The Listmaker by Robin Klein Page B

sorry I haven’t had a spare moment to see the hacienda …’
    I felt flat when she’d gone. Somehow the day hadn’t been quite as enjoyable as I’d expected, and now the rest of it would be reduced to nothing more than plodding around the shops with Aunt Dorothy. Even the prospect of Christmas-gift shopping didn’t seem terribly exciting now. It was just a silly, demented fuss, as Piriel had said. A waitress came and took the used plates away. Because Piriel was so tidy in everything she did, there wasn’t as much as a crease in the tablecloth to show that anyone had actually been sitting there opposite us. There was just a lingering fragrance of perfume from when she’d leant across to say goodbye.
    â€˜What’s a hacienda?’ Aunt Dorothy asked.
    â€˜I think it’s Spanish for house.’
    â€˜Is it? Fancy that. You know, I wasn’t very peckish before, but I see they’ve got trifle on the menu. How about you, my quaint little article?’
    I suspected some kind of dig at Piriel, but because Aunt Dorothy’s eyes were as innocent as a baby’s, I just ignored it. (That ‘quaint little article’ business made me feel uncomfortable, anyway.) After that, although she insisted on going outside into the sweltering car park for a cigarette first, the rest of the afternoon wasn’t really too bad. Aunt Dorothy was never in a hurry, so I had plenty of time to look at things carefully before deciding what to buy. There was one crazy moment, staring at ties and initialled hankies, when I actually thought of making Dad one of those burglar-proof book safes like Corrie’s. They might be scungy junk, but somehow seemed more
fun
than anything on the display racks. But then I remembered the security system at the new apartment, and realised how pointless it would be going to such a lot of trouble for something that wouldn’t even be used. I ended up getting him socks again because I just couldn’t think of anything else.
    I’d had the same problem on Father’s Day. He’d been away for that, too. It wasn’t just the difficulty of finding something interesting, either. Giving someone a gift after the reason for it had passed somehow felt like a disappointment. Just for once, I thought, it would be great if he was home for a special occasion. Such as Christmas …
    Aunt Dorothy, who’d seemed quite happy to plant herself nearby and daydream while I was choosing those socks, woke up when we went to buy gift-wrapping and ribbon.
    â€˜Brown paper and raffia isn’t Christmassy – it’s just
weird
,’ she objected. ‘You do get some barmy ideas, Sarah.’
    â€˜It’s not a barmy idea. Piriel used exactly the same on a house-warming present she bought for someone. It’s artistic.’
    â€˜This other stuff is what
I
call proper Christmas paper. Now, let’s see, should I pick the holly or the snowmen? The holly one’s shinier. Oh, and a big hank of tartan ribbon plus some of those loopy bow things you stick on top …’
    I started to point out that tartan ribbon would look awful with the holly paper, but shut up. It didn’t really matter what trimmings Aunt Dorothy chose. No one could ever work out just what she did to make all her presents resemble bundles of fish and chips!
    â€˜Now for the toy department,’ she said eagerly. ‘I always like that part of the Christmas shopping best.’
    The toys were for all the grandchildren belonging to the card-group members. The aunts always gave them presents at Christmas and on their various birthdays. Watching Aunt Dorothy choose this year’s toys, it suddenly hit me that it was a bit sad. She and Aunty Nat probably felt left out of things when the Trentons, Joan Cordrice and Eileen Holloway started boasting about their grandchildren at the card nights. The aunts didn’t even have any children of their own, let alone