Twelve Days of Christmas: 1

A Very Merry Christmas to You!

Here we are at the last of our twelve days of Christmas. Thank you for your presence on this winter  adventure in words. I hope you, yes, you, have a restful, playful, heartening holiday.

Alice x

 

A Partridge in a Pear Tree

 

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me

a memory.

Everyone’s lying on the sofas and the floor

stuffed fat with too much food

and he comes in

wearing a borrowed jumper

telling me how cold it is in the garden

and that

I should come and look

I’m playing scrabble with my siblings

but I’m losing so I say

okay

and we walk through the hallway

with its wood chip wallpaper and

peeling paint.

The kitchen’s still steamy and the big mirror’s

dripping wet.

So I draw us on it.

I make his ears look bigger and

my hair look curlier

and we both have dots for eyes.

We put on some wellies

not ours

that are by the back door and

I wrestle with the bolt at the bottom

and then we’re outside

on the patio.

It’s so cold

a cold that I sometimes miss.

It wakes us up.

The sky is

familiar grey

I like it

not too bright

not too blue

not all the time.

We look at the veggie patch and

we don’t find much that

doesn’t look like sticks and twigs.

We go to the pond.

Together

we lift up the wire protector

which keeps the hedgehogs from drowning.

We poke at the ice

but don’t break it

just to see if anything’s moving underneath.

He starts making up a song

and

I join in

we put the cover back on the pond

so the little ones don’t fall in.

The song sometimes rhymes and

sometimes it doesn’t

and it makes us laugh.

He points to a robin in the holly tree

he points as he sings:

‘And a

partridge in a pear tree.’

 

 

 

Twelve Days of Christmas: 2

Two Turtle Doves

Have you ever seen a spotted turtle-dove? It has a black collar with white spots on it. It looks like it’s from a lady’s dress or a pair of butterfly wings. It’s the prettiest of all the doves.

I once saw a turtle-dove standing over another dead turtle-dove because it didn’t want to leave it.

I know about birds because my Grandad gave me his bird book. He gave it to me so I can keep looking up birds even when I’m not at his house because he won’t be in.

Grandad dresses smartly and only wears shirts with collars and long sleeves and they have to have a pocket. He says a shirt without a pocket on the front is no use. He puts a pen in the pocket and his glasses. His other pockets, in his trousers, have got hankies in them. One for his nose and one for a spare in case a lady faints or cries and she needs to use it. Sometimes Grandad wears a suit, like on Christmas and at weddings or special birthdays and funerals.

Turtle-doves make a cooing sound and other doves can hear it from really far away. I know this because I heard one by the river and then I walked to the library with Grandad, which is ages away, and we saw another turtle-dove cooing in someone’s garden. We watched it and listened really carefully and could hear the other dove, the one at the river, calling all the way back.

Grandad told mum the food is crummy at the hospital so Mum brought him some biscuits. But she can’t do it every day because she’s too busy and Christmas is coming and she hasn’t wrapped our presents or done the food shop yet. I asked her what food is she going to get at the shops and is she going to get any cakes. She said Christmassy food like mince pies with a cherry on top and a pudding for the adults – and I won’t like it so I can have swiss rolls instead – and some chocolates and some nuts and probably something nice to drink. And a big fat chicken. But I don’t have to eat that because I’m vegetarian. I will probably get Linda McCartney sausages because that’s what I get every year.

Grandad likes birds but he also eats them. I don’t think he’s eaten a turtle-dove.

I can’t remember Granny’s cooking but she always had lovely cakes from the shops like battenberg and butterfly cakes. She kept them in a yellow tin and now the tin is on top of Grandad’s bookcase and no one’s allowed to touch it except Grandad.

Granny would hum a bit when she poured the tea and Grandad would say ‘Oh my favourite tune!’ and Granny would laugh and kiss him on the head. And when she finished pouring the tea she always, always sat next to Grandad on the couch and I always sat next to them. Even when it was Christmas and everybody was over and there was no room for everyone on the couch, I always sat next to them. 

Twelve Days of Christmas: 3

Three French Hens

A woman in her late seventies, with highly coiffured white hair, sits upright in a winged armchair next to a small, three-legged table on which a telephone stands. She wears a navy blue cardigan over a baby blue blouse, a string of pearls and a dark blue pencil skirt with opaque navy tights and patent low-heeled shoes.  The woman, Penelope, holds the phone to her ear whilst scanning the piece of paper in her hand.

We hear ‘Greensleeves’ for a minute or two as it plays through the telephone. It stops abruptly.

PENELOPE:      Ah! Hello, Customer Service? Excellent. My name is Penelope Henley. Kate? Thank you, Kate. I’m hoping you can help clear up what I can only describe as a very unfortunate misunderstanding. Quite an incredulous situation, Kate.

Thank you. I’m sure you will.

Now, my daughter insisted I employ a personal shopper this year – as if I’m too old to go to the shops by myself – anyway, I did what she asked and now I’m paying for it – password?

Oh.

Is there a password?

My daughter set up the account.

No, in my name. Penelope – wait a minute.

I would have told her.

Camilla Parker Bowles?

No?

Charles and Diana? No? Hm.

1953, the Queen’s coronation, that must be it. Is it?

Royalist? No, I’m not an anything-ist.

Seventy-three Baxter Avenue.

Is this really necessary?

1939. Ellen, Penelope Ellen Henley.

Thank goodness!

Yes, let’s get back to it, I agree. 

Laurence. He was the young man who arranged everything, he did the shopping, he took down the order. I don’t know where he was from – he was very polite, ever so friendly but, well, he had a slight accent. France? Germany perhaps?

Laurence. Except he said it sort of: Loronse. Loh-ronse.

Is this helping?

Turkey, schnapps, champagne, the usual. Yes, all of the food was exactly as I asked. And nearly all the gifts – to his credit, Kate, for a man he had exceptional taste. He chose a very chic dress for my daughter, modern but modest you might say. I simply adore the earrings he chose for my daughter-in-law, not that she deserves them but that’s another story.

Yes, Kate, that’s exactly right, extended family, never easy is it? One does what one can.

Now, Kate. It seems Laurence, Loronse, has misinterpreted a rather important part of the order.

Yes.

No, he read the order back to me, twice in fact. But everything I heard, was what I thought I had asked for. Not so, Kate, not so. 

I have three sons, you see.

Edgar, John and Alan. They’re all musical.

No, my daughter – Elizabeth – no, not a musical bone in her body.

But she’s very good at bowls.

My sons are all musical and all members of a local brass band. It’s quite a prestigious group. All male too: twelve drummers, eleven bagpipe players, pipers – I never know…neither of those are brass are they? Well anyway, I know they have seven trumpet players because they were in the paper, Kate. The trumpeters – and the drummers – they were all part of a wedding proposal. One of those flash mob things. So public. 

Everything’s bigger these days. Can’t anyone propose quietly over a glass of bubbly? 

 

Are you married, Kate?

Well, be careful how he asks you.

Even one trumpet and you know he’s hiding something.

I blame Hollywood. And supermarkets. Bigger, better, buy-one-get-one-free.

Sorry, Kate. Sorry.

 

Oh.

No, we can’t make you late for your lunch break. I’ll get straight to the point – although you did ask me about the boys Kate, you did ask!

The boys, the men I should say. My sons: Edgar, John, Alan. I wanted to get them something extra special this Christmas. There’s so much to celebrate. Baby George, advances in technology, a hot summer – there’s much to celebrate –

Oh but I’d rather talk with you, not your colleague. I feel I can trust you to follow this matter up, Kate. I’ll get straight to the point, Kate. 

This morning, the delivery man, well, he forced me to sign, he made me sign for them, he said he couldn’t take them back.

Well, you may ask, Kate, you may ask.

I specifically ordered three French horns, one for each of my sons and that’s what – I’m sure of it – that’s exactly what Laurence, Loronse, said when he read the order back.

Only now I’ve got a large cage in the hallway, and they’re very pretty Kate, quite striking to look at, but I never once asked for a large cage containing three French hens.

What would I do with three French hens, Kate?

 

What would I like? Oh, a refund or exchange…gift vouchers?

 

I’d like three French horns, Kate.

That is what I would like. 

I’m sorry.

 

The manager? Yes, thank you Kate.

I knew I could count on you.

Twelve Days of Christmas: 4

Four Calling Birds

Black fingers found an opening in the clouds and reached in ripping out insides, throwing rain to the thirsty earth of the hinterland below. On they flew, four corvid brothers, beaks tearing at the storm-heavy skies. They had heard, in caws and croaks, the bush fires were coming. Mouths of smoke and teeth of sparks, fireballs launching from tree to tree, swallowing them whole, belching out charred remains: the bones of the bush.

Haunted by their own form, by the memory of flesh and the lives they lost, the four brothers cried out urging others to join them. The height of summer, the heat of winter. Four calling birds, a curse of forever-flight turned to a gift.

Twelve Days of Christmas: 5

Five Gold Rings

Five gold rings. One for each winter he’d come to me across the sea on his sailing ship. Finding me at first frost; gone before the darkest day.  Leaving me wet, anchored to the shore, waves pushing me away. Five gold rings. Each holding the hope he will take me as his winter bride once more.

 

 

Twelve Days of Christmas: 6

Six Geese A-Laying

 

Christmas List.

He kissed/she kissed

a frog

with a golden ball

rolling in from the wrong fairy tale

it was an egg

rolling on to the wrong Christmas song

melting into five golden rings or

flaking gilt leaves

autumn into winter

 

Just an egg again

that falls inevitably

 – gravity –

out of one of

six geese

a-laying.

Egg cracks open.

A laying on of hands

faith healer

sweating blood

hoping to bring the silence of snow

this Christmas.

 

She kissed/he kissed

a frog

and waited.

It grew golden hair

plaited into thick rope

as rough as straw

as strong as steel cable

it held their weight

as they scaled down

the tower

waving goodbye to their

green true love

who never did become

anything other

than a smiling

boss-eyed

frog

unaware of their wanting

more.

But they knew a man

with a bag of magic beans…

Twelve Days of Christmas: 7

Photo credit: simonbooth via Flickr

Seven Swans A-Swimming


Above the surface of the water

legs paddle

wrong way round.

Underneath, reflections of their upright cousins

these swans swim

heads forever wearing crowns of pondweed.

Silt where sky should be.

 

Humans stand in front of spindly trees

breathing hot white clouds out of mouths

as they watch.

On the water, from the water

black stems fan out to webbed petals

unfathomable flowers skating, figure-of-eighting

as seven swans swim

upside down.

 

Twelve Days of Christmas: 8

Eight Maids A-Milking


 

Photo credit: Spamily via Flickr



Merry Christmas. What a gift! The cold shoulder!

Get this, Sunday lunch and I’m feeding the baby. My mother-in-law says breastfeeding is not something to be shared at the dinner table. I told her ‘It’s not your dinner table.’ Then John reminded me she’d helped pay for it.

            ‘She didn’t pay for this chair,’ I said, ‘I’ll do whatever I like on it.’ And I carried on feeding the baby. She went to the bathroom and didn’t come out ’til pudding. Ridiculous. And now we’re not invited to Christmas.

‘Breastfeeding at the table is not in the festive spirit of things.’ I don’t know how she thinks baby Jesus got fed.

So that’s it, no seeing her granddaughter on Christmas day. Says she’ll come for mince pies on Boxing Day. I haven’t invited her. Neither has John. He says he’s with me on this. Although he did say Arabella probably doesn’t care if she gets a boob or a bottle and perhaps I could compromise just this once. I threw Flat Bunny at him. ‘That’s not the point!’ I said. So he’s staying home with me.

I told the girls from Mums and Bubs Club. They were spitting teeth, couldn’t believe it. They agreed with me, they said all eight of us should stage a sit-in at her house: turkey, brussel sprouts and boobs out.

            Merry Christmas! I should tell her not to cry over spilt milk.

 

 

Twelve Days of Christmas: 9

Nine Ladies Dancing

Slowly, like music box dolls, we turn on the spot. Feeling small I close the gap between us, hoping a change will make me seem bigger, more, enough. Cheek to my love’s chest, I hear a heart beating in time with the record player’s tune.

The dance floor is full. The dance floor is empty. I don’t know. My eyes are closed. Flickering, they visit – all masked – parodies of me, these women who dance through my body and are gone. They dance on.

My love has given me another chance. I am a cat with nine lives and this is my last.

Photo credit: Tilemahos Efthimiadis via Flickr

Twelve Days of Christmas: 10

Ten Lords A-Leaping

On the tenth day of Christmas the King announced that he wished to find a fitting suitor for his daughter. He set three impossible tasks. Whomsoever could swim the vast moat that kept the castle as a far-off island, whomsoever could scale the castle walls that stood as tall as mountains, whomsoever could leap over the giant fire that would await them in the courtyard, that man, that man would marry the Princess.

            ‘Easy enough’ thought hundreds upon hundreds of dukes and lords, princes and peasants. They could swim, they could climb, they could jump. They were the perfect candidates. And so they came, from all four corners of the kingdom, they came, trudging over frozen fields and plains until at last they arrived at the edge of the moat.

 It was as deep as it was wide, as dark as it was dangerous. It was coiled around the castle, a blue-black serpent waiting for its prey. Teeth chattering, the many men surveyed the freezing-cold passage that stretched before them. At the King’s behest and the sound of canons nobles and knaves alike fearlessly, foolishly, launched into the water.

Less than half reached the other side. Struggling for breath and blue at the lips, fewer still could cling to the castle walls – each and every stone was covered with frost and moss and though they willed their frozen fingers to work, down and down again slid the men. There was, however, a lucky number who used brutish strength and spider-like skill, fight-climbing their way to the top.  By nightfall, ten Lords had landed in the courtyard. They stumbled towards the blazing bonfire that roared victoriously, towering above them with flames like fists pounding at the dark night sky. The Lords thawed themselves. On the other side of the fire was the Princess.

‘Over the fire you leap, good men! Your bride awaits you!’ said the King, his rabbit-skin gloves softly coming together in a clap, clap, clap.

And so it began. The first lord staggered forward, shaking, exhausted. Gripping his own arms he tried to compose himself. Another stood by his side. Soon all ten stood together. Solemn silence, stolen moment of reflection. One lord thought only of the Princess’s striking beauty. Another revelled in her youth. Ten men and many eyes wide with anticipation, mad for the power they would gain in just one leap. Only one lord wished to make the Princess proud, to see her heart ablaze with a love to match his own.

One by one they leapt into the flames, one by one a shrieking, a crackling, a pop and a hiss as black smoke billowed up from the bonfire. One by one they tried to jump over it. One by one they failed until only the last lord remained.

He faced the flames, strong in the knowledge that in his death he would die a happy man for trying. He softened, thinking of the Princess and all he would do for her. And, with each loving thought a snowflake fell, one after another until a flurry filled the air and the entire courtyard was covered in a thick white blanket of snow and the bonfire was nowhere to be seen. The lord leapt over the spot where it had been and into the arms of his Princess. And with the fire of their hearts to keep them warm, they lived happily ever after.

Twelve Days of Christmas: 11

Eleven Pipers Piping

 

Hairnets on, dressed all in white we look like snowmen. ‘We’re making Christmas, my darling, right here!’ with a twist of her wrist, softly squeezing, she conjures delicate lines of green icing as holly leaves appear on the blank face of the cake.

M-E-R-R-Y C-H-R-I-S-T-M-A-S. I’m in charge of the lettering. It’s easier than the holly but harder than the edging.

‘Me, your grandmother, her mother before her and her mother before that. Your Aunt Nell, Auntie Jeanie, Great Aunt Eleanor – all the way back, eleven women, five generations. Including you.’ Mum comes round my side of the counter, wraps her arm around my shoulder applying the same gentle pressure she does to a full piping bag.

We reach the last order of the day and she takes the sherry bottle from behind the plastic tubs of glacé cherries and mixed peel. She pours what is left into two mugs and passes one to me as she admires my handiwork.

            ‘You’re a fine piper, my girl, and a fine baker!’ She’s being kind, my mum.

She makes my Christmas.

 

Photo credit: Mink via Flickr

 

The Twelve Days of Christmas

Merry Christmas!

It does feel somewhat strange saying this with the fan on, sweating in the heat here in Brisbane, Australia, but it is Christmas time nevertheless. And that means Christmas carols.

A number of years ago my siblings and I stood, cocooned in jackets and scarves, in a packed pew at a local carol service. We warbled away with gusto ever aiming for the high notes – usually missing them – and then we spotted it: a simple typo on the carol song sheet that resulted in much mirth amongst us. 'Hark the herald angels sin' was probably not what the Almighty had in mind by way of celebrating his birthday. And so an alternate story existed: wild angels taking the day off and making merry in their festive woolly jumpers.

This year, I've written a series of alternate interpretations, responses to the English carol 'The Twelve Days of Christmas'. I've written short stories, script, poetry; I've played with style and genre, some are happy, some are sad some are something else. For the next twelve days I'll be posting the pieces here and also sharing excerpts of them via my twitter account @wulftheatre.

I hope you enjoy them and I would love for you to share your own responses to either my creations or the original 'Twelve Days'. Words or music, song or sound, illustration or even movement – whatever you feel inspired to do is very welcome and would be a gift. And, if you like short and sweet, tweet using the hashtag #12DaysOfXmas or post to this blog.

I hope you and your loved ones have a very peaceful, playful, caring, creative festive season!

Twelve Drummers Drumming

 

Hands stuffed deep into the pockets of my oldest coat I walk, head down, hiding from the cold, to our familiar spot. There he is. Sat on the bench facing the swings. He doesn’t turn around. I can see a limp sprig of mistletoe resting on his knee. I can’t see what is coming.

I sit down. Smiling wanly, head to one side, he dangles the mistletoe above the space between us. I remember sighing. He crosses his legs – and I think that must have been a signal – a drilling sound erupts from right behind us. Out of the bushes come twelve grown men dressed in red and white. Twelve Father Christmases all beating a rhythm I can’t recognise, hammering at their long-suffering drums. It could have been festive. It could have been a death march.

            He’s smiling again. He kneels down on the concrete, on one knee, slipping slightly where it’s icy, still trying to hold the mistletoe high – waving it at me, a white flag. It starts to snow. His lips are moving, the drumming gets louder and I can’t hear a word he says.