EDW: Spiderman Of The Caribbean

“There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired.”*

Out and about on Christmas Eve, I was struck by Scott Fitzgerald’s words, not least because I felt I could fit into at least three of those categories. The universe proved relentless, delivering an email from my father, entitled ‘Reconciliation’, to my inbox. What my father means by 'reconciliation' is an email stating he is magnanimously prepared to grant my request to see him when I next visit my mother. Of course, the truth of this is a little different; my mother tells me he’s in a bad way and wants to see me. I say that’s fine with me and she asks for my email address despite not having a computer. His email also says it’s about time we were reconciled. That’s stubborn, self-righteous old bastard speak for ‘I disowned you five years ago and regret it but am too small to say I’m sorry so I’ll make out this was some kind of family feud rather than the childish temper tantrum I threw then compounded by writing you abusive letters and telling you to remove all your possessions from my house despite knowing you had just started a new job and couldn’t take time off.’

His email made vacillate between compassion and rage, sadness and fear. The adult in me can see right through him and I pity him, for he must be broken indeed to carry on as he does. I can think of nothing worse than being so in denial, so unable to manage one’s feelings, that one lashes out indiscriminately, falls out with everyone around one, and ends up ill and alone, a perpetual victim. It saddens me deeply that this man is my father and not once has he told me he is proud of me and that I have done well, and it will never be different, because he cannot be different; change starts with recognition and acceptance, which are both alien to him. I remain an emotional orphan in perpetuity. But the child in me is furious and wounded and deeply afraid of going anywhere near him for fear I am too vulnerable to sustain his guilt-trips, his criticism, his judgement, his disapproval, his negativity, his bitterness and his anger. And I rage at him for not being a father to me, for bestowing a legacy of self-doubt, self-loathing and the belief I have no right to be treated well. Intellectually, I know I am the stronger and wiser one. Emotionally, I am the frightened six-year-old who knows it is all her fault because she is so imperfect and so unlovable.

Man, that’s hard to write…

So I stayed up late, went to bed with head full of unanswered questions, and woke unsure if I was ready for Christmas Day. After three days of (welcome) reflective solitude, I was to journey to The Merchantess’s house, where certain chaos awaited me. For the last few years, I’ve spent this day with my friend, her partner (The Veterinary), their child (Bonzo), their parents, her grandmother and his old school friend. This year, we had the addition of Baby Rasputin, and as Bonzo is now three years old, his excitement about Christmas has increased exponentially.

I always arrive late, and did not disappoint this year. Everyone else was already there so the teasing and japing began immediately. Bonzo was wearing both Spiderman and pirate costumes, and was in a delirium of excitement. The sherry was already open, and the Champagne quickly followed. Then it was time for presents - always amusing as the tradition is to give the cheapest, most unpleasant crap one can find in the charity shop, before revealing the true gift. I made a point of giving back all the shite I’ve been given over the last couple of years, including a Huey Lewis and The News video, a very ancient, half-used bottle of Yardley Freesia talcum powder, the ugliest candle in Christendom, and a 2005 Bexhill-On-Sea diary. In return, I am now the owner of a golden fish ornament of the type found in dodgy Chinese takeaways. Lovely.

After such silliness, we sat down to lunch – the table laid for nine, with festive, red napkins and golden crackers. The Veterinary undercooked the sprouts so no one was able to spear them with a fork. Instead, they ricocheted around the table providing much mirth. And Mother Merchantess laced the Christmas pudding and the custard with enough over-proof Trinidadian rum to launch a space shuttle, leaving us all rather groggy by the time we’d had seconds. But it was a magnificent feast of roast British beef with all the trimmings, and every plate was clean.

The afternoon passed in a haze of good cheer, and more than once, I noted with sadness that enjoying such a traditional family Christmas was only possible for me if I spent it with someone else’s family. True, it was noisy and exhausting, but it was also warm, humourous and full of love. I adore The Merchantess, and I hold her family in great affection but I also realise that they are all rather fond of me – as their practical joking demonstrated. I drove home that evening with a long string of cardboard tubes, taken from the insides of the crackers, attached to the back of my car with string. And as the sprouts worked their magic, I giggled and farted my way home, the sight of those tubes flapping behind the rear windscreen a jolly reminder of what had passed.

Back in the stillness of Chez Glamour, I opened my presents, marvelled at the loveliness of my friends, and called my mother, which was when the shine started to come off the day. I don’t know what’s going on with my mother, but the conversations of reciprocity, honesty and balance that we enjoyed earlier in the year have reverted to the old conversations, or rather monologues, where she talks at me, asks no questions, doesn’t engage with what I say, and leaves me feeling more alone than ever. I used up some gift vouchers and spent more money than I should have on an expensive bottle of Chanel perfume for her. You’d think I’d sent her a parsnip for all the impact that gesture seems to have had on her – something I remember from childhood. My mother receives gifts casually, leaving one feeling guiltily sure one has missed the point, got it wrong, failed, somehow, to please. As she had asked for perfume, and had expressed the desire to try the one I sent, I am at a loss to know where I went wrong. But loss is what I felt, as the warmth of the day faded to reveal the cool dysfunction of my own family. Does one ever become more resilient?

* From The Great Gatsby