Read Online White Goods by Guy Johnson - Free Book Online Page B

appreciating it for its original purpose. What
Nan Buckley would’ve called a parlour. The
front parlour.
    ‘Anthony, why
do you put all that stuff in the front parlour?’ I could hear her now.
    Thinking of her triggered
something. I started to recall another get-together. A Christmas,
at 45 Victoria Avenue.
    We had a full
house: the five-of-us, Nan Buckley, Auntie Stella and Uncle Ashley. (‘Why’s he been invited?’ – Dad. ‘Shush, Tone,
they’ll hear you. Stella reckons he’s the one!’ - Mum. ‘Be like the
last one, then?’ – Dad. ‘How long does one have to wait for a
sherry these days, Anthony?’ our nan.) As well as Uncle Ashley, we were
also expecting a visit from the Queen of Sheba. This was according
to Mum, who was fretting about ‘where was
she expected to put her Majesty . ’ Dad saw
offence in this comment, but in the end the Queen of Sheba didn’t
come at all – it was just our nan.
    ‘ You can have
the Queen’s place,’ I said to her and she’d tried to smile sweetly
at me, but you could tell she didn’t quite get it.
    The front
room – the front parlour – had been cleared out for Christmas day. In
fact, Dad had been instructed to keep-it-clear - in-the-run-up-or-else! But it wasn’t
any less crowded, as the tree had to go in the there too: a big
white fake one that hit the ceiling. It was new.
    ‘Did it fall off the back
of a lorry?’ Mum had inquired, looking it up and down when Dad had
brought it home.
    I had a look myself, but
couldn’t see any damage.
    ‘Looks like
it came from a shop, Mum,’ I reassured her and Mum had given me her
look that meant oh-very-funny.
    The tree had silver tips
so it sparkled even before we had decorated it. And once we had
decorated it – smothering it with streams of red and blue tinsel
and five boxes of ancient baubles that Mum appeared to have had
since she was a kid – it could have been any colour. We draped
three different types of lights around it – multi-coloured lanterns
that were the size of a small fist; plain white ones, which Mum
thought were tasteful and we thought boring; and illuminated Father
Christmas heads, which were my favourites.
    ‘Lovely,’ Mum had said,
but not in the way she usually said it. ‘Lovely.’ Bit like the way
she said ‘right’ or ‘now.’ Like we hadn’t quite finished, like
there was something left to do.
    By Christmas
Day, the floor space that Dad had cleared of his livelihood was covered again, as presents from various friends and
relatives had begun to arrive. By then, you could see the white of
the Christmas tree again, as there were fewer decorations on
it; the Christmas Fairy , Mum insisted, had been to borrow some of our tinsel and
share it with poorer families.
    ‘She’s taken our lights
as well,’ I’d added, noting that only the tasteful/boring ones
remained in place.
    ‘Oh dear, I’ll have to
have a word,’ Mum had said, trying to hide a smile.
    Dinner was
planned for two in the afternoon. By then, Dad had been to the pub
and back, grudgingly taking Uncle Ashley with him. ( ‘What’ll I say?’ he had moaned to Mum. ‘Shush. Just talk about football, or something.’) Nan Buckley had drunk enough sherries to put her
to sleep, and was snoring and perping, which made us all laugh,
including Mum, as Nan Buckley was a proper lady when she was
awake.
    ‘A duchess,’ Dad used to
say, making Mum’s eyes roll.
    ‘Who are you, Ronnie
Kray?’ she’d say and laugh, and you could see Dad get narked. Nan
Buckley was no laughing matter.
    But she was quite posh
and proper. Even Mum agreed. ‘Your nan thinks she’s better than
us,’ she once said, confirming it for me.
    This
particular Christmas followed the pattern of previous years: up
early, Santa presents at the end of our beds in old pillowcases, TV
in the morning, rumours about the Queen of Sheba, followed by Nan
Buckley’s grand arrival instead, kids helping Mum, whilst the men
and Auntie Stella went to the pub.