Decorations

Just as he’d done for the last four years, on the first Saturday of December, Michael arrived at her door with a thick Nordmann fir wedged in the back of his Skoda. Breda, who’d been expecting him despite his customary lack of communication, shuffled out into her porch in slippers and housecoat, arms folded across her hefty chest, eyes rolling as she watched him wrestle with the tree. Watched him crush winter posies in her herbaceous border, knock over stone animals and carve muddy tracks in her pebbled drive.

In other words, make one of his usual entrances.

Noisy, disruptive and messy, just like his exits.

He flashed that familiar grin that seemed to invite a ‘well done’ when he drew up to her disapproving glare, the monstrous tree he was hauling bigger than the one he’d brought last year, even though she’d said she wanted smaller.

“Jesus, Michael, do you understand the concept of proportion?”

Breda tutted as she slid the glass door open, with enough force to communicate disdain.

“Ah. Sorry, love. It looked feckin’ tiny in the yard.”

“Tiny my arse, do you think I live in a mansion? You know how small the sitting room is. Oh, just bring it in but be careful! And wipe your shoes! They’re covered in muck, you’ll ruin the carpet!”

Michael chuckled like her words were as impactful as snow but he obeyed nevertheless and scraped his boots on the doormat, knowing better than to provoke Breda’s ire. He was in no position to do that, hadn’t been for a long time.

She ignored his attempts at small talk as he stumbled through the hall, cutting off his questions about her health, back, knees, finances and how she was coping with the cold by barking orders about his guidance of the tree.

“Straighten up, you’ll knock Daddy’s picture off the wall!”

“Watch out, it’s dragging the ornaments off the sideboard!”

“Lower, you’ll pull down the chandelier!”

Eventually, following many sheepish apologies and multiple patient acknowledgements, he made it into the sitting room and leaned the tree against the wall in the appropriate corner, the one she’d already moved an armchair from. The clean scent of pine displaced the stale smell of a room that was mostly kept shut.

“Ah, it’s grand. A good size. You wouldn’t want one of those scraggly ones. Will look lovely when it’s decorated. Always loved the Christmas trees you did.”

“Did you now?” she said, fluffing cushions as a matter of course. “Pity you didn’t love them enough to stay home once in a while, instead of running off with the band.”

He laughed but avoided eye contact, massaging the back of his neck. All he did was laugh things off, then and now. Though the frivolous nature of the laughs had faded with time.

“Well get on with it then, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

She didn’t tell him doing what. Didn’t have to. He knew it was to avoid him. She didn’t want to hear his stories about his family members on his side she didn’t like. The only one she’d liked had been his mother, her mother-in-law since they’d never divorced, but she’d passed away six months earlier at the ripe old age of 98. Her failing health had been one of the motivations behind Michael’s return from London. That and his latest younger floozy giving him the boot.

“Grand so,” he said, as she shuffled out, risking further beration by slapping his hands on his trousers to shake the pine needles they’d collected to the floor, before heading back to the car to get the tree base.

Breda kept busy while he worked, erecting a tree nobody but they were going to see, popping upstairs to retrieve boxes of decorations from the attic, ones he’d stashed there in January when he helped her tidy up after last year’s meaningless Christmas.

Par for the course, it took ages. Lots of clomping around, knocking things over, tripping over his own feet and cursing. Breda turned up the tv, did a sudoku, made a sandwich, tidied the cupboards and swept the floor but remained fixated on every move he made, estimating when he would finish.

“That’s up now, Bre,” he finally called, and her estimation had been almost perfect. The tea had been ready just five minutes.

“About time, thought you were going to be there all day,” she replied, making her way back to the room with a silver tray holding a teapot, two china cups on saucers and a sugar bowl.

“Just because you’re a persistent fucker,” she said, when she saw him staring in amazement. “It’s the least I can do after all your help this year. That looks nice.”

A non-commital nod at the tree, standing proud in its corner, bedecked with the strings of fairy lights and multi-colour baubles he’d taken to applying because she couldn’t manage anymore. And the star at the top that scraped the ceiling.

“But I told you it was too bloody big.”

He laughed, not as nervous as before but still unsure.

“Ah, Bre. Never thought I’d see the day you’d offer me tea again.”

He didn’t wait for an invite, took a seat in an armchair as she lowered the tray to the table, the one that had been there when he left to make a name for himself in music thirty-one years before. “What did I do to deserve this?”

“What I said,” she sighed, placing a hand on the small of her back and grimacing as she straightened back up. “Five years of me treating you like the biggest arsehole to walk the Earth–which you are, by the way–but you keep coming back to cut the grass and get me to my appointments and pick up groceries…and the occassional bottle of wine left in the porch doesn’t go unnoticed. But don’t get too excited. It’s tea, not an invitation to move in.”

“Ah, Jaysus, no. Wouldn’t think that, Bre. Sure I’ve mum’s place now anyway. And we get on better this way, don’t we? We were never the best at living together.”

“Would have been better if you’d prioritised your family over your music and all of those groupies…but we’re not getting into all that. Pour the tea, will you, my arthritis is acting up.”

He did as told while she wandered over to the mahogany tallboy and took an old, battered biscuit tin from atop it. The one piece of Christmas that wasn’t allowed in the attic.

She hugged it close, shut her eyes, dipped her head and muttered something under her breath.

“What’s that?” Michael asked, pausing in his pouring of the sweet-smelling tea.

“A prayer. For the children.”

“Ah,” he said, returning to his task at hand. “Yes. Just a sec, I’ll join you…”

“No need,” she snapped, turning her attention to prying the lid off the box. Trying to. Her hands had prepped the tea just fine a few minutes before but now her fingers had started to seize up again. They’d been doing it more and more lately. Seizing up like the rest of her crippled joints. “Open, you stupid thing.”

“Let me,” said Michael, suddenly beside her, easing the box from her hands. The lid came off with a soft, metallic twang when he tugged one corner. “What’s in here, more decorations?”

“The finishing touches,” Breda said, snatching the tin back as though he might try to steal it. “And don’t call me ‘love’. Just sit down and drink your tea.”

Michael nodded and retreated, still holding the lid. He retook his seat, lifted a cup, took a sip.

“Let me put these on,” Breda said, moving to the tree with her cargo. “Then I’ll join you.”

“They’re nice,” Michael risked, blowing on the contents of his cup before sipping again. “Did you make them? Nice tea. Is it mint?”

“Chamomile,” she replied. “With syrup. And yes, I made them, Michael. Not flesh and blood this time, just stuffing and wool. They’re our children.”

She smiled at the colourful dolls inside the tin, which she hadn’t seen in nearly a year.

“Hello, sweethearts,” she said, a soothing warmth filling her, like she’d been reunited with more than crocheted replicas of her favourite people. “I hope you’ve been keeping warm in there, it’s been bitter cold out lately.”

“Ah, that’s lovely, Bre,” Michael said, setting the box lid aside and relaxing into the cushion-laden chair. “Great idea. So it’s like they’re all here for Christmas.”

“Yes, Michael, that’s the idea.”

Three dolls filled the dented box, each a foot long, soft and plump, made from wool of various colours. Securing the tin between arm and buxom she began to remove them, in the order they’d been made, starting with Robert.

“I know you miss them terribly,” Michael went on and she sighed, trying to shut out his words and concentrate on her ritual task. “I do too. Every day. No parent should outlive their kids. Certainly not all of them.”

Robert, the oldest doll, was badly crocheted and over-stuffed, making the doll version of her eldest son look fat. His head, arms and legs had been sewn on badly and now hung loose, but she’d never been tempted to fix him.

“That one’s definitely, Rob,” Michael said, as she nestled the twenty-year-old, blue-and-white wool figure into the branches towards the top of the tree. “I can tell.”

“Why, because he looks like a nervous wreck? What would you know about him? Robert was an anxious boy, but would you blame him with his father fecking off when he was a lad?”

Michael shifted in his seat and cleared his throat, and Breda cursed herself. This is not how she wanted today to go. But he sat there and took it, like he always did when she made such comments.

What else could he do, deny it?

“Yeah… Ah, I kept in touch with him, Bre. Told him to quit that job. I wanted him to come over to me, get his head straight. I didn’t know the extent of his habit any more than you did but a change of scenery might have helped...”

“Like it helped Maureen?”

Oof. She did it again.

Michael lapsed into silence.

She removed the second doll from the tin, this one crocheted ten years after Robert with much improved skill. Five types of yarn had been used, creating a doll that was as colourful as her daughter’s personality, with lengths of brown wool for hair and a violin made from matchsticks glued to one arm.

“My beautiful girl,” she said, positioning Maureen between blinking lights and silver baubles below and to the left of her brother. “Ready to entertain us with your lovely music.” She was going to add “if those bastards on Westminster Bridge hadn’t taken you from us”, but she didn’t want to dwell on why her daughter was no longer there.

“Beautiful music,” Michael agreed, shifting again uncomfortably and taking a big gulp to drain his cup. Getting ready to make his escape, Breda sensed. As always when things got too real. “She was amazing at Royal Festival Hall. Right at home with the London Philharmonic. I wish you’d been able to see. She was born to be on stage, playing her heart out.”

“Following in her father’s footsteps.”

It was too late. She couldn’t stop herself now. Even if he did try to leave.

“Or just following her father. Trying to impress him.”

Michael put the cup back down onto its saucer with force that surprised even him, making him start.

“Oh dearie me! Getting late, I might make tracks.”

“Wait,” said Breda. “Don’t run off on them again.”

After Maureen came Conor, the last of her children into the world and the last doll out of the tin. Four years ago she’d lost him, shortly after Michael’s return. To look after his mother. To reconnect with his son. To ‘make amends’ for thirty-one years of absence. Conor, so smart, so funny, his larger-than-life persona making him wildly popular on radio, one of the presenters of a popular breakfast show. A lovely girlfriend. A bright future. A forgiving nature that led to him spending more and more time with his prodigal father.

“And my precious boy,” she said, placing him in the needles opposite Maureen. “Dashing and handsome, what a loss to the world. You had to keep him golfing all weekend, didn’t you? Had to let him drive home so late.”

She’d crocheted him in a tuxedo, looking smart, the way he’d been when she last saw him, at the IMRO Radio Awards she’d attended with Michael that Friday night. The one and only time they’d celebrated the success of one of their children together.

“Ah, stop, Breda,” said Michael, the words catching in his throat. She turned and he was slumped in the armchair, pinching his nose, brow creased, eyes shut. “Wasn’t my fault. It was just… It was meant to be… A nice way to celebrate his win. Look, thanks for the tea, love, but…I should go...”

“Not yet,” she insisted again, crossing to the tallboy and reaching behind a framed photo of her and their children. “There’s more.”

“More?”

“You’ve been very helpful these last few years, Michael. Probably guilt and regret but I do appreciate the effort. Too little too late but I won’t let it go unrewarded. I made you too.”

She turned from the wall with two new dolls and held the one in her left hand out for Michael to see.

“What do you think? The bald spot and beard, the potbelly. Even the little guitar. I think I captured you nicely.”

Doll Michael was made from wool that was different shades of grey, like a black and white photo.

“That’s lovely,” said Michael, trying to sit forward then flopping back. “Very nice. So…what does that mean? Do I… Do I get to go on the tree?”

“You do. Why not? Let’s put you here in the middle. No point holding a grudge. They’re your children too, you made them with me. We were the centre of their worlds, Michael. We were supposed to protect them, together, but you left that to me. I did my best. But I needed you. They needed you. So yes you belong on the tree, right in the middle, looking out for us all. What do you think of this one? Does it capture my pain, my frayed edges? Do you like how I’ve made her look worn out?”

She turned to show him the doll that represented herself, all pastel colours and loose threads, frazzled white hair, crooked arms and legs and tiny glasses, but he was fast asleep in the chair, chin resting on his chest, hands open wide in his lap.

“Oh, you’ve drifted off. What a surprise. Well, never mind. I think she’s lovely. I’ll just slide her in here beside you. Look at us now. Like the day we were wed, a happy couple.”

She took a step back, massaging her bony hands, looking at the dolls nestled safely and comfortably amongst the fresh, green needles of the tree, fairy lights blinking around them, illuminating all their smiling faces. The scent of pine filled the room now, mingling with the sweet smell of chamomile and something else.

Finally, when she was happy, she shuffled to the armchair next to Michael’s, settled herself in and scooped up the liquid-filled tea cup with both hands. What it held was cold now, but that didn’t matter. She wasn’t drinking it to warm herself. Nothing did that anymore. With the tree decorated, it was time for her to rest at last with Michael.

And not long after, beneath the gaze of her little family on the tree, she did.