Grandmother’s Gift

Fairytale horror plus intergenerational trauma - Happy Christmas, everyone!

Note to readers - this dark tale deals with mental health, harmful behaviours and abusive family dynamics.

If you’re not in that headspace, read my cosy gothic ghost tale instead.

---

When Alice pulled out the Christmas jumper from Grandmother, I knew we were in for it.

We got a jumper every year. They were always terrible. We only wore them when Grandmother visited; God knows what would happen if we didn’t.

But this year’s gift was something else.

It sat there, a dead weight in my sister’s arms. Pale as a chunk of fat on a slab of raw meat, congealed like porridge. Greying. Gristly. You could almost hear it slopping.

Say thank you, I thought, say thank you and we can the hell out of here.

Grandmother smoothed out her long brown skirt. The material was stiff as corrugated iron and twice as thick, the kind of skirt that thwacked against your legs, and Grandmother’s calves were rock hard. From the friction she must generate when she walked, it was a shock she didn’t burst into flames.

The jumper sagged on top of the reused silver paper, obviously salvaged from another present. It sunk into Alice’s lap. Every time she tried to look at Grandmother, it dragged her deeper into its little woolly mire. My thoughts rose to a screaming pitch.

‘Thank you,’ Alice said.

She lay the words down dead, giving nothing one way or the other. They sat on top of the present.

‘You’re welcome darling,’ Grandmother said. She smiled, her neat pink lips pulling back from fake teeth. ‘Now for your present, Sukie.’

I held out my hands. It took all my strength not to pull them away. Whatever monstrosity Grandmother had given Alice, mine would surely be worse. Please God, don’t let it be…

The gift was wrapped in red paper. I tore it open. Almost cry with relief.

My jumper is merely ugly.

‘Thank you, Grandmother,’ I say obediently.

‘You’re very welcome, sweetheart.’

Grandmother smiled, this time not showing any teeth. ‘Now both of you come give me a kiss.’

We did, me first, Alice after. I thought Alice might bite instead of kiss, but she gave the same dry peck we always did. Then it was done. We could leave the room.

#

That was last Christmas. We were both different then, and next year we’ll be different again still. Everyone thinks I’m still the same. I haven’t grown much in either direction, the baby-faced wraith with the bird’s nest hair. It’s Alice who’s obviously changed. Inside changes don’t make the same impression.

Since last Christmas, Alice has acquired her first serious boyfriend. He is a year older and they are, apparently, in love. He picks her up in a shiny black sports car, though I don’t know what type it is. I’m not very interested in cars.

Mother doesn’t like the boyfriend. She never says anything, but the finger biting gets worse, and she looks too hard at whatever she is doing at that moment – usually polishing a counter or rearranging the shoes. Alice doesn’t seem to notice Mother’s odd behaviour. But then, Alice doesn’t really notice much of anything we do. In her eyes, we’re made up and everything else is real.

Alice lies on the sun lounger, phone in hand, while I am sat cross-legged on the ground. It’s June now. In my head, I wander without moving, a cat sure footing its way across a fence. Only Alice brings me tumbling down to Earth.

‘Did Mother tell you the Witch is coming tomorrow – six months early!’

‘Mmm.’ There’s no point in saying anything more.

‘I can’t stand her. I think she wants to crush me with her false teeth.’

‘Mmm,’ I say again, not really paying attention.

Alice snorts. ‘Well, I’ve got a little surprise for her this year. See if she likes that.’

She laughs and goes back inside the house. I return to my mental wanderings.

#

‘Please,’ Mother says, and her hand has already crept up to her mouth. ‘Please be good.’

‘When are we ever bad?’ Alice says.

She is putting on more mascara in the hallway mirror, looks much older with it all on. But she has a nervous, sparky energy that gives away her youth, a lack of confidence just as sharp as Mother’s. She pulls out her tweezers, plucking away with precision as the stray eyebrow hairs fall from the tweezer’s metal grip and land in that dark, hidden space behind the radiator.

Mother says nothing, the dark red of her nail exposed from constant finger biting. For a second, I think it might blow over. But Alice isn’t done.

‘Oh, Gerald’s coming this afternoon. He’s staying for tea.’

In goes Alice’s make up, zipped up tight in its furry pink bag. And in a cloud of body spray, she’s gone, leaving Mother frenzied and me to pick up the jagged pieces.

I gently pull Mother’s hand from her mouth, holding it tightly. Blood dribbles down her little finger.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll talk to her.’

Mother is so grateful. I want to hit her.

#

My Christmas jumper bristles against my skin, aggravating in the June heat. The wool is as rock solid as Grandmother’s skirt, so yellow that I look almost jaundiced, but I dare not wear anything else.

It could be worse. It could be Alice’s.

Grandmother arrives at three on the dot, and the sound of her short, sharp knock sends Mother shrieking into the fabric of her apron. She probably hasn’t finished the cakes yet, or even started on the tea. At least the house isn’t a mess; I have already tidied up the living room. I even picked up mother’s stray tissues, buried in the cracks in the sofa cushions, fouled with blood from her ravaged cheeks.

Seeing how Mother isn’t in a state to be greeting anyone, and Alice has gone AWOL, I open the door myself.

Grandmother takes up the entire doorway, her body stretched impossibly. She is thick in every place, tree trunk thick, solid rather than fat. It’s easy to imagine her doing press ups while her tea brews, hiking 10 miles before lunch. She’s still wearing her heavy brown skirt, a parody of a grandmother, a wolf wearing granny’s clothes, with little flecks of granny’s blood around the hem. The skirt cuts off at the ankle, and the feet beneath are far too small to carry what sits above.

‘Good afternoon, Sukie,’ she says, taking in my hideous attire without a word.

I examine her warily. Do I see sharp teeth, feel the warmth of raw meat breath in my face, sense the curl of her tongue sharpening to a lash?

No, I do not. Despite appearances, Grandmother likes me.

At the sound of Grandmother’s voice, Mother appears from the kitchen. She has tried hard, and it shows.

Her skin has the shiny quality of plastic school book covers. Her hair, tied up and coming away, falls down her neck in dark strings, the top of her head whitened by a floured hand passing over it. Her plastic apron covers most of her body, with only a thin band of dark cotton dress poking out from underneath.

Grandmother thins her lips, makes no comment. The starch of her skirt crackles and Mother flinches, sucking in her cheeks, the gum flesh pinched between her molars. Her hands lie on top of each other in the apron pocket, scrambling over each other, the nails fighting to put enough pain through the skin to bring that ice cold rush of calm. It’s not coming. It’s not coming and it shows.

It’s a relief to turn away, to follow Grandmother into the living room, where she seats herself without speaking. The fact she is not looking around suggests she has already noticed and approved of my tidying. It’s hard not to feel a little proud.

We settle into a seemingly neutral silence, and I almost forget what lies behind her pink lips, the mountain of muscle buried beneath cardigan and catalogue-bought blouse, the claws stuffed into brown Clarks shoes and pale knobbly socks. She folds her hands over her large black leather handbag, as if pushing down unruly contents.

‘Call Alice down,’ she says at last. ‘I have a present for you both.’

The threat of more jumpers sends my whole body into a screaming rash, and I want to leap out the window. But the old woman’s mountainous body has its own gravity, forcing me to obey.

I call and call up the stairs. She remains unresponsive, and I claw at my throat, the skin around my collarbone blooming firecracker red. Grandmother’s silent impatience fills the hallway.

‘Please Alice.’ My cries are plaintive, a cat desperate for cream. ‘She’s got a present for us.’

At last, there is a brushing of door against carpet, the padding of feet. I see Alice framed at the top of the stairs, and as she makes her way down, I wish she’d never bothered to leave her room at all.

Alice is covered in, or more accurately, obliterated by make-up. Somewhere beneath it all is her real face, the eyes defiant behind the powder and liquid liner.

She steps fully into the light, and I see what she’s wearing. It’s a jumper, all right – but not Grandmother’s. Soft grey angora, granting her a rabbitlike quality. Frail beauty, laced with adult sophistication.

‘Do you like it?’ she says, smiling sweetly. ‘Gerrie got it for me.’

I can merely gape. She walks, or rather glides past me, all wide jeans and chunky barbie pink heels, and unobtainable glamour. The soft angora brushes against my sleeve.

She opens the front door and Gerald’s waiting for her, all blonde curls and easy, public school boy charm. He greets Alice lazily, then kisses her on the lips, nothing unchaste, but it wakens me to the coming horror. I hold onto the banister for support.

‘Alice,’ I hiss. ‘You have to get changed. If Grandmother sees you—’

Her eyes harden, silencing argument. I can only follow the power couple as they walk into the wolf den, waiting for the teeth to snap.

Grandmother sits in her chair, a bone china teacup held with impossible delicacy in her malletlike hand. Mother has clearly recovered enough from her earlier fright to make a stab at being hospitable. I can hear her cluttering away in the kitchen.

‘Hello Alice,’ says Grandmother. ‘Is this Gerald?’

Gerald grins, exuding geniality and charm. ‘Guilty as charged. And you must be Irene. How wonderful to meet you at last.’

He steps forward, hand outstretched. Grandmother makes no sign of taking it. She looks as if she might bite.

Slowly, very slowly, Gerald puts his hand back in his pocket. The air chills socially, and for the first time, I am grateful for the warm jumper.

It’s fortunate that Mother appears at that moment, the flour stairs brushed from the top of her head to halfway down her cheek.

‘Do you want another cup of tea, Mother? A biscuit? A cake?’ She asks these questions to the carpet, which does not respond.

Grandmother says, ‘This is perfectly adequate, Teresa.’

The name plops down like a sugar cube, hissing with hidden acid. I take Mother’s arm, and lead her out.

‘Do you want me to stay with you?’

She shakes her head, to my disappointment. I cannot shelter out here, will not be protected. At times like these, it’s everyone for themselves.

When I go back into the living room, Gerald and Alice are not sitting down. Gerald, clearly unused to rejection, looks like a glossy-haired puppy who’s been kicked for the first time. Now and then, he makes a vain attempt to catch Alice’s eye, to escape this room of hidden glass and nails, but Alice had no eyes for her beloved. She is all hunter, thirsting for geriatric flesh.

At last, Grandmother stops pretending to sip the now most likely stone-cold tea. She straightens up, the armchair cowering under her bulk.

‘Where is your jumper, Alice?’

Alice cocks her head to one side. ‘What jumper?’

‘The one I knitted especially for you.’

‘Oh, that old piece of garbage.’

I make a little squeaking noise. They both look at me in disgust.

It’s at this point that Gerald makes an excuse and ducks from the room, probably running back to his lovely car.

It’s too late for me. I’m trapped in a corner, while Alice and Grandmother take up sparring positions.

‘Alice,’ Grandmother says. ‘I spent a long time making that jumper for you.’

Alice shrugs. Her face says, so?

Grandmother sucks in her false teeth. They seem impossibly sharp in her mouth, and my hand drifts to my face, as if to defend myself.

‘I’ll give you one last chance,’ says Grandmother. ‘Put my jumper on now, and we will never speak of this again.’

Please, Alice, I pray, but one look is enough to know my sister won’t back down. Her eyes glare dark beneath her makeup.

‘Do you know what I did to your precious jumper, Grandmother?’ She leans in close. ‘I burned it. I watch it turn to ash. And then I dumped in the garden. What do you say to that?’

Grandmother sits perfectly still and silent. For a second, I think she might be dead.

And then she laughs.

I’ve never heard Grandmother laugh. It sounds like bones rattling in a stone bowl.

‘You’re a liar, girl.’

For the first time, Alice wavers. She’s still a coiled-up spring of fury, but she twitches her fingers, pulls at a strand of hair. ‘I’m not.’

‘You are.’

My nails rip in my teeth. Alice glares at Grandmother, who smirks, puffing herself up like a particularly wolfish hen. ‘I knew you wouldn’t burn it. You’re weak-spined, just like your mother.’

Alice hisses. She leaps forward, face inches from Grandmother’s.

‘Guess what, you bitter old hag. I don’t care. Because you might scare Mother, and you might scare Sukie, but you sure as Hell don’t scare me.’

‘No. I can see that very well.’

Suddenly Grandmother stands up. She’s tall for a woman, takes up almost a whole wall.

Please, I think. Please.

Grandmother seizes Alice’s arm. Alice does not struggle away, only glares in defiance. All of Alice’s beauty and make up and grand words are no defence against Grandmother’s eyes, which stay flat and round as they chop wood or gut a bird or break the arm of a little girl who does not do as she is told.

Mother, I think, madly. But Mother is safe in the kitchen, and it’s Alice in front of me, being laid out for the chop. I want to speak. But I cannot. No. Not cannot. My body wishes to preserve itself, and I will not speak.

Grandmother’s other hand comes round and slaps Alice across the face. She whispers something in Alice’s ear that I can’t hear. And then she sits down, and I feel the rush of Alice fleeing past me, running upstairs.

She’s going to put the Christmas jumper on, I think madly. It will be all right.

But Alice does not come down.

#

Grandmother didn’t stay much longer, just long enough to give me a pair of socks. They are black and shop bought, for which I am truly thankful.

Back in my room, I lie on my bed listening. I can hear Mother fiddling with plates in the sink. How can she clean anything, shaking all the time? Then I hear something break. I see the plates lying in pieces in a circle, Mother crying in the middle of them all.

It’s a satisfying image.

I can’t hear Alice. She’s holed herself up in her room, and I will allow her to do so. I shut my eyes and put myself on the wall again.

Mother and Gerrie are outside. Mother keeps knocking on the door talking about tea. She looks totally mad. Gerrie is running round and round, trying to find a way out, shaking hands with empty air. Only Grandmother and Alice are looking at each other. Grandmother smiles at Alice. She raises her arm and… and…

Alice’s jumper is on the end of the bed.

I sit upright, glance around. Nothing is disturbed. I crawl forwards, and the soft angora wool brushes against my palms, my inner wrist. Perhaps it was this softness, this coolness that gave Alice the courage to speak her mind. Perhaps it will help me.

My body is already slipping from the itchy yellow wool of my own jumper, leaving it lying in a sad, pathetic heap on the floor. I take the soft angora in my hands, stroking it idly. Do I really want to make the same mistake as my sister? After all, it’s only wool.

Then I remember Alice as she glided down the stairs, untouchable. My hesitation dissolves. I lift the jumper, pull over my head.

Or at least, I try to.

Something is wrong. The fibres have shrunk, or my head has enlarged. I pull and I pull but the jumper just won’t budge.

The wool presses over my mouth, sucking out air. It’s lead heavy, glue thick. The threads coarsen, congealing like porridge and I know that whatever thing is clutching me is not sweet, soft angora.

I scrabble and tear at Grandmother’s jumper, trying to scream as it sucks me in, pulling me close. The air smells like lavender hand cream, tastes like blood. And the truth hits me instantly.

This is Alice’s punishment.

Frantic but soundless, I fall to the ground, a horror film on mute. The jumper has fully suctioned around my head, sealing off air. My last thoughts—

…not fair… not fair…

—as my puppet limbs jerk against the wall.