The holiday season

Gemma looked down and noticed her left knee was jigging up and down, as she sat on the window seat of the train. For a moment, she stared at it, that unconscious nervous tick and then she forced her knee to be still. She was headed north, to spend Christmas with the family.

This time of the year, she was usually overseas, somewhere tropical, with a beach, beautiful sunsets and a population who were indifferent to the heavily commercialised holiday on the 25th of December. Somewhere else. Anywhere else. This year, her mother had called her and with a catch in her throat, asked her to attend.

For months she had pushed the thought to the back of her mind, but slowly, the date had drawn closer, until it had rudely arrived.

Reluctantly, with every cell in her body resisting, she had packed a small bag of clothes, booked a train ticket, locked up her apartment and headed to the station.

Now it was inevitable. It loomed in the near future - a dark nebulous cloud that threatened to upset Gemma's carefully calibrated life.

For her, Christmas had never been the happiest time of the year. For so many years, it had been the busiest time of the year on the farm, when restaurants put in large orders for produce and workers were scarce, so the family all helped out. A time of high stress and short tempers. Her mother had always tried to make an effort, to make the day special. She spent hours in the kitchen, sweat beaded on her brow as she roasted various meats and vegetables, made salads, Christmas puddings and stollens. Every year, the day had the potential to be one of joy and family.

And yet every year, without fail, it would turn into something else.

Staring out the window as the sun-scorched countryside raced by in a straw-coloured blur, Gemma felt her throat constrict as she reflected on the experiences of past Christmases. Of sitting down at a lunch table which was groaning under the weight of all the food.

Of her father always being late. The frustration on her mother's face that she tried desperately to mask from her children. Her father's raised voice. Always finding fault with something.

The inevitable argument.

The screaming voices.

Her father's faces twisted and ugly.

The taste of food turning to ash in her mouth.

The tear stained faces of her younger brothers.

The plates of food smashing on the floor as the table was tipped over.

The sour smell of garbage overpowering the appetising smell of food - after her father poured out the contents of the bin.

The shock and quiet of the aftermath.

The desire to be small and invisible, so as to escape his notice and wrath.

It had happened with such depressing predictability throughout her childhood that despite having managed to skip the past ten Christmases, Gemma felt the familiar fear creeping back in, as the train sped north and the safety afforded by distance melted away.

Perhaps it would be different this year. Her parents had long since separated and divorced. And this year, for the first time, her father was not invited.

....

Arriving at her mother's house later that evening, Gemma forced a smile, as she eyed the small Christmas tree in the corner and the string of Christmas cards hung up above the mantle place. Out of habit, she went to the fridge, pulling open the door with just a vague thought of eating something. It was full of cheeses, summer fruits, a trifle, custard and all the delicious foods she and her brothers liked. Her mother had gone all out. Maybe because she knew that no-one would shout at her later, about the cherries being too expensive or the fish being the wrong type.

Or maybe because she refused to let Christmas be defined by him.

Gemma grabbed a cherry and popped it in her mouth then closed the fridge. Her heart still felt heavy and her throat tight, but she turned to her mother and pulled her into a fierce hug.

'Thank you,' she whispered. 'Thank you for trying.'