‘Well,’ says Mrs Miggins, standing back and folding her wings across her chest, ‘this is what happens when you don’t let us have a proper planning meeting and you decide to go rogue with the Christmas story. I don’t want to say I told you so, but I bloody well will anyway.’
We are standing outside Much Malarkey Manor, which is beautifully bedecked in all its Christmas glory. Fairy lights, holly boughs, garlands of flamingo, that kind of thing. The night air is laced with breath-snatching frost, and wood smoke buffets and twirls from the chimney stacks. All is calm, all is bright.
However, Mrs Miggins and I are staring at the ground, at a robust figure, clad in a red cloak with fur trimmed hood, which is lying prostrate in the drifts of snow that has been falling heavily and steadily since breakfast this morning. It’s going to be the first white Christmas I can remember in years, and I feel slightly smug that the Manor is well-stocked with powdered milk, baked beans and toilet rolls.
Mrs Miggins points a wing at the figure. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ she says, ‘but I don’t think you meant to do that, did you?’
‘Of course I didn’t mean to do it,’ I say. ‘But what choice did I have? Person of suspicious looking nature trying to gain entry to our home under cover of darkness, and carrying a large sack over his shoulder? You tell me you wouldn’t have done the same.’
‘You could have called the police,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Or pulled Mrs Pumphrey’s newly installed emergency cord.’
(This is not a euphemism – during late Autumn, when Mrs Pumphrey was up in the woods at twilight participating in her latest passion for a hybrid version of qi-gong + Pilates = pilqugongtes, she was startled by a stranger emerging furtively from the undergrowth and flashing a torch at her. Despite subtle questioning, none of us could ascertain whether she meant an actual real life genuine torch - which wouldn’t have been unreasonable given the time of day – or something less savoury in the sausage approximation department. Anyway, the upshot of this event was that Mrs Pumphrey felt her personal safety had been compromised, and she engaged the services of the local gamekeeper -commonly and affectionately known as Grousy McGrouseFace - who, at the pull of a specially installed emergency cord, would appear at remarkable speed and fire a warning shot across the bows of any threatening torch/ sausage/ you get the idea.)
Anyway, Mrs Miggins and I argue a little and then she agrees that, given the circumstances and her innate Ninja reaction times, she probably would have picked up the nearest garden gnome and thrown it at the intruder, too. She gives the fallen body a tentative nudge with her foot.
There is no response. She tries again, landing a kick that would make the England Rugby Team proud.
‘I think,’ she says, fixing me with her beady chicken stare, ‘that you have killed Father Christmas.’
You know those moments when you have a hot flush, not because you are a lady of a certain age but because you suddenly realise you’ve taken an action just a teensy bit too far? I can feel the flames of panic rushing from my knees right up through my body, past my chest and finishing on my cheeks in a violent beetroot red.
‘I don’t think I’ve actually KILLED Father Christmas,’ I say, crouching down in the snow beside the very dead-looking figure. ‘Maybe just concussed him. It was only a small gnome I threw. It can’t have done THAT much damage…surely?’
We are interrupted by Mrs Pumphrey who is in the middle of decorating her first gingerbread house for the Christmas Eve party (there are parts enough for the construction of a small village of gingerbread houses) and requires some assistance with the gable ends of a row of terraced cottages. She’s not a natural cook, is Mrs Pumphrey. The closest she comes to making an evening meal is microwaving baked beans in a mug and scattering grated cheese on top. Sometimes she can make toast, but it’s a hit and miss affair.
‘What’s going on?’ she says. ‘Who is that?’ she says, pointing at the snowy body with her icing splattered spoon. ‘Is that Father Christmas?’ she says, taking a closer look. ‘Eeeeeeeek!’ she eeeeks. ‘Father Christmas is dead! Who killed Father Christmas?’
‘She did,’ says Mrs Miggins, pointing at me, because when it comes to the criminal crunch, chickens have no loyalty and will grass up their old granny in order to save their own tail feathers.
‘You KILLED Father Christmas?’ says Mrs Pumphrey, aghast, holding her spoon up in front of her like some sticky crucifix fending off a diabetic vampire.
‘Who’s killed Father Christmas?’ says Mrs Poo, appearing suddenly because she has a pressing question about the timing of the party, and if there’s only gingerbread houses on offer, she really isn’t interested and will send out for Kentucky Fried Badger, if you don’t mind.
‘She did!’ say Misses Miggins and Pumphrey in unison, continuing to point accusingly at me.
‘I haven’t killed Father Christmas,’ I insist. ‘It is impossible to kill Father Christmas. He is an immortal legend. He is invincible. Like…like Superman. Or the Terminator.’
The gathered hens eye me, sceptically. ‘Are you sure you aren’t thinking of Markus Sebastian Grayson, a.k.a Invinciboy a.k.a Invincible Boy?’ says Mrs Miggins.
‘Positive,’ I say. ‘Given I’ve never heard of this fictional character ever in my LIFE!’ (But it’s amazing what the Author discovers when she does a bit of research.)
‘Seriously,’ I continue. ‘We just need to get him onto his feet, take him into the kitchen and defrost him. He’ll be right as rain and on his way quicker than you can say the Pheasant Plucker rhyme.’
‘How does that go, then?’ says Mrs Pumphrey, who’s mind has been all things pheasant today, anticipating the imminent arrival of her long-time festive beau, Ptolemy Pheasant.
‘Ooooh, I know this!’ says Mrs Poo. ‘It goes:
“I’m not the pheasant plucker, I’m the pheasant plucker’s mate,
And I’m only plucking pheasants ‘cause the pheasant plucker’s late.
I’m not the pheasant plucker, I’m the pheasant plucker’s son,
And I’m only plucking pheasants till the pheasant plucker comes.”
I roll my eyes. Mrs Pumphrey is clearly delighted by this rhyme and immediately gives it a go.
‘I’m not the pheasant plucker, I’m the pleasant fu…’
‘STOP!’ I yell. ‘Fancy setting her off on that,’ I admonish Mrs Poo, who is giggling like a loon.
‘Did someone mention pheasants?’ says a familiar voice, and there, coming up the path and out of the gloom is Ptolemy Pheasant, a rucksack on his back and a guitar case tucked beneath his wing. ‘Bonsoir, mes enfants! Je suis arrive! Commence the festive celebrations!’
Mrs Pumphrey drops her sticky icing spoon, rushes forward and gathers him to her ample bosom in a welcoming hug.
‘What’s in the guitar case,’ she says, thinking (romantic fool that she is) that her Christmas beloved has spent the previous year honing the fine art of a string serenade with which he will woo her to within an inch of her flouncy bloomers.
‘Pies,’ says Ptolemy. ‘Artisan pies, no less. My contribution to the party.’
‘Ooooh, lovely!’ says Mrs Poo, all thoughts of Kentucky Fried Badger erased from her mind, thank goodness. ‘Take them into the kitchen. Mrs Slocombe can pop them in the oven to heat up. Nothing like a hot pie to warm the cockles on a chilly Winter’s night.’
‘Especially as some of them ARE cockle pies,’ says Ptolemy.
‘Is that a thing?’ says Mrs Slocombe, leading the way to the kitchen.
‘It is now,’ says Ptolemy.
(N.B For those of you who appreciate a bit of factual accuracy in your literature, there IS such a thing as Cockle Pie. It is a Welsh ‘thing’ made especially for St David’s Day. Here is the recipe:
Ingredients: 1 oz butter, 8oz streaky bacon, 1 chopped onion, 2oz plain flour, 1 pint of milk, one and a half pints of fresh cockles, 5 tablespoons of dry white wine, 3 tablespoons of freshly chopped chives, 4oz fresh white breadcrumbs, 3oz grated Caerphilly cheese.
1. Preheat grill to hot. Melt butter in a pan, add bacon and onion and sauté until soft.
2. Add flour. Cook for 1 minute, stirring constantly. Remove from heat and add milk a little at a time, stirring. Bring to the boil, continue to stir until thickened and smooth.
3. Add cockles, wine and chives and simmer for 2 - 3 minutes.
4. Transfer mixture to a flame proof pie dish.
5. In a mixing bowl, combine breadcrumbs and cheese. Sprinkle mix on top of the cockle mix.
6. Grill for 5 minutes until golden brown and bubbling. Serve immediately.
Sounds simple enough. Not the kind of cockle pie I imagine Ptolemy has brought with him. Not with a guitar case as transport anyway. Also, please do NOT make this NOW in preparation for St David’s Day. St David’s Day is 1st March. Your pie will be smelling well off by then. Something chronic. A bacteria swamp, I reckon. And I shall not be held responsible for any cases of food poisoning.
I digress…
‘Well,’ I say. ’Is anyone going to help me carry Father Christmas into the kitchen?’
‘Doesn’t seem much point given he is DEAD,’ says Mrs Miggins.
‘He is NOT dead,’ I say. And I drag the body to the kitchen by myself. The beginning of Christmas, as they say in Masterchef, couldn’t get tougher than this.
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