The Village of the Damned
Abandoned, and happy about it
For the first time in living memory, I am actually looking forward to Christmas. And it's all thanks to my mother (now there's a sentence I never thought I'd have to type). She phoned me at the shop for "a chat" ("You should see the monstrosity that the Neales have erected in their front garden, Father Christmas with SIX reindeer - and it glows. Daddy is threatening to call the council. And don't even get me started on what Christine Clancy has done with her front gates..." I won't, mother, I won't). During this bout of logorrhoea, however, she casually asked what Lucy and I were planning to do over Christmas.
"Well, I assumed we'd come up and see you guys," say I, with a heavy sigh of resignation, a gruesome montage of thirty-odd years' worth of mulled wine and mince pies parties flashing inexorably through my mind.
"Oh, you can't do that,darling. Daddy and I are going to the Seychelles for Christmas."
"The... Seychelles?"
"Yes. You know, the islands. It's all-in, you know - breakfast, lunch, supper, you can eat from dawn until dusk if you want. And water sports too - Daddy's thinking of learning to water-ski, though I told him that it's not a good idea, not with his bad back..."
"You're going to the Seychelles?"
"Yes. Do keep up, darling."
That coffee-percolater sound you can hear is my mind, boggling.
"But... but... what about the mulled wine and mince pies party?"
"Oh, the village will have to make do without us this year. No doubt," (and here my mother's voice takes on a discernable patina of ice), "Christine will step into the breach. So what do you think you'll do? I suppose you will go to visit Lucy's parents in... Preston?" (the latter enunciated as if it were some particularly distateful medical complaint).
"No, Lucy doesn't get on with her parents. I guess we'll just... stay here."
And as I say this, a joyful glow spreads through my whole being. Christmas in the flat with Lucy. No parents. No mince pies and mulled wine parties. No crawling sense of failure and self-loathing. Just turkey and fine wine and fucking.
Merry bloody Christmas, everybody.
The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: CNVE Rioja Reserva 2000 (Spain). An upper-class call-girl of a wine, with hints of leather and caramel - like a dominatrix version of the Cadbury's Caramel bunny. And on Christmas Day I shall be drinking this until it comes out of my ears. £9.99
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Nature or nurture?
Somehow I found myself back in the Village of the Damned this Bank Holiday. Partly because Lucy seems to like it there (yet more evidence, if evidence be needed, that she is mad as cake), but mainly because my father has a nice line in emotional blackmail ("Your mother is really missing you. She thinks you're avoiding coming home." Got it in one, Dad).
By the time we arrived in the Village of the Damned the sun was cracking the flags. We bowled up to the house in Lucy's little Fiat to be greeted by the alarming spectacle of my mother watering the hanging baskets, wearing a bikini. Which is not a good look for a lady of her size.
Me: Oh good Lord.
Lucy: Oh my. She probably should have depilated before wearing that.
Me: Great. Now I'm going to have to go back into therapy.
My mother saw us and gave a cheerful little wave, which made the skin under her arms wobble. Lucy parked in the turning circle. I swivelled in my seat and whispered to her.
Me: Now don't forget the plan. We stick around until after lunch, then you get a migraine and we get the hell out of Dodge. Okay?
Lucy: Sure thing, boss.
We got out and greeted my mother, who gave us both a large hug. Unfortunately, she was slathered with factor 50 Ambre Soleil which, as well as making her look like a 17th century courtesan, left big greasy smears all over my t-shirt. She bustled us into the house, filling the air with chatter - how-was-your-journey, isn't-this-weather-amazing, cup-of-tea-anyone, lunch-won't-be-long, I-hope-you're-both-hungry-I've-made-far-too-much-as-usual, your-father-won't-be-a-sec-he's-just-greasing-the-bird-table.
Ah, yes. My father and his bird table. Since his retirement, my father has become something of a bird enthusiast. My parents' garden has no fewer than five bird-boxes, four bird feeders and one bird table. The latter is a large, wrought-iron structure and is my father's pride and joy - he loves to watch the robins and thrushes and tits (heh heh) feeding on the smorgasbord of dried fruit and bacon rind that he leaves out for them. But this avian Garden of Eden has its snake, its very own Lucifer. And yea, in the Garden of Bland the Devil doth come in the guise of the grey squirrel. And these squirrels do shimmy up the metal stand of the bird table and do feast upon the food left for the birds. And there is much wailing and gnashing of teeth.
My father has been waging a war of attrition against the squirrels, or the "evil little rats" as he prefers to call them. At first he shot them with his air rifle, but then he "accidentally" shot the Neale's cat (a horrible, squash-faced creature called Noel that my father has been trying to run over for years - my childhood resounded to the sound of wheels spinning on gravel and feline yowls of protest) and he was banned from using it by the local council. Now he fires small pebbles at the squirrels using a catapult he picked up on holiday in the Lake District. He hasn't hit any yet, but "I will, my lad, I will" he says, with a maniacal gleam in his eye.
But this whole greasing the bird table ploy was a new one on me. So Lucy and I traipsed into the garden to see what in the name of God my father was up to. Sure enough, he was on his knees in one of the flower beds, smearing the stand of the bird table with KY-Jelly from a big pot.
Me: Uhhhh.... Dad?
Father: Ah, there you are! We were expecting you an hour ago. Is it too much to expect you to be on time?
I ignored this. They call me 'Late' for a reason, you know.
Me: I know there's a simple explanation for this. And I'm probably going to regret even asking. But why are you smearing your bird table with lube? ("I'll bet you never thought you'd have cause to say that," Lucy whispered in my ear).
His face lit up.
Father: A-ha! Just wait and see. Come on, come into the conservatory.
We followed him inside, and stood regarding the bird table for a while.
Me: Um, Dad, what are we supposed to be...?
Father: Shhh! Wait... wait... ah! There's one of the little buggers now!
A squirrel scampered across my parents' immaculately trimmed lawn. It paused before the bird table and looked around to check there were no maniacs with catapults trying to send it to squirrel heaven. Satisfied that the coast was clear, it started to shimmy up stand of the bird table - then slid back to the ground. It tried again, with the same result. After a third try saw it slide down again the squirrel ran away with a distinct air of bewilderment. My father punched the air.
Father: That's right! Run away, you evil little rat! Ha ha!
He turned to me, looking smug.
Father: So what do you think? Not bad, eh?
Me: Mmmm. Very good.
Father: I tried using Vaseline at first, but it wasn't tremendously effective. This KY-Jelly stuff your mother gave me is far better. The buggers can't get any sort of grip with this spread everywhere. Ha ha!
Me: Yeah, that's... um... great, Dad.
Inner Voice: The old man's finally lost it. Next stop, Alzheimer's.
Fortunately, my mother called us all in for lunch before my father could start ranting about how squirrels were vermin and how he was doing a public service by wiping the little buggers out. And after lunch Lucy "suddenly" developed a migraine so we had to go home. Via the pub, naturally. We were into our second pint, sitting in companionable silence, when she put her hand on mine.
Lucy: Do you know something? I think you might be adopted.
Which is possibly the nicest thing that anyone who has met my parents has ever said to me.
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Now bring us some figgy pudding
After a short break where I left Keith in charge and nipped up to watch the last episode of "The Office" with Lucy, I bring you...
Part the Fourth: Mince pies and mulled wine
The house was rammed with people. My parents have a tendency to invite half the village to their Christmas morning shindig. Not because they like most of the people they invite, but because they enjoy being the centre of attention. I swear I'm adopted. My father whisked Jasper off into the conservatory to talk about buying low and selling high and other arcane financial matters, pointedly excluding Lucy and I. Not that it mattered, as my mother descended on us like a ship in full sail. I was enveloped in a smothering hug of chiffon and Aromatics Elixir.
Mother: Darling! So glad you made it down! And this must be Lucy! I'm soooo pleased to meet you!
Inner Voice: Is she drunk?
Me: Mum, have you been at the sherry?
Mother: Nonsense...
(A blast of boozy breath).
Mother: ...I've just had a teensy little glass of mulled wine. Mince pie?
Lucy and I were provided with a mince pie each, so heavily dusted with sugar that my teeth hurt, and a steaming glass of mulled wine. It was rather potent - I think my father had rather overdone it on the brandy. Then the mingling began. There were five families present - Christine and Kenneth Clancy (naturally - my mother would never miss an opportunity for a spot of one-upmanship), Brian and Rowena Neale (the latter heavily preggers-plays-pop) and their three kids, Jim and Karen Frimston and their teenage son Ben (who spent all his time blatantly ogling Lucy's tits), Frank and Anne Davey (who are in the middle of splitting up and weren't talking to each other) and John and Anne McIlroy and their overweight sixteen-year-old daughter Chloe (who spent all her time staring dewy-eyed at Jasper). It was hell in a detached house.
I got separated from Lucy, and ended up fielding the usual questions. Yes, I'm much better now. Yes, it's marvellous what therapy can achieve nowadays. No, I've not gone back into that line of work. Yes, I'm still at the off-licence, though actually it's a wine merchants. No, I'm not intending to get on the property ladder. Oh, the horror. I felt like sticking my head in my parents' "Real Flame" gas fire. Lucy, on the other hand, seemed to be having a whale of a time. I heard her tell Rowena Neale's youngest that Father Christmas doesn't exist. Traumatizing young children must be a hobby of hers. And she kept surreptitiously giving Ben Frimston mulled wine until he was sick on the carpet in the downstairs bathroom and had to be taken home.
Eventually, everybody left. Unbeknownst to the rest of the family, my mother had gone round finishing off the drinks that people had left. Now, my mother doesn't drink that often. Just the occasional sherry, or a glass of champagne if it's a special occasion. So when the time came for her to do the Christmas dinner, she was absolutely sloshed. She couldn't focus to peel the parsnips. We had to put her to bed - my father pulling her up the stairs, Jasper and I pushing her from behind (she's rather a large lady, my mother). This meant that we - the male Blands, plus Lucy - had to make the dinner. Now, my father doesn't cook. He's never even boiled an egg. So he excused himself on the basis that he'd gone this long without cooking and wasn't going to start now, and went to the Blue Cap for his usual pre-lunch drink. Jasper went too, on the basis that "cooking's not really my thing, you know?". Wanker.
So Lucy and I made Christmas lunch. And do you know something? It was fun. My mother was snoring away upstairs; my father and Jasper were talking turkey in the pub. Nobody to distract us. Nobody to make judgements. Just me and my laydee. And Christ but we had a laugh. I don't think I've had a laugh on Christmas Day since the days when I was a kid and still found Disney cartoons funny. Okay, so it wasn't the best Christmas dinner ever - the turkey fell apart, the gravy was lumpy and you really don't want to know about the Christmas pudding - but to me it tasted great. And my mother seemed to approve, as she giggled her way through the meal, occasionally slurring "Itsh lovely, this - ever so tasty, tee-hee-hee" while my father looked daggers at her and Jasper talked about himself.
After the meal, Lucy and I wandered down to the Blue Cap, leaving Jasper and my father to clear up and try to get my (by now utterly legless) mother back into bed. We sat in the corner furthest from the jukebox and sank a few pints and chatted and laughed and it all felt very festive.
Inner Voice: Who would have thought it? You're actually having a good time.
Me: Shhh. You might jinx it.
We rolled back to the house after the pub landlady had politely booted us out into the night. Time for bed. I was in my old room (single bed; still full of old Airfix models and A-Team annuals gathering dust); Lucy was on a camp bed in the study. My parents frown on sex before marriage. Even when I was engaged to Nell, she would be confined to the study between the hours of midnight and seven. And they liked Nell. The house fell silent, apart from the rasp of my mother's snoring. Then my door creaked open, and Lucy crept into my room and slipped under my duvet.
Lucy: Have you ever had sex in this bed?
Me: Other than with myself? No.
Lucy: Well, there's a first time for everything.
Inner Voice: Result!
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
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O Come All Ye Faithful
Sorry for the hiatus. I got distracted mid-tale yesterday - Keith had brought in his new digital camera and was playing around with it, taking photos of everyone in the shop and generally making a nuisance of himself. Marxist Jim eventually snapped and threatened to "shove that m*****f***ing camera where the sun don't shine", so I had to take on my usual role as peacemaker. All good Boxing Day fun.
So, where was I? Ah, yes...
Part the Third: Introductions
Jasper showed up in his top-of-the-range Mercedes at 8 a.m. on the dot. Thanks to our early morning activities, Lucy and I were ready and waiting. Normally the prospect of introducing my girlfriend to Jasper, the sleek epitome of Bland manhood, would fill me with dread. But thanks to Lucy's reaction to her Christmas presents (and what happened directly afterwards), I was in a good frame of mind. A festive fuck evidently does wonders for the psyche. For once, I didn't feel like a loser next to my oh-so-successful cousin. I mean, he may have the looks, the clothes and the car, but did he get his cock sucked this morning? I don't think so. What was even more gratifying was the fact that Lucy seemed immune to Jasper's charisma, despite him turning on all the charm.
Me: Lucy, this is my cousin Jasper. Jas, this is Lucy. My... er...
Lucy: Lover.
Jasper: Oh, really? Well, pleased to meet you, Lucy. Good to see somebody's taken pity on ol' Late at last. Now, don't you go running off as well, you hear? Or I'll just have to come and fetch you back. (twinkle, beam, wink).
Inner Voice: Bastard.
He led Lucy down to the car, while I struggled after with the bags. He opened the car door for her.
Jasper: After you.
Lucy: I'd rather ride shotgun, actually.
(She got in the front with Jasper; I piled in the back).
Lucy: Is this a new car?
Jasper: Yep. Beauty, isn't it? Top of the range. Got it at a snip as well, I know this dealer...
Lucy: Bit of a penis extension, isn't it? Do you have a small cock, Jasper?
I've never seen Jasper lost for words. He gaped at Lucy, who was beaming her biggest smile.
Lucy: Shall we go then? Don't want to miss the mince pies and mulled wine.
Inner Voice: She's wonderful, isn't she?
The journey was mercifully free of incident. Jasper had obviously written Lucy off as a nutjob, so he put a CD on (the greatest hits of Santana - an aural monstrosity of the highest order) and avoided conversation. Which gave me a chance to get some shut-eye (once I managed to filter out all that horrendous twiddly guitar).
We rolled into the Village of the Damned around mid-morning, turned into my parent's road. I could see that there were already four cars in their driveway - my mother's mulled wine and mince pie party was evidently in full swing. The house was swathed in tasteful white fairy lights. The leylandii winked blue, red and green at us as we walked up the drive. It had been tarmacked, I noticed. One in the eye for the Clancys. Lucy took my arm, murmured in my ear, "Wow. It's a vision in Mock Tudor."
My father opened the door, letting out the smell of mince pies and cigar smoke, and the sound of Bing Crosby crooning about how much he'd like a white Christmas, just like the ones he used to know. "Jasper! Good to see you!" My father pumped Jasper's hand heartily. "Glad you could come down. Heard from the folks?" Jasper replied that they were "having a whale of a time over in the States, they send their regards." Then my father turned to me. Shook my hand formally.
Me: Hi, Dad.
Father: Hello, *****.
My parents never call me "Late". They use the-name-that-must-not-be-revealed. Lucy looked at me in shock, then burst into hysterical laughter. She'd never heard my real name before.
Lucy: Your name is *****?? Oh-my-God, no wonder you prefer "Late".
My father looked at Lucy with a face like stone. His tone was icy.
Father: You find that amusing?
Lucy: It's fucking hilarious.
Father: Well, my name also happens to be *****.
(Lucy's laughter increased in volume).
Father: My father was also called *****.
(Lucy was bent double, heaving with mirth).
Father: ***** Bland is a name that has been passed down for generations.
Lucy: Oh, stop it, you're killing me.
Father: *****, who is this person?
Me: Dad, this is Lucy. My girlfriend.
(Lucy extended a shaking hand to my father).
Lucy: Pleased to meet you, *****.
She collapsed into more laughter. My father turned and stalked back into the house, followed by Jasper who was staring at Lucy and shaking his head.
Inner Voice: Great. Your father and your cousin think you're going out with a lunatic.
Me: I am going out with a lunatic.
Inner Voice: Yep. A lunatic who now knows your real name and probably won't be afraid to use it.
Me: Oh bugger. And she hasn't even met my mother yet.
I dragged the still-giggling Lucy inside the house. To face mulled wine, mince pies and mother.
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Christians Awake
Part the Second: Unwrapping
Christmas morning dawned. Normally the dawn is a phenomenon that passes me by. I think the last time I saw the dawn was back in the old days, when I'd work through the night and suddenly realise that the morning sun was shining on my computer screen. Nowadays, sunrise is more of a theoretical event. I know it must happen. I've just never been awake enough to notice.
Not so this morning. Because this morning I had an excitable girlfriend jumping up and down on the bed yelling "It's Christmas! It's Christmas!".
Me: It's not Christmas. It's the middle of the night.
Lucy: No it's not, it's morning - look!
She yanked back the curtains and, sure enough, the sky was lightening to a pale grey. Which I suppose is what passes for sunrise in London.
Lucy: It's Christmas morning! Time for presents!
Ah. Yes. Presents. As I've mentioned elsewhere, I'm useless when it comes to buying gifts (consider the candle fiasco when Lucy and I were courting). Furthermore, Lucy was not your average girl, so just buying her a bunch of flowers was out of the question. In the end I'd got a bit flustered on Christmas Eve, gone into a load of charity shops and just bought a bunch of random stuff.
We exchanged gifts. I unwrapped mine - it was a small canvas on which Lucy had painted a caricature of all the Bottle Shop staff. It was great; she'd obviously put a lot of time and effort into it. And I'd just dashed out at the last minute and bought her a pile of crap. I had a ball of anxiety in the pit of my stomach as Lucy started unwrapping her first present. She opened it, impassive, and put it on the floor without saying a word. Then she opened the second, and placed it next to the first. And so on, in total silence. Eventually, she'd lined up the five gifts I'd bought her. Her face was like thunder. I was a mess of sweaty panic.
Inner Voice: I told you. She's going to murder you with a bread knife. You should have just phoned Interflora.
Lucy: So, let's see. We've got a pottery statue of a rabbit. A plastic pineapple...
Me: It's an ice box shaped like a pineapple.
Lucy: (lifts off the top of the pineapple) Oh, so it is. Anyway. A pottery rabbit, a plastic pineapple icebox, a book of "Amazing Stories for Girls"...
(Lucy riffles through the pages)
Lucy: ...Which seems to feature the adventures of a very jolly girl called Joyce, a 500-piece jigsaw of Lyme Regis and, last but not least, a paisley tie in a very fetching shade of puce.
Me: Lucy, I'm really, really sorry. Christ, I'm so sorry.
Lucy: What for?
Me: Well, the presents, you know...
Then I noticed that Lucy was beaming her bobby-dazzler of a smile. My panic dissolved.
Me: Are you winding me up?
Lucy: Yep. I love them. They're perfect.
Me: Why I oughtta...
Lucy: Well, why don't you?
I guess there's one good thing about getting up ridiculously early on Christmas morning. It means you can go back to bed again. Until Jasper arrives, that is.
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The First Nowell
I'm back. I'm alive. God alone knows how. This may take some telling.
Part the First: No escape
'Twas the night before Christmas/And all through my flat/I heard the phone ringing/And I thought "Fuck that."/But 'tis my mother who's calling/She knows that I'm there/So eventually I pick up/And glumly answer, "Yeah?"
Mother: Don't say "Yeah?", say "Who's calling please?". Otherwise you sound common.
Me: And a Happy Christmas to you too, Mother.
Mother: I'm just calling to check that you're still coming tomorrow. You are still coming, aren't you?
Me: Sadly, yes.
Mother: Good. Well, I know how terrible you are at timekeeping so I've asked Jasper to come and pick you up bright and early tomorrow morning so you'll be here in time for my mulled wine and mince pies party.
Me: I was going to come up by train...
Mother: Nonsense. If you try and get here under your own steam we'll be lucky to see you before Boxing Day. Jasper's more than happy to give you a lift. He'll be at your flat tomorrow morning at 8 o'clock on the dot, so you make sure you're ready and don't keep him waiting, do you hear? And I hope you're still bringing your lady-friend...
Me: Lucy. Yeah, she's coming.
Mother: Oh gooood. I can't wait to see her, she sounded lovely on the phone. Anyway, must dash, I've got mince pies to make.
Me: Okay, see you tomorrow.
Mother: Oh, and do try to wear something smart, won't you? Last year you looked like one of those layabouts off the council estate.
So that was it. All sorted. No hope of deploying the old "sorry I'm so late, train was delayed, leaves on the line, tut-tut damn British Rail, what a shambles, oh-have-I-missed-the-party-what-a-shame" ploy. At 8 a.m. on Christmas morning (8 a.m.! Sweet Christ!) I was going to be whisked to the village of the damned in my cousin's new SUV. Then my family would meet Lucy.
I didn't sleep well that night.
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Farewell Land of Nod
Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Ring-ring.
Me: Mwuh?
Inner Voice: Don't answer it. There's only one person who could possibly be phoning you at this hour.
Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Ring-ring.
Me: Bollocks.
(lifts handset)
Me: What?!
Mother: Don't say "What", say "Hello, ***** speaking". "What" makes you sound common.
Inner Voice: I told you we should have bought an answering machine.
Why is it that my mother thinks 8:30 a.m. is an acceptable time to phone me? Does she think that I spend my nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling, desperate for news of the Clancys new kitchen? That I wake in a cold sweat in the wee hours because I don't know about the primary school jumble sale? She brushed aside my pleas of "Let me get back to sleep". It was evidently imperative that I hear more news from the parish.
Like I said, the Clancys are having a new kitchen put in. Apparently it's going to be all in chrome and light wood. "Where do they think they are?" opined my mother, "London?". In her eyes, London is the epitome of everything decadent and unholy. Once she'd finished bitching about her neighbours, she started on about the local am-dram group. She told me that she'd joined the Village Players to "get some time away from your father" and had expected to get a good part in their forthcoming production of 'Run For Your Wife!'. But she's dropped out of the show because, she ranted, "they gave the lead to Susan Wheeler, who only got the part because they felt sorry for her, what with her gammy leg and her husband running off with the shopgirl from Country Stores."
I have to say that around this point I actually fell asleep again. So I missed most of her bulletin from the Village of the Damned. I woke up again to hear my mother saying "...but nobody's sure what happened to the cow." I have no idea what she was referring to. I shudder to think.
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