daughters

We gather at my sister’s house. We are not a tribe, or clan; just a family. My sister has said she thinks the family she and I grew up in to be dysfunctional. I can’t think why she feels that way. We weren’t perfect, but not in any way dysfunctional. That said, we were not a close or loving family, placed no emphasis on ‘family values’.

We have grown to four generations. And here we all are on Christmas Day: my sister and second husband Tom; me, my good woman and her daughter, joining us for the first time; my daughter, her partner Richie and little Nerri; my mother and father; my son and partner Katie; my nephew Callan and partner Prue; my niece Elise and fiancé Carlos. Elise’s twin Melina and her partner Mick are working.

No one has organised who is to bring what. Mo and Katie produce dips, chips and antipasto; three salads appear—green, beetroot, and potato; my mother’s cheese and tomato pie and my good woman’s mushroom pie occupy the table’s centre along with a chicken inside a turkey from Prue; a huge plate of roast potatoes, pumpkin and carrots come from my sister’s oven; dessert is chocolate meringues, a Christmas pudding and a Christmas cake; a ginger and treacle cake, rum balls, custard, cream and brandy sauce.

At one point all sixteen of us seem to be in the kitchen; at other times it’s just the women, me and my nephew. My son is out fixing the pool filter, the other males and Elise huddled round the dips. Small parties wander into the garden, an acre plus of it full of heritage-listed trees. The new Caddy is inspected and admired.

The stealers of the show are the daughters. My mother’s daughter, my sister, hosts a great show: crockery, cutlery, immaculate table, house all in order. My daughter, pregnant again: what pregnant woman isn’t a centre of attention? My daughter’s daughter, Nerri, two years and four months, talking as she’s not talked before. Someone remarks that she’s not a small child but a small person. My good woman’s daughter Sasha meets at least ten people for the first time, greets everyone as if she’s always known them, is genuinely pleased to see them. It’s more than I can say for myself.

Prue is someone’s daughter, but I don’t know whose. She’s a recent addition to us; my nephew’s partner, sixteen years his senior. In three years she has embraced us and we seem to be embracing her.

Later I sit quietly thinking how pleased my mother must be near the end of her life to look down the table at us all, her legacy, four generations. No arguments or fights break out. No animosities lie hidden or dormant. We don’t all love each other, but we treat each other with respect for who we are and what we are collectively. My mother would call us ‘nice’ people.

The implication is that it is quite sufficient to be nice people. She’s dead right.

Rock on.