by Heide Goody
Marvin unwrapped his first package. He held up socks, a sweater and a book by Dynamo, the magician.
“Thanks darling,” he said to Sam. “Never met this chap, but he seems like an interesting character. It’s all about stamping your own personality onto the act, as I used to say to Ray Allen, back in the day.”
“You should write your own book one of the days, dad.” Sam wasn’t sure how much money could be made from books, but another income stream couldn’t hurt Marvin’s financial problems. He clearly had a wealth of stories to share – if only he could be encouraged to share them in a coherent and linear format.
“Oh the tales I could tell!” said Marvin. “But my lips are very much sealed. It wouldn’t be right to gossip about my old friends and colleagues.”
Sam didn’t like to disagree. Marvin gossiped about his old showbiz contacts every time he opened his mouth. Perhaps he kept quiet about the really juicy stuff? She would ask him at some point.
“This one’s from you, Rich,” said Marvin with a nod, pulling ribbon off something that had clearly been professionally wrapped. “Good lord, it’s a bottle of eighteen year old Laphroaig. How utterly fantastic! Thank you.”
Sam watched Marvin glance between the bottle and the clock on the wall. “It’s Christmas day, dad. It’s definitely not too early for scotch.”
He beamed at her. “You opening your presents next?”
Sam looked down at the parcels on her lap. Two were immaculately presented in a tasteful low-key paper, embellished with some artfully-tied raffia. The other was wrapped in paper featuring kittens on a tartan background, and was held together with tiny and precisely placed squares of sellotape. The kitten wrapping paper was a family joke: there was a roll of it in Marvin’s loft so large it had been in use for as long as she could remember.
“Tell Rich the story about this wrapping paper,” she said, holding it up.
“I was in the local Woolworths store,” began Marvin. “This was back in the seventies, or early eighties. I was recognised, of course. It happened a lot back then. I worked up a bit of a routine with the pick ’n’ mix, and before I knew it I’d drawn in quite a crowd. They had record sales, would you believe? Ran out of chocolate coins after I showed everyone how to roll them across their knuckles. Anyway, the store manager wanted to give me something in return. I told them I just needed some wrapping paper, so they gave me the roll from the gift wrapping station. It was almost too heavy to carry, and it’s still going strong.”
Rich laughed. “I love your stories, Marvin.”
Sam opened the present. There was a box of chocolate-covered marzipan, and a long-sleeved t-shirt with a cheerful teddy bear motif.
“Nice! Thanks Dad, we’ve got something else to eat!” Sam’s mouth watered at the idea of the sweet snacks.
“The t-shirt is a thermal fabric, for when you’re out and about with work,” said Marvin.
Sam smiled, Marvin worried about the small things, which made her feel loved and unexpectedly Christmassy.
“This is from Rich. The wrapping is so nice, I’m not sure if I want to open it,” she said.
She unwrapped the flat one, and pulled out a box. It contained a silk scarf. She held it up. It was richly coloured and featured a design like an ornate compass. The centre of the scarf had text surrounding a circle, and Sam turned it to read the words Jeanne D’Arc. “Joan of Arc? I never realised she had her own range of merch,” said Sam with a smile.
“I think of you as Skegness’s answer to Joan of Arc,” said Rich. “Although your battles are possibly more subtle.”
Sam didn’t quite know what to make of that. She suspected the scarf was probably eye-wateringly expensive, but Rich was jabbing a finger towards the second package. She opened it to discover a box containing three bottles of wine.
“Oh, how wonderful,” she said.
“It’s English wine,” said Rich.
“Right now, I’m just focusing on the fact it’s wine!” said Sam gleefully.
“I’ll open mine,” said Rich. He picked up an oddly-shaped parcel and pointed at the tartan kittens. “I too have some of the heritage wrapping paper. It’s a gift experience all by itself.” He ripped it open to reveal a piggy bank, with a smiling face and a cheeky wink. Rich passed it from hand to hand, examining it. “It’s gorgeous, Marvin.”
“I thought it might be fun for you to collect up some coins,” said Marvin. “Maybe you don’t see them much anymore, in the cashless billionaires’ world. Sometimes we need a touchstone, to keep us grounded.”
“That’s profound, truly profound,” said Rich with a nod.
“Delia came up with the idea,” said Marvin.
“I knew I’d seen that pig somewhere before,” said Sam. “It was in Delia’s shop. Damn, that woman can work up a story to sell anything!”
They all laughed, and Rich placed the pig on the table. “All donations gratefully received.”
He opened the last gift, and pulled out the shirt Sam had bought off the internet, whilst in a playful mood (definitely not drunk).
“Is that … is that Nicholas Cage?” he asked.
Sam nodded.
“Oh. My. God. I had no idea I needed this in my life, but it’s amazing. I love how it’s a proper shirt as well. I can wear it for business meetings.”
Sam couldn’t be totally sure, but she thought he was sincere in his appreciation of the peculiar gift.
“Well, I plan to dress up in my new shirt,” said Rich. “Maybe we should re-convene in a few minutes and work through some of the entertainment options?”
Sam put her new scarf around her neck, tying it in the cowboy bandana style because it was Christmas. She went to find a corkscrew. She paused outside the lab before going inside. She had left the mammoth meat out of the freezer last night, in a metal sink. By doing so she had committed to a course of action that she did not want to acknowledge. Not yet. It sat, defrosted, in a puddle of mammoth blood. She picked it up and sniffed deeply. It had a rich gamey scent, but didn’t smell rotten. She carried it through to the kitchen, weighing it in her hands. She reckoned it was about three kilos. Would she cook it like beef? It seemed like the closest possibility, until she considered the idea of eating it rare. That was a terrible idea. Maybe it would be better to treat it more like pork? It would need something like three hours’ worth of cooking. She would start it now, on the basis that she was much more likely to back away from the idea if she thought about it too hard. It was just a joint. Just a joint.
She ploughed ahead, on autopilot, forcing herself to think about Joan of Arc and Nicholas Cage rather than what she was actually doing. Who would win in a fight? She lit the oven and searched through the cupboards for a roasting tin. Joan of Arc would bring military prowess, but could she beat up a man who was physically much bigger than her?
“Which do you prefer, Sam, draughts or Cluedo?”
Her dad’s voice from the kitchen doorway made her spin guiltily, almost knocking the mammoth joint onto the floor. She stood in front of it, so it was hidden from his view.
“Either will be fine by me,” she said. “I’ll be along in a minute, just looking at what we might have for lunch.”
She checked her dad had gone and put the joint into the oven. She’d defrosted it now, so it was of no use to the scientists. She might as well cook it. As she slammed the oven door closed, she was flushed with a sense of mild shock at what she’d done. She found a corkscrew and opened a bottle of wine, taking a hefty swig straight from the bottle. It was beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.
71
In Otterside, Christmas was a varied and mildly chaotic sequence of celebrations. Yes, there was a single large tree in the re-opened south lounge. Yes, there were sittings in the one on-site restaurant at noon and two for Christmas dinner. But beyond that there were as many celebrations as there were residents.
Strawb had tried to corral a number into a dawn game of crazy golf, although it had to be abandoned when the wild winds stole the f
irst ball struck out of doors. There were carols in the north lounge. Friends and neighbours exchanged presents. Many wore their finest clothes for the day. Bernard wore a festive dressing gown and not much else. Party games started early. For many, the drinking started even earlier. There were arguments in the lounge over whether It’s A Wonderful Life or Love, Actually was more appropriate Christmas Day viewing. Otterside was filled with noise and life.
As Polly took her seat in the restaurant for dinner, a thought struck her. “Huh.”
“What?” said Strawb.
She allowed the puzzlement to show on her face. “I’ve just realised something. I’m happy.”
“Does that come as a surprise?” said Strawb, waiting for her to sit before he took the seat opposite.
“Surprisingly, it does.”
“Today of all days,” he said, pretending to be mystified.
Polly interrogated her mental state while others took their seats. There was the usual kerfuffle over whose cutlery was whose, which cracker belonged to which place setting, and the important business of pouring the wine.
She was happy. Despite the fact she was now a murderer, despite the fact her nearest family had utterly abandoned her at this festive time. No, she told herself. Because she was now a murderer and because her family had abandoned her. Killing James Huntley had excited her, positively invigorated her. It was possibly the single greatest achievement of her seventy-odd years. It had been technically difficult, had required courage and improvisation, and she had made the world a moderately better place by removing James Huntley from it. She had enjoyed killing him and it had made her feel good about herself.
On top of that, here she was, among people who liked her, approved of her, and having a good time without the family she notionally ought to be with right now. Fuck Erin and fuck Cesar. Yes, it would have been nice to have Jack and Iris in her life, but they couldn’t miss what they hadn’t known. Mad Aunt Polly would just be a vague family story they would share long after she was gone. Right now, Polly was having the best of times with Margaret, Alison, Janine, Jacob, Bernard and Strawb.
She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. Strawb cracked a smile and tilted his hat back on his head like he was a fifties crooner. Strawb didn’t know it yet, but Polly had decided she would be dragging that man into her bed one of these nights. Even if ‘Little Strawb’ had gone into permanent hibernation, they’d have fun trying to wake him.
Strawb squeezed her hand back and raised his wineglass. “Here’s a merry facking Christmas to us all!” he toasted the long table. “Gawd bless us, every one!”
There were toasts and cheers.
“Straight out of Dickens,” said Margaret softly.
“He’s a regular Tiny facking Tim,” said Polly.
Strawb laughed. “Are you mocking my accent, darling?”
“I’m happy to mock anything about you,” she replied. “What have you got?”
“Sprouts,” he said, passing the bowl down.
Bernard heaped sprouts high on his plate as though he was planning to compete with the howling winds presently vibrating the windows. Sprouts were followed by glazed carrots, peas, broccoli, roasted parsnips, potatoes (two kinds, of course), pigs in blankets, stuffing balls, sliced turkey, Yorkshire puddings, gravy, bread sauce and cranberry sauce.
“I’m going to explode if I eat all this,” Polly said.
“You wouldn’t actually explode if you overeat,” said Jacob. “You could rupture your stomach, or even theoretically tear your oesophagus. But you wouldn’t actually explode.”
Strawb rolled his eyes. “You should make a note of that for a future project, Jakey boy,” he said and pointed at Jacob’s notebook.
“Actually, speaking of explosions…” Bernard mumbled. He pulled a small cylindrical package from his dressing gown pocket and put it on the table.
“Or,” suggested Margaret with a quiet authority that drew everyone’s attention, “we could all just eat sensibly.”
Polly shook her head, smiling. “Even though I might regret it later, I want to enjoy every last bite of this. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Christmas dinner quite like it.”
72
“We’re laying the table!” called Rich. “How long’s lunch going to be?”
Sam went to the kitchen and opened the oven. “Nearly done,” she called. She inhaled deeply. It was an undeniable fact that roasting meat smelled good, whatever it was. She looked around, hoping to be inspired for accompaniments.
“Come on Rich, I need your help with these crackers,” called Marvin. “I can’t decide on how much pornography is inappropriate for Christmas lunch.”
Soon enough, Sam wheeled a serving trolley into the social area. She passed plates to Rich and Marvin and placed three covered tureens on the table.
“Here we have some mushroom served a la crème,” she said, indicating the mushroom soup. “And here we have Valhalla pudding. Don’t ask.”
She had mixed some ground-up rice with milk powder, water and meat juices, in the hope she might create something like a Yorkshire pudding. What she had made were tough, beige discs, but she was prepared to serve them up, given there was no alternative.
“And the pièce de résistance, ta-da!” She unveiled the meat, being careful to avoid naming it. She lifted it out and cut some slices, all the while talking, in the hope nobody would ask what it was. “Who’s hungry then? Let’s tuck in before it gets cold. A toast to those who can’t be with us today, perhaps? Would you fill our glasses, Rich?”
Rich filled the glasses. While Sam distributed slices of meat he stood with his glass raised.
“First of all, let’s toast the chef, who has created a minor miracle here with so little material. Well done Sam!”
Sam lifted her glass in response and they all chinked a toast.
“So where did you find—?”
“Let’s not forget poor Peninsula, who must be frantic with worry about you!” said Sam hurriedly.
They toasted Peninsula.
“And Delia too!” said Marvin. “She might have created crackers without quite so many breasts.”
“Yes, talk us through these crackers,” said Sam, delighted to move the conversation away from the meat.
“Well, there’s not much to tell,” said Marvin. “We should pull them, and shout ‘bang’ as they obviously won’t do that on their own. There is no gift contained within, but there might be a hat.”
“Cool!” said Sam brightly. “And they each have their own, er, character too. I have Melissa, who’s clearly quite the athlete. Who do you have Rich?”
“Mine is called Cindy-Lee,” he said. “She loves music and long walks in the country.”
“How do you know?” Sam asked.
“I can tell by looking.”
“What about you Dad?”
“The young lady on my cracker is Annabelle. She reminds me of someone from the seventies with long hair. It’s on the tip of my tongue.” Marvin mimed luxurious long hair with his hands.
“Rula Lenska?” Sam tried.
“No. Paul Nicholas, that’s who I was thinking of.”
Sam had no response to that so she held out her cracker to Rich. They pulled and shouted ‘bang’ and Sam picked her hat out of the paper while Marvin and Rich pulled their crackers.
“Lovely hat!” she said, as she perched the folded paper on her head. “Tuck in everyone!”
For some reason, she didn’t want to be the first to try the meat. Was it cowardice? Probably. It was also something else, something she couldn’t quite identify. Something to do with the honour of being the first to sample meat that was thousands of years old. Rich had paid for the privilege, so maybe he should have the bragging rights, if there was such a thing. She nibbled on the brittle edges of a Valhalla pudding, pretending to savour it, then took a hefty swig of wine.
“Where did you find the meat, Sam?” asked Rich.
She froze. It was a direct question; one she couldn
’t easily ignore or deflect. Now she had to decide whether a bare-faced lie was in order. Or a semi-truth. Yes, semi-truth was surely the way to go.
“I checked some other freezers and found this joint. Can you believe how lucky that was? We owe someone big time. One of your lab staff, probably.” She grinned brightly. Too brightly. She pointed at Marvin’s plate. “The mushroom a la crème isn’t bad, is it?”
Marvin made a lip-smacking noise in agreement as he tried it. It was a teeny bit panto, but Sam loved her dad for supporting her efforts. She glanced across at Rich. He was turning over a slice of meat with his knife and fork. She pretended not to notice and ate some more mushroom.
“Sam, is this the mammoth?” Rich asked.
Well, at least it was finally out there. “Is it the mammoth? Yes. Yes, it is,” she said.
Rich nodded at her, his face inscrutable. “Huh.” There was a long pause while they all considered their plates.
Finally Marvin cut off a piece and held it up to his face, peering and sniffing lightly. He popped it into his mouth and chewed.
“Well it’s not bad,” he said. He cut off another piece.
Rich followed suit. Sam did the same. They all chewed thoughtfully.
“What do you think it tastes like?” asked Marvin. “I’m put in mind of the time that Faith Brown overcooked something like emu steaks. Or it might have been gammon.”
“I have no idea,” said Sam. “It’s like weird beef, or something.”
“More gamey than I normally like,” said Rich. “Not unlike reindeer. To be honest, I think we should all be grateful that Sam’s resourcefulness has provided us with this meal.” He chuckled. “Maybe this was what Christmas dinner was like during the stone age.”
“I don’t think they had Christmas dinner in the stone age,” suggested Marvin.
“Why not? All the tribe, gathered round a big chunk of roast mammoth, stone age roasties and stone age veg.”
“I don’t think they had Christmas day at all.”
Rich frowned, then nodded. “No calendars. Wouldn’t have known what day it was. I’m sure they’d have done their best. It’s a bloody good meal anyway, Sam.”