Christmas Turkey

“You can’t experiment on an old man. Especially not the Major.” Steve glanced over at his co-worker. “I think we should think this through a bit more.”

"He'll be fine, I reckon he'll enjoy it," Martin eased the van from the main road into the alleyway, negotiating the turn with his usual skill. In places, there was barely a whisper of air between the narrow brick walls and the side panels of the ancient vehicle.

He pulled up at the entrance to the alley. It was the moment before dawn broke, the light around them still dim, not yet glowing with the promise of a new day. They could barely make out the bundle of rags at the other end of the lane. They turned on their flashlights, lighting their way through the rubbish littering the ground. As they reached the bundle, Martin saw a thick, black, undulating line on it. It seemed to be alive.

“What the hell?” Steve leant forward, reaching out his hand to touch a grey, discarded army blanket. Martin tried, too late, to grab his arm. The black line changed direction and started to move up the latex glove Steve had snapped on.

Steve jumped back, trying to shake the thing off, brushing it with his other arm.

“It’s body lice. Scabies.” Martin said.

The black line disappeared, back under the blankets. They saw a hand, shrivelled, almost mummified. Long curved fingernails, the colour of nicotine, curled out from its fingertips. The nails were as thick as an animal’s claws.

The hand jerked. There was something like mouldy hay, straw which was knotted and filthy with grease, protruding through the top of the blanket pile. Below it, a brow appeared, etched with lines so deep the black dirt was visible, creased inside them. A head turned towards them.

 Where the eye should have been, there was a sunken hollow, covered with taut mottled skin. The other eye looked at them, its eyelid red and inflamed, crusted with the yellow sand grains of infection.

A beaked nose came next, thin, aquiline, sniffing the air. The man’s mouth opened as if to say something. Grey and brown teeth, like a row of neglected gravestones, were covered in a patina of age.

The man’s thin lips opened and closed. His gums, pale and bloodless, had receded.

 Martin knelt down beside the bundled figure. “Hey Major, it’s Steve and Martin from Help for the Homeless. We’ve got a treat for you today. It’s Christmas day and we’re going to get you fixed up and take you on an outing.”

“Only if you want to go,” Steve added. He proffered a Styrofoam cup with hot coffee.

The Major eased himself into a sitting position and grasped the coffee in both hands.

“Delightful, thank you, an unexpected morning cuppa.” His one eye looked upwards at the men. “I would very much enjoy an outing, especially if it involves food,” he said.

“It does,” said Martin. “I’ve got some breakfast for you in the van, and then it’s going to be bath, haircut and shave, and off to Christmas lunch.”

It was a busy morning. They drove to Martin’s house and filled a hot bath, with the Major luxuriating in it for so long that he emerged shrunken like a prune. They applied eyedrops and cleaned up the eye. Next came a lotion to make sure the lice had been eradicated. They timed the scrubbing of his teeth for a full three minutes. They sat him in front of a mirror for the shave, haircut, and manicure, but had covered it with a towel at the Major’s request, so he didn’t have to look at himself.

After three hours, their work was done. A freshly laundered pair of trousers, shirt and sports jacket, as well as new shoes and socks, were laid out on a bed for him.

When the Major emerged, he was, as expected, a different person. There was a healthy flush to his skin, still pinkish from the bath. With a black pirate patch over his missing eye, his face had the enigmatic appearance of a romantic hero. His hair was buzz cut, but they had left a hint of modern, designer stubble over his jaw, which allowed him a jaunty, sporting look. He stood tall and elegant in his new clothes.

“Oh man, I would never have believed it,” said Steve.

“Told you, I knew he was in there,” replied Martin.

“Where to now, gentlemen?” asked the Major.

“I’m taking you to have Christmas lunch with my folks,” Martin said. “I have to warn you, my dad can be a bit, well, a pain in the proverbial. My mum’s okay though. You’ll like her.”

“If there is Christmas pudding available, I will dine with Beelzebub himself,” the Major said, as Martin herded him into his car.

They drove through the city to the eastern harbourside suburbs, pulling up in Vaucluse, haunt of the rich and famous, the location of some of the most outrageously expensive real estate in Sydney.

  “I apologize for making a personal comment,” said the Major, on entering the home, gazing about him at the view which extended all the way from the entrance doors to the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the harbour, the crystal chandeliers, the baby grand piano surrounded by a mirrored bar with enough alcohol to stock an entire hotel, the Persian rugs and the gleaming marble floors, “but it seems your parents must be quite well off.”

  “Yeah, my Dad’s a real captain of industry,” said Martin, with the tone he might have used if revealing his father was a ditch digger.

“Who’s this then?” Martin’s mother came out of the kitchen, untying her apron, extending her hand. The Major picked it up delicately and bent over, giving her hand an elegant air kiss.

 “They call me Major. My real name is Walter. Call me Walt if you like, but I answer to just about anything.” He straightened up, winked with his one eye, and held her hand for a second longer than necessary.

“I’m delighted to be in your lovely home, Margaret,” the Major continued. “I hope I’m not imposing, your wonderful son insisted, as I had no one else to dine with today.”

Margaret had erupted in a girlish giggle at the air kiss. A booming voice came from the depths of the sofa.

“Where’s the bloody turkey Margaret? I’m so hungry I could eat the arse out of a low flying duck.”

The smile disappeared from Margaret’s face, and she scurried back to the kitchen, tying her apron strings and calling out as she went,” It won’t be long, please everyone, sit at the table.”

Martin showed the Major to his seat. The table was set with gold-rimmed charger plates, porcelain dinner and side plates, linen napkins bent into fancy shapes, four different types of glasses for each person and a confusing quantity of glinting silverware arranged at each place setting.

After they were seated, Martin’s father heaved himself out of the sofa and approached with a half empty whisky glass in one hand. He offered the other hand to the Major to shake.

“I’m Geoff Hardacre, Martin’s dad. At least, they say I’m his dad, although I think Margaret found him in a cabbage patch somewhere. Not exactly a chip off the old block, are you son? Works for a homeless shelter, you know.” Geoff shook his head, mystified by his progeny’s inexplicable life choices.

“This is Walt, Dad, although we call him Major.” Martin’s face had reddened slightly, as it had done ever since he was a small boy, and his father had first found him lacking.

Margaret came into the dining room, staggering under the weight of a silver tray with a six kilo turkey and a similar weight in roast potatoes and pumpkin surrounding it. The Major jumped up, took the tray from her and laid it in the centre of the table.

 “Major eh? Did you serve in the forces?” Geoff had, himself, never served, although he fancied in another life he might have been in the special forces or a perhaps a commando, or sniper, despite being handicapped with poor vision and having never enjoyed any sort of physical exercise.

 “I was in the army, yes. Served in Vietnam.”

“Do I detect a bit of a pommie accent? Where you from son?” Martin’s dad was suspicious of anyone lacking a broad Australian accent.

“All over the world really. Born here, but my parents were in the diplomatic service.”

“How fascinating. Do you speak any foreign languages then?” Margaret had always wanted to learn a foreign language. Martin noticed she titled her head in a coquettish way when speaking to the Major and her eyes had regained a bit of the sparkle they’d lost years earlier.

   “About a dozen, although I’m quite rusty now.” The Major was eyeing the turkey and could barely restrain his hands from taking a potato off the platter. “May I carve for you Margaret?”

   “Go ahead mate, dark meat for me. What I can’t stand,” Geoff said, stabbing his fork in the air, “is the foreigners who come to this country and don’t learn a word of English, even after fifty years here. Bloody disgusting.”

“Were you a Major in the army?” said Margaret, swiftly changing the subject.

“Duh Margaret, that’s why they call him the Major, I’m guessing.” Geoff chortled into his napkin, which he had tied around his neck.

The Major nodded his confirmation to Margaret. He now had so much turkey in his mouth, for a second he couldn’t talk.

“And what do you do now?” Margaret was entranced by the Major. She hadn’t touched her plate.

“I’m enjoying the freedom of retirement now.”

“So you’re a Vietnam vet,” said Geoff. “Bloody heroes all of you, got a raw deal when you lot came back after defeating the commie bastards.”

“I don’t think we won the Vietnam war, Dad,” said Martin.

“I think we did, son. As I was saying, Walt, bloody raw deal you chaps got.’

  “Interesting you should say that Geoff. In fact, I support a charity for Vietnam vets, and they really need all the help they can get, especially the widows. A lot of our men have passed away too early from the after-effects of the war, and people have forgotten about the survivors.”

  “I don’t believe in charities, mate, that’s what we pay our taxes for.”

   “I thought your accountants made sure you didn’t pay tax, Dad, at least that’s what they told me when they made me sign all that family trust stuff.”

“As I said, found in a cabbage patch.” Geoff looked sideways at Martin, raised his eyebrows and threw up his hands.

“Where do you live, Major?” Margaret was keen to learn more.

Martin sucked in his breath and closed his eyes, fearing a vivid description of the Major’s life on the street would now be forthcoming, and his father would storm and rage at his bringing a “homeless bludger” into the house, and throw them both out.

 “ I’m fortunate to live in the inner city, Margaret. Very close to the train station, very convenient for public transport and everything I need.”

“I don’t know why the yuppies pay millions of dollars for those derelict inner city terrace houses. Nothing modern, all old stuff, all closed in and poky,” Geoff said. 

“My home,” Walt began, and Martin looked at his feet, barely breathing,” Is open plan. Quite airy and spacious. I agree, Geoff, it’s not nice to feel completely closed in.”

Martin breathed out, an audible sigh of relief. “The Major was kept in a tiny cage underground, not even big enough to stand up in, when he was taken prisoner of war. He doesn’t like to be contained in a small space.”

Margaret’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry Major.”

Even Geoff looked concerned and took a very large slug of whiskey. “I can see why you’re involved with the charity, then. Good on you mate.”

 The Major refilled Geoff’s glass from the whiskey bottle. “I tell you what, I’m thinking of making a special New Year’s donation, as it’s going to be the first year of the next millenium, can you believe it? The year 2000. How about this, if you’d like to make a small donation, Geoff, I’ll match it, and then I’ll double it.” Martin glared at him, alarmed. The Major had less than ten dollars to his name.

“You’re on mate.” Geoff was very competitive by nature and hated playing second fiddle. “How about this, you make a donation, and I’ll double it. What about two thousand dollars?”

“Wonderful, Geoff, but I had in mind about ten thousand?”

“Twenty,” said Geoff.

“Forty,” said the Major.

“Sixty,” said Geoff

“Eighty,” said the Major.

Geoff was well fortified by whisky and conscious of an unfamiliar sense of jealousy, as his wife appeared to be flirting with the Major.

“One hundred thousand,” yelled Geoff, banging the table with his fist and throwing his napkin in the air in a gesture of triumph.

“It’s a deal.” The Major beamed. “Oh what a wonderful afternoon this has been. Could I have another serving of pudding, Margaret? Your cooking is just phenomenal. May I be terribly rude and ask whether there’s any chance I could take some leftovers home? It’s been a long time since I had a homecooked meal like this.”

Martin decided it was time to go, and hustled the Major, clutching his foil meal parcel, and making his fervent thanks, out to the car.

He drove in silence, rubbing his brow, and sighing like a blown-up toy slowly losing its air.

“Something wrong Martin?”

  “I’m so sorry, I took you there for the wrong reasons. It wasn’t to give you an outing. It was to embarrass my Dad. I used you to play a trick on him. To prove he’s a stupid bigot, which I knew anyway”

“I know you did. I think you achieved your purpose quite well “

“What if he finds out when you don’t make your donation?”

The Major shrugged. “I don’t think anyone’s going to tell him.”

“You’re not going back to that alley. I know you don’t want to stay in a hostel, but why don’t you sleep on my back deck for a while. It’s nice and open. We’ll pick up your things on the way home. “

“I’d enjoy that very much. What do you think the chances are, if I came to lunch again next year, I could get him to donate twice as much again. It could be a lovely Christmas tradition.”

 Martin extended an arm to hi-five him. “To quote my Dad, you’re on mate.”