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‘Umm, Merry Christmas, Maggie’s parents…’ Leo says, putting a hand to the air. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’
‘Merry Christmas…’ Mum says. ‘You’re the Leo she works with,’ she says pointing at him.
‘He is…’ I answer. ‘Mum, where’s Dad? Is he angry?’
‘God no, he’s just disappeared to put on some trousers. He didn’t know we were expecting company on the call,’ she says, laughing. Dad returns into shot. They both look at Leo in amazement. ‘So are you two…’
I put my hand in Leo’s. ‘Possibly.’
Dad can hardly contain his smile but leans into the screen to study him in more detail.
‘Well, I never. Pleased to make your acquaintance, young man.’
‘Likewise, Mr Field.’
‘Oh, please. My name’s Baz. Is that an accent I hear?’ he asks him.
‘I’m from the Lakes, Baz.’
Dad nods his head. ‘So here’s an important question then? Who do you support?’
I hold my breath. I don’t even know this myself. Does he even watch football? This is critical. ‘For my sins, it’s Leeds,’ Leo says.
Oh dear. My dad pauses for a moment, a serious look on his face. My mum is barely able to contain her giggles. ‘Well then, you better get with my daughter because you need all the help you can get in life.’
And with that, there is laughter from three of my favourite people in the entire world. Don’t tell Leo, but that might be all I need this Christmas.
TWENTY-NINE
‘Come on, lovely…Get that down you!’ I’ve met many characters on my journey so far but none as vibrant as Uncle Rich, who has spent most of the day magically appearing in front of me with glasses of alcohol – everything from Buck’s Fizz (10am) to Prosecco (12pm) and now it’s a glass of Bailey’s (2 pm) to ‘wash down the pudding.’ He stands there now in the middle of the living room resplendent in a green Christmas football jumper that makes a very lewd reference to someone jingling his balls. From somewhere, The Pogues’ ‘Fairytale of New York’suddenly filters into the room and Uncle Rich starts swaying around the coffee table, a glass of Bourbon in his hand, mouthing all the words. ‘Come here, Leo,’ he says putting his hand around his nephew’s shoulders. ‘Sing with your uncle…’
Leo obliges and I am very surprised to hear him recite all the words. But when the pipes and violins kick in, Uncle Rich takes it up a notch, splitting from his nephew and engaging in a dance that’s half-jig half-Irish, as his wife, Lisa, sits there taking videos on her phone but also rolling her eyes. ‘No high kicks, love. Remember what happened at the pub last time.’
‘What happened at the pub?’ Leo asks.
‘Split the trousers. Were a bit indecent so the landlord had to gaffer tape him up at the crotch,’ Lisa tells us.
Leo chuckles, snorting at the same time. It’s been nothing short of a feast and I am filled to the brim with turkey, stuffing, pigs in blankets and all our excellently peeled vegetables. And it was how I imagined Christmas would look as a massive family. It was three tables stuck together in a room next to the kitchen, one of which was Uncle Rich’s card table and it was a glorious mismatch of crockery and plates, everyone passing bowls around, pulling crackers and trading jokes, a purple paper hat sitting regally on Nana’s curls and no one being able to hear the music over all the noise and banter.
‘He’s got more stuffing balls than me…’
‘What did you marinade this ham in?’
‘I’m more partial to Nigella these days…’
‘Five potatoes. You’re only allowed five potatoes…’
‘Why did the camel leave the Christmas party early? He got the hump…’
And now comes the part of the day when we’re all slightly paralytic with fullness, staring at each other, starting to wish we had worn something with an elasticated waist. I look down at my stomach through my green wrap dress and tights, realising my bloat makes me look slightly pregnant. I put a hand to my stomach as Claire comes to sit down next to me.
‘Don’t. I swear I wasn’t this big when I carried my youngest and he were a nine-pound baby,’ she moans, rubbing her belly and trying to keep down a burp. ‘So how was your first Golding family Christmas? Have we scared you off?’ she asks, looking over at Uncle Rich, now listening to Chris Rea and pretending he’s actually driving home for Christmas.
‘On the contrary. It’s been lovely. It’s how I always imagined Christmas should be…’
‘Organised chaos?’ she jokes. ‘You wait till you get to the evening segment when we play charades. Last year, Dad got soangry he threw a box of After Mints into the fire. It’s why it still smells minty in here.’
I laugh and she studies my face again, as if she’s still trying to work me out. ‘Thumb’s feeling much better too,’ I tell her, flexing it.
