Stop the Cavalry

Sarah Ward

Apart from 1980, every Christmas of my childhood was spent abroad. That year it was decided - maybe because my grandparents were getting on a bit - that we'd head to the west coast of Scotland. Nana and Grandad lived in Port Glasgow. We spent most summers there. We were used to having the fire on in July, losing feeling in our feet swimming in the outdoor pool, playing crazy golf in the rain. But Winter? It was hard to imagine. But there was always a great feel to my grandparents' place, lots of stories and people dropping in. I was looking forward to the seven-card rummy.

The plan was we'd start there then move to my Aunt and Uncle's for Christmas itself. Uncle John and Aunt Kate lived in Greenock. Their house was too big to be cosy. It was a place where doors were kept shut and you weren't sure what lay behind each one. Somewhere on the first floor was the Chinese Room, with high arch-backed cane chairs and fancy tables. Children weren't allowed in. Snooping was a risk in case you stumbled on Uncle John, my mother's older brother, peering down his nose through half moon specs. He could step from the shadows like Mrs Danvers. His searing wit cut with astonishing precision.

My mum had spent the weeks before the holiday making preparations. She'd bought me some patent leather shoes and a silky polo. Sparks flew off my hair when I pulled the poloneck over my head. The shoes nipped at the strap and squashed my toes.

Then she'd started on the cake. She mixed pounds of dried fruit. The thing weighed a ton. More brandy was added by the week. She carried it back to the Port in her hand baggage like a treasured pug ready to receive its final grooming before the show.

On Christmas Eve she began early, whipping royal icing in the tiny kitchen overlooking the grey Clyde. She smothered the cake with swathes of paste, covering every bit of brown fruitiness. When the whole thing was plastered she got a fork and fluffed up spiky peaks all over it. I watched and scraped the bowl, sugar frothing on my tongue. She brought out an assortment of small green trees, figurines and silver balls to go on top. I couldn't believe it would be cut and eaten.

First to leave for John and Kate's were me and my dad. I was to take charge of the cake then wait in Greenock while Dad came back for everyone else. This was because Dad had bought a sports car that wasn't really big enough for five of us. I usually had to sit on the hump in the middle of the back seat, clenching the cheeks of my arse as we sped round corners in case my leg touched my sister and irritated her. My arms weren't long enough to reach the handles above the doors and in any case, that would have been annoying as well. So I would hold on by my finger nails to the corner of the front seats, feeling queasy with the smell of petrol in the back.

This time I had the privileged position of the front seat. Clearly, the reason for this was because I had to carry The Cake on my knee.

How long will you be? I asked my mum.

She laughed me off. Aunt Kate has a soft spot for you, she said.

Aunt Kate was intense. Her eyes were watery; she wore her hair in a chignon and had bright red lips. What's the point in having an own way if I can't have it? She would say.

I got into the car and waited as the cake was handed down.

Don't move till your Dad gets the cake off you at the other end, said Mum.

I clutched the edges of the silver cake board, looking down at the perfect snow scene. Dad sped off down the road. On the radio I could hear Stop the Cavalry by Jona Lewie. Wish I was at home for Christmas.

We turned into Union Street, on the final approach. A gloomy dusk was folding around us. My dad indicated to turn right. Bang! It was head-on. The car lurched backwards and I watched as the cake left my lap and threw itself at the windscreen. Peaks of icing rained down on us like arrows, mixed up in the shards of glass from the windscreen. A brown mass of fruit crumbled over the dash, lying in heaps on the gear stick and in my lap. A smell of brandy wafted up.

Dad was out the car in seconds. He toured the scene, his mouth set in grim realisation. There was a problem with insurance, and how the hell would we ever get away. Disaster.

****! He shouted, kicking the tyres. ****!

This was the worst word I'd heard in a while. My mum only ever said Damnation! And this was much more serious. I'd never seen him so mad.

He poked his head in the window. He didn't have any bloody headlights on! He yelled. Did you see any headlights?

I shook my head. My armpits sweated in the nylon of the silky polo. Then I thought, I'm going to scream. I opened my mouth and let out a long shriek.

What the hell are you doing? Dad barked. Nobody's dead!

The cake, I sobbed, gesturing to the dashboard.

Bloody cake, he said. That's the least of our worries.

I stood in the rain in my pinching shoes while my Dad pushed the car to the side of the road. The bonnet was crushed and sticking up at an angle. We walked down the hill to the house. My cousin opened the door. His blonde bowlcut shone like a halo with the backlighting from the Hall. I shaded my eyes. Behind him stood a huge tree, all tinselled up.

Merry Christmas, he said.