I watched, my stomach in knots, as Mum shuffled across the room, clinging onto my dad and sister. A few years ago, after struggling with severe back pain, Mum had been diagnosed with degenerative disc disease or DDD. Not actually a disease, despite the name, DDD was a condition where the discs between the vertebrae deteriorated over time, affecting a person’s movement. Mum and Dad used to trek miles across the fells and I knew she’d stopped doing that the summer before last, but I had no idea her mobility had deteriorated to the point where she needed assistance from two people to cross a room. Why had nobody said anything? Another stab of guilt. Why hadn’t I asked? Or, better still, why hadn’t I visited more often to see for myself?
As the guests filtered in and were welcomed by my parents and Georgia at the door, I felt somewhat superfluous. They hadn’t asked me to join them and it didn’t feel right to include myself in the welcoming committee without an invitation. No way could I smile and laugh and give the impression that I was an important part of Mum’s special day when I didn’t feel as though I was. Their welcome hadn’t been overly warm, although, to be fair to them, there hadn’t been much time and they had been distracted. I kicked myself once more for not having the foresight to accept Georgia’s invitation to stay at hers last night.
I glanced around the room at the rapidly filling tables. They were rectangular, each set up with between six and ten chairs. There hadn’t been a seating plan outside so presumably guests would park themselves at a table appropriate to their group size and mingle after the buffet. The only reserved table was the large one where Mum had been sitting. I counted the chairs – nine plus a highchair, which had to be for Astrid. Mum and Dad plus Georgia’s family made eight adults so the ninth chair was either for me or Auntie Sue. If I was meant to be sitting with my parents, surely they’d have said something, although when would they have had the time with me turning up at the eleventh hour?
The last time I’d felt this uncomfortably conspicuous was when I was aged eight and in the school Christmas nativity dressed as a snowman because there would, of course, have been heavy snow in the Middle East at the birth of Christ. I managed to trip over my own feet, face plant the manger, send the baby Jesus flying into the audience where it clobbered Toby Parkin’s grandma on the head and broke her glasses. All the while I lay beached centre stage because my snowman costume was so round and padded that I couldn’t get up. And every single moment was caught on camera and, even worse, on camcorder to be trotted out at every possible humiliation opportunity.
There were no dark corners in the conservatory for me to retreat into and the only escape routes were a fire exit on the far side, which would activate an alarm, or pushing through all the guests filing in. So I was stuck there, hovering awkwardly between tables, smiling and sayinghelloin between nibbling on a piece of loose skin round one of my fingernails and making it bleed.
‘They haven’t told you where to sit, have they?’
I turned at his gentle voice and smiled gratefully at my nephew Regan and his boyfriend Clarke.
‘Is it that obvious?’ I asked Regan as I hugged him.
‘Gotta say, the helpless finger-chewing was a bit of a red flag.’
I glanced down woefully at my sore finger and tutted to myself before giving Clarke a hug, so grateful that they’d come to my rescue. I adored the pair of them. Although they were both country boys at heart, they enjoyed the occasional burst of city nightlife. Manchester’s Canal Street was their favourite destination but Newcastle’s Gay Village, also known as the Pink Triangle, came a close second. They always invited me to join them on a night out, which was sweet, but I usually politely declined, happier providing a bed for the night and a hearty breakfast in the morning. I’d joined them a few times to celebrate a birthday or other special occasion and it had been lovely but, like Mum, I just wasn’t a late-night person. It seemed to take me a week to get over it, even if I wasn’t drinking. I much preferred to be up with the lark and tucked up in bed by ten.
‘You’re sitting with us on Grandma’s table,’ Regan said.
‘What about Auntie Sue?’
‘She’s with the other rellies.’
Mum was Auntie Sue’s only remaining immediate family member but the pair of them had several cousins, most of whom were here today, so it made sense that Auntie Sue would join them.
Regan and Clarke led me to the reserved table.
‘Anywhere in particular I should sit?’ I asked, not wanting to make a faux pas by sitting in the wrong place.
‘Grandma’ll be in the centre facing her guests,’ Regan said, ‘and Granddad’ll be next to her. Unless you want to feed Astrid, I’d suggest the opposite end to the highchair with us.’
‘Facing the guests or back to them?’ Clarke asked me.
‘Definitely my back to them. I know they’ll be talking about me but I’d rather not see it.’
‘What they’ll be talking about is how fabulous those boots are,’ Clarke said, glancing down at my high-heeled purple ankle boots. ‘They’re divine. New purchase?’
‘Especially for today.’
‘Loving the accessories too.’
My hand immediately went to the matching purple pendant hanging over my charcoal-grey wool dress. I used to wear bright colours all the time but, when the colour unexpectedly left my world seven years ago, it left my wardrobe too. Now everything I wore was muted with only accent colours in my footwear and/or a piece of jewellery. Would colour ever fully return to my life?
Keira and Johnnie came over and Johnnie settled Astrid into the highchair while Keira retrieved some toys and a juice bottle from an enormous changing bag. I glanced round the room while they were getting themselves settled. The decorations were peach, silver and cream and Mum was wearing the same colours. I wondered if she’d chosen her outfit then matched the decorations to it or whether it had been the other way round. I probably should have known. It was easy to rule myself out of organising things because I didn’t live locally, but I could have asked questions. I could have been part of this.
Mark appeared shortly after and gave me a hug as he sat down beside me and finally Mum, Dad and Georgia joined us. There were bottles of red, white and rosé wine on the table, pitchers of water and a jug of fresh orange. I reached for the latter and filled my glass. I’d accepted Georgia’s invitation to stay at hers tonight and was meant to be leaving my car here overnight so I could have a drink but, with a strong flight urge kicking in, I wanted to keep my options open. I might drive back to Newcastle tonight instead.
Once everyone was settled, Dad tapped his knife against his glass, hushing the guests as he rose to his feet. I expected a quick welcome and a happy birthday toast to Mum, but it was a proper speech. He shared that they’d met at work but it had taken him a whopping eighteen months to pluck up the courage to ask her out and how grateful he was that his dithering hadn’t lost her. He talked about how happy Mum made him and how proud he was to be by her side celebrating her eightieth birthday. Dad wasn’t one for public speaking or declarations of feelings and he had me tearing up. It was funny how I just thought of them as my parents rather than a couple still deeply in love after sixty years together.
When he finished, Mum rose and spoke about how wonderful Dad was and how grateful she was for the beautiful family they’d raised.
‘Doesn’t the room look gorgeous?’ she said, sweeping her gaze from left to right. ‘This is all thanks to my eldest daughter, Georgia.’ She looked down affectionately at my sister seated beside her. ‘She booked the venue, organised the invitations, sorted out the decorations and the cake and even took me shopping for my outfit so I have a thank you gift for you, my angel.’
Dad produced a stunning bouquet of flowers and Georgia hugged my parents and thanked them for the gift before sitting back down, her cheeks glowing. It was then back to Dad who raised a toast to Mum, instigated a chorus of ‘Happy Birthday to You’, and declared the buffet open in the function room next door.
I smiled, lifted my glass and sang along with everyone else but it was a struggle to get the words out over the lump in my throat. It was right that Mum had acknowledged Georgia for organising her party. I didn’t expect or deserve a mention because I’d done nothing, but it hurt that she hadn’t mentioned me by name at any point during her speech. When she’d talked about herbeautiful family, she’d specifically name-checked Georgia and Mark. She’d named her grandchildren and their partners and her great-grandchild. She mentionedmy beloved sister Susanna, blowing a kiss to Auntie Sue, and named their cousins. Yet she hadn’t mentioned me. I hoped it was an oversight rather than a deliberate slight. It could be that she’d thought the blanket term ofmy beautiful familywas enough to cover us all, but why use that and then name every single family member present except for me? Even Arlo was mentioned and we wouldn’t get to meet him until March.
