Christmas Stocking/Sister To The Bride

These stories were first published in the STORYCUTS series by Transworld Digital 2011

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Christmas got off to the worst possible start this year, with Audrey the telephonist getting tight at our office party and telling me a few home truths.

‘It’s no good you making eyes at Mr Blantyre any more,’ she said, ‘he’s just told me he likes you, but he doesn’t fancy you. He’s a legs man, you see.’

I did see – only too well. With legs like mine, how could I expect Mr Blantyre or anyone else to fall in love with me? My face is all right and my figure’s not bad, but my legs are terrible. As my brother Matthew said, ‘Old Caroline doesn’t have ankles – just calves all the way down.’

Christmas, too, with all its togetherness and compulsory goodwill is the worst possible time to be unhappy in love. I’d hate to be on my own, but even in the bosom of one’s family, it’s a pretty lethal brand of loneliness if there’s no special man to love you.

The bosom of my family this year consisted of my mother and father, my sister who’s still at school, and my brother, who had written at the last moment to say he’d be arriving the night before Christmas Eve and would be bringing two friends (sex unspecified). Finally, to round off the party there was my Aunt Gertrude, a big bossy schoolmistress, whose mind is as narrow as her beam is broad. She treats us like the Upper Fourth.

We live in a Victorian house on the edge of the Yorkshire moors, and I got home from the office party to find it completely transformed. Great banks of holly and spruce softened the tall, angular rooms, and in the drawing room glittered a huge Christmas tree. Mistletoe hung in a cluster from the hall light, but alas I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to kiss me under it.

My father and sister had already left to meet my brother’s train from London, and I was just combing my hair and pulling a pair of long black boots over my fat legs, when I heard Conrad, our border terrier, barking and a car drive up. My mother rushed out to meet it.

‘Matthew, darling – you’ve grown a moustache,’ she cried, hugging my brother and leaving flour marks all over his smart, dark blue coat. My brother was rather sheepishly helping a girl out of the car. With her tight curls, heavily blacked eyes, red shiny mouth, and sideboards of pink rouge, she looked like a blonde golliwog. She was wearing a squashy, blonde fur coat.

‘This is Anthea,’ he said.

I was so busy gaping at this apparition and her vast quantities of luggage, that at first I didn’t notice the other man with them. His black hair was tousled, and there was a glazed expression on his pale green face. He swayed slightly.

‘Jamie’s not very well,’ said my brother. ‘He’s just getting over a vicious bout of red ’flu, and I’m afraid he got up too soon.’

‘Poor lamb,’ said my mother, all sympathy. ‘He must go straight to bed. There’s a nice fire in his bedroom.’ And putting her arm around the young man she steered him gently upstairs.