I had to write a fictional flat character story about Christmas at the dinner table, for my novel writing course (below). My real Christmas is far from this, but the part about Gwen is fact. My granddad brought his ex alcoholic girlfriend to several of our Christmas lunches.
What's your Christmas lunch/dinner like?
Crisis-mas – Christmas at the Hollander’s House
There was a lot of tradition about this particular Christmas. Grandpa Johno bought along his widowed, alcoholic ex-girlfriend, Gwen, in the company of Grandma Dawn of course. Gwen’s kiss invariably prickled your top lip and her breath tried to suck you back into its dank origins. Meanwhile, two gaping holes in her shawl, where fox eyes had once been, hung suspiciously over her shoulder. Dawn’s violet eyes reassured it would all be over soon.
Johno said the grace, like a praying mantis contemplating his next maneuver. His spindly arms reached out to pat Gwen’s shoulder - caressing Dawn’s warm tar-stained hand under the table.
My sister Sally had yet another baby suckling her breast, her milky white mounds catching the conniving eye of older brother Con, who slunk off into the kitchen to prepare his practical joke – who would get the fish eye this year?
Peter had the look of a sleep-deprived man. Hair fluffed-not brushed and shirt creased from its battle to find space in his wardrobe. Swinging off each arm like incorrigible monkeys were his sons Jake & Tim. Peter looked at the leather recliner, willing an afternoon nap.
Jake’s hair negotiated its own path and came out the side of his hat in tuffs of blonde. Green eyes peeped out beneath the peak and milk teeth beamed from below. Tim banged his spoon down with conviction. His robust body rolling down to his toes, where his ankles disappeared into his squishy baby feet. Johno was still convinced that a rap on the bottom would do no harm. Here comes the ‘when I was a child’ story…
At 22, Simone glowed with summer’s warmth and the promise of bikinis. The novelty of holding a baby for five minutes, giving her a freshness and innocence. She’d had weeks to carefully choose her designer children gifts.
Dad’s face beaded in sweat with a crimson Christmas cracker hat stretched to the limit. His cheeks flecked with sunburn, sweating over the BBQ. His arms thick, tough-skinned and brown – just like the Bratwurst sausages we were about to eat.
Watching Gwen tear open her sausage was a sight to behold. Washing down bloodied Bratwurst and a pinot with undertones of blackberry. Again I felt the warmth of those violet eyes and a subtle wink. How can Dawn put up with this?
Mains over - it was time to exchange gifts. Guaranteed to be 4711 perfume for the girls and Brut for the boys. Two sickly scents that sent your head into a kaleidoscopic spin. Mum was the first to be effusive with her thanks, her brown hair swept sensibly into a bun. Simone started to splash it on her neck and Sally almost intoxicated her sons as she pushed her wrist to their little noses. Con & Mick weren’t so obliging with their Brut but gave Dawn a perfunctory kiss all the same.
Johno’s paper-thin hands, like lanterns swinging in the evening breeze, delicately unraveled the homemade surprise from the children. Behind his severe looking thick wedge frames, a tear escaped. His spindly hands reached out for the well-fed warmth of the toddlers.
Mick and Sonia, my other brother and his wife, presented their triple layered chocolate torte, a likeness to Sonia’s top with its swirls and splodges of brown. Mum predictably asked for a thin sliver as she sat there elegant, poised and proud.
“Anyone for dessert?” Mum chimed. Con looked smug and Mum looked concerned. What if Gwen accidentally got the fish eye? Or was that the plan?
Sally started to splinter when the salmon eye glanced back from her torte. Her brow knotted itself into an ominous scowl and I thought my brother was going to have the same fate as Gwen’s shawl.
Dad saved the day with his insistence of The Twelve Days of Christmas. Mick was ‘five golden rings’ and Simone was ‘nine ladies dancing.’ Mum leapt in before Sally was awarded ‘eight maids are milking.’
As the coffee and chocolates marked the end of another Christmas lunch, Dad jumped on the table, a 6-foot excitable beetroot, ready to commence the traditional Y.M.C.A dance. Over-imbibed on sun and wine. Loud. and colourful. Dad spurted and sprayed the words – spreading Christmas cheer.
Sally stormed off to change baby Christopher’s nappy. Simone sat pouring over her much-coveted C.D. Everyone else propped themselves up on the couch, full to the brim with Christmas cheer and Bratwurst sausages. A gentle breeze from the open door teased Gwen’s whiskers as she slept…
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