E.T., Phone Home

Bex O’Brian

Word Count 608

I was in England, having spent three months in Kenya and now working on a script for a documentary about the Turkana tribe, when the director suggested we visit a friend of his mother up in Henley-on-Thames. The mother was some sort of lady-in-waiting, personal assistant, or just all-around caretaker for the wealthy ancient Lady— who was the last surviving member of her family and lived in a Gothic pile on the River Thames. I thought the afternoon visit was pleasant enough until the director suggested to his friend’s mother that the three of us spend Christmas together in that mansion, with me cooking dinner. I didn’t relish the idea. My holiday cheer was at a low ebb having been apart from my husband for months and unable to book a flight home until the day after Boxing Day. 

Christmas day, we arrived midmorning to a house shrouded in fog and mist. There were only two lights on.  One upstairs in the master bedroom, where the lady of the house was lying, prone, apparently dying. And one downstairs in the small bedroom, where the my friend‘s mother slept on the thin, narrow bed.

Before I was even shown the kitchen, we were asked to go upstairs and stand with the vicar as he said a prayer over the dying woman. I cannot imagine how strange it must’ve been for her– she seemed coherent enough–to see two strangers walking into her bedroom with the Vicar and her lady-in-waiting. We stood for a good fifteen minutes over the bed, exchanging pleasantries. At least the vicar and the lady did. I was struck dumb by how weird it was.

After that, I was taken to the kitchen and let loose. Just imagine the kitchen in Downton Abbey, but completely empty except for me and my two shopping bags filled with supplies. There was a large Aga stove, an implement I had never used before. I remember I laughed and felt a frisson of excitement. Then I got down to work, sticking my head in the oven to judge the temperature, splashing water on the ever-hot stove plates, trying to figure out if they were hot enough to boil potatoes. 

During this time, in one of the many sitting rooms, the director had turned on the TV.

Halfway through my cooking, E.T. came on. In the rare moments I could leave my various potions and concoctions alone, I went into the sitting room and watched a snippet of the movie. I began to feel incredibly emotional. Lonelier than ever.

The dinner was ready before the movie was over. We called the lady-in-waiting from upstairs to come down, and we sat at one end of a vast mahogany table with a towering candelabra as the only light driving back the gloom from outside. Amazingly, it was a very tasty meal, and we ended up having a pleasant time opening our Christmas crackers, wearing our hats, reading the jokes. But as everyone pushed back from the table and the lady-in-waiting went back upstairs, I felt another rush of motion. I went into the kitchen and opened a closet door. Inside was more linen than a thousand people could use in a lifetime. A perfect place, though, to bury my head and have a cry.

E.T. phone home. E.T. phone home.

Two days later, I was on a plane, my own spaceship, bringing me back to my home.

I don’t know what it is about Christmas and Thanksgiving, but they are days that refuse to be ignored. What you can control is who you spend them with. I love the weirdness of that Christmas. But I wouldn’t want to repeat it.

Bex lives in France with her husband and their dog. She is the author of the novels (Under Bex Brian) Promiscuous Unbound and Radius. At present, she’s working on a new novel entitled, Finnick