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I'm writing these in a non sequencial order, trying to find a place or a voice in the story which 'hooks' me, and perhaps I wont… so far I'm not.
The other two pieces are here 1, and here 2
My grandmother fell forwards onto the table, her face straight into her bowl of Christmas pudding. I’d made it two months before, in Somerset. It hadn’t been kept long enough, I knew that. Christmas Puddings need a year to mature. I wondered about the brandy butter smearing into Bonma’s nose. We all sat there and watched her. Maybe only for a moment, I don’t know but it seemed like a long time before anyone of us did anything.
- Margaret, my mother said. – Margaret, she said again.
There was no movement from Margaret. I had no thoughts in my head, none whatsoever. I stared and we all stared and then we all stood up at once and my mother went to her but Michael and I didn’t. I felt like I was asleep and dreaming and I wanted to laugh because it was funny, my lump of a grandmother who I could hardly think of as a ‘grandmother’, there she was, this woman who was in our lives although none of us wanted her there, her face in the Christmas pudding. My mother pulled her up, held her thick and bosomy weight in her arms.
- Get some water, she said to Michael, still holding her but then the bench Margaret was sitting on rocked back and they both fell on the floor with a great crash, the plate of margaret’s pudding falling to the floor as my mother flung her arm out trying to steady herself. The two of them lay on their backs, legs and arms splayed out like overturned bugs. A raisin was stuck to Margaret’s greasy brandybutter covered cheek. It looked like a beauty spot.
- Help me up for Christ’s sake.
Michael came over and pulled the bench off of them. Margaret did not move, but her rheumy eyes were open, staring at the ceiling and then she blinked.
- What about my present? She asked.
My mother stood up, pulled Margaret to her feet.
- Stop that, stop that, what are you doing?
- You fell, my mother mouthed at her.
- I did not.
- Are you alright?
- I can’t hear you. Stop mouthing at me.
My mother wrote are you alright on the bottom of a paper napkin. The napkin was white, it wasn’t Christmasy. I was sad about that. I wanted red and green and I wanted crackers but we couldn’t afford those. My mother handed the napkin to my grandmother.
- I don’t have my glasses.
Her glasses were sitting in front of her on the table and my mother pointed at them.
- Those are not my glasses.
My mother picked them up and unfolded them, handed them to her.
- I told you those are not my glasses.
My mother put them down. Ran her hands through her hair.
Michael picked up the glasses and gave them to Margaret.
- Oh you are such a dear, thank you, where did you find them? she said, putting them on and picking up the napkin my mother had written on.
- Of course I’m alright. What is all this mess on the table?
You fell into your pudding, my mother wrote on the napkin.
- I did not.
My mother sighed, went to the sink. She took a dish towel hanging from the Rayburn and put it under the tap, wrung it out and brought it to Margaret.
- What’s that?
- To wipe your face, my mother mouthed.
- My face is just fine.
- You’ve got pudding all over it, she mouthed again.
- I do not. Stop mouthing at me. And where is my pudding? Why didn’t I get any? Everyone else has pudding. I want my pudding.
Michael sat down. I felt a bit sick so I just stood there.
- Well. Here it is if you need it, said my mother, putting the cloth on the table next to Margaret.
- That’s disgusting. Take it away. Where’s my pudding? What’s all this mess?
My mother looked at me and then at Michael and then she went to the studio where the telephone was. I walked to the door to listen.
- Yes. Please. That would be great. I know, it’s a bad time. Sorry. Thanks so much.
- What’s going on? What’s all this fuss about? Margaret said to Michael.
- You fell, he mouthed. He looked normal but I could tell he wasn’t.
- You are all ganging up against me. How dare you. I’m fed up. After all I’ve done.
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