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‘Oh come on, we never see you out any more, I only run into you at school’, said Tyla. She was a nice, kind-hearted girl, really fond of Peta, and starting to get a bit worried about her.
‘Thanks, not this time’, came Peta’s dull, increasingly frequent answer. Tyla shrugged, a little sadly.
Christmas, after Peta turned fifteen, was memorable. By then her father and brothers had silently ceded all interest in presents, cards, the entire festive season, to her; it had never really been their thing, and now it was hers alone. Besides continuing at school, Peta had scored a job at the nearby hot bread shop, and she unhesitatingly used most of her wages from this to fund the family Christmas. Beginning round about October she drew up increasingly elaborate charts of people who would receive gifts, what they would get, how much each gift would cost, how to get it to them (post, online or in person), the date of payment and sending and, of course, the right cards to go with them. Even though the family’s social style was low-key, almost restricted, they didn’t really do any entertaining. these months represented a sudden, annual assertion of its continuing presence and connection to others.
And for Christmas Day itself, which was ‘just the four of them, at home’, Peta planned and executed what all now had to recognize was her yearly piece de resistance, her transcendent gift to them. No effort was too great in consulting her father and brothers about their preferences, then placing her own supervisory decisions over the top. Last year, for instance, a sweltering day (and this was forecast accurately weeks before), she presented a cold soup (a variant of gazpacho), duck terrine, rich French and local cheeses, ham, turkey, some seafood from the metropolitan fish market, several salads from exotic locations, along with a berry pudding, German fruit cake, and traditional plum pudding, with cream, custard and brandy cream on the side. After a short interval, tea, coffee, whisky and port were served, with a little Scottish shortbread. All this was proof of some ambition, attempt at sophistication, much skill and great generosity.
Her father mildly wondered at the more exotic items, while enjoying them; this fare was pretty different from what had been served by his old mother or his now-departed wife. Still, if it made Peta happy…
Seemingly it did. The great feast was a triumph, and it delighted her father and brothers to see her so supremely in authority, her cheeks rather flushed of course, but her lustrous brown eyes calmly shining, the smile never leaving her face, where firmly set lips and a furrowed brow were much more usual.
