She is 21 and she doesn't appreciate being called Rosemary. It's simply Rosie. Look out for her in British best selling lists 5 years from now. Rosie reads like a maniac and writes like nobody's business. Here's a piece by her:O Night Divine, or, Christmas Eve (1)
All the lights are off apart from the golden elephant wall hanging that has a light bulb in it (2).
“We’re not supposed to have it on”, Annabel says, “because last time it caught on fire a bit”. “Please”, says mum. “I want to see the elephant lamp on. I love elephants, please let me see it”. I breathe deeply, waiting for a burning smell so that I can scream and run out of the back door, down the stairs and onto the street, dragging my little sister along with me so we can go home and play Cluedo or watch a film or something.Anything but this. Wigilia (3)
is over and most people have gone home to prepare for the real event- Christmas day. The Polish part is fun if you like fried cheese and pickled herring but if you don’t then it isn’t. The whole family sits around the table with the white (for Jesus) tablecloth and eats sour, sharp food. Mum insists on playing eerie carols sung by choirs of children (4) and grandma (5) cries (6) about how no one ever visits her anymore.----------
1. Hardly any of the following happened at, or even close to, Christmas.
2. The wall hanging wasn’t an elephant, it was a painting that lit up, this painting:
3. Wigilia is a Polish celebration that takes place on Christmas Eve.
4. ‘Fall on your knees! O, hear the angels’ voices! O night divine, O night when Christ was born; O night divine, O night, O night divine’
5. My grandma’s arms are strong and dark from the sun. She is forever braless in brightly coloured loose fitting vests. Her hair sticks out, like straw, like a scarecrow. She is big from daily bags of potatoes. She snores like a beast. When I was little I slept in her bed. Her snores would seep into the quilts and carpet, every surface padded, nothing hard, nothing sharp. Her snores pulsed around the room and I dreamt of train journeys.
6. Actually she just pretends to cry, which is even worse.
We don’t always do Wigilia. I hardly ever do it- because I’m usually at home in London with my dad who is English. But, every now and then, mum will try to tempt me to spend Christmas with her by promising Wigilia. “We’ll do Wigilia, we’ll do it for you because we love you, oh we love you so, come for the little kids, come for the poor little kids, it’ll break their hearts if you don’t”. And so I go and we do Wigilia.
But this isn’t about Wigilia because Wigilia is over and now it is just me, mum, Christie and Annabel in Annabel’s kitchen, surrounded by dirty plates and the smell of vinegar.
“Rosie”, says Annabel (7)- who is my cousin- twenty-eight years old but can pass for a child on buses and trains. She’s glamorous in an unwashed, charity shop way. She irons her hair and has a copy of every Vogue since 1990. She keeps them in the bathroom, next to the microwave (8).
“Rosie”, she says, brightly. She made the borscht tonight while grandma hovered around the cooker shouting orders. “Rosie”, she says. “Let’s do you in the book. Come on, let’s cheer you up and do you in the book. It’s Christmas, let’s have some fun”.
The book is a book she got from the bin outside Oxfam (9). This is where she gets everything, including our Christmas presents (Tomorrow I will receive a battered copy of The Da Vinci Code (10)). I was there with her earlier, a detour on the icy (11) journey to Tesco for a nutcracker (12). I held the huge metal barrel steady while she balanced on the rim, on her platform shoes, ignoring the catcalls from passing men in Santa hats, reaching down, hunting for treasure.
“It’s this great book”, she says. “It has your compatibility with everyone based on the day you were born. So you look up your birthday and someone else’s birthday and there’s a page about your relationship. It’s such a good book and so true”.
We do me in the book. The results are unremarkable.
Mum (13) hasn’t spoken for a while. She sits across the table, next to my twelve year old half sister who is drawing circles on the back of an envelope. She sits across the table, wearing a pair of red and green antlers, staring at me. Whenever she’s drunk ---------------------
7 I’ve written about Annabel in the main text because I don’t have any particularly strong feelings for her and the description above is enough.
8. She doesn’t have a microwave in the bathroom- that would just be stupid.
9. She didn’t get it from the bin- I used this as an excuse to mention the bin. She got it from a friend’s mum, years ago.
10. I won’t- it’s just a typical item found in a charity shop bin.
11. Was August so not at all icy.
12. Actually a detour on the way to the off license for wine- why would we need a nutcracker in August?
13. Mum has blonde hair and an angry face. (I’m finding it hard to write ‘the truth’ about her right now (11.45am, 24/12/09) because, this morning, I received a box of presents from her through the post. She wrote my name in felt tip pen with a circle on the ‘i’. She put the stocking that someone made for me once in there and inside were some of her old decorations for my tree, ones I remember from years and years ago, wrapped in crepe paper. When I got it off the postman and brought it inside I jumped up and down.)
Mum has blonde hair and an angry face that sometimes spreads and stretches with joy and she drags you in and holds you too tight, twirling your hair in her fingers, breathing you in and saying “oh, thank God, thank God you’re back with me, do you want a glass of Lambrini?”.
she stares at me, stares at me like she doesn’t know who I am but is certain that I have bad intentions (14).
Mum says: “Did Christie (15) tell you she met Ant and Dec?” I turn to my sister. “No, where did you meet them?” Christie sighs and puts down the pen. “I didn’t even meet them”, she says. “I just saw Dec in Eldon Square.” “What were you doing in Eldon Square?” asks mum through a mouthful of cockles and wine. “My dad was buying Louise’s Christmas present.” “What did he get her?” “Perfume and a dressing gown”, says Christie. Mum laughs- “haha- a dressing gown! What kind?” “A pink one with Eeyore on it.” “Haha! That says a lot about their sex life! Haha!” Christie goes back to her circles and mum goes back to staring.
“I met Ant and Dec too”, I say, “in IKEA (16). In London.” “Oh we’ve all bloody met Ant and Dec, stop showing off”, she says. “I need some music, I need better music than this. I need to sing.”
Mum often threatens to sing but doesn’t always go through with it, like tonight. She sulks in the corner, holding onto the wine bottle incase I make a grab for it and pour it down the sink (17).
Much later (18) when we get home, mum, having drunk four bottles of wine and eight glasses of cherry vodka, is going to mutter “fuckingChristmasfuckingJesus”, collapse on the sofa and refuse to wake up, no matter how many tealights we throw at her (19). Christie will be in a state, crying “oh no! She hasn’t even wrapped the presents yet! Who’s going to wrap the presents?” I will tell her that mum will wrap the presents, she always does, no matter how drunk she is. And I’ll be right- at 4am I’ll be woken up in my makeshift bed in the front room by mum throwing a stocking bulging with walnuts at my head. “Mum?” “Shhhhhhbequietit’sChristmas’----------------
14. This evening at Annabel’s in August was quite a big deal for me and mum- we spoke about the past openly and she admitted that it was wrong to play so much Alanis Morissette in the house when I was a child and also to abandon me in London when I was twelve. (I’m back to writing ‘the truth’ now because when I spoke to mum on the phone last night (30/12/09) I was in the middle of telling her what I did for Christmas and she said “you’re boring me” and then hung up.).
“I’m sorry” she said. “You don’t know how often I cry myself to sleep” “I do” I said. “But I didn’t realise that was because of me. You’ve always cried yourself to sleep. You’ve always cried yourself to everything”. She tried to hug me and kiss my head but it made me itch.
15. Christie started crying and said “And you never take us on holiday and you got all my birthday presents from Woolworths!” Annabel said “you need to sort this out, guys, it’s just not healthy”. (Most of this dialogue is made up).
Christie is all golden hair and puppy fat. She has an unimpressed expression on her face at all times and has recently taken to slathering it with makeup. She is easy to anger and has tantrums that last whole Bank Holiday weekends- standing on the sofa, face bright red, trying to scream- her voice hoarse and thick with snot- no one listening anymore, everyone in another room, shutting themselves away from her strange, sobbing rage.
16. I didn’t ‘meet’ Ant and Dec in IKEA- I just saw Ant, from a distance, by the sofas, it might not have even been him. Also, this conversation never happened- it is a mix of a few. Christie didn’t see Dec in Eldon Square- she saw Michael Owen.
17. I’ve never done this but it is something I have fantasised about.
18. This bit is based on a real Christmas- Christmas 2007.
19. We didn’t throw anything at her. I put this in because, once, a long time ago, I threw a big (scented) candle at my mum when she passed out without making me any dinner.
‘what?”
“shhhhhhnowyou’reawkaehelpmewraptherestofthepresents”
And she’ll bring in pairs of gloves, fluffy socks, a High School Musical t-shirt, some water pistols (?) and two cups of coffee. I’ll sit up in bed, eyes burning, stomach aching from all the fried cheese, sellotape in hand, writing ‘from Santa’ in felt tip on the tags. Mum will sit opposite, telling me to cut the paper properly and hurry up unless I want to ruin Christmas for the poor little kids (20) (21). ---------------------
20 Because as well as my sister there is my fourteen-year-old brother, Caius, who I’ve neglected to mention through this whole thing because he didn’t say or do anything of interest on any of the occasions I’ve drawn on. That is because he is the most agreeable member of the family. He likes omelettes and always smells of summertime.
21 She wrapped them all herself that night, I didn’t help her but saying I did makes me look better. She did hit me in the head with the stocking though.
