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Authors: Toni Maguire
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friendly. As I gingerly picked it up and heard a growl deep inside it I remembered ‘the game’ and suddenly felt sick. I swallowed hard in an attempt to hide the fact that bile was rising in my throat. In her own way, my mother had gone to so much trouble that I didn’t want to spoil it for her. I knew throwing up on the carpet would certainly do that.
‘Thank you,’ I said, and pressed my lips to my aunt and uncle’s cheeks.
My uncle’s presence in my home always made me feel uneasy. I didn’t like him being there for, however indifferent my mother appeared to be towards me, it was still the place where I felt safe.
But when my mother invited my aunt and uncle to stay for Christmas, even that little bit of security was taken away from me. ‘You can’t risk the roadblocks, not if you want to have a few drinks,’ she said. On the main roads between the villages there had been a rising number of police enforcing the drink-driving laws. It was expected that, over the festive season, unmarked cars would be parked in the many lay-bys between my uncle’s village and ours, ready to pounce on every inebriated reveller. As drinking was something that my parents and their guests enjoyed, alternative arrangements had to be made.
Christmas was the other time I was dressed in my best clothes and told to thank everyone who brought gifts. In the corner of the sitting room there was a huge tree, the green of the branches nearly obscured by the weight of the glittering silver ornaments that my mother brought out each year. Piled high beneath it were the carefully wrapped presents. Some were for the immediate family and other, smaller, ones for friends, who had been invited to my parents’ annual drinks and mince-pies party on Boxing Day.
On Christmas Eve I was allowed to stay up later than usual. Just before bedtime my stocking was hung over the stone fireplace, ready to be filled with gifts by Father Christmas.
Family presents were handed out after breakfast; mine were immediately put into my bedroom to join the piles of toys already there.
The year my aunt and uncle came to stay was the one when I received my bicycle. My mother put on Handel’s
Messiah
. She played it every year at Christmas. ‘It’s conducted by Sir George Solti,’ she told me, as though the information might persuade me to share her musical taste.
But although I didn’t like the music, I liked Kiri Te Kanawa’s beautiful voice when it filled our house. But I only remember her because I thought she was pretty, unlike some of the other wobbly lady opera singers I had seen on television.
As soon as breakfast was finished I was told to go and fetch something from the sitting room. It was then I saw it, the dark blue and silver bicycle standing in the corner. Almost breathless with excitement I rushed back into the kitchen.
‘You can learn to ride it in here,’ my father said – the kitchen was so large that there was plenty of space to manoeuvre a bicycle. I would have liked to throw myself into his arms and tell him I’d wanted one more than anything else, but shyness stopped me and instead I just said, ‘Thank you.’
Apart from the bicycle, I can only remember little bits of that day. There were the usual mince pies, dishes of dates, nuts and tangerines, a big tin of Quality Street, and sugared almonds continuously being passed around. It was early afternoon before my aunt and uncle arrived, carrying more presents, bottles of wine and a huge bunch of flowers for my mother.
The usual ‘So kind’ and ‘You shouldn’t have’ were followed by air-kissing and hugs for me. I can’t remember what they brought me or even what other presents I received that year.
I can picture the dining table set for seven people. My parents had invited another couple to join us, a couple around their own age whose grown-up children, like my brother, were spending Christmas with college friends. When they arrived I recognized the long-haired blonde woman.
‘Thank you,’ I said, and pressed my lips to my aunt and uncle’s cheeks.
My uncle’s presence in my home always made me feel uneasy. I didn’t like him being there for, however indifferent my mother appeared to be towards me, it was still the place where I felt safe.
But when my mother invited my aunt and uncle to stay for Christmas, even that little bit of security was taken away from me. ‘You can’t risk the roadblocks, not if you want to have a few drinks,’ she said. On the main roads between the villages there had been a rising number of police enforcing the drink-driving laws. It was expected that, over the festive season, unmarked cars would be parked in the many lay-bys between my uncle’s village and ours, ready to pounce on every inebriated reveller. As drinking was something that my parents and their guests enjoyed, alternative arrangements had to be made.
Christmas was the other time I was dressed in my best clothes and told to thank everyone who brought gifts. In the corner of the sitting room there was a huge tree, the green of the branches nearly obscured by the weight of the glittering silver ornaments that my mother brought out each year. Piled high beneath it were the carefully wrapped presents. Some were for the immediate family and other, smaller, ones for friends, who had been invited to my parents’ annual drinks and mince-pies party on Boxing Day.
On Christmas Eve I was allowed to stay up later than usual. Just before bedtime my stocking was hung over the stone fireplace, ready to be filled with gifts by Father Christmas.
Family presents were handed out after breakfast; mine were immediately put into my bedroom to join the piles of toys already there.
The year my aunt and uncle came to stay was the one when I received my bicycle. My mother put on Handel’s
Messiah
. She played it every year at Christmas. ‘It’s conducted by Sir George Solti,’ she told me, as though the information might persuade me to share her musical taste.
But although I didn’t like the music, I liked Kiri Te Kanawa’s beautiful voice when it filled our house. But I only remember her because I thought she was pretty, unlike some of the other wobbly lady opera singers I had seen on television.
As soon as breakfast was finished I was told to go and fetch something from the sitting room. It was then I saw it, the dark blue and silver bicycle standing in the corner. Almost breathless with excitement I rushed back into the kitchen.
‘You can learn to ride it in here,’ my father said – the kitchen was so large that there was plenty of space to manoeuvre a bicycle. I would have liked to throw myself into his arms and tell him I’d wanted one more than anything else, but shyness stopped me and instead I just said, ‘Thank you.’
Apart from the bicycle, I can only remember little bits of that day. There were the usual mince pies, dishes of dates, nuts and tangerines, a big tin of Quality Street, and sugared almonds continuously being passed around. It was early afternoon before my aunt and uncle arrived, carrying more presents, bottles of wine and a huge bunch of flowers for my mother.
The usual ‘So kind’ and ‘You shouldn’t have’ were followed by air-kissing and hugs for me. I can’t remember what they brought me or even what other presents I received that year.
I can picture the dining table set for seven people. My parents had invited another couple to join us, a couple around their own age whose grown-up children, like my brother, were spending Christmas with college friends. When they arrived I recognized the long-haired blonde woman.
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