The Bower Bird (22 page)

And the whole story about the books comes out. I can’t wait to tell her. I feel much better once I’ve admitted it. Guilt is too big a burden. She’s remarkably understanding, and even laughs when I tell her about the tramp spotting me.

‘Gussie, I do understand about you wanting to find a family, but sweetheart, you are not just a tiny fragment of a Stevens clan, you are you, unique, the one and only, and no one else is like you. You aren’t a piece of family jigsaw; you are wonderfully yourself.’

‘But Mum…’

‘No, Gussie, listen to me, I know I’m only your Mum, and naturally I am biased, but you are my Marvellous Gussie, the sum of all your thoughts and dreams, your amazing experiences, good and bad, the places you have been to, your love of Daddy and Grandpop and Grandma, and even the books you read, and the films you love, and Especially your Imagination, they are part of Who You Are. It all goes to make the One and Only Gussie. You know that, don’t you?’

I am sobbing more than I have ever sobbed, not because of unhappiness, but because this is the first indication I’ve ever had that Mum actually loves me. No, that’s not true, of course it isn’t, but it’s the first time she’s explained myself to me. And it sounds like she really understands. And so it’s a happy crying. Happiness comes in strange shapes.

I realise that this is an important moment, precious, and is as beautiful as anything can be – like the sight of a shooting star, or listening to piece of really good music. My mum loves me, and I feel a great happiness. Even though I am dreading more illness and breathlessness and feeling lousy, and I’m terrified about the operation, or worse, not having the operation, what matters is now. My Mum and me; being kind and understanding to each other, that’s what matters.

When I ask her how she knows about me going to the funeral, she says it was Mrs Stevens, the elderly lady who sat next to her at the hairdressers, who told her. And Alistair said something about the tea-lady at the cricket match asking about me.

You can’t hide anything in this town. Pick your nose and eat the bogey and everyone knows about it the same day.

THE LOCAL BUTCHER
delivers the knuckles of ham, free range turkey, sausage meat and bacon that Mum ordered and she is doing mysterious things to them; soaking the hams, cleaning the bird, cooking the giblets with lemon, onion and bay leaf, and making the stuffing. I have helped make breadcrumbs, chop parsley and generally get in the way. Mum loves all this domesticity. She says it makes her feel good about herself.

There are mince pies and sausage rolls on baking trays ready for tomorrow. We have invited all our new friends for a lunchtime drinks and nibbles party.

The Parish Church of St Eia is full of holly and candles, and children, about thirty of us, are gathered around the Christmas crib, kneeling or standing. The vicar starts to tell the story of Christmas. One very little girl kneeling at the front suddenly cries out, ‘Where’s the baby Jesus?’ and the vicar says He’s not been born yet. At last the baby is placed in the manger and the vicar tells the grownups, who are in the main body of the church, that only the children are going to sing ‘Away in a Manger’.

Mum’s getting out her handkerchief in readiness. What is it about small children singing this carol that makes even grown men weep?

We all hold candles, even the little ones and I worry that they’ll set fire to the straw that’s scattered on the flagstones. Bridget’s eyes are sparkling in the candlelight. Gabriel is here too, frowning at the model cows and sheep by the manger. We all sing the first verse. The vicar asks if anyone would like to sing a solo of the first verse. Bridget immediately puts her hand up. She stands and sings.

Away in a manger, no crib for a bed,

the little Lord Jesus laid down his sweet head.

The stars in the night sky look down where he lay

the little Lord Jesus asleep in the hay.

The vicar thanks her and asks if anyone would like to sing the second verse. A girl of about nine sings it haltingly. When the vicar asks if anyone would be brave enough to sing the third verse on their own, to my consternation Gabriel throws his hand up high. Who knows the words to the third verse, for goodness sake? My heart is in my throat, I feel so anxious on his behalf. No way would I offer to humiliate myself in front of all these people by singing a song I didn’t know the words of. It’s like that dream when you’re in a play centre stage and you haven’t learned your lines.

Little Gabriel stands up in front of me, candle flickering, and sings in a sweet piping voice:

The cattle are lowing, the babe He awakes

but little Lord Jesus no crying He makes.

I love you Lord Jesus! Look down from the sky

and stay by my side until morning is nigh.

Whew! He did it. I’m so proud of him.

We all sing the rest of the carol together, somehow remembering the words a millisecond after the adults. The last verse is:

Bless all the dear children

in Thy tender care,

and take us to heaven

to live with Thee there.

All the children and some of the adults carrying candles put them on special candle sconces to one side of the chapel, chancel, whatever. I blow mine out because I like the smell. No one sets fire to the church.

We go home up Barnoon Hill, and have supper on our own – cheese on toast and a mince pie and clotted cream and hot chocolate. I have some last minute present wrapping to do, so does Mum.  

I’ve made gift tags from old Christmas cards, using strands of silver foil as strings: a recycling technique I’ve inherited from Grandma. I am tired but I really really want to go out again to hear the carols sung in the streets of the old town late tonight.

We are wrapped in several layers of woolly clothes and hats and gloves and scarves. The waves are slithering darkly up the slipway. There are dead pigs in the doorways of the harbour front cottages. No they’re not, they’re sandbags. They do look just like pigs. The wind is getting up and the gulls are whirling and calling loudly. A ghost moon appears then disappears behind rushing clouds. A bright star. Then no stars.

Dozens of singers are gathering behind Piazza, a block of flats on Porthmeor beach. The dark courtyard is filled with excited voices, people jostling and greeting each other and laughing loudly. Everyone seems to know everyone else. Mum and I stand at the back under the shelter of a roofed carport.

There is a hush, only the sound of gulls screaming and the thump and whine of wind and sea. One man starts a low chanting call, the first line of a carol. The combined sound of about eighty singers rises and fills the courtyard, and our heads and minds and hearts. There are no musical instruments, just human sounds coming from throats, diaphragms and lips. Deep men’s bass notes, rich tenors coming in behind and the piping sweetness of women’s voices. It’s beautiful. The harmonising sounds remind me of the funeral.

Three carols are sung and then the whole gathering moves off to another little square behind the old people’s flats, beyond the Tate. Between carols the singers laugh and chatter. More singers arrive and bystanders like us. We can only listen, not knowing the strange carols with their local harmonies and repetitions. Some of the words are familiar but with unfamiliar tunes, like ‘While Shepherds Watched’. I feel no cold tonight: I am filled with the warmth of the crush of people around me and the feeling of belonging and something like, I don’t know… relijun.

The combined choirs of all the chapels in St Ives move together through the little cobbled streets and stop in the narrow lane that leads to Porthgwidden Beach. Bedroom windows open and people in pyjamas and dressing gowns open their doors to better hear the carols.

I hear one really old woman telling someone, ‘I lived in this cottage since I was three. When we moved to the house there was no water – we ’ad to go with a pitcher to a public tap. There was no electric or gas. We ’ad an oil lamp in the kitchen and a small lamp or a candle to go to bed with. There was no flush toilets. Every night people emptied their bucket on the beach to dispose of that.’

It sounds like the dark ages to me. Then she says, ‘There’s hardly any local people left in the old cottages in Down’long. Holiday cottages now. Years ago they was condemned, unsanitary, and all the locals were moved uplong to council estate – “the reservation”– we called it.’

The wind is stronger now and her voice gets carried away into the night. We huddle on a step in a doorway. We listen to one more carol, ‘In the Deep Mid-winter’, Mum’s favourite, and it starts to rain. Umbrellas go up and are blown inside out like ravens squabbling.

We leave reluctantly. The moon is hidden now and we walk through Fore Street where all the Christmas lights are swaying in the wind, the little trees lit up, and up Barnoon Hill, stopping to rest on the seat, huddling under the brolly. Mum hugs me close to keep me warm and holds my arm to help me up the rest of the way.

I am full of anticipation for tomorrow. Not just to see my presents, but to see Mum’s face when she opens hers.

I OPEN THE
last little window of the Advent calendar and see the nativity scene, Mary and Joseph and the baby Jesus.

Word of the day for Christmas Day is
benign: favourable; gracious; kindly; of mild type.

The wind and rain have gone, the sea is calm and a watery sun is shining. Mum is sitting on a cushion on the front doorstep having her first coffee and a fag. She turns and smiles at me.

‘Happy Christmas, Mum.’ I give her a big hug and kiss her face.

‘Happy Christmas, sweetheart.’

The floor around our tree is covered in brightly coloured boxes and packages. Flo knocks a bauble from the lowest branch and smashes it on the skirting board. She looks very pleased with herself. Mum sweeps it into a dustpan and gets rid of it. I open the cats’ presents and they have a lovely time chasing the paper and killing it. Rambo gets a piece of sellotape stuck to his fur and rushes off terrified, with it trailing behind him. Only Flo has the intelligence to play with her toy mouse, throwing it up and catching it between her paws and throwing it again.

‘Can we open our presents yet?’

‘Let’s wait ’til after breakfast. Alistair is coming about
11
, guests after
12
.
30
.’

‘What time is it now?’

‘Half-nine.’

‘Okay. That’s not too long to wait. Can I open one present please? Just to keep me going?’

‘Go on then.’ She searches for her glasses and chooses a small package wrapped in gold tissue.

I open it and find a lovely little silver and white enamel brooch shaped like a seagull.

‘Wow, thanks, Mum.’

‘Car boot,’ says Mum.

I make her open the box with the jar of pickled walnuts in and she is so pleased she eats one straight off.

The cats have caught the excitement in the air. After breakfast they follow her to the kitchen where she does disgusting things to our turkey. It reminds me of Grandma, who often had a hand up a plucked chicken’s bottom.

I put some fresh peanuts and sunflower seeds into the bird feeder. Mrs Thomas has already been out hanging up washing and I wave to the girls next door. I can see them unwrapping presents in the front room. Luckily we have some extra presents for people we have forgotten – little sacks of chocolate coins wrapped in gold, and light-up Santa brooches from the Save the Children shop.

Flo, Rambo and Charlie have followed me out.

‘Oh, I am so happy to be here!’ says Flo, and grabs poor unsuspecting Charlie by the scruff of her neck.

‘Shoo, bad cat. Where’s your Christmas spirit? Good will to all cats and all that?’

Rambo is bravely sitting on the front step chattering to the starling carolling above on the telegraph wire.

Alistair arrives at the back door, his arms full of parcels and already cold champagne.

He hugs me and wishes me a happy Christmas. He smells nice, like lemons and heather and old tweed coats. He pours champagne, even for me, and we sit around the tree and I am Father Christmas handing out the presents. I give myself a small rectangular package. It’s a little tape recorder with a microphone.

‘That is so cool, thanks Alistair. Next Christmas, I can record the carols in the streets.’

Mum is pleased with the specs holder I made and hangs it in the kitchen next to the slate where we write shopping lists and things to remember.

Alistair gets a splendid green and blue striped tie and an antique blue enamel tie pin from Mum and a cricket diary from me.

She has a large bottle of her favourite smelly, Yves Saint Laurent’s Y, from him and a long amber necklace that looks like a string of baked beans, or miniature yellow sausages, only shinier. She immediately takes off her red and green beads and wears the amber instead. It does look lovely against her black velvet dress.

I have a
Faber Book of Children’s Verse
, a navy fleece hoodie, striped over-the-knee socks and a great khaki padded waistcoat with hundreds of pockets for film and lenses. And a gorgeous fake fur covered notebook and a pack of fibre tip pens.