Flightless Wings

It was a pet hate. Bev fed it. And she watered it. She walked it around with her to give it plenty of exercise. At this time of year she even groomed it and then set it on her lap and poked and prodded it until it growled back at her and reminded her why she hated it so.

There was of course a build-up of bad and ill feeling that reached a crescendo in December. Each and every year she would escape the insanity of her pet hate. She would run away and pretend it wasn’t happening, returning when it was all over.

She could not escape all of it, for there were some who began buying and planning months and months in advance. The Premature Christmasers were so idiotically odious that they had forged for themselves their own chains of pet hatedness. Bev had begun that particular odyssey with dislike, but these oddities had seemed to sense this and each year they started their lunacy that bit earlier with present buying and the organisations of Christmas get togethers that they referred to as soirees or something equally ridiculous and worthy of a sound kick to the crotchal region.

I can’t wait, was in these imbecile’s lexicon. Well, Bev could. It was one day, that was all it was supposed to be. Twelve if you really wanted to go for it. The advent calendar started in December. That was when any build up was allowable. Although a sick puppy had added Christmas day to some of the advent calendars. That was too much. And it was completely and utterly wrong.

What was also wrong was the loss of any true meaning to the holiday. It was supposed to be little baby Jesus’s birthday, but few people acknowledged that anymore. The holiday itself was a Winter Festival timed around the shortest and most depressing day of the year. The point was to cheer people up, not to behave in an irredeemably stupid manner, spending money that did not exist on gifts that no one actually wanted. Worse still was the saccharine-sweet false approximations of cheeriness. What this equated to was cheer up, it might never happen and why don’t you try smiling for a change having a bastard baby and dropping it on its head on a daily basis so that it was never going to turn out right.

Bev had tried, the gods knew she had tried. She was afforded vague recollections of Christmases long past and those fading ghosts held the charm of a time when things had been better. Better how, she did not know. After that it all went a bit wrong and then it went a lot wrong. Her experiences of Christmas were of an enforced set of circumstances that never agreed with the people who were drawn together and always, always ended in a depressing chaos for which there was no order. There was never any coming back from the crisis of a bad Christmas. A badly executed Chrimbo hit a person when they were already at their lowest ebb and it had the power to destroy the ties that bound. Relationships ended over Christmas. Often, one or both parties were oblivious to the Festive Bite, but the rot had set in and horror would ensue.

Isolation was the only way forward for the sick patient. Every year Bev booked a time out and she headed off five or seven days before the Hostility Season and came back when another year had been seen in. She travelled to places where the sun burnt away all the nonsense and she could recharge whilst sipping a juicy cocktail or three. A bright and breezy drink that only worked when it was warm and everyone was happy and relaxed, she could almost taste the sunshine as the day of her much needed therapy holiday approached.

And then it snowed.

White Christmases were as rare as hen’s fingers. They just didn’t happen. Not in Carston they didn’t. If the British Isles had snow, it was in the outer reaches and even then on the high ground. Snow disliked Christmas almost as much as Bev did, and yet here it was, raining on Bev’s parade. Only the rain was misbehaving and wearing big fluffy white coats. 

The situation was not helped by the fact that Carston had its own micro-climate, which was to say that the snow avoided Bev and an exclusion bubble around her. As Bev huffed, puffed and seethed she imagined being full of lava and that helped explain the lack of snow in her immediate vicinity.

“I don’t believe it!” she snarled.

And she was in such a state of disbelief that she bounded out of her house and rolled into her car. Stabbing the dash with the ignition key, her car screamed into life and bolted for the open road in a startled and mildly out of control manner.

“Bugger!” she cried at the wall of snow that had been built to block her path.

Not to be deterred, she threw the poor, beleaguered car into reverse and almost into a hedge and slalomed her way across to the other side of Carston, the car protesting all the way to yet another pure, white road block. 

Still in a state of irritated disbelief, Bev exited her vehicle and stalked up to the snow blockade. Hands on hips she eyed it balefully, and then, for good measure, she punted it with her right toe. The snow bled over her toe and a dusting of it sprayed out onto the road around her, having the decency to melt in her presence.

Bev had never seen the like. All around her was a wall of snow. She was trapped. Trapped in a partially built igloo. Trapped in Carston and unable to leave. Imprisoned. Bev was in a prison of snow and her cellmate was her nemesis…

Christmas.

Bev took two steps away from the snow bank. Paused and dropped her shoulders in something like resignation, then she pivoted on her right foot and with a roar, she launched herself at the freezing obstruction. Landing in its midst, she sank in the virgin snow and scrabbled around like a drowning woman. For three whole minutes, she went at it like a horizontal banshee and gave the snow what for. After that all was stillness and she became a discarded ragdoll.

Nearby, a robin looked on in consternation, craning its head to attend to a muffled sound. That sound was the muted noise of Bev’s sobbing as she cried her frustrations out into the snow.

Wearing an apron of ice Bev stomped off back home. Halfway there, she realised that she’d left her car, and so she returned to the patiently awaiting vehicle and abused it all the way back to the driveway. It winced as she stood on the brake a little after the fact and it almost kissed the wall of the house. She kicked its tyre before leaving it panting and ticking as it cooled its heels.

At the kitchen window, Bev stuck her tongue out at the world in general and then gesticulated wildly to display her displeasure at the conspiracy that was unfolding before her. Surprisingly she slept that night, but unfortunately, it was the sleep of the deluded and Bev awoke in a fantasy that bestowed upon her a false happiness born of imagined hope. She skipped and danced her way through her morning routines and dragged her packed suitcase down to the kitchen before making herself the customary coffee; her passport to a new day.

As she sipped at her coffee, she peered out of the kitchen window and reality waved a white gloved hand at her.

“No!!!!!” she screamed at that cruel and mocking glove, “curses, you bastard snow!” 

Snatching up her phone, she checked first the weather report, then the news and then the status of her flight.

Cancelled.

That was that then.

Only, there was no that. Not here. Having drunk her coffee, Bev discarded her empty mug by the sink and plodded disconsolately to the fridge. The fridge was not bare, nor was the cupboard, but they were not provisioned for the forthcoming fortnight. Bev did some calculation and planning. If she was frugal, budgeted and eked out what she had, then she would not starve. What was certain was that she would be sick of the sight of baked beans were the snow to linger for the entire two weeks.

In a state of anxious consternation, she dressed for the cold weather and walked out into the new day. There was no conscious purpose to this venture of hers. All she knew was that she had to get out. Her car cowered as she approached, then breathed a petrol scented sigh of relief as she passed.

Her walking pace was brisk, but remained purposeless. An armed missile with no target, she grumbled at the houses bedecked with lights and decorations. Conspicuous markings that spoke of the parlous state of the mental health of the inhabitants of such dwellings. She was pleased to see that as many houses were not decorated as were, but worried that the tide would keep turning. 

“Bev!” 

The voice was enthusiastic and also familiar. She turned to see Sally. Sally was waving and approaching. Bev had neither the time, nor wherewithal to decide whether this was a good thing or not.

“I thought you were going on your Winter Escape!” beamed Sally.

“Snowed in,” said Bev forlornly. 

Sally studied Bev’s downcast face and saw the genuine, crushing misery there, “I’m guessing you’ve not got anything in for Christmas either?”

Bev shook her head, looking for all the world like an oversized toddler. Sally would have had to have had a heart of stone to overlook Bev’s plight and not feel for her, and Sally’s heart was as far from stone as was possible, her heart was soft and large and this was obvious even as Sally attempted to mask her vulnerability with a puppy like exuberance, “I’ve got plenty in, so you can come over to mine,” she was nodding as the thought took shape and became real and solid between them, “yes, there’s nothing else for it. I’m not having you sitting alone and eating a tin of cold sardines by the light of a candle!”

Bev smiled at the absurdity of the image Sally had conjured, “I’m not Bob Cratchit!” she protested.

Sally gave her a look tinged with doubt, then grinned, “bah! Humbug!” then she turned on her heel, “see you on Christmas Day.”

Bev watched her go, not quite sure as to what had happened, “what time!?” she shouted after the receding figure.

“Noon!” Sally called back without turning.

The snow not only stayed put, it called in reinforcements to ensure that the Festive Siege continued. On the one hand, this had the effect of emphasising Bev’s situation and making it all the more valid. She hadn’t just been delayed from her sunshine escape, it really wasn’t going to happen whatever she tried to do. On the other hand, the enforced isolation really did make her feel quite Dickensian. In fact, without the invite to Sally’s, she would have been a modern day Little Match Girl, destitute, wandering around the village and peering into through frost misted windows to see warm and welcoming worlds from which she was eternally banished. Bev realised that, in a way, Sally had invited in from the cold. A Christmas alone, in what she considered to be home for the whole of the rest of the year, would have been torturous and left her too down to have faced the approaching new year with any energy or purpose whatsoever. For the first time in a long time she was forced to seriously consider how some people survived this season. The pressures it brought with it and the reminders and challenges also, they were all too much for one person to bare. 

Bev resolved to do something for Sally in return. Sally the Singleton who had invited Bev the lonely to share the day with her and no doubt feed her well. The something that Bev was intent on doing was an elusive beast. Bev stalked it around her head and when that did not lead her to its lair, she got up from her seat and crept from room to room, hunting it down, eying all the spaces and places that it may lurk. Having exhausted the downstairs, she headed up the stairs and went room by room until finally she kicked the door of her bedroom open and burst into the room as though she were special forces rescuing a piece of Christmas and saving face to boot.

There was nothing there though. 

Forlornly, Bev slipped back downstairs. To add to her woes, she opened her fridge and then her food cupboard to remind herself of what she lacked. Giving someone what she lacked was not a winning strategy. That would require magic that she did not possess. She smiled though and then her smile turned itself up from ten watts to a hundred. Her initial smile was at a random thought concerning making a fortune selling the absence of something, but then another random thought came to her and close behind was a third.

She applied herself to making real the second thought. The third was more a case of hunting and gathering, only this time she knew where her quarry lay and what she would do with it once she had it trapped and confined.

The Day approached and Bev found that she didn’t resent its presence. Instead, she was looking forward to seeing Sally and spending time with her. She dressed well, but wouldn’t call it dressing up. Not quite. All the same, she spotted herself in the mirror and it was clear that she’d made an effort. She let it go, but wasn’t sure what she’d needed to let go.

Sally was effusive at the door and before Bev understood what was happening, she was being hugged. She managed to return the hug, gathering her wits in time for it not to get awkward.

“And what do we have here?” Sally asked, looking at each of Bev’s hands.

Bev raised a carrier bag, “booze,” then handed Sally the Christmas card, “I didn’t have any cards in the house,” she explained before Sally could open it.

Sally pulled open the envelope to expose the card. She went quiet and in that silence, Bev felt awful. All the years fell away and she was a child again. The middle child who somehow never measured up to her two siblings. Never carved out her niche. Failed to fit in by continually failing.

“It’s wonderful!” Sally gasped, “you’ve missed your calling!” Now she was looking up from the card and something she saw made her grab Bev again and pull her into an even closer hug, “thank you,” Sally whispered into Bev’s ear.

The moment was over before Bev knew it and she was following Sally into the kitchen, Sally chattering away about the turkey and all manner of subjects that she plucked from the air around her. They were on their second bucks fizz when the doorbell went. Bev looked askance of Sally. Sally merely grinned, “here they are!”

“Who?” asked Bev.

“Some of the others!” she said over her shoulder as she went to the door.

Bev stared in disbelief as she watched Sally go. 

Others?

This was not a development that Bev had considered, let alone factored in. Her expectations were now in a tailspin and she was in danger of crashing.

Before Bev could properly work out what this development meant for her and this day, Bill the Gamekeeper walked into the kitchen and greeted her, “afternoon!” he boomed, “I hadn’t expected you here, Bev! That bally snow, I suppose?!”

Bev nodded, “yes, scuppered my plans.” Inside she was thinking about more recently scuppered plans.

Bill raised a tinfoil dish towards Sally, “where do you want this, lass?” 

“Over here, please!” Sally was pointing towards trivets placed strategically on the kitchen side.

Bill did the honours and Sally poured him a whisky without asking him if he wanted fizz. Bev noted this and got that Sally already knew this preference of Bill’s.

There followed a procession of attendees, each bringing a dish for the Christmas Dinner. Bev observed the change in situation and although not quite a fish out of water, she was conscious of the once empty pond filling with swimmers.

She was acutely aware that she wasn’t swimming amongst the other fish and was doing herself no favours. She looked around her and felt a weight that she could not identify, and the weight was increasing. Suddenly the room was closing in around her and she was feeling a pressure she could not defend herself from.

Looking about her, she saw her chance and she left.

Grumbling all the way home she did not stop until she was inside, with her back against the door, as though bolstering it and preventing the world form battering it down. She was breathing heavily and trembling. This was not good. She needed to do something.

And so she did.

“Where’ve you been!?” asked a flushed Sally.

Bev raised the carrier bags in her hands, “I underestimated the quantities of booze,” she said with a smile. If she’d been in any doubt as to whether she should be in this home, Sally had dispelled them on the threshold.

As they entered the house all the waifs and strays of Carston turned towards them and raised their glasses, “Happy Christmas!”

And Bev realised that it really was.

She raised her bags to the assembled, “cocktails anyone!?”

The Carston Christmas Family chorused their appreciation of this development and a merry and ever so slightly hazy Christmas was had by all.