12 Days of Christmas: A Christmas Collection

by Laura Greenwood

  Simon grinned. ‘An unbroken night’s sleep. But I’d settle for cufflinks. Or some posh socks.’

  Pippa’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are we getting old?’

  Simon got up. ‘Back in a minute.’ He returned with a bottle of champagne and a box of chocolates. ‘For when the kids are asleep.’

  Pippa stood and kissed him. ‘I like your style.’

  ‘Good.’ Simon embraced her, a little awkwardly given his burdens. ‘Now let’s get a trolley and spend those bad boys. We have work to do.’

  ‘Freddie! Time to go!’ Pippa called. Freddie’s lower lip began to wobble. ‘No, you can take one with you.’ Pippa pointed to the stack of toy cars. ‘Choose your favourite colour.’

  ‘Really?’ Freddie’s face lit up.

  ‘Really. And we’ll take a box of blocks, too.’ Pippa fetched one and showed it to Ruby, who thumped her fists on it in approval.

  ‘This could get messy,’ said Simon. ‘I just hope the train can take it.’

  Later, much later, they left the store, loaded with bags and boxes. Lights twinkled in the street.

  ‘Let’s get a taxi to the hotel, drop the presents off, and see the lights.’ Simon kissed the top of her head.

  ‘That’s an excellent plan.’ Pippa lifted her face to Simon’s, and ‘Auld Lang Syne’ drifted towards them.

  ‘A week before Christmas?’ said Simon. ‘I think he’s peaked too soon.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’ Pippa indicated the pile of money in the instrument case. ‘They’ll do just fine.’ She winked at the piper, then realised it was a different one again. But he grinned and winked back, and the song modulated into a new tune.

  ‘What’s that one?’ asked Simon.

  ‘The Bonnie Lass o’Fyvie’, Pippa replied. She couldn’t stop herself smiling.

  ‘Is it, indeed.’ Simon shifted the bags to his other hand, and took her arm.

  ‘It is.’ Pippa looked back, and the piper, foot tapping, nodded to her. She might be wrong, but she had a distinct feeling that she hadn’t seen the last of the Ross Bros, Pipers at Large.

  Author’s Note

  Liz Hedgecock spends much of her time hopping between the nineteenth and twenty-first centuries, murdering people. To be fair, she does usually clean up after herself.

  Liz’s reimaginings of Sherlock Holmes, Bitesize, a collection of flash fiction, and Murder At The Playgroup, a modern cozy mystery, are available in ebook and paperback.

  Liz now lives in Cheshire with her husband and two sons, and when she’s not writing or child-wrangling you can usually find her reading, messing about on Twitter, or cooing over stuff in museums and art galleries. That’s her story, anyway, and she’s sticking to it.

  You can also find her here:

  http://www.facebook.com/lizhedgecockwrites

  http://twitter.com/lizhedgecock

  http://lizhedgecock.wordpress.com

  http://www.goodreads.com/lizhedgecock

  12 Reasons

  Craig Anderson

  Day Twelve

  On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me…

  12 Reasons

  Craig Anderson

  12 Reasons Drumming is a serious business. There’s only one spot available in this year’s performance, and the competition is heating up. Everyone has their reasons for applying, but there can only be one. Let the games begin.

  12 Reasons

  “Please finish up your sandwiches and take a seat. Yes Dwayne, that includes you. I can wait…” Miss. Duckworth taps her foot to show she is serious. The ruckus dies down to a murmur. Satisfied that her authority had been established she continues. “Thank you for stepping up at the last minute to fill in for poor Marcus, who was unexpectedly taken ill. As some of you may know, the Christmas ball is a very prestigious event. A lot of important people will be in attendance. It is vital that we impress them. We cannot afford any more hiccups.”

  She stares around the room to make sure everyone knows the gravity of the situation, before she continues, “The drums are a key aspect of our school band and there are a lot of very difficult drum solos. Marcus has been practicing for several weeks, but the individual that takes his place will only have twenty four hours to learn the songs. I have tried to explain to Principal Thistle that there isn’t enough time to train a replacement, but he is adamant that we try, so here we are. Consider this your warning that what I am asking you to do may well be a near impossible task with the very real possibility of humiliating yourself in front of a room full of people. Are there any questions before we begin?”

  One of the keener boys at the front thrusts his hand into the air. Miss. Duckworth does her best to maintain a neutral expression. “You have a question?”

  “Is Jason’s dad attending again this year?”

  Miss. Duckworth made a show of checking her clipboard. “Yes, I do believe Mr. Jenkins will be in attendance this year.”

  “He’s the one that gave Jill Jones that huge singing contract after last years concert!”

  There was another murmur through the group and Miss. Duckworth hushed them again. “That should have no influence on your decision to partake in this years concert. You should be doing it for the love of music, not for some slim chance of becoming a celebrity. If you’re only here to try and become famous then now is the right time to leave.”

  Nobody moved, but they all looked around the room to see who else was thinking the same thing. Miss. Duckworth sighed deeply. Kids these days only cared about becoming rich and famous. Not that any of the kids here would ever have to worry about money. The monthly tuition alone is enough to bankrupt a normal person, and that’s before all the school trips to exotic foreign locations. Oh to live like these kids, even for a year.

  Somebody coughed and Miss. Duckworth snapped out of her daze. She said, “I’m sure you all have your reasons for trying out for the band, but I will be basing my decision purely on your performance. This isn’t one of those talent shows on TV, please keep your life story to yourself. I won’t be providing individual feedback, there simply isn’t time. I will let the successful candidate know at the end of the day. Now if you could each come up one at a time. Let’s start right there.” She points to a pretty blond girl in the front row.

  Charlotte

  Everyone stares at me as I stand up, especially the boys. I’m used to it. I get it, I’m cute, with my long blond pigtails and my freckly face. People have certain assumptions when they see me. They think I’m going to be dumb, shallow, obsessed with shoes and boy bands. They couldn’t be more wrong.

  I have seven brothers. Mum passed away three years ago. It’s made Dad a bit overprotective. I’m his little girl, his angel, his princess. I’m the last little piece of Mum that he clutches on to, afraid to lose me too. Unfortunately the harder he squeezes, the more I slip away.

  I had to tell him I was auditioning for the flute. I haven’t been to my flute lessons in over two years, but it gives me an excuse to stay late at school twice a week. Dad keeps paying the instructor, so she’s not going to say anything. I don’t remember the first time I sat down at the drum set in the music room, but I do know that it gave me somewhere to channel my anger. One day I was busy releasing my frustration and a tune came out.

  I reach up and tug at my pigtails until they are free, my hair flowing down to my shoulders. I swish my head back and forth a few times to mess it up. I’m not a princess. I am a rockstar. I don’t want to play with dolls, or pretend to do makeup, or bake cookies. I want to play loud instruments, create music, party hard. I want my dad and brothers to see me for who I really am. I want them to come to this concert and see their little princess rock the stage.

  I pick up the drumsticks and twirl them effortlessly around my fingers. I go straight into an epic drum solo, using every surface, every trick that I know. The other kids stare at me slack jawed. I’m not the pretty little girl they saw a few moments ago, I am the real me.

  Miss. Duckworth nods and
says, “Well that was certainly an interesting start. Let’s move on.”

  Jake

  How am I going to follow that? Charlotte struts off the stage like she owns it, as if the decision is already a foregone conclusion. I want to turn and run, to escape to the safety of my bedroom where nobody bothers me, but I made a promise to myself. No more hiding.

  I can hear them whisper as I walk towards the stage. Who is that guy? Does he go to this school? Is he new here? I want to shout at the top of my lungs. I’ve been going here for five years. I have helped you all with your homework. I have carried your books. I have cleaned up after you. I have skulked in the shadows, afraid to speak up, afraid to be seen, but not today. No more lurking.

  I reach the drum kit and turn to face the crowd. I can feel them staring at me, their eyes burrowing deep inside, poking at my anxiety, making it lash out like a frightened house cat. It tugs at my legs and squeezes my stomach, demanding that we get away as fast as we can. I plant my feet and grit my teeth. No more running.

  I open my mouth to speak, but the words stay in my throat until it is completely backed up. Then they all tumble out at once. “I’mJakeILoveToDrum.” The sniggers from the crowd confirm my anxiety’s worst fears. This is going badly, but still I persist.

  I pick up the drumsticks and try to spin them around my fingers, just as Charlotte did. I want to show these people that I can do this. The right drumstick gets away from me and clatters to the ground. In my mind it makes the sound of a tree falling down, an echoing crash that can be heard across the room. More sniggers.

  I slowly bend down and pick it up. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. This is it. This is my moment. I lift up my arms and feel the music flow through me.

  I don’t have the showmanship of Charlotte, but I play flawlessly. The sniggering stops. Charlotte is the first one standing, applauding loudly. The rest of the crowd slowly joins her.

  For the first time ever, they see me. I want to stand here forever, soaking in this moment. I already know I won’t get the part, but it doesn’t matter. I found a piece of my soul today.

  Miss. Duckworth ushers me off the stage and points to the next in line.

  Jian

  I walk up to the stage slowly, checking the corners of the room for my parents. I am not supposed to be here. It is my petty act of rebellion. My parents do not believe in music, or any other frivolous activity. Life is not meant to be enjoyed, it is meant to be optimized with ruthless efficiency. They already have my entire future planned out. They are courting other families as we speak, trying to find a suitable wife to marry their darling son that is destined to become a world famous surgeon. They choose my lessons, my teachers, my lunches, the route that I take home. I’m surprised I am allowed to go to the toilet when I please.

  The guilt washes over me as I walk towards the stage. They only want what is best for me. Who am I to question them? Their tough love seemingly works. My brother is a corporate lawyer and my sister is a rocket scientist. They are both happily married to partners that were selected long ago. I see that look on their faces though, the flickers of doubt in those moments when they think no-one is watching. They are living my parents dreams, not theirs. I once found an entire sketchbook under my sister’s bed, filled with beautiful hand drawn dresses and outfits, each intricately designed. The pages were dotted with wet splotches, tears of shame as she wasted her time doing something that she loved.

  I’m on the stage. I don’t know what I am doing. I have never played the drums in my life. I’ve always wanted to though. I mentioned it once to my father and the look he gave me still haunts me to this day. I pick up the drumsticks, expecting them to burst into flames, but instead they magnify the shaking of my hands. I lift one high above my head and bring it down with a loud whoop. There is an immediate sense of relief. With each successive strike I can feel a little part of myself breaking free from the shackles of my perfect future. There’s no tune, not even any rhythm, but it’s the most beautiful music I have ever heard.

  The faces in the crowd suggest this isn’t true for them. They are wide eyed, mouths agape. I drop the drumsticks and shout, “Thank you!” before bolting out of the room.

  Mrs. Duckworth says, “Well that was…different. Let’s keep going please.”

  Janet

  I have to make this count. This needs to pay off. My parents are bankrupting themselves to send me to this school. I’ve heard them shouting at each other in the early hours of the morning, when I’m supposed to be sleeping. It’s always the same topic. Money. We get red envelopes in the post every week. They hide them before I see them, but I once opened the kitchen drawer they get stuffed into. If we get any more of them they are going to need a bigger drawer.

  Dad can’t work any more overtime, he’s barely functional as it is. Mum hides it better behind a smile and a meagre breakfast, but I can see the hopelessness creeping in. I’ve tried talking to them, to convince them I would be happier at a normal school, but they are adamant. They never had opportunities like this when they were kids, and it has haunted them ever since. Every job they were turned down for, every promotion that passed them by, every layoff, all harsh reminders that they were expendable, easily replaced. They will be homeless and penniless before they let that happen to me.

  This gig is my chance. If I can impress Jason’s dad then I can get a music contract and drag my parents out of debt. It’s not the dream they had for me, but it’s what I need to do. How else is a teenager going to make buckets of cash? I will stride into the bank and slam down a fistful of red envelopes and tell the bank manager where to shove them.

  I’m nervous as I sit down at the drum set. We had to sell my drums a long time ago, but I still remember how to play them, if I can just get my hands to stop shaking. It takes a moment for me to find my groove, for the old muscle memory to kick in. I miss the first cue, but I soon find the rhythm. Everyone’s feet are tapping along.

  I just have to pray it’s enough.

  Miss. Duckworth looks relieved that I did better than Jian. She gestures to the next in line, but he’s not paying attention, he is staring at one of the other kids. After a few seconds she shouts, “You’re up Paul.”

  Paul

  Did someone say my name? Oh god, everyone is staring at me. What am I supposed to do? I haven’t thought this through at all. My brilliant plan to impress Jason is suddenly seeming utterly ridiculous. I just wanted to strike up a conversation, pretend to have something in common. I didn’t know this was an audition. I have played the drums a grand total of once, on a video game, three years ago. Rockstar I am not.

  I’m kind of committed now. If I bolt from the room Jason will remember me for all the wrong reasons. I’ll forever be a coward, a failure, a chicken. I’ll never get over that. It’s certain failure, or the minuscule chance of a miraculous success. I know which option I am going for.

  As I stroll towards the stage I glance in his direction. He’s staring at me. Do I sense something else, something more? Does he feel the same way I do? Could this be the start of something?

  Of course not. I am projecting. He is one of the most popular boys in school. Only a select few kids can afford to board here. He is one of them. I dread to think what it costs, not that he would be concerned about such things. The girls swoon around him constantly. He can have his pick. Why would he pick me? I am nobody.

  Scarlett is my main competition. She follows Jason around like a lost puppy. I should know, I am right behind her most days. She strikes me as a real bunny boiler, the kind that wouldn’t take kindly to me stealing her potential husband. My only hope is that she ignores me just as thoroughly as Jason does.

  I don’t remember picking up the drumsticks, but suddenly they are in my hands. I squint into the lights and wait for the music to flow through me. Come on Cupid, or whoever the gay equivalent is, it’s time for the magic to happen. Wait, is there a gay Cupid? Now I’m just being ridiculous. The kid is shirtless, has angel wings and a bow and arr
ow for crying out loud. He doesn’t exactly scream homophobic.

  I’m still waiting for the magic to happen. Everyone is. I’m not sure how long I can sit here before someone escorts me from the stage. There is a polite cough in the front row. It’s now or never.

  Never it is. I shout, “I refuse to sellout to big music! Rock on. Peace out.” Then I toss the drumsticks into the crowd and leg it out the back door before security arrives. I make eye contact with Jason as the door swings shut behind me. Was that a smile on his face? At least now he will remember me.

  Miss. Duckworth shakes her head. “Oh dear, we’re getting all sorts tonight. Scarlett, please restore my faith in good manners.”

  Scarlett

  What the heck was that? That last guy was clearly insane. Why would somebody show up for something like this if they weren’t intending to play? Perhaps it was some sad attempt to impress me. Now that I think of it, he does always seem to be lurking nearby.

  I get out of my seat and run my hand across Jason’s shoulders. He’s been so distant lately. I don’t know what has gotten into him. At first I thought he was cheating on me, but I’ve been checking his phone and occasionally following him and there’s no sign of infidelity. He hasn’t so much as looked at another girl since we started fooling around a few months ago. I had to fight off an army of skanks to get him, but I’m starting to wonder why I bothered. Half the time it doesn’t feel like dating at all. There’s no sex, barely any kissing and the occasional half hearted grope. He doesn’t even like us being seen together too often, he has some lame excuse about the paparazzi. Sure he’s good looking, and his six pack has a six pack, but most importantly he’s thirty-seventh in line to the English throne. That sounds like a long way down the list, but accidents happen, and besides the competition for those above him is even more fierce. There aren’t many eligible bachelors left in the royal line, and there are a lot of women trying to snag them.