Sofia hadn’t been sick in a decade, not since expecting the middle one, but here she was kneeling up in the ladies, arms braced on the seat, guts pushing upwards, acrid saliva pouring off her tongue. She fought it and calmed it, swallowed it down, trying to quash it with trembling, juddering breaths, then knelt with her head resting on the edge of the bowl, pounding and somnolent, until the involuntary takeover of her body began to subside, and she had gathered enough strength to stand up, spit once, wipe her mouth and turn to face the cause of the sudden nausea outside.
This was how the story really ended. This would be where she would prove herself. Not through the careful preparation of a fictional autobiography, good enough for the tiny world of parochial Raithford. But the live replay. The battle of intellects in real time, with no reference books, no conferring. Only 001.
She wore trousers this time, so she could hitch herself up onto a bar stool if required. A pair of jewelled brocade ones she had suddenly remembered. Indian-looking. Something Hugo had brought back from an airport shop on one of his visits abroad. For years she hadn’t felt right wearing them: reminded her of someone she’d rather forget. Tonight, for some reason, she’d had the confidence to put them on. At least she’d had it when she was getting ready – before she’d walked through the door with Annie, Bea and Kay. Annie wore a sparkly halter neck and sweeping silver trousers; Bea’s magnificent bare shoulders rose from a silken top of electric blue. Kay’s outrageous outfit seemed to have been strapped together from pieces of black leather, contrasted with stiletto heels of flashing holly-berry red.
They took in the annual changes, every detail, each nuance. Sofia was pale but more alive somehow. Impressive, what she’d achieved. They’d wanted to see a copy, but she’d said it wasn’t completely finished – still needed some editing to finalise the last three scenes. He looked somehow the wearier one, particles of grey and white just beginning to dull his sandy curls. Probably been away a lot and was paying the price of the jet lag in his complexion and his hair. The kitschy festive set-up was just as last time, with the same crowd of local weirdos, including a slightly puffed-up version of the man in the bomber jacket wearing his only Christmas jumper, stuffed with slightly more difficulty than last year under his outer layer, sweating in the pulsing heat of the open wood burner.
To Sofia, the cast seemed terrifyingly expanded. As well as her three glamorous annual progress monitors were her own parents and Hugo’s mother, all three children so Florence didn’t have to stay with them at home, her friend Freya and son Ben, whom she realised with horror she hadn’t seen all year, and a host of loud and infiltrating strangers, temporary incomers, the early arriving in-laws of local families, brought to get them out the house and see the fun.
She ran her tongue over her pallid lips.
‘Come to retain your title?’ the barman joked with Hugo.
‘Pick your teams then, ladies and gents,’ he addressed the crowd. ‘Teams of three or four. A pound per person to enter.’ He grinned at Isaac. ‘Under-fives don’t count.’
‘I’m five already!’ said Isaac indignantly. ‘I’m nearly six!’
‘Go on then,’ said Sofia’s dad. ‘Gardners v Berrisfords.’
So, Hugo and the children took one side with Hugo’s mum. And Sofia joined her parents, plus Freya and Ben to even things up. Annie, Bea and Kay didn’t play. This time, they wanted to watch.
Around them, the pub was sorting itself into clumps, handbags flashing as people changed their seats and handed in their phones; fivers and pound coins fluttering and thudding into the tinselled tub.
‘So, ladies and gents. Welcome to our ninth annual Christmas pub quiz. Are you all having a good time?’
There was an enthusiastic wheeze of blowout whistles and the crack of a party popper. Laughter as a paper hat slipped down round someone’s neck and another split in two against the pressure of someone’s skull.
It looked wrong, Sofia thought privately. The different coloured paper hats should be for different subjects, not different teams. Yellow for geography and history. Red for sport and entertainment. Green for science and nature. They were all going to answer questions about everything, weren’t they? But she put hers on. A red one, so they were all the same.
‘So same format as last year, ladies and gents. General knowledge to start off, with a festive twist where we can. Pop your answers on the sheet in your bestest handwriting. Pick yourself a scribe. There’s a lot more of you than last year, so you might need to up your game. And don’t forget our separate Christmas Jackpot round, open to the top three teams, decided this year by a single tiebreak question if required. This stands at an incredible one hundred and fifteen pounds and, as usual, includes four free tickets to our amazing Christmas Draw.’
Whoops and cheers.
Sofia gulped. This time last year she’d been crushed beyond defeat and embarked upon a journey to build herself again. Theoretically, she’d done it. The work was done. And publicly, she was elated, the pale but radiant one. Bea, Kay and Annie did a swift recalculation. Better dressed than last year. She was, at least. Marks deducted from both of them for still not upgrading either of those cars. Bonus points for longevity of marriage, and in terms of personal achievement, it seemed they were both now pegging level. She looked tonight a lot more like the girl they used to know. But looks could be deceptive. Perhaps the confidence was fake. They’d be interested to see if she would lose her nerve again.
Sofia would scribe, she had decided. There was a certain calm to be obtained from having control of the pen. In her surprisingly sophisticated cursive hand, she wrote the title Christmas Pub Quiz and, underlined, Entertainment Round.
It started easily. Her parents, the crossword generation, made short work of: “cash timer whist” is an anagram of which classic Christmas hit? “White Christmas” jumped out immediately to them.
The next one might have been designed for her. In the Dewey decimal system, what would be the first digit in the reference number for Dickens’ A Christmas Carol? Literature. Eight Hundred. She put the eight down straightaway.
She could see Florence and Hugo scribbling answers. His brain would be operating some foolproof algorithm to find the title of the song. Florence and Tim would know the library section numbers. They did that at school these days.
The science and nature round was trickier, more his area of expertise. Which word with seasonal culinary connotations can you make out of the chemical elements for sodium, nitrogen, indium, carbon and molybdenum? OK. There were only so many combinations. She’d take the first two letters to start, anyway, and jiggle them around. So, Ni, In, C, Mo. NiInSoMoC. CInSoMoC. Stupid. Sodium was Na. CInNaMoNi. No “I” in the symbol for nitrogen. ‘Cinnamon,’ hissed her mother excitedly. There were muted shrieks of satisfaction from several tables around the room.
That had been close. Hugo and Florence would have got that one for sure.
Before long, they were already in the geography and history round. Isaac was beside himself at question twelve. “Scratchier tums” is an anagram of which famous phenomenon taking place during WW1 in December 2014.
‘Scratchier tums!’ He displayed his own and tickled it for all to see.
‘Put that away, Isaac.’ She had no time for silliness now. “Catch rare is smut”. That didn’t work. “Trust archies”. No. Archies. Armies. Ratchets. Trust.
She called on her memory mantra. Be attentive; put in effort; use your senses; make connections; be holistic: rehearse, repeat, visualise, group and cue.
Trust. Crust. Ruce.
Truce.
The Christmas truce!
She could see from the next-door table that Florence had got it, at exactly the same moment. According to her reckoning, neither the Berrisford nor the Gardner team had got one wrong yet. The last question had her flummoxed, though, and she almost thought about putting in a complaint. It was a low trick to require a knowledge of entertainment to answer a question on geography.
Which rocky landmark appears in the opening titles of Yorkshire’s TV’s most famous farming soap?
She didn’t watch much TV, and popular culture was still her weakest point.
Freya was onto it. ‘Emmerdale… that opening scene. Oh, what’s it called?’
Sofia shrugged in a panic. After all her efforts, she couldn’t let victory slip out of her grasp just like that.
‘You went there, didn’t you? That’s where you stayed when Isaac came?’
Her mind was blank. No recollection. Must have been a long, long time ago.
‘Arms-something. Something Crag.’
‘Almscliffe,’ said Sofia.
She didn’t know where the word came from. She’d never been there. But it shot out of her memory, catalysed from somewhere.
Beep beep beep.
The Christmas claxon sounded, its red rubber ball squeezed three times by the hand of the man with the red rubber face.
‘That’s your lot, ladies and gents. Pens and pencils down, and I’m trusting you, I’m trusting you to display the utmost integrity and sportsmanship – should that be sportspersonship in today’s climate? – in marking one another’s sheets. Pass round to the right, everyone, your answer sheets clockwise one table, please. No amendments, no sarky comments. And listen up for the correct answers. One mark maximum for each.’
Neither the Berrisford nor the Gardner team were in line to receive one another’s papers. Sofia could only hope and listen as the solutions were read out.
‘Question one – “White Christmas”.
‘Question two – eight.’
The list went on.
‘Question eleven – cinnamon.’
‘I told you!’ Sofia’s mother said.
‘Question twelve – the Christmas truce.’
All good so far.
Then the last one. Almscliffe. Bizarre. It seemed Freya had been absolutely right.
‘OK then, teams. Total them up and hand them in and we’ll announce those final scores.’ He handed the sheets to his assistant – promoted to a red apron this year – who checked them over anxiously and shuffled them into reverse order of success.
The music stopped suddenly. Sleigh bells. A jingling of jewellery and scratching of lamé as the groups fell open, faced outwards like flowers, attentive again. The quizmaster flicked through them, grinning and shaking his head.
‘Well, you’re getting too big for your boots, that’s for sure,’ he admonished the crowd. ‘We’re looking at some serious tiebreak action here.’
There was a rumble as a group in the corner did a fake drum roll on the table with their sticky beery palms.
‘OK, so without further ado, in third place, the Baubles, with a massive twenty! Give it up for the Baubles. Good effort down there.’
The Baubles flicked their hair, raised their white wine glasses and gave themselves a drunken cheer.
‘In joint second place – wait for it – Dancer and the Prancers and – back by popular demand – the Tinkerbells, with a fabulous twenty-six points each.’
Locals mainly, built for rugby, dressed stag-do style, they roared and raised their slopping, dripping pints into the air. The Dancers and the Prancers bounced their reindeer boppers up and down on their heads.
‘But unbelievably, ladies and gents, for the first time ever, we have an incredible four teams with the maximum number of points. That’s forty clear points each. Might have to ramp the question-setting up a bit next year.
‘So, the Beautiful Berrisfords, the Gorgeous Gardners, the Stocking Fillers and – here to reclaim their long-lost title if they can – the Abominable Snowmen – it’s looking like a thrilling tiebreak question to decide amongst you all. Choose your champions now, folks. Let’s see what you can do.’
She was thrust to the front again, of course. And the kids pushed Hugo forwards too. The head of the Abominable Snowmen took his rightful place in the centre, and a slight bloke in a navy jumper trotted in next to him. They stood in front of the wooden bar, shiny decorations pricking at their backs, smiling broadly with success and self-consciousness, 6ft 2 at Hugo’s end, 5ft 4 at Sofia’s, skinny and broad in between.
She felt the taste of the bile again, risen from her pounding stomach.
The shouting again, high pitched and low. Screams from the children and roars from the men. Maternal encouragement. Paternal pride. Clan-like aggression. The beat of the tribe. Names tangled beyond recognition, like the tinsel that strangled the fake pine tree on the side.
The quizmaster gestured for silence and got it in the end.
‘So, everyone, to ensure the utmost security, the tiebreak questions have been placed in pre-sealed envelopes and will be picked at random by a member of the crowd.’ His eye fell on Isaac. ‘You, young man. You pick one. Take whichever one you like, out of the bucket.’
Isaac eyed the three envelopes. One yellow. One red. One green.
Sofia knew what he would choose. Green for science and nature. Plants and animals.
But at the last moment, his fingers wavered. He looked at her paper hat and plucked out the one that matched it, the one that was red.
She smiled at him in fond disappointment, nervousness increased. Sport and entertainment, aka arts and recreation. Her worst subject. Perhaps the journey wasn’t over. She would fail this evening and have more work to do.
The quizmaster took the envelope from Isaac’s little hands.
‘Let’s hope you’ve chosen well, son, or it’s an early bedtime tomorrow for you…’
The crowd laughed.
‘So, the final tiebreak question, selected at random from our bank of unused questions sealed in secure conditions at the beginning of the year… is…’
The rugby players rumbled and slapped on the tables again.
Sofia couldn’t bear it. Was that what her year’s work had come to? Just to this. She wouldn’t be able to answer it. She’d go home with her head hung down in cheerful shame, teased and humiliated, a figure of fun again. Annie, Bea and Kay stood attractively together, wine glasses over folded arms, hips angled, smiles transfixed. They didn’t know whether to be jealous yet or not.
The quizmaster opened it, then raised his eyebrows and whistled.
‘It’s a tricky one,’ he warned them. ‘Give it your best shot.’
‘In Irish folklore,’ he began. ‘In Irish folklore, and later…’ He paused. ‘Parod-parodied, sorry.’ He stopped to correct his own pronunciation. ‘In Irish folklore, and later parodied in a post…’ Again he seemed to be struggling to get the long words out. ‘In Irish folklore, and later parodied in a posthumous science fiction collection of works by a well-known comic writer, wisdom is represented by which creature?’
Sofia’s heart sank. Not a chance. His baby: comic sci-fi. She expected him to answer it. Expected the solution to shoot straight from his mouth. But after half a second, nothing had come out. The Abominable Snowman and Navy Jumper man turned their mouths down. Not a clue.
She looked at Hugo.
He didn’t know it. He really didn’t know.
And it was coming to her. She’d seen it somewhere. She knew what it was.
Be attentive; put in effort; use your senses; make connections; be holistic: rehearse, repeat, visualise, group and cue.
‘The salmon!’ she shrieked suddenly. ‘A fish. The creature. It’s a salmon. A silver fish!’
Hugo smiled as he mentally kicked himself and slapped his hand down on his knee. Of course – The Salmon of Knowledge – referenced in Adams’ The Salmon of Doubt. Annabel couldn’t have known that when she’d given it to him. It hadn’t been published then. But it absolutely fitted. How delightfully apt. The trinket swung and sparkled about his daughter’s neck.
Sofia’s eyes were shining as she realised what she’d done. Annie, Bea and Kay screamed with pleasure and disbelief. Navy Jumper and the Snowman turned to claim their consolation prize and kiss her tipsily on both cheeks. The kids and her parents jumped up to swamp her, and the crowd surged forward to reinstate her on her bar stool throne. Hugo gazed at her fondly, generously, no shred of resignation. This was how it ended. She was triumphant. Happy. Stunning. Almost herself again. He un-sellotaped the loop of red tinsel from the rim of the question bucket and folded the loose end round and round to make a rippled crown. Then, striding easily through the mass of deconstructed pub quiz teams, he lifted it aloft and placed it firmly on her head.
Sofia couldn’t stop the beaming, the elation, the taste of the still rising bile sweetened with success. She swayed a little and put her hand over her mouth, as if she might faint or worse. They lifted her up this time and carried her to the armchair by the fire, put her feet up on the leather pouf and brought her a heady glass of spiced mulled wine, to settle her stomach and her brain. She gulped it down appreciatively, feeling the tinny hotness scraping down her throat.
Tim brought her bag over, in case she needed anything. It was going to be all right, she thought. Everything was going to be OK. Dr Merridew had been correct. It wasn’t too late. She looked at the dinosaur motif, and then at Tim, and in the fluid moment of unexpected fame and slight inebriation, made a connection she’d never made before. ‘I’ve just realised,’ she said to Hugo, smiling, ‘why you chose this one.’
He stroked her endearingly on the head. ‘Scoured the world to get that bag. Have you only just caught on? Can’t believe you managed to lose the first one I brought back.’
As he turned away to protect himself from her playful punch, he saw a distinctive face at the window, looking in. It was Dr Benson. He was almost sure it was. Back in the area to visit relatives, perhaps. Or maybe this was still his local, even though he worked elsewhere. Popped in for last orders, after a stressful day. Fantastic. He owed a debt of gratitude to him. He wondered whether to invite him over, offer him a drink, introduce her properly to him, now she was well again.
But the dark-coated figure had turned and disappeared. Seen what he needed to see. As he gazed again at her tousled hair, in the firelight, he noted the purple bruise had now completely gone.
A text pinged on Hugo’s phone. He dabbed at it automatically. It couldn’t be anything urgent. Everyone important was here. It took him a while to process the sentences and grammar, unimpeded by any punctuation at all.
thank you for you text me with christmas wishes and sorry it take me so long to respond we are in latvia almost eight months now I am little confused for your thanks I did nothing special when I am cleaning last time for you I just wish send apologies for leaving room in mess we have little problem with passport date and I have to leave in hurry hope all is well
luna
He couldn’t make sense of it, but he decided not to worry. It wasn’t in his nature to fuss about that sort of thing. He hovered over it for a lingering second, then deleted it firmly with his thumb.