Eyes of the Beholder

There was nothing festive or Christmassy about lobster, and he would not be convinced otherwise. Throwing a few shrimps on the “barbie” and calling it Christmas dinner was clearly deranged. The sheer convenience of it upset him, never mind the distinct lack of stodge. Bowls of roast veg, glazed in honey, a rich, thick gravy (none of this watery piss either), a tangy cranberry sauce, and the pièce de résistance, in the center of it all. Preferably on a red tablecloth decorated with candles and Christmas crackers.

Sunlight shone brightly into his kitchen. It barged in like an unwelcome guest. How could anyone possibly celebrate Christmas in the summertime? Another irksome thing about Australian Christmas, even more irksome than nibbling on a charred shrimp that’d been seasoned with chili and lime instead of nutmeg and cinnamon – though he wasn’t a complete moron, he knew that a chili and lime combo was probably for the best in that situation (dare he admit tasty). But still.

Christmas in the sun was a paradox. It could not be done.  Sure, making sandcastles on the beach was fun (for some, he supposed) but it was not the same as feeling frost on your nose and patting together a snowball in wet gloves, ready to launch square between your brother’s eyes.  Nope. No matter how many Christmas songs played in supermarkets, or how many twinkly Christmas trees peered from windows, he could not be tricked. No amount of tinsel or baubles or blow-up Santa’s could conjure the sound of sleigh bells or their ring-a-ling-ding-dong-dings. Not even an angelic church choir dressed as elves with rosy red cheeks and full of cheer could raise his Christmas spirit from the dead. It was staunchly buried, in the bush somewhere. Probably in the knitted red-nosed reindeer sweater that his Grandmother had made him, which he now regretted ever wearing under such duress.

Christmas just… didn’t belong here. He was sure of it, but he peeled potatoes and root veg anyway because this year he had been given the task of sharing his version of Christmas – in his opinion, the only version of Christmas. He might not be able to make it snow or bring the cold (he did crank up the aircon, and some might say his personality could do the trick) but he could at least try to recreate the meal. Not to his Mother’s standard, of course, certainly not while maintaining her blood alcohol level – he did intend to sip sherry all day in her honor – but he hoped to get something close to it. Perhaps I can bring the Christmas cheer, he thought, then promptly snorted sherry down his nose.

He set the table, positioning the crystal and candlesticks, holly wreath whatever-they-were’s and rolled napkins in ornate holders shaped like deer. He burned incense, some Christmas mishmash but it worked better than he thought. Music played, all the classics. He didn’t mind the cheesy, overplayed ones. In fact, the cheesier the better, much to his friend’s surprise.

The kitchen was a steam room. Pots boiled and the oven ticked over nicely. It smelled good, somehow like roasted chestnuts despite the fact he hadn’t made them. Things were going smoothly, and he drowned a mouthful of sherry. He wasn’t altogether pleased with how smoothly it was going – there was a certain jovialness, a frenzied quality that was missing. But he couldn’t help it if he’d executed everything like clockwork – he was an engineer – nor could he help that his own company was not naturally jovial. He needed his friends for that.

The doorbell rang just as it occurred to him what a miracle it was that he had any friends at all. He felt a sudden warmness in his heart, a tingling sensation that inspired a feeling of gratitude. Perhaps his Christmas spirit was waking up.

“Merry Christmas!”

His friends flooded in, all four of them. They took turns to greet him individually, kissing him on the cheek, shaking his hand, socking him on the arm. He was not touchy-feely, but he could make exceptions at Christmas.

The commotion of their arrival – how excited they were to spend Christmas with him, their comments on how good the food smelled, their thanks for his hospitality – stirred his spirit even more. He helped them with their coats, which they did not need in 30-degree heat but had worn for his benefit.

“Ooh, it’s brisk outside, mate!” said Damo, feigning the cold by hugging his arms.  Damien in Australian is Damo, of course.

“Help yourself to some mulled wine,” he replied, gesturing over to a vat of fragrant red wine on the side table, “should warm you up nicely.”

They all took him up on the offer, ladling some into glasses and taking a swig. There was a mixed reception. Some had had it before, of course, but he felt they needed to try his mulled wine. He was not offended when they made a screwed-up “yuck” face. Those that liked it, had taste. Those that didn’t, did not. Simple. He told them exactly so and gladly took the heat for it while digging out some cold beers and Jim Beam cans from the fridge.

What followed was pure merriment if he did think so himself.  Everyone pulled crackers and delivered the stale jokes, they donned Santa hats (Damo donned his elsewhere but was quickly reprimanded by Suzie, his long-suffering girlfriend). They shouted: ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday’ and snapped photos at every opportunity. And then the meal…

It was met with acclaim! They were particularly enthralled with the meat, his pièce de résistance – and the part of the menu that took most of the work.

“Mate, that meat was just perfect,” Robbo said, spread out on the sofa.

“Yeah,” Charmaine agreed, “I expected turkey.”

“Me too,” Suzie said, and the rest agreed.

“What actually was that shit?” Damo asked. He was pouring himself another rum and Coke, swaying a little.

“Aren’t I glad you asked, Damo,” he said, and smiled. He stood up and asked them to join him. He led them out to the garden, butterflies in his stomach. He was excited to show them the effort he’d put in, to serve them a traditional Christmas dinner. He was proud of himself, and not even the humid air could dampen his mood. He could really feel the Christmas spirit this year.

He opened the door to his shed with a flourish, and in a magician’s assistant pose, directed their attention to the wonder inside.

“Pièce de résistance!”

Suzie gasped, clapping a hand to her mouth. Charmaine screeched and turned away. Damo made a loud retching noise, then followed through.

Small bodies, strung up, lifeless and naked. It wasn’t obvious what they were at first. The bench next to them was bloody, and the sharp utensils hadn’t been tidied away yet. There was a bucket on the floor, which, on closer inspection, was full of a watery, reddish brown mixture that appeared to have pink lumps floating in it.

“Rabbit,” he said, proudly.

But no one was very receptive, apart from Robbo who took a swig of his beer and simply said, “Fair dinkum.”

“Danke schön,” he replied, then added, “mate!” in his best Australian accent.  He put an arm around Robbo and brought him closer inside.

“This was how my Grandfather prepared Christmas dinner.  I wanted to do right by him, make it authentic, you know?  I must tell you, though, I still have nightmares about the eyes floating in the bucket."  He pointed down, where indeed, on the surface of that sour-smelling mixture, beady little eyes peered up at them, along with a tangle of innards.  "Always seemed to stare at me when I was a kid.”  He shivered, then laughed abruptly and clapped Robbo on the back.

“Did you have to show us like that?” Suzie cried.

He supposed not. He knew it would be jarring but he couldn’t help himself.

Christmas pranks were a thing in his house too.