A Fragile Web of Secrets and Lies
Not all memories are good, and some secrets refuse to stay hidden #1 of 6
CW: cursory mention of intimacy
“When can we get the tree down from the loft Mama?” I asked excitedly.
“I’ve bought a new one,” my mother told me, producing a long, slim cardboard box.
She left me to assemble the tree while she climbed the ladder to fetch the decorations. The new tree was constructed of dark green tinsel twined around stiff wire branches. In a tiny plastic baggie were red rubber tips, but only enough for some of the branches.
“To represent berries,” my mother suggested.
“That’s unrealistic, holly has berries, not pine trees.”
And so began my hatred of artificial trees. Looking back, they represented everything typical of the 1970s, when industry’s goal seemed to be making everything from artificial substances. With nylon sheets and clothes made of synthetic fibres, maybe we could forgo the fairy lights and just hold hands around the tree crackling with static.
Trees weren’t artificial in Christmas films. A trip to the forest to select and cut down a tree, then bring it home to trim, looked fun. But my mother stood her ground over the years, continuing to fetch the tinsel-trimmed monstrosity from the loft. The tree got progressively straggly, the red add-on berries a distant memory, and the stand lost one foot.
Moving my stuff into the flat had only taken a few boxes and two suitcases. Jimmy had brought less stuff, but with the old colour TV to collect from his uncle Bill and his sister Vi knowing someone who was selling a chrome and dralon lounge set, he put down the seats to make two journeys in his car.
While I waited for the shop to deliver our double bed, I was unpacking china that needed washing immediately — the newspaper I’d wrapped it with had made inky smudges.
I’d woken the previous night with the strangest feeling; not my usual fretful dreams of too much to do and not enough time, or leaving something vital behind. I’d had a sense of something more menacing, a dark secret weaving tendrils I couldn’t escape, that made me anxious and breathless. I’d woken in a sweaty tangle of bedlinen, then couldn’t get back to sleep, my mind churning with big thoughts, on my last night under my parents’ roof.
It seemed an exciting caper to move in with my boyfriend. We hadn’t known each other quite a year, weren’t married or engaged, but suddenly society was embracing a new ‘normal’. Jimmy’s parents were overbearing. They were nice enough to me but his dad could be hectoring and his mother was a nag, keeping her house uncomfortably neat. Once Jimmy had found a job, finding our own place had become the centre of our dreams.
I’d left college, and got a job as a teaching assistant at a local junior school. Now I was bringing in a steady wage too.
There was a knock at the door and I set down the cut glass fruit bowl that was a legacy from my Granny, and went to answer it. Then I stood back and watched two burly men wrestle the mattress of our new bed up the narrow staircase.
“There’s a drink in it for you if you assemble it,” I flashed a winning smile.
A few minutes later the two parts of the divan were bolted together and the headboard screwed on. I couldn’t wait to dress it with the bedding I’d bought in a sale, I’d got a bargain on the continental quilt and cover. Jimmy’s mum had gifted us two packs of pillows.
The rest of the bedroom was bare; Without a cupboard or drawers. But I’d been given two folding tables for either side of the bed. The tiled Victorian fireplace was boarded up, a restoration project I intended to tackle soon.
“Nora!” Jimmy called as he unlocked the front door. “Did it arrive?”
I hurried to the top of the stairs with a grin on my face. “Yes, come and see.”
He admired our bed, and the plump inviting pillows, then turned a wicked expression my way.
“Eeek, no! We’ve got so much to do,” I protested, as he wrestled me until we tumbled onto the covers, kissing and touching without fear of interruption.
“Our own place, at last!” Jimmy exclaimed, stepping into his jeans after our quickie.
“And just in time for Christmas,” I agreed, pulling my jumper over my head.
I followed Jimmy as he surveyed the empty rooms, with their jazzy carpet and faded curtains.
“We should get a tree,” he said, “make it look less bare.”
“Great idea, please let’s have a real one.” He knew my views on fake trees.
“Sure, I know a bloke. He drinks in the Nag’s Head.”
I was a little disappointed Jimmy was going out again, but I consoled myself there was a lot to sort out, unpacking boxes and finding places for all our things.
Several hours later Jimmy let himself in, a little worse for wear. While he’d been acquiring a tree off the back of a lorry, I’d stored crockery and pans in kitchen cupboards, put toiletries on the tiny bathroom shelf and arranged my few treasures on the mantelpiece. I’d flattened the cardboard boxes and moved our suitcases into the loft.
That’s where I’d found a box of frosted baubles left behind by a previous owner. I intended to add them to the Santas I’d bought cheaply on impulse — strange plastic things with babyish faces and white beards, wearing a red fabric hat.
We untied the tree, releasing a delicious pine fragrance, but it was sadly a little lop-sided.
“What d’you expect this close to Crishmash?” Jimmy slurred. “All uh best ‘uns are gone!”
I supposed it could work if we turned the short branches towards the corner. Using the brand-new red bucket I’d bought for mopping the floor, we got the tree standing upright and ready to decorate.
“Want something to eat?” I’d been so busy, I hadn’t thought about food, or that I would need to prepare it.
“S’all right, I ‘ad somethin’ down the rubba.”
Proof, if I needed it, that Jimmy was drunk; his Cockney roots were showing.
I crossed the landing to the kitchen, put some bread in the toaster, then sliced some cheese and warmed the grill. I flipped the switch on our new plastic kettle, he’d never say no to a cup of tea. Returning to the living room I found Jimmy asleep in the chair, his head lolled to one side.
Must’ve been some tough haggling, I thought, retreating to watch over my cheese on toast. As I brushed past Jimmy’s coat, hung beside mine on the hooks, a crumpled envelope fell from the pocket. I bent to pick it up.
It was addressed to Jimmy Mason. Inside was a square Christmas card, one of those olde England winter scenes with people skating on a frozen lake. As cold and icy as my heart felt when I read the words inside:
“Made a new start? It won’t last.
One way or another, I’m going to get you…”
Oh Jimmy, what have you done?
I clutched the card to my chest, where my heart beat like a bass drum. My thoughts went wild until my nose caught a whiff of burning toast, then I hurried to remove it from under the grill. I guess Jimmy thought he’d moved away from the heat too.
What kind of trouble was he in, and would he confide in me?
This 6 part mini series first appeared on Medium, hosted by
Rubba Dub is Cockney rhyming slang for pub
Image by Victoria on Pixabay
Whoa…what a build up!! Wouldn’t have expected how this first part was going to end!!