One More for Christmas

Liza’s younger brother, Matt, had seemed less troubled by the lack of parental involvement, lost in his teenage boy’s world of sport. His view of the world and life had always been smaller than hers, his gaze focused on the next game, or the next meal, while Liza had thought about her mother exploring the desert in Tunisia on the back of a camel and wondered why she needed her world to be so large, and why it needed to exclude her family.

Was it those constant absences that had turned Liza into such a home-lover? She’d chosen teaching as a career because the hours and holidays fitted with having a family. When her own children were young she’d stayed home, taking a break from her career. When they’d started school she’d matched her hours to theirs, taking pleasure and pride in the fact that she took them to school and met them at the end of the day. She’d been determined that her children wouldn’t have to endure the endless goodbyes that she’d had as a child.

She rarely left them alone—which was another reason she was feeling so uneasy right now.

Sean was chatting to her mother, the pair of them making tea together as if this was a regular visit.

Liza glanced around her, dealing with the dawning realization that clearing out this house would be a monumental task. Over the years her mother had filled it with memorabilia and souvenirs from her travels, from seashells to tribal masks. And maps. There were maps everywhere—on the walls and piled high in all the rooms. Her mother’s diaries and other writing filled two dozen large boxes in the attic, and her photograph albums were crushed onto shelves in Liza’s father’s study.

When he’d died, five years before, Liza had suggested clearing the room out, but her mother had refused. “I want it to stay as it is. You know I don’t like tidy spaces. A home should be an adventure. You never know what forgotten treasure you might stumble over.”

Stumble over and break an ankle, Liza had thought in despair. It was an interesting way of reframing mess.

Before her mother could sell this place it would need to be cleared, and no doubt Liza would be the one to do it.

When was the right time to broach the subject? Not yet. They’d only just walked through the door. She needed to keep the conversation neutral.

“The garden is looking pretty.”

The kitchen’s French doors opened onto the patio, where the borders were filled with tumbling flowers. Pots filled with herbs crowded around the back door. Rosemary, with its scented spikes. Variegated sage, which her mother sprinkled over roast pork every Sunday—the only meat she ever produced with enthusiasm. The flagstone path was dappled by sunlight and led to the well-stocked vegetable patch, and beyond that a pond guarded by bulrushes. Beyond the garden were fields, and then the sea.

It was so tranquil and peaceful that for a moment Liza longed for a different life—one that didn’t involve rushing around, ticking off items from her endless to-do list.

Her quiet fantasy of one day living in the country was something she’d shared with no one, not even Sean. Probably because she recognized it as a fantasy rather than a reality. Living in the country wasn’t practical. For a start, Sean’s work was based in London. So was hers. Although teaching was more flexible, of course.

Sean brought the food in from the car and Liza unpacked it into the fridge.

“I had a casserole in the freezer, so I brought that,” she said. “And some veg.”

“I’m perfectly capable of making food,” said her mother.

“Your idea of food is bacon and cereal. You’re not eating properly.” She filled a bowl with fresh fruit and shot her mother a look. “I assumed you weren’t set up for an invasion of people.”

“Can two people be an invasion?” Her mother’s tone was light, but she gripped the edge of the kitchen table and carefully lowered herself into a chair.

Liza was by her side in a moment. “Maybe I should take a look at your head.”

“No one else is touching my head, thank you. It already hurts quite enough. Five stitches. The young doctor who stitched me up warned me that it would leave a scar, and apologized. As if I’m bothered by things like that at my age.”

Age.

Was this the moment to mention that it was time to consider a change?

Across the kitchen, Sean was pouring the tea.

Liza paused, nervous about disturbing the atmosphere. She should probably wait until her brother arrived. They could do it together.

“You must have been very frightened,” she said.

“I was more worried about Popeye. You know how he dislikes strangers. He must have escaped through the broken window and I haven’t seen him since.”

“He’s always been a bit of a wanderer.”

“Yes. That’s probably why we get on so well. We understand each other.”

Her mother looked wistful and Liza patted her hand. “If he’s not back by the morning Matt wil

l search for him. And now I think you should have a lie-down.”