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The house feels oddly empty, a mouth with missing teeth. Christmas was a whirl of daughters re-establishing residence. The spacious elegance of post-family life vanished. The spare room was once more Susie’s domain; the absent lodger’s kit was stuffed in a wardrobe as Ellie re-occupied her territory; the front attic I used as a walk-in wardrobe overflowed with Tilly’s clothes again. I trembled for the peaceful back attic I now regard as ‘my’ bedroom, but Daisy nobly settled for a mattress on Ellie’s floor.
It wasn’t just the rooms that reverted to childhood use. In a tidal wave of willing helpfulness, all the little domestic improvements I had effected since the girls left home were reversed. Knives returned to the drawer they always used to be in, dishes were stacked in their old-remembered order, my favourite mugs disappeared faster than you could say ‘sleepy-time tea’. It will take hours of the vital domestic ordering I call ‘putting’ to get things back to normal.
But I have a very good reason for not objecting in the slightest. This festive season has been the most relaxed ever, thanks to a classic seasonal injury. I had arranged a birthday treat for a friend – plaza seats for the Lord of the Rings. The prelude was to be a glass of fizz before we went. But time was short and the cork recalcitrant. I yanked with determination – and then, to my horror, I was staring at a pool of champagne, a broken bottleneck and a remarkable slash through the web between the finger and thumb of my left hand, which had been clutching the bottle.
Girl Guide training came to the fore. I thrust it under a cold water tap, soused it in Savlon, and told Martin where he could find a clean napkin. He tied it around the hand so effectively that I thought we might make the movie. But a spreading red stain on the white cloth dispelled any such illusion.
I have never gone through Casualty so fast – the receptionist ran ahead of me, turning round to fill in my details as she went. Someone said ‘Bring on the cavalry’; the world wobbled. I will draw a veil over the next few hours and cut to pallid hearth goddess home again and settled in front of the fire with a whisky, the little severed artery tied off, and her beslinged left hand useless ‘for at least ten days’.
Next day, as the house filled up with friends and family, I began to panic. It’s amazing how necessary a left hand is. Thanks to our day trip to Rouen, presents were not a problem. But wrapping them was, I realised as I struggled madly to tie ribbon with one hand and my chin.
The door opened and an accusing face looked round. ‘Stop doing that, Ma. WE are taking over.’ And they did. The tree was decorated, presents wrapped, vegetables prepared, stuffings made, bottles opened (expertly, thanks to years of holiday waitressing jobs). They even said afterwards that it was a very good thing to understand how much preparation was needed. All those chilly dawns slaving away alone at the thousand and one little things the mother of a large family does in preparation for The Day began to seem a little silly. Why on earth hadn’t I learned helplessness sooner?
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