“We’re finally finished with the gifts,” she announces, smoothing the lapel of my stripey three-piece suit with a white-gloved paw. She rubs noses with me, then looks down. “Who’s this? Tiny Tim?”
Sweet Pea sways, obviously as much in my Tallulah’s thrall as I am.
“Aren’t you enough to win over even Bad Tuna Gat.”
We explain that Sweet Pea lives on the streets and just walks in.
“You look just like one of Santy Cat’s elves, Sweet Pea,” says Tallulah.
“Never mind all this pawlaver,” says ancient Miss Kitty, doddering toward us with a bowl of chow. “Dig in, kit.”
And Sweet Pea does. Chomping and falling, righting herself and packing it in, flipping onto her side, getting up and chowing down. Olley comes out of her bar with a jigger of water and the kitten polishes that off too.
“Holy mistletoe,” I exclaim in consternation. We are all looking at one another like, “The streets are mean to the most fit of us. How can this little Sweet Pea survive?”
“Ho, ho, ho,” rumbles Dumpster, shimmying his belly which drag’s about a fur’s width above the ground. “This reminds me. Santy Cat’s tummy pouch is filled with nothing but space just about now. I am not at all certain it can fill out my red uniform. Give me early eats.”
Turtle Dove bats his eyes. He is just returned from having his claws done. “My man Dumpster needs his strength,” he says.
Dumpster’s paw darts toward a carefully made shrimp cocktail. I leap to the rescue.
As per usual at this juncture, Turtle Dove screams. I land on my brother’s back, claws spread, and as per usual he flails at the air in front of him. Sweet Pea falls back and watches with wide eyes. Miss Kitty and Yellow Ethel comfort her.
Unfortunately, this altercation rouses a sleeping monster. A new People, Emily Values, had moved into OUR neighborhood in summer and immediately was promoted to feline enemy number one. I say if she does not like living in Peacock Alley where Tallulah Mimosa sings nightly and draws deservedly great crowds, then she can move into that church across the street, outside of which she spends many hours introducing herself as Misses Emily Values, Emily Values, Emily Values until the words ring in my ears.
“Scat,” she screeches.” We ignore her. She grabs a broom. “Scat, you vermin-infested, rabies-carrying, oversized rodents!”
I hold Dumpster back from attacking her ankles.
“It stinks to the high heavens out here!” the People Emily yells.
We slink into my office and line up to block the door. Sweet Pea thrusts herself through just before the broom lowers.
Misses Values explodes. “Lord save me from you noisy, smelly pests! A decent Christian woman can’t live in a clean place in this day and age with these godless homosexuals and their pet-worship. I’ll have you all carted off to the pound!”
Everyone in our lineup yowls as she makes her way back upstairs. Most times we can flee the various do-gooders and bad-doers who want to remove us from our domicile. But not tonight! We must serve up the feast with love and good cheer!
All pledge to work quietly. I go about my business only to find that Sweet Pea decides to be my sidekick. I tell her to catch some Z‘s, but how can I ignore those sweet, beseeching eyes.
“Okay, pal, stick with me. I am about to do some detecting to find a way to save our Kitmas celebration. But you must be very, very quiet. It is levendy-fifteen P.M. and we must hasten.”
We enter a crawl space I know, making our way through the dark. I hope the kitten does not have a noisy fit.
From a hole the size of a small cat, gnawed by a varmint with no respect for the privates of others, we spy Emily Values in her kitchen. She sits at the table, a telephone before her. She is sighing.
“If only my son would call,” she laments to herself. “If only I had a friend to ask over for a turkey dinner.” Her head sinks into her hands. “At least there is a service tomorrow. Maybe some sinner will need me.”
I whisper, “Holly Kitmas Cactus. She is only lonely and unhappy, Sweet Pea. This makes People crabby. When they are crabby, they take it out on littler beings.”
Sweet Pea looks at me, looks at Emily Values, back at me, eyes big as milk saucers.
I say, “So the conclusion to this dilemma is quite simple. Can you solve it?”
Sweet Pea does not yet grow into her ears which loom like twitchy pink satellites on her little head. Her eyes grow brighter. She licks my muzzle.
“Right!” I say. “We must make this People, Emily Values happy! But how? It is now levendy twenty-five!”
I do not know if the stress precipitates her fit, but just then the kitten launches herself. She flips up, lands on her side and proceeds to kick the stuffing out of the Emily’s wall.
“Holly garlands!” I cry.
All this is not lost on Misses Values. “No!’ she shrieks. “Now they’re in the walls! Cats! Mice! Rats! Bats! Homosexuals! Snakes! Scorpions! I’m calling the building manager!”
There is silence. “Not the manger!” Roarie roars.
We scrubble out of there the best we can, but it is too late! Our feast is doomed!
Sweet Pea hangs her head as if she blames herself. I gather the others together and we discuss solves. Move?
“Impossible!” meows Leonora. “There are too many tasties!”
Woogie laments, “Think of the pianola!”
“Humph, humph, humph,” Humphrey declares.
“Be sensible, darlings,” Turtle Dove says. “Kitnap the miserable woman.”
“With the manger on his way?” Bad Tuna Gat snarls.
“He’s right for once, Sue Slate,” says Tallulah Mimosa. “The manger will see us leap over every fence, rush through every alley, and tear across the streets.” She patted her eyes dry with those beautiful fur mitts of hers. “He will call in the National Guard Dogs!”
Roarie roared, “Not the National Guard Dogs!”
Bad Tuna Gat clips him one, but no claws. “Shut your flap, you wimpy house cat.”
“Whatever shall we do?” keens Miss Kitty and faints like a silent star.
Humphrey lumbers over to where Miss Kitty lies and harrumphs her awake.
“Oh, Humphrey!” purrs Miss Kitty. “You do care about little old me.”
I roll my eyes at Tallulah. She all at once appears alarmed.
“Sweet Pea! Sweet Pea! Where is our Sweet Pea?”
“Holly jinglebells!” I say. “Where is that Sweet Pea?”
“We must find our little spirit of Kitmas!” Yellow Ethel proclaims.
“Why?” asks Dumpster, showing off his red Santy suit. “We got me, the one and onliest Santy Cat.”
Turtle Dove shrieks, “Your Santy costume! It has a spot on the front! Let me lick it clean!”
“Hold onto your fake eyelashes, Turtle Dove,” says Big Tuna Gat. “Not in front of the kittens.”
“Stop the bickering!” I say.
We spread out and search every nook and cranny for Sweet Pea.
Outside the Alley we hear the growling excitement. The street cats are lining up.
This is when we hear the screech of tires and the sound of heavy boots at the front door of the building.
“I hate this part,” hisses Dumpster. “Skip to the end.”
“Oh no! The manger!” Says Miss Kitty. She faints again.
We see shadows of man People on the curtains of Emily Values. It is hopeless. We stand, frozen with panic. We cannot hear what they say.
If only I can find a way to lead Misses Values out of her lonely state. After all, is not Kitmas about miracles?
In a flash, all over the city, mission bells chime. It is Kitmas Day. The street kitties line up for blocks, their fur unkempt, their ears ragged, eyes tearing, but tough as pails and ready to PARTY! The ushers look to me. Are we leading them into a trap?
The All-Edison Band strikes up its first notes and Tallulah Mimosa jumps onto the tin stage over the Peoples’ yard. She grabs her Mike, who holds a
tinsel-trimmed megaphone for her. Before she sings, she announces the disappearance of Sweet Pea. The crowd promises to search the party for her.
Servers ladle out the delicacies. Olley paws out milky. “MIL-KEE! MILK-EE!” she bawls. Santy Cat Dumpster swaggers along the line dispensing catknit mousies while the rest of us hold our baited breaths. The ushers tell the kittens to behave themselves when they run this way and that way, nabbing each other’s mousies.
And then the miracle does come. There in her doorway is Misses Emily Values. And in her arms, satellite dish-eared, smiley-eyed, is Sweet Pea. The kitten turns her little head and nuzzles Misses Values cheek. Emily cries crocodile tears.
That little mite of a kitten is all love and spunk. To save Kitmas, she flails her way back to the lion’s den and beams that looks of love into Emily’s eyes.
The fog lifts. The band stops. Tallulah announces the discovery of Sweet Pea and how she saves Kitmas. After the cheers are ceased, she sings, a cappella, the holly Kitmas song: “When the Moon’s on the Rise, Santy Cat Flies.”
Not an eye in Peacock Alley is dry.
“Oh, my sweet little pea,” says the People.
Yellow Ethel winks at me. “I told you that’s her name.”
Sweet Pea leads Misses Values out among us. We rub her legs and lick her hands. Kittens jump at her apron strings and fall back squealing with giggles.
“I never knew,” says Emily. “I never knew there was so much love in the world.” She gets on her knees between Santy Cat and glittery Turtle Dove. She prays: “Thank you for showing me where my love is truly needed. I will protect all your creatures and never judge one of them again.”
In the arms of Emily Values, the spirit of Kitmas purrs.
A Champagne Christmas
Clare Lydon
Georgia’s face creased with concern. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” She’d been in the bath longer than she should, and her fingers were beginning to prune—not a good look for a lesbian. Behind her, steam trickled down the pale blue tiles.
“Yes, I’m positive.” Milly ran a hand through her long, dark hair, flashing her girlfriend her hundred-watt smile. “I’ve told you a million times.”
Despite her misgivings, Georgia grinned back. She filled a plastic jug with warm water from the tap and tilted it over her head, closing her eyes as the water sluiced down her face and body. She swiped a hand across her eyes to get rid of the excess before opening them. Georgia could see Milly was picking at the skin around her thumb again.
“It’ll be fine.” Milly sat on the closed toilet lid. “My mother’s going to love you.”
The water rushed one way as if in a panic as Georgia’s body slid down into the bathtub and she submerged herself fully, before coming up for air seconds later. She took a moment to regain her senses.
“Your mother has never met me.” Georgia pinched the end of her nose and opened her eyes wide. “And, have you told her yet?”
Milly cocked her head. “Told her?”
Georgia rolled her eyes, smiling. “You know.”
Milly waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, I told her…sort of,” she said. “Okay, no actual details but… Anyway, it’s going to be fine.” She paused for effect. “She’s fine, we’re fine. Christmas will be fine.”
Georgia stood up, water cascading off her tanned skin, taut stomach, rouge nipples. She placed a hand on the shower screen. Milly licked her lips and offered her the cream towel she’d been holding on her lap. Georgia took it and vigorously dried her thick, grey hair, then straightened up and leant forward for a kiss. A familiar tingle fizzed down her body as their lips connected.
“Darling one.” Georgia’s face was inches from Milly’s. “In my experience, which I think we can agree is considerably more extensive than yours, a situation attached to that many ‘fines’ is usually anything but. So, is it fine if I just stay here, eat chocolate, and watch Christmas films by myself?” A grin played around the corner of Georgia’s mouth as Milly shook her head.
“That is definitely not fine. In fact, it is totally unfine.” She kissed Georgia’s lips and grazed the top of her naked thigh with nimble fingers. “We’re spending Christmas together,” Milly insisted.
“Even though your mother will likely think I’m the cradle-snatcher from hell?”
Milly laughed and stood up, her height matching Georgia’s. “She’s much better with everything these days, I told you. She’s dealing with everything in a far more…relaxed way since Dad…”
Milly looked down at the floor, but within seconds she flicked her head back up and kissed Georgia full on the lips. “And anyway, once she sees how fantastic you are, she’ll see why I love you. Plus, you’re the same age. You might even become friends.”
That drew a low chuckle from Georgia, who propped her left foot on the bath and began to dry her leg. “That’s what I love about you,” she replied. “Your youth, and therefore your eternal optimism.”
* * *
Jane took a deep breath as she strode to the front door, wiping her hands on the blue-and-white chequered tea towel. She’d been cooking all morning and the house screamed festive—strings of cards hanging from the staircase, tinsel around door frames, and a riot of red and gold on the dining table. Nobody could accuse her of not embracing the Christmas spirit, but she would have to admit to a touch of Christmas fatigue. Both her daughters were bringing their new partners home, and Jane was going to have to wear her “Best Supportive Mum” face for the next forty-eight hours.
Through the glass front door, Jane could see her daughter Milly and the outline of her new partner, Georgia, beside her. Georgia. How ironic that Milly had chosen a Georgia too. Jane hoped she was better for Milly than her Georgia had been for her. But had she ever truly been her Georgia?
This Georgia appeared to be wearing a shocking purple coat. An artist, Milly had said. Jane supposed statement colours came with the artistic territory. She clicked the latch, swung the door open and shook hands, smile frozen at half-beam.
“Happy Christmas, Mum.” A bag with bottles of wine clinked in one hand, while Milly pulled her mother into an embrace with the other and brushed her chilled lips against Jane’s warm cheek.
Milly was wearing a new red scarf, Jane noticed. Had Georgia bought it for her?
Jane accepted a bottle of posh-looking red from her daughter’s new love. She tried not to stare at Georgia’s greying hair, the laughter lines creasing her face, or the instant recognition in her eyes that was reflected in Jane’s own. It couldn’t be, could it? But Jane was pretty sure it was. Her blood froze in her veins.
“So lovely to meet you,” Jane said, tasting fear on her tongue.
Georgia’s handshake was firm, her hands soft, moisturised. Just as Jane remembered them.
“You, too,” Georgia said.
The last fragment of doubt Jane had was wiped away. She’d have known that voice anywhere. She could see the clouds of disbelief forming in Georgia’s eyes.
Avoiding Milly’s stare, Jane took their coats and ushered them into the lounge. Georgia had changed her perfume since they’d last seen each other, but she smelt the same. Her scent held promise and excitement, just like always. Jane was suddenly very aware that she was wearing an apron with an image of Rudolph on it, his giant fluffy red nose protruding from her stomach.
“What can I get you? I’ve got fizz, white, red? Or a beer, if you’d prefer.”
Jane heard her voice going through the social niceties, but they sounded like someone else’s words, in someone else’s lounge completely. She felt her cheeks flush scarlet as the pair sat on her brown leather couch as if it was an everyday occurrence, Milly immediately reaching for her girlfriend’s hand.
Georgia was her daughter’s girlfriend. Jane suddenly found the thought of getting through the next forty-eight hours overwhelming. She concentrated on controlling her facial expression and bit her lip. Georgia’s legs were still longer than the M1.
“Let me help you,” G
eorgia said.
Her voice was gravelly; it hovered in the air long after Georgia had closed her mouth. She sprang up from the sofa with an uneasy smile etched on her face.
Jane couldn’t stop staring at the shock of grey hair. Why didn’t Georgia just dye it like most women their age? It was cut sharply, though, and Georgia still had a chiselled jawline direct from Greek mythology. She also still possessed piercing emerald green eyes that made people weak, her daughter included, apparently. A loved-up smile on her face, Milly was staring as if Georgia was a Greek goddess.
“Some fizz to get the day started?” Georgia directed at Milly, who nodded.
Still assertive, Jane noted. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. “Right. Won’t be a tick,” she said, gathering herself.
Georgia made an “after you” gesture, and Jane walked ahead into the kitchen with as much poise as she could muster. She heard Georgia suck in a breath as she walked past her. No change there, even thirty years on.
The succulent smell of roast turkey and all the trimmings hit Jane’s nose as she entered the kitchen. It was the perfect Christmas scene. Until the door closed.
“Is this some kind of fucking joke?” Jane hissed. “Is there a hidden camera I’m not aware of?”
The colour drained from Georgia’s face. She moved to the other side of the kitchen and opened one cupboard, then another.
“What are you doing?” Jane asked.
Georgia swung around to face her. “At this point, I think we could all do with a drink, don’t you? Where do you keep your glasses?”
“Above the microwave.” Jane pointed.
Georgia opened the white cupboard door and took down three champagne flutes, then prised a bottle of Tattinger from the fridge. “I see you still have expensive tastes,” she commented, determinedly focused on the champagne.
Jane exhaled. “Are you seriously dating my daughter?”
The scar on Georgia’s arm stood out against her skin as she removed foil from around the cork. Jane remembered the night Georgia had sustained it in Henry’s Bar. She also remembered only too clearly what had happened later that night.
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