Butter a 23x23 cm (9x9in) dish.
Combine evaporated milk, sugar and butter in a large saucepan over medium heat; boil. Stir in rhubarb mixture and lemon juice. Heat, stirring constantly, to between 235 and 240ºC (455 and 464ºF), or until a small amount of the mixture dropped into cold water forms a soft ball that flattens when removed from the water and placed on a flat surface.
Remove from heat and quickly spread in prepared dish. Allow to cool before cutting and serving.
7
‘Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad,’ said the boys in turn until Marc looked up from his laptop.
‘You only have to say my name once,’ he reminded them.
‘Not true, that took five “Dads” for you to look up,’ Seth answered.
‘The record is twelve,’ said Ethan.
‘Twelve? That’s not true,’ Marc replied, insulted at the insinuation from the boys.
Marc tried to remember when that might have been but he knew he didn’t always show up for his kids and he knew what that felt like. He closed his laptop and put it beside him.
‘It is so true – I have video evidence,’ Ethan said. ‘I can get it down from the cloud and play it on the TV if you want?’
‘No thanks,’ said Marc feeling exposed. ‘You have my attention, so what would you like to say.’
Seth lay on the floor of the large sitting room, staring into the fire that Peggy had laid and lit for them.
‘We want to go and get a Christmas tree. A real one, not a plastic silver one, a real one, like inElf.’
Marc didn’t know what the one inElfwas like but he assumed it was the gold standard for trees.
Why hadn’t he bought a tree yet? Why was he being such a Scrooge? When Christa had asked him if he wouldn’t mind getting some decorations he had been so rude to her. God he needed to stop being such a moody bastard. He had come to Pudding Hal to give the boys a proper English Christmas and he was fighting it every step of the way. Christa was right in her assessment that he didn’t like being told what to do but it was more than that: he didn’t want a tree because of his memories of Christmas as a child. He didn’t want to look at a plastic tree with a star perched drunkenly on top while his drunk parents created a war below.
What would happen if he gave the boys the Christmas he never had?
Their Christmases in California had been low-key and usually run by his wife who knew his aversion to the holiday. The boys received presents but sometimes they went to St Barth’s or Maui and spent the day on the beach.
But what if he gave them the memory of the tree and the cooking, and the present buying? What would happen? His parents wouldn’t come back and ruin it. He wouldn’t have to carry the burden of caring for his siblings and trying to get enough food for them for the day, telling them Christmas was bullshit because no one really lived like you saw in the movies or the TV shows.
He was holding the power to heal himself in his hands and he was ruining everything for the boys.
He remembered the yelling and the police coming and his dad being dragged away to spend Christmas night in the cells. The turkey on the kitchen floor, next to the foil container, the grease mark against the wall from where his dad had thrown it mid screaming match with his mom. He thought Thanksgiving had been bad with his mom locking his dad outside for spending the rent at Caesar’s Palace but Christmas really outdid itself for family toxicity. After that his mom told him that Christmas was a piece of shit holiday and there was nothing to be thankful for at Thanksgiving and they wouldn’t have Christmas again as long as she lived. The memory of the disappointment took his breath away. Why was he putting his own pain onto his children?
‘We can get a tree,’ he said, feeling his eyes sting, and he blinked fiercely to stop the emotion. Why was Christmas so heavy with love and pain for so many? He knew he wasn’t the only one. He saw it when Christa spoke of her father and her Christmases.
‘Can we go into the city and get one?’ Seth was sitting up now. ‘Now?’
‘If you want.’ He had planned to do more work this afternoon but he could at least get a tree. That wouldn’t hurt would it?
‘Okay, get dressed. We’ll head into York and get a tree.’
The boys yelled and cheered and ran upstairs.
He sighed and looked at his laptop, which he was tempted to reopen, but if he did then he would lose the momentum to go.
Be a better father, he heard himself say to his own father when he was younger. Maybe he should take his own advice for once.
*
The tree was only the start of the Christmas project at Pudding Hall. They needed a tree holder and then decorations – which the boys bought far too many of – but he liked their selection. Toy soldiers and little angels and sprigs of holly tied to red ribbons and more.
