After a few minutes, Dad’s even more frustrated.

‘I can’t get a bloody word of this,’ he says. ‘I need a drink.’

‘Maybe it’s better if you read the rules, Grace,’ Tom says. ‘I’m clearly not doing a great job of it. I’ll help your dad with the drinks.’

As Tom leaves the room, Mum and I try to decipher the rules of the game with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

A minute or so later, we hear raised voices and banging. Mum and I look at each other, then get up and rush into the kitchen, where we find Dad pinning Tom up against the radiator, before he lands a punch on his face.

‘Dad!’ I yell, before a second punch lands. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’

I rush over to Tom, checking his face.

I look at my dad, his eyes full of rage, and in that moment I feel like I don’t know him anymore.

15

I spend the whole journey home mortified. Hurt. Broken. I’ve never seen Dad behave like that before. It was like a switch had flipped. I know he’s been upset over the situation with Nan, and Christmas can often be like a tinderbox at the best of time, but none of that excuses what he did. Not by a long stretch.

‘Are you going to tell me what the hell happened?’ I ask Tom once we’re back in the car.

‘It’s nothing,’ he says. ‘I probably deserved it.’

‘What did you say to him? Why did he hit you?’

‘I don’t know. We were talking about your mum and her funny turn. I was worried about her. I mentioned that she was taking too much on and probably needed to see a doctor. Your dad said not to be so ridiculous and that it was Christmas. I was just concerned about her, that’s all. She wasn’t standing up for herself, and I felt that someone needed to defend her and look out for her. He wasn’t.’

‘Did you tell him that?’

‘Not in so many words. I think he took it as if I was blaming him or something. I don’t think I crossed a line, but maybe he saw it differently. Maybe I didn’t put it across in the best way. He’s obviously really worried about her too.’

‘That’s no excuse for hitting you, Tom,’ I say.

By the time we get home, my jaw aches from how heavily I’ve been grinding my teeth. My chest is tight and all I can think of is how angry and disgusted I am with him. Sure, Tom wasn’t exactly an angel, but he was Mother fucking Teresa compared to the way Dad reacted.

Tom, bless him, jumped straight to Dad’s defence and tried to excuse what had happened. Not in front of him, of course. That would have been too awkward. But in the car on the way back, and now that we’re home, he’s been trying to play it down. It isn’t working.

‘Let’s just try not to let it ruin Christmas, alright?’ he says as I fumble with the key to unlock the front door. I’m still shaking with rage.