Prologue
Tilbury, London. Christmas Eve 1969
The glass bauble on the tree catches my attention first. It always begins like this. I know exactly where I am, the year, the day. I’m alone in the parlour. I recognise it instantly as the house where we all lived, where we had our last Christmas. The rain is lashing against the window, so loud I can hear it through the drawn curtains. The fire is roaring in the grate and the heat from the flames warms my legs. I’m wearing brown bell-bottoms and a stripy skinny polo from C&A. Mum bought them for me as a treat.
To my right, greetings cards line the mantel and the clock in the centre shows 5pm. To the left, underneath the window and in front of our black-and-white telly, Dad’s newspaper is on one arm of his chair, an ashtray on the other, waiting for him to get home from work.Blue Peterhas just finished and behind me I can hear Mum humming along to a tune on the radio.
I go over to take a closer look at the bauble and get so near that I can smell the pine oil that leaks from the needles. This is the ridiculous part because we never had a real tree. Ours was artificial, from Woolworths, about two feet high and stood on the sideboard inside an old biscuit tin wrapped in last year’s Christmas paper. My senses are always heightened, sucking in the atmosphere, soaking in the memories, grasping on to every single thing I see, hear and feel. I am intoxicated by the pungent scent of a pine forest and mesmerised by the most beautiful bauble which is hung on a red velvet ribbon. A perfectly formed bow frames the glass that is so clear and polished that I can see right inside and watch the scene as it plays out.
A child is seated at the kitchen table, that’s me. My mother, Sylvia, with her blonde beehive and candy-pink lipstick is opposite. She’s beautiful, like the lady on the Fairy Liquid advert who doesn’t have to wear gloves when she washes the dishes. Mum is happy, I can tell. She’s peeling vegetables, a cigarette burns in the ashtray and every now and then she takes a drag and nods to another woman, older, who is sitting at the end of the table and chatters in between sips of sherry. That’s Aunty Beryl from next door. Not my real aunty but I call her that.
I know exactly what happens next. When my nose touches the glass it breaks the barrier, like when you pop a bubble. I leaveBlue Peterbehind as I’m sucked inside the bauble, through a shimmering, undulating, wibbly-wobbly time warp. Now, instead of looking in I am part of the scene, seated at the table, in front of humming Mum, my legs dangling from the chair.
From this moment on I have to focus, concentrate, hold on tight to the memories like my life depends on it because in a way, it does.
I am six. I know this because pinned to the larder door is one of my birthday cards from November. It’s in the shape of a six. Me and Mum love it because it has all the colours of the rainbow and she says it brings the sunshine into the room. And inside, written along the curves is my dad’s writing. I know exactly what it says. I read the words over and over on my birthday. I still know them now. They remind me of the sea, and the sea reminds me of my dad.
To Daddy’s little darling, Daddy’s little girl, Daddy’s little sweetheart, Daddy’s little pearl.
The clock on the kitchen wall says 6.45. Time has moved on. There is a lovely aroma in the room, mince pies, pastry and a hint of orange. I look down and there they are. The tangerine segments lined along the table and the curls of peel on top of the newspaper that’s already covered in carrot scrapings and sprout leaves. I always put the segments in a row and eat them one by one so I can savour the tangy sweetness of the fruit. They are a special treat and Mum says we have to make them last like the dates and nuts in the fancy basket we bought from the market.
A sound distracts me from what Aunty Beryl is saying. One of her big, long stories about the vicar’s wife and her daft hat. Music is playing in the parlour and I hear a cough.
Dad.He’s home and this simple realisation, that my wonderful most perfect dad is in the house fills me with such immense joy. It’s like it spreads through me, so powerful is my love for him that I could cry. He’s playing one of his records, Bizet. Mum isn’t keen and prefers the radio but Dad adores it. That’s why I’m called Carmen.
My tummy tickles with excitement reminding me that it’s almost here. The big day. The one me and Mum have been talking about for weeks. Our big magnificent feast. We have a chicken. It’s under a tea towel on the draining board and the veg on the table is from Dad’s allotment. There are so many treats, too. Like a tin of ham and a box of shortbread. Mum has saved her Co-op stamps all year and we even have a tin of Quality Street. I can’t even think about Father Christmas and what he might bring but I hope it’s a Tiny Tears.
All I have to do is close my eyes and go to sleep and it will be Christmas morning, the Christmas it should have been before the knock on the door that ruins everything. No, don’t think that, but it’s too late.
I glance again at the kitchen clock and know what I’ve done. I have broken the spell.
It’s almost time for bed. 6.56pm. But tonight there won’t be any sleep and Christmas mornings will never be the same again. The second I acknowledge this the edges of the scene start to close in, darkening, casting shadows into the corner of the room, across my mum’s face. Beryl’s voice slowly begins to fade like someone is turning the radio dial, drowning her out.
And here it comes.
BANG BANG BANG. So loud on the front door that it makes my ears hurt and my brain rattle inside my head and my heart. I’m sure it stops for a second or two while I hold my breath, my chest tight, spine rigid, eyes wide.
Don’t open the door. Don’t open the door and it’ll be okay.I shout the words but nobody hears me even though my neck strains with the exertion of trying to be heard and in my clenched hand, a segment of tangerine squashes against my skin. The scent from the juice makes my nostrils tickle and my eyes start to sting. Tears prick as I watch my dad dart from the parlour and rush to open the door and when he does, a storm enters the house and blows hate right up the hallway, chilling my ankles, swooshing upwards to my wildly beating heart.
From my chair I can’t see the woman, just my dad’s jet-black hair, neatly cut, curls greased back in a wave, the cap collar of his white shirt, sleeves rolled up, black braces crossing his back. He is preventing whoever is at the door from coming any further.
‘Where’s your wife, Geordie? Where’s Sylvia? Out of my way.’
My dad jolts, takes a step backwards but holds firm.
‘I want to speak to her right now. Or shall I stay out here and tell the whole street what your wife needs to know? You want that, do you?’
‘Martha, please, stop this. My daughter is here. It’s Christmas Eve, for God’s sake.’
‘I don’t care what day it is, and don’t you try to wriggle your way out of this, Geordie Wilson. You think you can go around ruining my life while you play happy families?’
I look across the table at my mum and want to ask who Martha is but somehow I know not to. Mum’s eyes are wide, round green circles outlined in black kohl with wings at the corner, set against a very pale face. She doesn’t speak but stands quickly and pushes back her chair before almost running down the hall, her body blocking my view of Dad and whoever is making such a racket.
Aunty Beryl moves next and all I can see is her big bum wedged between the door frame before she closes the kitchen door, creating a barrier between me and my parents. This is when I panic because I want to be with them so badly, even amidst the shouting. I need to hold on to the last few hours, to them. To the three of us.
Then the shouting begins again and the room darkens further, like someone dimmed the lights and I remind myself to listen carefully because there might be a clue, one I’ve missed before.
‘What’s going on…?’
