A Festive Falling Out And Other Christmas Short Stories Read online

  She called ‘HOUSE!’ Lila defended herself from the Elliot’s by crying, ‘NOT REALLY!’ and it seemed like the entire female population of Curston chanted ‘RECOUNT!’ and banged their glasses on their tables.

  It’s just as well Biddermouth on Sea is a small town with tangled bloodlines because one of the Elliot’s, it could be Mo, Mim or Mary I’m still not sure, is married to Lila’s husband’s second cousin twice removed and blood, still being thicker than water even where prize money is concerned in our small community, meant they calmed down a bit when they realised it wasn’t Beattie.

  Mind you as far as I know the Hathaway’s never tainted their fragrant marriage beds by wedding a Morris so the question of going 50/50 has yet to be resolved.

  Black Friday Madness

  This morning Vera Preston is officially listed as one of the walking wounded. My next door neighbour, Beattie Hathaway, also has an official capacity. But she is recorded as helping the police with their enquiries. I’m not sure what the difference between making a voluntary statement and being formally arrested is but all I’m saying is that if our local department store hadn’t advertised Black Friday Bargains in their haberdashery department none of this would have happened. Then again how were they to know that a simple advert stating, ‘All Knitting Wool 70% off’ would cause such mayhem?

  Mind you listening to the local news it seems that Stirrup and Morley’s got off lightly. In one of the supermarkets in nearby Curston, a baby buggy, fully occupied I might add, was lobbed by an irate father into the crowd massing around discounted televisions, somebody was shot trying to save 20% on a coffee machine and Bella Bynge’s Range Rover was ram-raided during a parking space dispute. Hopefully Ida Dobson has also seen that and realises how lucky she was to have been queuing to buy cut-price darning needles and not an expensive electrical appliance. As it is her walking frame is a write-off.

  ‘Don’t they get enough out of us already,’ asked Hilary Mason joining us in the queue and wondering out loud if the aim of the day was to give special privileges to the town’s immigrant population.

  ‘It’s an American tradition,’ said Lila Morris. ‘Like silk stockings, chewing gum and Walt Disney’s birthday.’

  Of course the day started off peacefully enough. Even Beattie was in a good mood having made me spend the previous evening going through her extensive collection of old knitting patterns to try and find a particular cardigan she remembered making many years ago.

  ‘Try the box marked 1976 Maureen,’ she said. ‘You can’t miss it. It’s got a picture of a woman on the front of it.’

  Anyway by 7.30 am that Black Friday morning there we were, standing outside Stirrup and Morley’s and forming an orderly queue along the High Street. In fact there was a bit of a carnival atmosphere which Lila Morris said was just like the war. And I suppose in a way it was, especially when the ladies from the Madrigal Society, who’d been there since six started the community singing.

  Normally at this festive time of year, because we have never ever celebrated Thanksgiving, there are a few empty days between the age-old ceremony of ‘Dowsing the Biddermouth Virgin’ and the more modern switch on of the town’s Christmas lights. If nothing else it gives you a chance to sort out those last minute Christmas cards and plan your outfit for the big day. Sadly, like all ancient traditions the ‘Dowsing’ has lost some of its religious significance over the years. For a start these days none of the girls look remotely untouched but that doesn’t stop the Mayor enthusiastically drenching them with buckets of cold water to see who will bear the title of ‘Miss Nipples’ for the coming year.

  However I suppose if the early Christians hadn’t absorbed all those pagan traditions in the first place celebrating the birth of Jesus would be a bit of a non-event and we’d eat Mince Pies all year round. So you could argue that welcoming another country’s religious tradition into our Yuletide calendar is a natural thing to do.

  Unfortunately as we queued peacefully, just like the war, the rumours started. Somebody said that 4-ply and Quick Knit were limited to six balls per customer and you could feel a ripple of unease spread through the crowd. Beattie was especially unnerved. Being somewhat larger than the rest of us six balls of wool wasn’t likely to knit up to anything more than a couple of sleeves and a bit of ribbing at the most.

  ‘You better make sure you buy the same colour as me Maureen, ‘ she hissed, ‘and I’ll give you the money when we get home.’

  Even Vera and Hilary put their customary animosity to one side and teamed up to form a black market gang should lemon 2-ply prove to be in short supply.

  ‘You get your ration,’ said Vera, ‘and I’ll pay for your bingo cards next Wednesday.’

  ‘Fair enough, agreed Hilary readily striking the deal as she needed enough 4-ply to knit six bobble hats with matching scarves and mittens for her grandchildren. ‘Then I’ll buy your fish and chips afterwards.’

  Ida Dobson, in pole position since 5 am, passed a message back that she was getting darning needles at 70% off come hell or high water. The ladies from the Madrigal Society were also adamant that they hadn’t stood there since dawn braving wolf whistles from passing tramps only to be denied cut-price dress fabrics and beside me Beattie was already trying to work out if she could adapt her pattern to make a waistcoat. I was wondering why I’d bothered to get up so early, especially as I didn’t know how to knit anyway.

  Looking back I think it all started with the revolving doors. You see as soon as they started spinning the crowd surged forward, Ida’s walking frame got jammed and behind her the ladies of the Madrigal Society pressed on in case the rumour about a shortage of crushed velvet turned out to be true. Sadly light weight NHS aluminium was no match for twenty women chanting in a six-part harmony and Ida, trapped inside her battered appliance, was swept of her feet and unceremoniously dumped on top of a fridge freezer. Being incapacitated by statins all she could do was scream for help whilst the rest of us swept past.

  By the time we arrived at the haberdashery department nobody was in a mood to take no for an answer. Vera got into a tussle with a woman in a pink tracksuit and was being punched a lot harder than she could punch back when Beattie, high on adrenalin having grabbed two dozen balls of 4-ply, struck on her behalf. At least she would have done had her arms not been full at the time which was how she came to land a such devastating head butt instead.

  I suppose that’s the trouble with adopting these pagan traditions full stop. If the first Christian missionaries hadn’t got a firm grip on things then who knows what we’d be doing on December 25th. Perhaps pulling a cracker over your Christmas Turkey could really take your head off? And god only knows what would be in the mince pies. I mean after you’ve sacrificed a virgin what do you do with the body?

  All in all it seems it is going to take a while to infuse Black Friday with a bit of goodwill to all men if what we’ve seen this year is anything to go by. Still it’s good for the shops and means guaranteed work for security guards. But for now Lila, Hilary and I are prepared to swear on oath that Beattie slipped on a wet floor and no malice was intended. It is Christmas after all.

  It’s the thought that counts.

  This is turning out to be a very tricky run up to Christmas I can tell you. Having survived the two week long war between Vera and Hilary over the casting of the St Matthews and All Angels Nativity play it seems that I’m now about to be plunged into a battle of my own over where I will be choosing to spend Christmas.

  Until last Thursday I thought it was all settled. Beattie was going to spend the day with her niece Pauline and her family which, to be honest, was fine by me. At least with her otherwise engaged I was off the hook as far as the usual routine of spending Christmas Day with her was concerned.

  ‘That’s good,’ said my friend Kevin, the owner of the Bona Curl Salon, ‘you can come and spend the day with us, all the usual crowd will be there, Dean’s coming dressed as Jean Harlow and if you get there early enough we’ll give
that Dusty Springfield wig of yours a bit of festive ‘jush’.’

  In fact Kevin had been so full of the Christmas spirit at the Halloween Party at the Jolly Seaman he’d even invited Stella Wheatley and those three Polish friends of hers, always assuming she gave them the day off from decorating her bedroom.

  ‘Do you realise,’ he added, ‘they’ve been at it for three months? I mean how many rolls of wall paper do you need to hang in a room twelve foot by twelve foot? No wonder they’re all looking tired.’

  So there I was, looking forward to Christmas with Kevin because not only is he a good cook, which Beattie isn’t, but he always has at least five Christmas trees, all colour co-ordinated and the flat looks lovely. Which Beattie’s house doesn’t because she confines festive cheer to a moth-eaten artificial Christmas tree that’s small enough to sit on the top of her telly.

  Then I go and bump into Hilary Mason in the Help the Aged shop. She was busy trying to find a suitable card for my next door neighbour only, as she said, she was having trouble finding one small enough that had a robin on the front. You see we all know that Beattie, for some reason, sees them as a bird of ill omen.

  And that’s when I found out that my neighbour’s Christmas with her niece was off. It seems that Calvin, Pauline’s husband, had become so full of the festive spirit when he heard that Beattie was spending the day with them that he’d booked ten days in the Caribbean for his whole family and taken out a substantial bank loan to pay for it.

  ‘Apparently’, said Lila Morris, who was on the same mission as Hilary, ‘You and Beattie are enjoying a nice little turkey crown with all the trimmings as usual.’

  They both gave me the kind of look you’d give to a friend who’s been made homeless on Christmas Eve but I noticed neither of them offered me an alternative arrangement. So I supposed that was my festive season taken care of for the tenth year running.

  Now don’t get me wrong. There have been times when I have been glad of Beattie’s company, like my first Christmas in Palmerston Terrace for example. Back then and not knowing a soul, I will admit that the prospect of having to spend the day on my own was a daunting one. Looking at other people’s shopping trolleys only made it worse. Even though they looked decidedly bad tempered and snapped at each other over how many chipolatas wrapped in bacon you needed to feed twelve people it wasn’t hard to imagining their angry faces wreathed in smiles as they opened their doors to friends and family, the house smelling of roast turkey and stuffing, children absorbed in their presents and at the centre of it all a splendid Christmas tree twinkling away to the accompaniment of Carols from Kings.

  Of course we all know it’s only like that in the adverts on the telly. At best, for most people, it’s the feigned surprise at an unwanted gift or the grimace on the doorstep as the in-laws arrive. So I suppose spending Christmas with Beattie isn’t that different.

  Every year when the subject arises I say, ‘why not come to me this time? And Beattie comes back with an answer designed to keep me firmly in her clutches. One year she even said it would be a treat for me to have my dinner off matching crockery. So you can imagine the pall that cast over the proceedings can’t you? Apart from not being a very nice thing to say to anybody having to play ‘Snap’ against someone you are technically not on speaking terms with isn’t easy. Luckily we had two packs of cards and ended up playing ‘Patience’ for three hours at opposite ends of the dining table until it reached a seemly time for me to go home.

  And then there is her choice of Christmas gifts. I mean I’d be more than happy with a box of chocolates but no! One year she bought me an oven cleaning kit.

  ‘Just think Maureen, ‘she said after I’d forced a smile, ‘you can see the New Year in with a clean hob. Mind you if you ask me the only thing between your cooker and the scrap yard is that ride on the back of the lorry. How you’ve not died of food poisoning I really do not know. Honestly eating a meal prepared on that thing must be like playing Russian roulette with your intestines.’

  And last year was no better. I mean just because she has a mania for making tapestry cushions it doesn’t necessarily follow that it is shared by the rest of the world does it? Especially as she’d forgotten to take the ‘blue cross sale’ sticker off the packaging.

  ‘I was going to get you one that said ‘Home Sweet Home’ but I know what your spelling is like,’ she said whilst trying to teach me to thread a needle.

  Not that I wish to imply she doesn’t try to make you feel welcome. Because she does. It’s just that her skills as a hostess always involve warnings about not making scuff marks on her parquet flooring, scraping her Royal Worcester dinner plates with your cutlery or daring to dent one of her cushions by which point you’ve just about managed to hang up your coat. And some of the gilt definitely wears off the ginger bread when you’re forced to watch the Queen’s Speech sat bolt upright. Still you do always get plenty to eat. Even with her incendiary way with roasting meat and her firm belief that spouts need boiling for at least an hour there is always plenty to go round.

  So I suppose that’s my Christmas Day sorted. Kevin will be having a high old time with all his friends, Dusty Springfield will have to forego being decked with boughs of holly and Stella will probably be draped in something transparent as she tries to take her decorator’s minds of their wives and families back in Poland.

  I was tempted to follow Hilary’s example and pick a very small card to send next door but after all it is Christmas and Beattie is my best friend. In the end I settled on a large one with an angry looking Robin on the front. I know she won’t like it, but then again, at this time of year, it is the thought that counts.

  Breast Feeding Furore Ruins Mince Pie Eating Contest

  Two further events have marred the pre-Christmas festivities in Biddermouth On Sea this week and for once neither of them involved my next door neighbour Beattie or our friend Vera Preston.

  On the very day we are all looking forward to the annual Mince Pie Eating Competition, and more importantly our very own Karen Braithwaite’s attempt to break her own record of 120 mince pies in an hour, Lila Morris’s daughter Bez caused a furore when she was asked to leave the Tea Room at Stirrup and Morley’s department store for breast feeding in public.

  Beattie was particularly incensed as it was her day to treat her well-to-do acquaintance, Mrs Dennington- Wriggly to afternoon tea and as usual she had invited me along to fetch, carry and pour. Luckily Vera wasn’t there, Wednesday being the day her grand-daughter Kiara Marie has an hour’s access to her biological father Ronan. Chantal, her mother is no longer allowed to accompany the child following an earlier incident with a pair of scissors and a restraining order. All of which places a great burden on Vera and her pension and makes those of us without issue glad of the fact that we will die cold, unwanted and alone.

  However there was Beattie trying to look interested in one of Mrs D-W’s tales of the Raj when on the table behind us Bez whips up her tank top and starts feeding. Now I know it has to be done and I will admit most mothers using the Tea Rooms either feed discreetly or make use of the excellent facilities of the Mother and Baby Room. But it seems Bez’s inalienable right to suckle in public was at stake and she became extremely vocal when the manageress offered her what Bez loudly referred to as a ‘tit tent’. Apparently the infant Waz becomes anxious when covered, a fact reiterated in the press by Bez’s life partner Caz.

  Having posted pictures of herself on Facebook looking anything but a shrinking violet Bez went on to say how she’d been pressurised into breast feeding by the system and how humiliated and traumatised she was by the manageress and her inflexible attitude in front of a restaurant full of people. Somehow this does not ring true of the Bez we know who went public over her mail order sperm and whose blog of her pregnancy ended with a very graphic video of her episiotomy. Lila tried to put on a brave face by applauding her daughter’s stand for all nursing mothers, which is commendable considering the rest of us just think she was out to
make trouble because she couldn’t get her own way. Apparently she was just the same when Chantal Preston got a bicycle for Christmas and she got a scooter.

  Anyhow it was a very subdued little party that made its way to support Karen in her record breaking attempt later that afternoon. For the last seven years Karen has been the Biddermouth Pie Eating champion and even took up a summer training regime that involved mini quiches and jam tarts. As a result of all her hard work she now weighs in at two stone higher than her previous years fighting weight and can only sleep in a deck chair. Say what you will but you have to admire her commitment to pushing the physical boundaries of her chosen sport.

  What none of us had taken into account was the challenge fielded by our rivals across the bay. Curston have been trying to win the Pie Eating prize since their Ladies Bowls team failed a drugs test in 2010 and were banned for life from further competition. Quite where they got Gert Juggs from nobody knew. Even Beattie, with her encyclopaedic knowledge of south coast bloodlines couldn’t cast any light on her provenance but she certainly looked likely to give the Pride of Biddermouth a run for her money.

  Now the rules of pie eating are simple – they are to be consumed one at a time, matching your opponent pie for pie. The first one to black out is considered to have lost. The same goes for vomiting.

  The first fifty pies were quite companionable with lots of good natured joshing between the rival camps. A barely susceptible belch on pie sixty five was only picked up by Karen’s coach and partner Derwent who was handed an official warning for yelling ‘BREATHE! From that point Gert looked comfortable until both women had reached the hundred mark.

  This was where Karen’s training started to pay off , experience and technique kicked in, she stepped up a gear from two chews to three and her perfect circular breathing saw her cruise majestically to pie 115 leaving Gert breaking into a sweat and clawing at the table cloth.