Arthur

Boxing Day, 1973

Arthur sits at the end of his bed, tying his shoelaces. He is taking his time. He’s had a quiet morning listening to the radio and treating himself to a chapter or two of his new book: a thoughtful Christmas gift from his nephew - the life of Alexander the Great. But now, he must get himself ready to go over to his sister’s house for Boxing Day. It’s a tradition that has been going on for more years than he cares to remember. Having no children of his own, and living by himself, he’s viewed by his sister as one of the poor “waifs and strays” that she likes to invite over at Christmas time. It is kind of her, he thinks, and he really should not be so ungrateful, and yet…well, he’d rather not go. His sister, Linda, is a decent enough woman, but her husband, Colin, is a dreadful bore. He sighs. If he leaves now, he should be there just on 3pm, the time he as been summoned to arrive. Linda has a thing about punctuality, so he will leave in good time, in order not to offend. He checks himself in the mirror to ensure his tie is straight and that the “little dab of Brylcream” has done the job. He sighs again. He picks up the gifts he has bought for his sister and brother-in-law: Antonia Fraser’s biography of Oliver Cromwell for Linda (a safe bet), and An Evening with Mantovani LP for Colin. He knows that Colin enjoys Mantovani’s music (not Arthur’s cup of tea, but horses for courses and all that), so he hopes Colin doesn’t have that particular record. He’s made an effort to wrap both gifts, but they both look somewhat inelegant. He’s sure that Linda will be displeased by his ham-fisted attempt, and he will no doubt be on the receiving end of one of her arched eyebrows. No matter. Three hours and it will all be over for another year. As he collects his car keys and heads for the front door, he wonders why he puts himself through this gauntlet every year;  why he does not find some excuse not to attend? He thinks of his parents, who would be sad to see how their children have become distant from each other. His father, he recalls, was none too enamoured with Colin, finding his brash personality tiresome. Still, he let Linda make her choice and then let her be. Arthur has taken the same approach, always staying in regular touch with his sister, but keeping her at arm’s length. He likes his nephew, Andrew, though. Linda and Colin’s son has turned into a decent young lad, almost in spite of his parents. He reminds Arthur of his father: kind and thoughtful, a quiet introvert. He’s a little disappointed that Andrew will not be home today, but he’s spending Boxing Day with friends, and Arthur can understand that. He turns into the cul-de-sac where Linda and Colin have a three-bedroom pseudo-Tudor detached house: far grander and more spacious than his own 1930s bungalow. He gathers his thoughts, parks the car and rings the door bell. 

A tinny, unmelodic version of the Westminster chimes responds. Arthur takes a deep breath and puts on his best smile. “Oh, there you are,” trills Linda , air-kissing him on both cheeks, “how lovely to see you.” “Merry Christmas,” Arthur replies, and steps into the hall, untangling himself from his coat and gloves. “Oh, there you are,” repeats Colin, shaking Arthurs hand with the enthusiasm of a new vicar, “Come in, come in, great to see you.” Arthur follows the couple into their living room. “Can I get you a drink?” asks Colin. “A cup of tea would be lovely”, Arthur replies, settling himself on the over-stuffed leather sofa. “Something stronger, surely?” insists Colin, “After all, it’s cocktail-o’clock in some part of the Empire, eh?” Arthur does his best to maintain his Christmas-cheer smile, and as politely as he can, repeats the request for a cup of tea. “Fine,” says Linda , somewhat tersely, and goes to the kitchen to put the kettle on. “So, how are you both?” Arthur ventures. “Oh, stock market’s a disaster. Unions up in arms, of course. And this three-day-week, well, who’s to say where it will end. Heath will have to up his game and no mistake, can’t let the miners call the shots…” Arthur’s mind starts to wander as Colin continues his monologue. He wonders where his cup of tea is, and considers going to help in the kitchen. He watches the minutes tick by on the brass carriage clock on the mantlepiece, nodding in agreement from time to time to show he is following along. He’s already uncomfortable: he feels himself sliding gradually off the shiny surface of the sofa, and shifts to gain a better purchase. Thankfully, Colin’s lecture comes to an abrupt end as Linda brings in the tea things. “I think we’ll go for an early dinner if that’s alright with you, Arthur,” says Linda , pouring the tea, “I expect you’ll want to be back on the road while there is less traffic.” Arthur takes his tea and mutters agreement. The best way to save face in this situation, he thinks to himself, is to keep the lower half of it shut. Linda scurries back to the kitchen to finish the dinner preparations, dismissing Arthur’s offer of help with a raised eyebrow and a look of puzzlement. Colin continues his diatribe about all things politics, whilst Arthur focuses on his (delicious!) cup of tea, planting his feet firmly on the floor to avoid further slippage. As Colin drones on like a headmaster on Speech Day, Arthur realises that he is rapidly losing purchase. He stands up, gripping his cup and saucer for dear life, and moves over to the patio doors, feigning interest in the garden beyond. “Your holly tree is looking quite spectacular, so many berries this year,” he gushes, rather too enthusiastically. Colin looks bemused, but picks up the thread. “Ah, yes, I find that if I give it a good prune in April they do much better. Berries only form on the female trees, of course, so there must be a male tree somewhere in the neighbourhood as it has to be close enough for the bees to pollinate…” Arthur doesn’t hear much more of Colin’s thoughts on all things Ilex, as he is desperately thinking of something else to chat about. He is saved by Linda , who, ringing her ceramic dinner bell, chirps, “The meal is on the table.” 

It’s quite the spread: generous slices of cold turkey and ham, mashed potatoes, roast parsnips, peas and Linda ’s pièce de résistance: salad Niçoise, a bizarre (in Arthur’s mind, anyway) combination of boiled eggs, tomatoes, olives and anchovies. “Now, this is the salad that we had in Malaga in June,”recalls Colin, “Marvellous little restaurant on the sea front, cheap as chips. Can I tempt you to a glass of Liebfraumilch?” Colin holds up the bottle of Blue Nun like a sporting trophy. “Yes, thank you Colin, just a small one.” Colin ignores this direction and fills Arthur’s glass almost to the brim. Arthur makes no comment, and passes the potatoes. The meal continues without incident. Colin keeps a running commentary on the superiority of British food compared to Spanish fare, although he concedes that the salad Niçoise is “not bad at all.” Linda chats about Andrew’s university studies, (justly) proud of her sons achievements. Arthur listens quietly, sipping his wine, and nibbling at his food. He declines another helping of turkey, insisting that he would like to keep a little space for Linda ’s wonderful dessert: a magnificent Black Forest gateau. Linda ’s creation is in three glorious layers, decorated with whole cherries, cream and grated chocolate. Arthur is served a generous portion that he devours more greedily than he feels he ought. He scrapes the last crumbs off his plate, prompting another raised eyebrow from Linda . Without speaking, she cuts him another slice. Colin smiles approvingly, congratulating his wife: “Well, you have outdone yourself this time, my dear!” Arthur has his mouth full, but nods heartily in agreement. “Anyone for coffee?” asks Linda. 

As coffee is served, gifts are exchanged. Arthur feels his face reddening as he hands over the misshapen packages. In return, Linda passes him a beautifully wrapped gift. Colin is clearly pleased with his LP and puts it on straight away; Mantovani’s over-produced strings plink-plunk wistfully in the background. The Cromwell history is also a hit: Linda has not read it, but she “adores” Antonia Frazer, and kisses Arthur’s cheek in thanks. Arthur carefully removes the paper and ribbon from his gift, to reveal two hard-backed books: The Rachel Papers and The Honorary Consul. “I know you love Grahame Greene,” Linda explains,  “and Andrew says that Amis is quite the up-and-coming author and he thinks you’ll like him.” Arthur is quite taken aback, genuinely pleased and grateful, but also beyond surprised that his sister would take such trouble to find him books that she knows he will enjoy. He finishes his coffee and thanks his hosts for a lovely afternoon, gathers his belongings, and takes his leave. 

He decides to take a longer route home, giving himself time to reflect and collect his thoughts. Colin, he thinks, is still quite the bore, but he’s friendly and welcoming. Not only did Linda go out of her way to provide a delicious and tasty meal, but she also ensured, by checking with her son, that Arthur’s Christmas gift was exactly what would have chosen himself. Perhaps he has been too harsh on Colin and Linda , too quick to judge, too critical in his assessment of their lives? And perhaps Andrew is the apple that has not fallen that far from the tree, after all.