I chose this story, even
though it is longer than we generally accept, because it has a remarkable
thing, so often lacking in short stories – humour. And I think it captures
something of Christmas, in a traditional, yet far from, conventional way! So
very well done to Jo for being our grand finale in the CafeLit Advent Calendar
of Stories! And thanks to everyone for their wonderful contributions.
The café will be closed
now until January 5th. So please start sending in your wintery
stories for January, something to brighten the dark days as we wait for Spring!
Happy
Christmas from us all at CafeLit!
An Advent Calendar of Stories
December 24
Part 2 2014
The
Twelve Days of Christmas
Jo
Fino
Large glass of red (vegan)
On the first day of Christmas:
My
true love sent to me: A Partridge in a
Pear Tree
What? What on earth am
I going to do with a partridge? I’m a vegan for chrissakes. A vegan with three
cats. As for the pear tree: well I don’t think it’s really going to fit in my
window box.
On the second day of Christmas:
My
true love sent to me: Two Turtle Doves
Where’s the number for
Yodel? That partridge has got to go; it’s crapped all over my parquet flooring
and now it’s perched on top of my black artificial tree, shaking , and the cats
have settled in to siege mode at the bottom, well except for Charlie. I found
him clinging to the middle of the tree with my best purple tinsel wrapped round
his neck and it was only when I got him down that I realised
he’d swallowed one of my LED candle
lights with multiple settings. Now he’s sitting on the window sill
glaring at the partridge and every time he hiccups he glows.
So I got through to
Yodel finally after half an hour of back to back Sir Cliff’s ‘Mistletoe and
Wine’… Come on guys, even Costa Coffee have banned it in all their branches on
account of adverse customer reaction to Christmas tunes. But then as my old
Auntie Edna used to say there’s no smoke without Punch…Whatever that means… I
think she was a bit ‘confused’… so am I … it’s no wonder she got fifteen years
for burning down the convent.
The guy from Yodel
turns up and says he can’t take the pear tree back because he’s got an allergy
and I should have filled out an allergen awareness form before I asked for a
pick up. Then, after forty-five minutes of trying to catch the partridge and a
lot of bad language (honestly, being a vegan I’ve done a lot of swearing,
mainly in restaurants and outside cosmetics companies but the Yodel man was a
revelation) he departed with the best combination of expletives ever when the
partridge crapped in his eye; it was like listening to every banned rap song I
secretly hid under my bed on account of my mum being a rampant Catholic. Well
she can’t have been that rampant: I’m an only child.
I
settled down with a nice glass of wine (vegan) and I heard this noise, like a
sort of cooing and I realised the Yodel man has left another box… I knock back
the wine for a bit of Dutch (why are people from Holland so hard-core?) and I
open the box.
WTF!
So
now the two turtle doves are on top of the black Christmas tree with the
partridge, Charlie’s emitting alarming flashes in the window every five minutes
like a fur covered lighthouse and Bonnie and Clyde are yowling as they
continuously circle the tree.
On the third day of Christmas:
My
true love… you get the picture now… it’s more birds…
The partridge and the
turtle doves have joined forces and are taking it in turns to bait Bonnie and
Clyde with kamikaze swoops across the living room. It would be quite beautiful
to watch if Bonnie and Clyde would stop the yowling soundtrack for five seconds
and Charlie wasn’t on distracting chaser flash mode. I spent an hour on Google trying to find out if it
was possible for doves and partridges to interbreed , and two hours on the
phone to ‘you’re through to Darren, at
Yodel how may I help you?’ who clearly had a limited grasp of the English
language and kept calling me mam (not sure if he was a Geordie and hoping I would adopt him or he
was sat in an office in Mumbai being extra polite but I elected not to confuse
him further by trying to explain that I’m a Ms). When ‘you’re through to Darren’ finally got his head round the fact that
I was trying to arrange a pick up for three birds and a pear tree and not a
plastic ninja turtle, a packet of Dove soap, and a Partridge family CD he
advised me that the only driver in the area that morning had put my name on his
blacklist for not filling out an allergen awareness form (cheek of it) so he
would have to send someone from the southern district. So I said fine, as long
as they don’t have an MA in Expletive Deletives (which went way over ‘you’re through to Darren’s head’),
slammed the phone down, forgot the pear tree was still in the hall, walked into
a branch and ended up in casualty for three hours.
When
I got back it was quite heart-warming to see the welcoming glow of Charlie,
peering at me through the window; he was on the purple light cycle – my
favourite – I wonder how long the battery in that LED light lasts? The southern
district Yodeller had pushed a note through the door advising me that ‘your
parcel is round the back’. At least he didn’t pin it to the front door like my
next door neighbour did once, screaming out to all the local ne’er do wells
‘empty house up for robbing’. He had called round to request that I keep the
noise down in the bedroom after 10pm on account of his wife’s nerves… I expect
he’ll be round again soon; I could hear Bonnie and Clyde yowling at full pitch
before I even opened the front door. I edged my way past the pear tree, patting
the surgical eye-patch for reassurance, reached my bijou kitchen and went to open the back door
to retrieve the parcel, desperately hoping it was the boxed set of Mad Men I’d put on the top of my list to
Santa; I may be vegan but I still believe. I heard the squawking before I even got the door halfway open and
before I knew what was happening Bonnie and Clyde shot past me and my ergonomically minimal patio was
transformed into Fight Club as the cats
went into battle with three ugly looking hens clucking, ‘Mais Oui, Ah Non, Mais
Oui, Ah Non.…’
My they were big mothers…
On the fourth day of Christmas:
Four
more birds and I’m beginning to feel like Tippi Hedren (Google it…)
My black Christmas tree
is gradually turning white on account of the accumulation of bird crap,
Charlie’s on the flash/fade cycle and Bonnie and Clyde are staying at the vets
overnight for observation as their yowling was beginning to scarily resemble an
X Factor Live Audition Show. I rang
the RSPB about the three hens but apparently they don’t ‘do farm birds’, not
even ones that can cluck in French. Being a vegan I really couldn’t in all
conscience ring Farmer Bryn Jones to collect them, not least as last time I saw
him I was leading a picket line outside his farm, protesting about his farming
methods and he got arrested for threatening me with a shot gun. I chucked some
toast crumbs to Coco, Chanel and Piaf – the hens – and spent an hour scrubbing
the bird crap off the parquet in the living room, ignoring my neighbour
hammering on the front door. I think he must be related to the Yodel man with
the pear allergy, I’ve never heard him swear so much before.
After
another half an hour on the phone to ‘you’re
through to Marcia, your Yodel Call
Centre Operative of the Week’, who could at least form a sentence made up
of words containing more than one syllable, she put me on hold and I endured
twenty minutes of ‘Mary’s Boy Child’. So they bumped Sir Cliff in favour of
Boney M ; come on guys, the clue is in the name and the dude in the white spray
on trousers and fake fur shrug, writhing, is well, so not festive in the true spirit of the word if you ask me. Marcia
finally came back to me as I was beginning to slip into a coma and informed me
that she was able to lodge a formal complaint on my behalf about the unsigned
for dumping of livestock by Yodel drivers but the investigation would take six
working weeks, during which time I would be removed from their delivery and
collection schedules… what! What about the birds, the pear tree and my boxed
set of Mad Men? Marcia advised me
that a driver was due in the area that afternoon and she would see what she
could do, if I just wouldn’t mind completing a quick customer satisfaction
survey. An hour later I put down the phone with a numb ear, having given Marcia
ten out of ten on everything from her impressive explanation of the theory of
relativity to her ability to say ‘hello, how may I help you’ in fifteen different
languages… she really can… I went to make a cup of tea, briefly flirting with
the notion of a well-deserved glass of vegan red, and when I edged back past the pear tree (I
swear it’s sprouted another branch overnight) I saw the Yodel delivery note on
the door mat. I mustn’t have heard the doorbell on account of my one numb ear
and the bandage from the eye patch muffling my other ear. Cursing like only
Snoop Dogg and Dr Dre know how I read the note and opened the door a fraction,
hoping my next door neighbour wasn’t lying in wait.
I
should have known when I saw the air holes on the box…Why oh why did I open it
in the hall? It was like a scene out of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds; two of them flew straight at my face, a third one lodged
in my hair (I’ve been so distracted I can’t remember when I last de-tangled and
I’ve run out of ethically produced tea tree conditioner) and the fourth one
swooped up the stairs where it sought sanctuary on top of the toilet cistern.
On the fifth day of Christmas:
Five gold rings: it’s the deal breaker…
I was so hung over
after downing two bottles of vegan red with my next door neighbour’s wife
(turns out he’s the nervy one) after I called round to apologise for the noise
(well really to escape The Birds and Charlie’s flicker cycle which seemed
to rather over excite the turtle doves
and the partridge) that I totally forgot about the fourth calling bird on the Victorian style
toilet cistern, until I went for a wee and it crapped on my head whilst
tweeting what sounded like the chorus to the Human League’s ‘Don’t You Want Me
Baby.’
I stumbled downstairs
to a dawn chorus from the other three calling birds now resident in the pear
tree: ‘Happy Christmas, War is Over’ hey? Nice try chicks but you really are
going to have to go; I may be vegan but I’m no pushover. My eye is still half
closed from the pear tree encounter, my ear’s bright red from all the Yodel
calls and my head hurts. I slumped down at the kitchen table just as Coco
jumped on to the window sill and starting pecking at the glass. Shit I forgot
to feed the hens. Two paracetamol, a gallon of tea and a vegan bacon buttie
later – yes there is such a thing and no, it is no substitute I admit – I heard
the door bell and peered past Charlie (green glow mode) to see a Yodel van
parked outside and I haven’t even called them this morning. It must be my lucky
day, although I doubt one driver will be able to round up ten birds by himself
without David Attenborough on hand. I open the door and it’s Mr Expletive Deletive;
his face is covered in angry looking hives and he glares past me at the pear
tree as he thrusts a small package in my hand and legs it.
Yes!
Finally it’s the Mad Men box set… I
am saved… he does truly love me. Ten seconds later the four calling birds
strike up a chorus of ‘All I want for Christmas is You’ as I try to work out
why anyone who has shared a bed with me would send me a packet of five tacky looking gold napkin rings.
On the sixth day of Christmas:
Goosey, goosey gander… it sounds cute but
I hear they have violent tendencies
Thank God I decided to
keep the Jacuzzi bath instead of installing a double walk in rain shower with
massage jets like they have in the ten best bathroom love scenes on DVD. It was
just big enough to fit the six geese into, but it was a tussle of Herculean
proportions to get them up the stairs I tell you. I peeked into the lounge and
my black Christmas tree is almost completely white now, the partridge was
perched on Charlie’s head (he’s on alternate red and green mode) and the turtle
doves have built a nest out of my purple tinsel which can only mean one thing… more
goddamn birds.
I rang the vets and
asked them to keep Bonnie and Clyde for another night, Googled chicken feed
suppliers, and emailed a dude in Tal- y -Bont who’s free-cycling a chicken
coop, then I picked up the phone and speed dialled Yodel, as the four calling
birds struck up a chorus of Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.’
On the seventh day of Christmas:
When I read Seven Swans on the delivery note I
desperately hoped it was a voucher for that new retro pub on the High St; then
I saw the size of the box on the hydraulic platform…
It was a challenge but
fortunately two of the swans are not yet fully grown so I managed to squeeze
five of them into the bath with the indignant geese and the other two into my
reclaimed Victorian sink. I thought I’d mislaid the fourth calling bird that
was living on the toilet cistern; either that or the geese had got peckish
overnight. Turns out it must have sneaked in to my room in the middle of the
night and taken refuge in my hair; well it is beginning to resemble an Amy
Winehouse convention. It’s no wonder I was confused when I woke up and heard
‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’ from somewhere, as I thought, deep inside my
head…
Charlie
(fade in fade out mode: that must be the best LED battery ever) and the
partridge seem to have reached a form of entente cordiale – Obama, Putin take
note – and the turtle doves are well loved up. So all is well in the living
room and I’ve given up on scrubbing the parquet. I have no idea what I did with
the cheap gold napkin rings, which I now realise may come in handy on Christmas
Day as a welcome distraction from the lack of a turkey centrepiece. I can hear
my mother now: ‘Well, napkin rings, you, with napkin rings, who would have
thought it. Sister Mary Claire would be so proud, dear.’
The
pears are starting to ripen nicely and I’m suddenly thinking Mmmm pear cider, I sense a cottage industry
(okay a boxy two up two down industry) developing. The calling birds are
working their way through the full Three
Degrees back catalogue – they did a particularly good version of ‘Dirty Ol’
Man’ – and the free-cycler finally got
back to me and has offered to drop off the chicken coop. Result.
On the eighth day of Christmas:
The
arrival of eight statuesque blondes
in a Yodel-badged minibus sets the voiles all of a flutter next door…
‘I’m sorry I have no
idea what you’re on about… I do not have any cows… I don’t even have any grass
for chrissakes… oh just hang on… no just stay there … there’s no room… the pear
tree seems to have developed beanstalk tendencies ‘
I
left the group of blonde Amazonians, clad in aprons and not much else, babbling
in some strange language on my front path, speed dialled Yodel and begged to
speak to Marcia. Turns out they’re Dutch, one of Marcia’s fifteen languages –
thank God (no wonder they weren’t freezing their bits off in those skimpy
outfits then… hard-core the Dutch…) and they seem to be labouring under the
delusion that I have a field full of cows. I dialled directory enquiries, and
after several false starts with numerous Bryn Jones’s who would no doubt have
been delighted to entertain eight six foot blondes, I finally got through to
Farmer Bryn Jones, and informed him in my best dodgy Eastern European accent
that I could supply him with a group of hard working wenches with a penchant
for milking for a very good price.
The
calling birds launched into a chorus of ‘Old MacDonald’ as soon as he arrived
in the wagon he uses to take the lambs to market (classy) and I desperately
hoped no one from the Bangor Vegan Activists happened to be passing by my
house. I took a risk but old Jonesy didn’t recognise me on account of the eye
patch and overgrown bee hive, not to mention the Eastern European accent… I may
keep it up… apply for a job at Yodel even.
‘Nice
cat, who’s your taxidermist?’ leered Jonesy, indicating Charlie who was
sleeping in the window emitting a fetching shade of blue. I shut the door on
Farmer Bryn Jones’s foot, £150 richer and just in time; sensing the presence of
a battery farmer the hens had gone into a major ‘Zut alors’ frenzy and the
geese and swans appeared to have found out how to work the Jacuzzi jets in the
bath. The squawking was positively orgasmic and I had a feeling another note
from my neighbour would be winging its way through my letterbox… ‘winging’…geddit…
I checked the living room and was treated to a fly past by the partridge and
one of the turtle doves. The other, nesting complacently made me feel rather
envious… and a little broody…
On the twelfth day of Christmas:
Over the last three
days I have had to work out ways of dealing with twenty extra people of various
occupational leanings, or in some cases ‘leapings’ in my impossibly small two
up down box, while the pear tree just keeps on growing… Just when I thought I
had got them all safely despatched, I heard the sound of distant drums… and
yes, there were twelve more of them…
So when the nine spray
tanned women with suspiciously set faces
and eyelashes you could launch Eddie the Eagle off turned up on the ninth day, wearing a
selection of fringed, slashed to the thigh and sequinned dresses (she sewed all
9,000 of them on herself) I let them stay on two conditions:
Number One: No one was to strike a match within a mile of their
hair – I shuddered to think how many bunnies suffered to produce that amount of
industrial strength hair spray.
Number Two: I’ve always wanted to learn the Argentine Tango.
Anyway they were so
thin I had no concern about their ability to fit on the roll away in the spare
bedroom, and they were a welcome diversion from ‘The Birds’, the fact that the
pear tree had now burst through the ceiling into my bedroom, and the leaking
chicken coop, not to mention the phone calls from the vet informing me that my
bill of £400 for b and b for Bonnie and Clyde needed paying and until then they
were holding them to ransom. I think they need to reconsider this strategy but
I decided to look for the gold napkin rings just in case: they could turn out
to be the real deal.
On the tenth day I
tangoed down the stairs, beside myself in a daringly slashed spangled concoction,
sporting a new set of lashes – well one new lash on account of the renewed need
to don the eye-patch after an unfortunate lapse of concentration with the
eyelash glue. When the doorbell rang I wasn’t even fazed by the sight of ten
Anton du Beke look-alikes performing a complicated salsa routine on the
pavement outside my house. Charlie the cat had gone into disco ball mode and
the partridge and turtle doves rocked a newly-hatched chick each as the calling
birds belted out ‘Everybody Salsa’. I phoned the local old people’s centre, or
rather Seniors Select, as it had been recently renamed after a members' secret
ballot, and the minibus was despatched to take the dancers (all 19 of them) to
the annual Christmas Party, before you could say Equity Release Plan. The
minibus arrived at the same time as the
lorry load of chicken feed, which caused a degree of confusion, when three of
the Antons mistook the driver for ‘It’s A Ten from Len’ off the Strictly Come Dancing panel, threw
themselves at his feet and begged him for a job. I can still see the poor
driver now, sack of chicken feed over his shoulder, muttering about his
delivery time slots, dragging the three Antons up the path as they clung to his
leg.
On the eleventh day I
spent twenty minutes on the phone reassuring the plumber that he won’t catch
avian bird flu when he comes to repair the Jacuzzi bath. I had felt it only
fair to warn him that my bathroom had turned into a lurid pastiche of Swan Lake and Mother Goose especially
after the ‘allergen awareness’ incident with Mr Expletive Deletive from Yodel.
I eventually managed to persuade him with the offer of a month’s free trial of
the eleven pipers who had just piled off a Yodel transporter and onto my path,
when he mentioned how overworked he was on account of the lack of skilled
tradesmen in the area. Well I didn’t know they were musicians… Did I?
So it’s day twelve, and
the birds , all twenty-six of them including the three adorable new additions
passed a relatively peaceful night, after the chicken feed man very kindly
fixed the leaking roof on the chicken coop (he was so grateful to me for
shouting to the three Antons that I had just heard Bruno and Craig were doing a guest appearance
American Smooth at the Senior Select
Christmas Party), the plumber restored full power and ‘then some’ to the
Jacuzzi bath (I’ve never seen such ecstasy on a swan’s face) and the calling
birds sang them all to sleep with ‘Mary’s Boy Child’ – the Johnny Mathis version, not a writhing white
trouser in sight.
I salsa’d my way out in
to the back yard (I’d paid close attention to the Antons’ display), shouted ‘Bonjour
mes petites jolies, ca va bien?’ to Coco, Chanel and Piaf, receiving a clucking
chorus of ‘Mais oui, eh bien sur’ in return and fetched the step ladders, ready
to start harvesting the pears (I found a fab home brew cider recipe on Google).
Then
I heard it: the rumble. I lifted the bandage securing the eye patch off my ear
and it was even louder; it was getting closer, and closer. Surely not? Armageddon?
It’s nearly Christmas, and after everything I’ve just been through? Plus I
still didn’t have my Mad Men box set.
I threw down the step
ladders, rushed through the house, avoiding the pear tree with the practised
ease of a highly trained commando and flung the front door open. I may as well
face it head on. The noise was deafening. My street was a blur of colour,
people out of their houses in various states of undress, swayed on the
pavement: people I had never seen before in my life, and I’ve lived here five
years. My next door neighbour and his wife appeared, together for the first
time in public since their wedding day, and as I stared at them twitching in
their postage stamp patch of a front garden I realised that what I had taken
for a panic stricken frenzy was actually interpretative dance movement. I
ripped off my eye-patch, the false eyelash hanging on to it by the last shred
of glue like a dismembered spider and focussed, and as I did so I felt my newly
Latin Americanised body begin to jerk. This wasn’t Armageddon, it was ‘Batucada
Brasileira’ and there was a full blown Brazilian Samba Drumming Troupe holding
up the traffic in my street. Behind me the calling birds were shrieking ‘Samba,
samba, samba de janeiro’ and when I glanced at my front window Charlie was
flashing green and yellow in time to the beat.
The party went on all
day and I learnt several useful Brazilian Portuguese phrases, exchanged email
addresses with a particularly well-muscled drummer called Joao who offered to
send me a meat free feijoada recipe and
got invited to dinner by a couple of the neighbours. Turns out I ain’t
the only vegan in the village. I had such a great time that I did toy with the idea of letting the twelve
drummers stay, but as the pear tree had now taken over the spare bedroom, my
living room had turned into an avian breeding sanctuary and my bathroom was
overflowing with swooning swans and over ecstatic geese, I didn’t really see
where they were going to go, short of a sixty minute makeover team appearing in
a puff of diesel smoke and performing a
loft conversion; except I don’t have a loft and if I did the pear tree would
have already made itself at home there. When I came across the leaflet
advertising for the local heat of Britain’s
Got Talent on the 13th December (that’s tomorrow!) while I was searching
for a Mexican take away menu (it was the closest South American cuisine I could
think of) it seemed so much like karma that I just had to let the boys know and
they set off down to the local theatre to camp out overnight in the queue
before I could say ‘Boa noite.’
The gold napkin rings
were a diverting surprise result of the take away menu hunt; I think I will get
them valued, just in case the email recipe exchange with Joao develops and I
get invited to Rio for the carnival, plus I really am starting to miss Bonnie
and Clyde. But first I need to get back on the phone to Yodel and lodge another
complaint about Mr Expletive Deletive with the pear tree allergy and angry
hives. In between the ‘Batucada’ and an impromptu acapella rendition of ‘The
Girl from Ipanema’ by my next door neighbour (who knew he could sing?) I
spotted Mr Ex. D , complete with bird poop spattered Yodel cap lurking in the bushes with a long lens camera
trained on the upstairs window at number 33; that’s where Lola practises her
pole dance routines, in between training to be a dental technician. I’ll get
him this time, for sure. Oh yes and then I’m phoning my boyfriend and dumping
him. Twelve days he’s had and he still totally forgot to get me the Mad Men Box set. True Love – who needs
it?
As I walk up the garden
path after waving farewell to the retreating samba beat, I see Charlie,
sleeping peacefully in the window; the partridge snuggled next to him. He
really is a rather gorgeous shade of grey: his natural colour. I wander into
the house, past the pear tree, inhaling the scent of the heavy fruit and as the
four calling birds settle on my shoulder and my head and launch into a chorus
of ‘So Here It Is Merry Christmas’ I pour myself a large glass of red and
listen to Coco, Chanel and Piaf clucking amicably in the yard, ‘Ah oui, mais
non, zut alors… tais toi… espece d ‘imbecile…’
Only twelve more days
to go…
About the Author
Jo Fino says she is a dreamer, an optimist, a worrier
too. She started writing again to deal with a stressful situation and gradually
rediscovered her passion. She now chairs a successful North Wales Writing
Group. She has been published on the CafeLit site and in The Best of CafeLit 3.
She was also shortlisted by Honno in their call for ghost stories and her short
story Cruel Summer won the Writers’ Forum monthly competition and was published
in issue 146.
