Bah Bloody Humbug

My 3-year old daughter

So the day after tomorrow is Christmas Day and I've done nothing, zilch, bugger all towards the celebrations. I'm not sure if it's increasing age or increasing bah humbug syndrome that makes the season seem much less exciting than it use to be. Granted my boys are grown but haven't yet blessed me with grandchildren, so there are no squeals of 'he's been, he's been' and no three inch deep layers of wrapping paper across the carpet - maybe that's the problem?

I think though that my dissatisfaction with the festivities dates back to the mid-seventies when I 'gave up' my daughter. My marriage had disintegrated and I was left alone with my three-year old. We went to live with my parents but there were 'issues' and so I took my daughter to stay with her father for a while. He was living with his mum but he had a girlfriend (his secretary!).

I can clearly remember the day.

I took my daughter upstairs, dressed her in her favourite clothes and collected her belongings into a couple of carrier bags. Then, playing the silence game, putting my finger against my lips and miming for her to shush as if I were a pantomime dame, we crept back downstairs. 

“Ssh, don’t let nanny hear,” I whispered. 

The house we lived in

The buggy was by the front door, where I had left it in readiness and, still playing the silent game, I picked it up, took Jo by the hand, and left. It must have been about half-past-eleven, certainly no later than midday.

We had to run for the bus. If I missed the one I could see in the distance, there wouldn’t be another one for thirty-five minutes and I didn’t want to wait that long – to do so would give me a chance to change my mind. I didn't drive back then, so my daughter was used and this  sudden journey didn’t seem out of the ordinary to her. We sat on her favourite long seat at the front of the bus and made up stories about the other passengers; giving them far more exciting lives than the ones they probably lived.

My baby's father, my soon-to-be ex-husband, lived with his parents on the council estate next to ours and the journey took no more than fifteen minutes; no sooner had we sat down and made ourselves comfortable, than it was time to get off again.

Once off the bus, with my in-law’s house in sight at the top of the hill, my stomach did a sort of jig before contracting into a tight ball somewhere up in my throat. I put my daughter in her buggy as calmly as I could with shaking fingers and wobbly knees.  It took me ages to strap her in safely because my limbs seemed to have developed a life independent of me. 

Determined not to cry, and upset her, I talked to my daughter in that silly sing-songy voice we put on when speaking to children - they must hate it. I kept my eyes from spilling over though.

We walked up the hill towards the in-law’s house and down the path to the front door. I willed myself to ring the bell and I knew there was no turning back. 

My mother-in-law answered, looking down her nose at me as usual. There had never been much love lost between us; probably something to do with the fact that I had taken the last of her three sons away from her.  She was half-Italian and a true Italian mama.  

I had really put the kibosh on any friendliness between us during a row about maintenance. She had called me a whore; a flighty trollop who didn’t deserve any money, despite the fact that I had a baby daughter to care for. The row  ended when, in pure frustration, I hurled a bowl of oranges at her.  I might have just got away with that but I couldn't get away from the fact that my father-in-law took my side.  He ordered ma-in-law to make me a cup of tea because I was, in his words, upset.  That went down like a lead fart. 

Anyway, back to the morning in question.

“Is Pete there?”

“Why, watcha want him for?”

“I just need to speak to him. Can you get him please?”

I could hear the quaver in my voice and feel the blood draining from my face. The smile I was trying to paste on never made it to my lips, I'm sure of it. Despite my obvious need to speak to my still-husband, the old bitch made no move to get him.

“Please, get him.” 

Even to my own ears I sounded pathetic.  God, I was begging, I don't do begging. She looked down her hawkish nose at me before huffing loudly and disappearing into the house. She didn’t invite me in, I was definitely unwelcome around these parts.

My husband eventually came to the door and I clearly remember, even then, just feeling so full of despairing love for him. It was to be a long time before I stopped yearning for him. This man was my best and only friend, the person who had helped me to fight my demons since I was fifteen years old. He had always been on my side, we had confronted life together yet now, when I faced the most momentous decision I would ever make, he wasn’t there for me. He couldn’t be there for me; he was somebody else’s ally now.

He looked at me quizzically.

“I need you to have her,” I told him, “until I can sort us out somewhere to live.”

He didn’t argue, didn’t say he couldn’t, didn’t say he wouldn’t, didn’t ask why; just nodded his head and stood back to let Jo waddle past him into the house. As far as she was concerned, she was visiting her nanny; mummy would pick her up later as usual. Her pain and confusion when mummy didn’t come is too painful to think about, even now. I handed over the two small carrier bags that contained her clothes, turned quickly and walked back up the path and down the hill to the bus stop.

This must have happened around October time and that Christmas was bloody awful.  My daughter never did come back to live with me and we are estranged to this day.  We have the occasional rapprochement when we try to be the mum and daughter we long to be but it never lasts for long. 

And to this day I bloody hate Christmas.