The net curtains drop back into place in the window and out of the front door comes the couple: a short woman, no more than five foot, rotund and orange-coated, something like a Russian doll, followed by an old man who is tall and angular. She is red-faced and merry; he is pale and disdainful.
‘Oh, shit me, it’s the Krankies!’ says Astrid, looking at the small stout woman in her mac, support socks and rain bonnet, twisting a plastic carrier bag.
Ken pushes the front door to test that it’s locked shut. When he turns round, he does not so much as raise his head. He walks bowed and solemn in stark contrast with his wife, who is waddling ahead eager and open-mouthed. The stubble on his jaw glitters. He bears the weight of a navy-blue raincoat as if it’s a tarpaulin. He has the translucent hair of a toddler: a floss in a soft white quiff. There’s something about it that begs for a small Cadbury’s Flake, Astrid thinks, one side of her mouth curling into a smile.
Nick opens his door, lets in the sea air and the seagulls’
screams.
The first phone calls from the old man were silent, but Nick could hear the gulls in the background, just as he can hear them now; a chorus of outrage, remorseless and repetitive, stirring up an age-old ache.
‘Love you,’ says Astrid.
He turns his collar up and gives her a wink, but his face is dismal when he goes to face his father again.
It would not be your traditional family roast lunch, she thinks, but then it hadn’t been your traditional Christmas call that got this particular ball rolling. She’d amused their friends with it all on Boxing Day in the pub.
‘I couldn’t believe it! I mean, call me old-fashioned but in our family we have turkey and stuffing on Christmas Day and a call from Auntie Jan in Portsmouth. So there we are, paper hats on, about to pour the gravy and the phone goes, and Laura’s like, Mum, who’s Nick on the phone to? And I’m like, It’s his dad, darling, he’s just wishing him a merry Christmas. And the next thing you hear from the conservatory is Nick screaming, And you’re nothing to me either, you old bastard!’
Nick had stood his ground there at the bar, pint in hand, and smiled with his mouth, attempting a comedic sangfroid, but when they left just before midnight, in the cold night of the car park, he caught hold of Astrid and said, ‘You tell me. What kind of a man speaks to his son that way?’
And when she looked into his eyes in the lamplight and heard his breath catch, she saw what he wanted and gave it to him.
‘I know,’ she’d said. She kissed him on the mouth and held his face and stroked his hair. ‘I know. It’s terrible.’