and fabulous important people to mingle with.”
“I thought you were—fond of each other,” he said, choosing to tread lightly over any mention of love or marriage.
“We are.” She looked around her, not at the stylish furnishings but at the heavy beams and the smooth floor and the old slats of the kitchen door. “I just forgot what we started out to do, and I got kinda carried away with the thought of this place.” She turned away again and her voice trembled. “You have no idea, Major, how hard it is to keep up with the world sometimes—just to keep up with ourselves. I guess I let myself dream I could get out for a while.” She wiped her eyes again and stood up and smoothed her sweater. “A cottage in the country is a dangerous dream, Major. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d better finish my packing.”
“Is there nothing I can do to fix this?” asked the Major. “Can I go and fetch him home? My son is an idiot in many respects, but I know he cares for you and—well, if you let him go, then we have to let you go and that’s three of us made all the lonelier.” He felt as if he were being left behind on the dock while all around him others chose to embark on journeys without him. It felt not like loss but like an injustice that he should always remain behind.
“No, don’t go after him,” she said. “It’s all decided. We both need to get back to doing what we do.” She held out her hand and as he took it, she leaned in to kiss him on both cheeks. Her face was damp and her hands cold. “If I make my connection in New York, I might be able to join our Russian friends in Las Vegas for a few days. I think it’s about time we moved the center of the fashion world to Moscow, don’t you?” She laughed and the Major saw that with a new application of makeup, a fresh suit, and the ministrations of the crew in the first-class cabin she expected to cement over any crack in her heart and move on.
“I envy you your youth,” he said. “I hope you find a way to be happy in the world one day.”
“I hope you find someone to cook your turkey,” she said. “You do know not to rely on Roger, right?”
The Major awoke Christmas morning with a feeling that today was to be the low point of his world, an Antarctic of the spirit. Getting out of bed, he went to the window and leaned his head against the cold glass to look at the dark drizzle over the garden. There were holes in the back field now, and a large digging machine with a tall arm, some kind of core testing drill, was parked against his hedge as if the driver had tried to arrange for its massive rusting bulk some shred of protection. The trees hung their heads under the constant dripping, and mud ran thick in the gaps between paving stones as if the earth were melting. It did not seem like a day to rejoice in a birth that had promised the world a new path to the Lord.
The morning began with the awkward question of how early to telephone Roger. It had to be done soon, yet who among the bravest of men would relish calling a drunkard out of his slumber to remind him, in the agonies of the hangover and the anguish of a lost love, that the turkey has to go in at 200 Celsius, and not to let the giblets boil dry? He was tempted not to call at all, but he did not want to parade Roger’s humiliations before Grace and besides, he wanted his Christmas dinner. Compounding the difficulty was that he had no idea how large a bird Roger and Sandy might have purchased. Hazarding a guess that they would have been intimidated by anything over fifteen pounds, he waited until the last possible moment, eight thirty, to pick up the phone. He had to redial two more times before a hoarse voice answered.
“Hurro,” whispered the ghost of Roger, voice desiccated and distant.
“Roger, have you put the turkey in yet?”
“Hurro,” came the voice again. “Who, who the… what day is it?”
“It’s the fourteenth of January,” said the Major. “I think you’ve overslept.”
“What the…”
“It’s Christmas Day and it’s already past eight thirty,” said the Major. “You must get up and put on the turkey, Roger.”
“I think it’s in the garden,” said Roger. The Major heard a faint retching and held the phone away from his ear in disgust.
“Roger?”
“I think I threw the turkey out the window,” said Roger. “Or maybe I threw it through the window. There’s a big draft in here.”
“So go and fetch it,” said the Major.
“She left me, Dad.” Roger’s voice was now a thin wail. “She wasn’t here when I got home.” The Major heard a sniffling sound from the phone and was annoyed to feel rising in his chest a sense of compassion for his son.
“I know all about it,” said the Major. “Take a hot bath and some aspirin and get into clean clothes. I’ll come and take over.”
He called Grace, just to let her know he would be out for the morning and that he would drive over and pick her up at noon as arranged. He found himself sketching quickly what had happened, mostly in case she would like to withdraw from the festivities.
“I can’t promise what shape dinner will be in,” he said.
“Can I come and help you with dinner, or would that be too embarrassing for your son?” she asked.
“Any embarrassment on his part is entirely self-induced and therefore not to be encouraged,” said the Major who, to tell the truth, was not sure whether he remembered how to make gravy or when to put in the pudding. Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure there was to be a pudding. He was clutched by a sudden horror that Roger and Sandy might have commissioned a buche de Noel to match their hideous tree, or planned to serve something strange, like mango. “But I wouldn’t want to put you out,” he added.
“Major, I am up for the challenge,” she said. “I will confess that I’ve been dressed for hours and I’m sitting about here with my bag and my gloves doing absolutely nothing. Do let me help you in this time of need.”
“I’ll pick you up directly,” said the Major. “We’d better bring our own aprons.”
Can the bleakest of circumstances be pushed aside for a few hours by the redeeming warmth of a fire and the smell of a dinner roasting in the oven? This was the question the Major pondered as he sipped a glass of champagne and stared out the window of Roger’s kitchen at the wilting garden. Behind him, a large saucepan jiggled its lid as the pudding simmered; Grace was straining gravy through a sieve. The turkey, rescued from under the hedge, had proved to be organic, which meant it was expensive and skinny. It was also missing a wing but, well washed and stuffed lightly with brown bread and chestnuts, it was now turning a satisfying caramel color atop a pan of roasting vegetables. Roger was still sleeping; the Major had peeked in and seen him, wet hair sticking up all over and mouth open on the pillow.
“It was lucky you had a spare pudding.” The Major had searched Roger’s cupboards but found only assorted nuts and a large brown bag of biscotti.
“Thank my niece for always sending me a hamper instead of visiting,” said Grace, lifting her glass of champagne in response. She had brought a large tote bag filled with the pick of the hamper and had already spread crackers with smoked oysters, tipped cranberry sauce with spiced orange into a cut-glass dish, and set the Cornish cream to chill on the scullery windowsill. There would be Turkish delight and shortbread for later, and a half bottle of port to aid digestion. The Major had even managed to work out how to use Roger’s stereo system, which had no visible buttons and was controlled from the same remote control as the fireplace. After a few false starts—a
