Leftovers

It’s Saturday afternoon and time for our annual Christmas volunteers party. Although having said that, very few of the volunteers will actually come. Most of them aren’t the partying sort. But it’s a tradition and a nice thing to do for them regardless; at least the offer is there.

I wouldn’t say Hugh and Ayumi are the partying sort either, but it’s inconceivable that they won’t come and that I won’t spend the afternoon trying to avoid getting into a pained conversation with them. I arrive to find them already ensconced in the office after covering the morning shift. I ask them if Colin, the other manager, has arrived yet and they tell me no. Hugh then casually informs me that the boiler isn’t working, meaning that the room that’s being used for a children’s party due in an hour is freezing cold. Wonderful. That’s going to go down well. Hugh follows me into the kitchen and shows me a valve tap that has apparently fallen off the bottom of the boiler and suggests that this could be the cause of the problem. What Hugh doesn’t know is that the boiler was serviced yesterday and had been working fine, meaning that he has been fucking around with it and broken it himself. Not owning up to things he’s responsible for is one of Hugh’s traits but it’s honestly not worth the bother of confronting him about it in this instance, so I get on the phone to the engineers and they tell me they can send someone round within the hour. Disaster averted. No thanks to Hugh, who’s now guiltily looking up boiler repair videos on YouTube while Ayumi flutters around nervously.

While I’m waiting for the boiler engineer I head upstairs to get started putting out the food for our own party, and find that Colin has arrived after all.

“Hugh and Ayumi told me you weren’t here yet,” I tell him.

“They didn’t see me,” he says, “they were watching some Japanese thing on the computer. I could have been a mass murderer walking in. They’d have no idea until it was too late.”

“The boiler isn’t working.”

“What? We’ve got a children’s party coming in!”

“I know, it’s ok, I’ve called the engineer, they’re on their way.”

Colin’s made a start putting out the food but there’s still plenty to do. Blossom, the caterer we’d arranged, cancelled at the last minute so we’ve bought everything from Marks and Spencers instead, which worked out cheaper in the end anyway and it’s better food, so Blossom? Screw you. We’ve only got twenty minutes until people start arriving so I start frantically unpacking everything and putting it out on plates, and I bung some sausage rolls in the oven too.

Neither of us are particular fans of Christmas, and we rarely have much money in the kitty at the best of times, but we’ve made a token effort at providing some festive decorations by recycling what’s left from previous years: a few balloons here and there, a paper chain sellotaped randomly to a bit of empty wall space, a single length of tinsel creatively draped around the leaves of a potted palm and a small, baubled Christmas tree with fairy lights twinkling. We stole that from the nursery downstairs. As long as we remember to put it back before they come in again on Monday morning they’ll be none the wiser.

“Have we got any coffee?” I ask Colin.

“No, we need to get some.”

“I’ll nip over the road.”

I bound down the stairs, out the doors, and I’m just at the gate when I remember the sausage rolls in the oven and checking the timer on my phone, I see they’ve got a minute left. I run back up the stairs and arrive just in time to take them out before they burn. When I turn around I see people are starting to arrive for the party and realise it’s one o’clock already.

An hour and a half later and everything is back on track. Most of the people we expected have turned up and, boiler fixed, the party downstairs is now in full swing too: a thirty year old woman dressed in a red belled hat, green tunic and candy striped tights is entertaining three and four year olds with some very adept balloon sculpting. I’m about to take a break from the madness when a harassed looking mother comes through the door with her toddler in tow.

“Are you here for the party?” I ask her. “Just through that way.”

“Do you work here?” She asks.

“I do.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a screwdriver have you?”

“Sure, what kind?”

“I need to put some batteries in this,” she says, holding up a small plastic STOP/GO sign. “He’s a traffic elf,” she informs me, referring to the little boy tugging at her arm. “And if you can take the batteries out of this,” she says, producing a different plastic toy that’s making an irritating electronic warbling sound, “I would be very grateful. I can’t turn it off and it’s driving me insane!”

“Nooooo!” wails the child.

“Oh yes,” says his mum, looking at me imploringly.

I fetch a tiny screwdriver and fix the traffic sign so that it illuminates as intended and then I remove the batteries from the noise-maker for her.

“Thank you, so much,” she says, giving me an unexpected hug.

When I head back up to our party most of the guests have already gone or are just about to leave; they’d only come for the free feed. Nonetheless, there’s still plenty left over. Even though Hugh and Ayumi have had four heaped platefuls apiece they have now produced tupperware containers and Colin is helping them to fill them so they can take more home with them. For such small people they can sure put it away.

“What happened to Astralfalcon?” I ask Colin, remembering that I’d seen him come in not that long ago.

“He came in, got himself a plate food and a cup of coffee and then just got up and left, leaving them half finished.”

“It was all too much for him.”

“Probably.”

“He didn’t get stuck talking to Hugh and Ayumi did he?”

“No, but one of the yoga teachers had started talking about Zionist conspiracy theories.”

“That’ll do it.”

By half past three there are just four of us left: me, Colin, Hayley and Rami, who had both turned up deliberately late, hoping for the numbers to have thinned and the enforced socialising to become more manageable. The end of the party, when it’s quiet and Colin and I actually get to sit down and talk to people properly, is always the most enjoyable part of the afternoon. I’m especially pleased this year that Rami and Hayley are the last of the guests. They’re two of my favourite people who use the centre. Rami comes in nearly every day now to speak to us, it’s become a part of his daily routine. He admits that he has no real friends in town any more. Hayley, one of our volunteers, has also had a particularly difficult year after making the decision, along with her sister, to report to the police the step-father who abused them both as children. He was arrested in the summer but it’s only now that the wheels of the justice system are starting to turn in earnest.

The four of us sit around a table discussing our modest plans for Christmas, reflecting on the year past and the next coming, each of us, in our own quiet way, dealing with storms behind and ahead: Hayley’s court case; Colin’s partner, who left him after nineteen years twelve months ago, has reappeared wanting to get back together again; Rami, dutifully caring for his elderly, increasingly frail and vulnerable mother.

After a while Colin gets up to make a start on the washing up while I try and persuade Hayley and Rami to take home what’s left of the food. Neither are keen. They encourage me to take the leftovers home instead. The conversation goes back and forth as we stand together surveying the party’s remains.

“Some turkey, a slice of ham, a bit of pasta salad, that’s a TV dinner right there,” says Rami.

There’s a long pause before Hayley suddenly bursts out laughing. Rami and I both look at her, perplexed.

“Sorry,” she says, “I was just imagining this was a reality TV show. The three of us standing round for half and hour trying to decide what to do with the leftovers. How hilarious would that be?”

“I’ve seen worse,” Rami says.

“I’d watch it,” I tell them.