In July

‘Queensland is set for the coldest day of the year today, so pull out those jackets and coats…’

‘Huh! Perfect timing,’ Dad says, rubbing his hands together with glee as I make my way down the stairs. ‘Georgie! You heard the weather man. Where’s your ugly Christmas sweater?’

I groan and loll my head back. ‘It might be the coldest day, Dad, but it’s still 26 bloody degrees out!’ Everything is relative, and in far north Queensland, cold is just another word for stinking hot. ‘No one should be wearing sweaters this close to the equator, let alone in July,’ I grumble, but the stubborn look on Dad’s face isn’t going away, and I resign myself to mounting the stairs to get my sweater.

‘Nan didn’t spend months knitting that beastly garment for you to leave it in your drawers on the big day,’ Dad calls after me in his strong Yorkshire accent, and I hear him chuckle to himself. The accent hasn’t tempered much, even though he’s been in Australia with Mum for over twenty years. 

Mum and Dad have been happy here, in Cairns. But the one thing Dad misses from home is the cold, white Christmases. He misses them so much, that every 25 July, he insists we celebrate a ‘traditional’ Christmas, just like he had back home in Yorkshire as a kid. At twenty years old, and not yet ready to fly the nest, I have no choice but to go along with it. I dig through my drawers until I find the red and green, knitted woollen sweater that Nan sent over a few months ago. If ugly was the goal, she has well and truly outdone herself this year. The idea was nice- a reindeer, with Christmas lights hanging down around his antlers, and his tongue poking out adorably. Whether by accident, or by design, Nan seems to have made some crucial errors, and the cross-eyed, wonky-eared Rudolph who now adorns my chest looks like he’s been in charge of the punch bowl, rather than Santa’s sleigh. Paired with my red and white striped tights, green A-line skirt, and elf hat, I am a fright to behold.

Back downstairs I go, to be greeted by the smell of burning wood, and I suspect the sound of the fire alarms will be accompanying it soon. 

‘Don’t worry, I remembered the alarms this year,’ Dad says cheerfully, as he sits back on the couch and puts his hands behind his head. Our place, built off-plan when Mum and Dad first moved here, is the only home in Cairns with a wood-burning fireplace, complete with chimney. It gets used once a year.

‘If you insist on us having a fire, Dad,’ I say, wiping the beads of sweat that are starting to form on my forehead with the back of my hand, ‘can we at least put the air-con on?’

‘Ho, ho, ho- no,’ Dad says, rubbing his sizeable girth with glee. ‘Unless you’re paying the power bills this month Georgie. No air-con between April and October. You know the rules.’

 I roll my eyes, and plonk down beside Dad on the couch. ‘You’d better be careful you don’t pass out in that thing,’ I say, nodding my head at the fluffy red Santa suit he is wearing, complete with hat and beard. 

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Georgie,’ Dad says with a belly laugh. ‘It’s the coldest day of the year!’

***

Mum’s roast pork with crackling, with sides of Yorkshire pudding, stuffing, honey glazed carrots, and potatoes cooked in duck fat, is almost enough to make me feel festive. All I need is a nice, cold beer, and if I can just take one from the fridge and sneak outside without Dad-

‘Not so fast, Georgie,’ says Dad, as my hand closes around the neck of a tallie. ‘It’s mulled wine at Christmas!’

I wince and release the beer. ‘Of course. How could I forget?’

I return to the table empty handed, in time for crackers, and then Dad asks the question he asks every year. ‘Any special Christmas wishes this year, Georgie?’

I rest my chin on my palm and raise my eyes to the ceiling. ‘Well, Santa, if you can arrange me a date with a smart, handsome, eligible bachelor, I’d be much obliged.’

‘Ho, ho, ho,’ says Dad suggestively. ‘I’ll see what my elves can rustle up.’

‘Great,’ I say flatly. I won’t be holding my breath. 

‘Time to light up the pudding!’ Mum says cheerfully, standing up from the table, straightening out her white apron that sits across her red Mrs Claus outfit, and pushing her costume spectacles back up the bridge of her nose. 

‘Excellent, m’love,’ says Dad, sitting back and tapping his stomach with both hands as though to emphasise how much it has grown in the past half an hour. ‘That will warm us up!’

***

‘Candles ready?’ asks Dad.

‘Check,’ Mum says brightly.

‘Sweaters on?’

‘Check,’ I say, fluffing mine out away from my skin in an attempt to circulate some air. 

‘Vocal cords warm?’

Mum sings a perfect sequence of ‘do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, do,’ in C Major, and I give a shrug of assent. 

‘Let’s go! Good King Wenceslas first and Deck the Halls for the encore,’ Dad says, and we make our way down the drive. 

‘Couldn’t we wait until later, Dad? When it’s cooled down a bit?’ I ask. It’s only 3pm, and the sun is still beating down, full strength. 

‘I want to get back in time to turn the lights on for dark. Got to have the lights on Christmas night, Georgie,’ he replies. 

‘The candles are a little redundant though,’ I mumble, knowing my protests will fall on deaf ears. 

We approach our neighbours first. They are used to our annual visit and take the Sunday afternoon intrusion with good grace. As we make our way through the neighbourhood, not everyone is as welcoming. The looks we receive range from amusement to confusion; from pity, to abject horror. 

As we round the bend, we come to a low set place with a gated front yard. Dad reaches straight for the latch.

‘Hold on, Dad,’ I say quickly. ‘See that sign? ‘Beware of the Dogs.’

‘Ho, ho, ho,’ Dad says merrily. ‘She’ll be right, Georgie. People just put those signs up for a laugh.’

‘Ah, no they don’t, Dad. They put them up to warn people about their-'

My words are drowned out by the barking, and then the clawing, and the nipping. 

‘Run!’ Dad shouts. We drop our candles and run.

***

Dad sucks in air as we reach our own front porch and Mum searches for the keys in her suit pockets. 

‘When they said, ‘beware of the dogs’, they weren’t kidding around, were they?’ he says between huffs and puffs. He straightens, and then hunches back over, resting his hands on his knees. ‘Gee, it is a bit warm now, isn’t it? Georgie, run inside and grab me a glass of mulled…’

Dad doesn’t finish the sentence, before his knees buckle and he slumps to the ground.

***

Dad gives a grunt, and a snort, and we gather quickly around his bedside. ‘W-where am I?’ he asks groggily, blinking his eyes a few times against the harsh fluorescent lighting. ‘Molly, is that you?’ He reaches a hand for Mum’s cheek. She nestles into it. 

‘Yes, dear. You are all right. You’re in the hospital. You passed out after those naughty dogs chased us up the street.’

‘That’s right,’ Dad says, clarity flooding his features as the memory returns to him. ‘Blasted dogs. I’ll be onto the Council about them tomorrow.’

A knock on the door catches our attention, and a smartly dressed young doctor enters, with a shock of brown hair, and a stethoscope around his neck. He gives us a friendly smile. ‘I’m Doctor Walters.’ Vaguely familiar. I examine him covertly while he looks down at his clipboard. He lifts his head, and I study my nails. ‘Mr-,’

‘Claus,’ Dad says, without missing a beat. The doctor gives him a quizzical look.

‘Right.’ He looks at the clipboard again, and mumbles, ‘That’s not what I have here.’ He addresses Mum. ‘You must be Mrs-,’

‘Claus,’ Mum says dutifully, and gives Dad’s hand a squeeze. 

The doctor raises his eyebrows and makes a silent whistle through his lips, then clears his throat. ‘May I confirm your date of birth, sir?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Dad says. The drop in the register of his voice concerns me. It’s very Santa-like. ‘Many centuries ago,’ he says, with a chuckle.

‘All righty,’ the doctor says. His eyes catch mine with a speaking look. ‘Well, Mr Claus, it seems you’ve suffered heat stroke. Ironic, being that it’s the coldest day of the year today.’ He glances up again from the clipboard, with the hint of a smile. ‘I don’t suppose it would have anything to do with the outfit.’

‘Ho, ho, ho- no. I don’t think so, young man,’ says Dad. ‘But what a Christmas miracle this is. Just this morning, my dear daughter Georgie here was saying all she wanted for Christmas was a smart, handsome, eligible bach-'

‘Dad!’ I say urgently, as my cheeks flood with colour. It might be me who passes out next. 

The doctor clears his throat. ‘We’ll keep you in for a few more hours on fluids and monitor your blood pressure. Oh, and incidentally, your cholesterol is quite high.’

‘Must be all the cookies,’ Dad says jovially.

The doctor gives him a disapproving frown. ‘You might want to keep an eye on that.’ He turns to me. ‘Ma’am, may I speak to you outside?’

‘Me?’ I ask, surprised. 

‘It won’t take a moment.’

I follow the doctor from the room. He closes the door quietly behind us and beckons me to the side. ‘Your father- is he…’

‘Really Santa? No. He just loves Christmas.’ 

‘In July?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Christmas in July.’

‘He’s a teacher at the high school, isn’t he?’

‘That’s right.’ I hastily scan my memory bank for a name. He must have been a few years above me at school to already be a doctor. ‘Bradley!’ I say, as I hit upon it. ‘Or should I say, Doctor Bradley?’

‘That’s right,’ the doctor says with a smile. ‘Bradley Walters. Drop the doctor. Your dad had me for Maths B and Physics.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s sad to see his decline. I’m sorry, it must be hard for you,’ he says earnestly.

‘Decline? What decl-'

‘How long has it been happening? The disorientation to time and person?’

‘Ah, if you mean how long has he been completely daft? His entire life.’

‘Oh,’ he says quickly. ‘And so you’re not dressed like this to help him maintain his peace during his descent into madness?’

‘No! I’m dressed like this because it’s Christmas!’

‘In July.’

‘Yes,’ I confirm meekly. 

Bradley glances in both directions up and down the ward. ‘If you are under any…duress… there are people here who can help. Social workers and the like. I can put through a refer-'

‘No,’ I say with a laugh. ‘Honestly, Dad’s fine. Just weird.’

‘OK,’ he says, releasing a breath of relief. ‘Just felt that I should check, given the… circumstances.’ I stifle a smile, and to my surprise, he breaks out into a grin. 

‘Like I said, we’ll keep your Dad in for a few more hours, and then he should be right to go. I’ll come and check in again before my shift finishes. But if there are any dramas in the meantime-,’ he pauses to tear a piece of paper from the bottom of the sheet on his clipboard, and starts writing, before handing it to me, ‘-here’s my number. Shoot me a text.’ A wink accompanies the gesture, and then he turns and heads down the corridor, calling back over his shoulder, ‘Nice to meet you, Georgie.’

***

As promised, Bradley returns just before 7pm, this time without his clipboard, but a stack of papers in his hand and a canvas bag over his shoulder. 

‘How is everything Mr Claus?’ he asks cheerfully as he gives a cursory knock and enters. 

‘Very well. I feel restored to good health and fortitude,’ says Dad. 

‘Your vitals are looking much better. Doctor Raj says you are fine to leave. Just take it easy, and you might want to remove a few layers once you’re out of the air conditioning.’

‘Ho, ho, ho- Molly will see to that, won’t you dear?’

Mum giggles and blushes bright red, and my stomach turns. ‘God, Dad, did you have to?’ I complain.

‘We’ll be home just in time to watch videos of last year’s Christmas adverts,’ Dad says as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and cautiously stands. ‘Your favourite Christmas tradition isn’t it, Georgie?’ he says, beaming me a smile.

‘Right, Dad,’ I say, smiling back.

‘Actually, if it’s OK, could I steal Georgie from you for a couple of hours?’

I look at Bradley in surprise, and his eyes twinkle back at me. I blush as brightly as Mum did a moment ago.

‘Certainly,’ says Dad knowingly. ‘We’ll see you at home, Georgie.’

The doctor hands Mum the paperwork. ‘I’ll have to take a look at these at home, dear,’ Mum says. ‘These glasses aren’t prescription.’ She hooks her arm through Dad’s, and they meander from the room, leaving me alone with Bradley. 

He smiles. ‘Got time for a drink?’

‘Sure,’ I say, my cheeks colouring. ‘As long as it isn’t mulled wine. I wouldn’t mind popping home to get changed though.’

‘Nah, go like that. It suits you,’ he says. ‘And anyway, it’s Christmas.’

‘In July.’

‘In July.’

I frown as we walk. ‘Are you jingling?’

Bradley stops, dons his stethoscope, and holds the end up to my forehead. I wait for the verdict. ‘You’ve got Christmas on the brain,’ he says, letting it fall back down. ‘Wait here, I will have to get changed before we go, unless you want a dose of MRSA with your drink.’ He ducks into the staff bathrooms, and when he returns moments later, my jaw drops open. 

Red and white striped tights, a green tunic, and a green elf hat. And the jingling? Bells on the end of his shoes. He gives me a wide grin and pulls a flyer from his bag. 

‘Half price cocktails until 8pm at The Grand for anyone dressed in Christmas clothing,’ he says, handing it to me.

‘Wow. How have I lived here my whole life and not known about this?’ I ask with a laugh. 

‘I guess you’ve been busy watching last year’s Christmas adverts,’ he says with a smile.

‘I guess so.’ We make our way down the ward and out into the hospital walkways. ‘So let me get this straight. You’re smart, handsome, eligible-,' he nods affirmatively, ‘-and you love Christmas-'

‘In July.’

‘Right. Do you carol?’

‘No, but I could learn-'

‘Don’t you dare.’ I grin from ear to ear. ‘A Christmas miracle, indeed.’