20

Judith

Patricia answered the door wearing an ill-fitting nylon dress in emerald green, her hands and neck bedecked with costume jewellery. She looks like a Christmas tree, thought Judith. They gave each other an awkward, unenthusiastic gesture of a hug – because it’s Christmas. But seeing as Judith and Patricia never did hugs, it was more of a feeble tap on the back.

Inside, they exchanged gifts. Judith had bought Patricia a wooden banana tree and a yoghurt maker – in the hope that she might embrace some healthy living in the New Year. Not that she’d ever seen her mother eat either a banana or a yoghurt, but there was always a first time. Patricia, on the other hand, had bought her daughter a highly inappropriate T-shirt that said Get your hands on this hot pair and a Boots voucher for twenty quid, which was at least useful, if uninspired.

An hour later, they were sat eating Christmas lunch in Montgomery Hall – a hotel considered to be the poshest in Coed Celyn. This had been a family tradition of sorts, since Judith was ten. Of course, last year there’d been three of them. And Judith felt a lump in her throat when she wondered where George was eating his Christmas lunch this year. She entertained a secret fantasy that he’d gone back to Cyprus and was spending the day with his family, eating kourabiedes and playing Kounga, but she’d spoken to Sofia only last week, and depressingly, predictably, she confirmed she’d still not heard from her elusive brother.

‘Fetch me some more gravy, darlin’,’ said Patricia to the young waitress in an oversized Santa hat, ‘there’s a good girl.’

‘Yes, Mrs Harris.’

Watching her go, Patricia’s smile dropped and she leant across the table to Judith. ‘They don’t train them properly any more, you know. In my day, you had to learn silver service.’

Judith looked puzzled, chewing a difficult sprout. ‘You? Trained in silver service?’

‘Piece of cake,’ said Patricia as another forkful of turkey and mashed potato headed mouthwards, followed by a few more glugs of Blue Nun.

‘Go on then, show me,’ said Judith, whose relationship with her mother had recalibrated since leaving home. She was no longer intimidated by her and in fact often relished winding her up, catching her out in little fibs and tall tales, such as claiming she could speak Welsh or that she’d once met Princess Margaret.

‘Don’t be ridiculous! What d’you think I am, a performing duck?’

‘It’s seal, Mother – performing seal.’

The waitress returned and began ladling gravy over Patricia’s overcooked turkey.

‘Don’t hold back, kid.’

Judith watched the glee on Patricia’s face as she eyed up the meal before her. She’s like a child, really, she thought.

When Mr Perry the hotel manager approached their table on his rounds, Patricia launched immediately into flirtation mode, fazing him with double entendres and unashamed sycophancy, all the while unaware that a piece of sage and onion stuffing was hanging from her chin.