by Polly Hall
We started with the crabbit, my original idea, a crow’s head attached to a rabbit’s body adorned with the bird’s black wings. It now sits on our mantelpiece as a reminder of those early, naïve days. I felt it watch us, trying to make sense of its own identity. Am I crow? Or am I rabbit? Its confusion was obvious to me, as if fur and feather, claw and paw, were never meant to be conjoined.
To the south of our house, your workshop nestled at the bottom of the garden. The soft glow of an electric bulb denoted your presence, a beacon, but also a “No Entry” sign for any unwelcome interference. The lit-up interior said to me, “I’m working in my world among my things—give me space.” I understood your need for solitude in your cave-like retreat, a place away from our shared home; it was yours alone. Not ours. What I’m trying to say is: I know how you worked. Having worked in lively places where people talked all day, every day, I found this quiet world with you a dreamy paradise.
We both were seeking solitude after all the layers of affection were stripped back, much like the way you peeled back an animal’s skin with precision, flaying the tough sinews and fascia with sharp tools, turning it inside out, revealing, exposing it and ultimately becoming intimate with its form. Its unique essence was mastered by your hands. This couldn’t be shared—it was personal. That is why I thought you’d understand my own needs. My solitude was not sought in the cool confines of a workshop but in the expanse of another place—the dark recesses of my imagination.
I suggested a website for your business, but you looked at me as if I were suggesting you sell your soul to the devil. That seemed unnatural to you. Too removed perhaps?
“Who would see it?” you asked.
“Everyone.”
“Everyone who knows me?”
“Yes—well, everyone who uses the internet and searches for you. Or for taxidermy.”
“What—strangers too?”
“Yes—everyone!”
“What’s the point of, say, people in China seeing it—”
“The point is . . .” but by this stage in our discussion you could probably sense my exasperation. “It’s what people do! It’s how people communicate!”
“Well, I don’t.”
“No. I know!”
So, we left it at that, just an understanding that there was no point in persuading you of its efficacy, especially as I was not even convincing myself. Selfishly I wanted to protect you from the rest of the world and all its lies, deceit snarled up in layers of data clogging up pages and pages of computer screens, forever there, eternal but dirtied, unverified, and open to abuse. Perhaps the internet was a form of afterlife preserved in a graveyard of dumped information. Perhaps you were right. Perhaps I was my own worst enemy.
Besides, if you had spent less time working on those creatures, you would perhaps have discovered that my world was coming undone. I felt turned inside-out like the skin of a dead rabbit, waiting to be filled, stuffed fresh and preserved, put on display and admired—how life-like, don’t the eyes follow you about the room?—those that are new to the craft always look at the glass eyes first, just to check that the specimen is really dead. Or maybe to see if any remaining life clings on.
What I’m trying to tell you is that January was about the time when I found him. He seemed to appear at the top of all the search engines when I typed in: best taxidermist in the world.
Felix De Souza—a name that would become etched on our psyches, a name that signified doom. But being the petulant Scarlett that I was, how could I resist? And what Scarlett wanted, Scarlett got. From that moment I became consumed by his whereabouts, thinking that you too could achieve such international acclaim. His youth was an asset but no match for your experience. Knowing he existed gnawed away at my brain like one of those parasites that eats you from the inside.
Once a year, in Somerset, a custom called wassailing is carried out to encourage a bountiful apple harvest for the coming season. A gun is fired to scare away malevolent spirits and a wassail queen soaks bread in cider as an offering to the apple gods and goddesses. I knew about it before I met you, of course, but many didn’t if they were not from the rural areas.
This was my first wassailing ceremony. We were wrapped up in thick coats and woolen scarves. In fact, the only piece of skin showing was the strip across my eyes below my hat and above my scarf-covered mouth.
You held my hand encased in padded mittens—I felt upholstered together and sweaty underneath all my layers, waiting by the door for you to fetch your gun. But I knew it would be cold in the apple orchard at Penny’s place. At least it wasn’t raining that night.
“Do we really have to go?” You knew Penny made me feel uncomfortable, as if she had some kind of ownership of you.
“I’m the one firing the gun this year. Come on, you’ll enjoy it once you get there. There’s cider! And a hog roast!” You tried to tickle me under my arms, but I had so many layers of clothes it just felt like mild pummeling.
I couldn’t believe how many people were there. It was a beautiful night; the clouds had been blown away and a cold serenity seemed to open up the sky like a velvet sheet dusted with glitter. My neck hurt from looking at the stars, searching for a shooting one. I was about to ask you if you’d ever wished upon a star, but we were interrupted.
“Henry darling.” Wafts of sickly perfume met my nostrils before she appeared, pushing through a group of people exhaling clouds over plastic cups of mulled cider. Her face was painted with ivy leaves that spiraled up her cheeks to the corners of her eyes and down her neck, as if a reptile were trying to gain access to her wrinkled cleavage.
“Penny.” You nodded a clipped greeting and stood by my side to face her. This reassured me, to know where your loyalties lay. I know she was itching to touch you as she edged closer. Her sagging bosom heaved over the neck of her dress as if something in her chest were trying to break free.
“Can I have a word about the proceedings?” She whispered like it was some kind of conspiracy between you two. You were only to play a small part, firing your gun into the air. I had watched you replace the lead shot with corn for safety, an old trick of yours you’d learned from your father.
“It will still knock you down,” you told me sternly, “but you’d survive.” I had no doubt you would not hesitate to use it for protection. A small shudder ran through my bones.
The wassailing ceremony began and Penny, crowned with a wreath of dark green leaves, led the parade to one of the apple trees in her orchard that had been decorated in twinkly, solar-powered lights. She looked severely underdressed for the weather but insisted on wearing a long silk gown and a velvet cape. Then, as self-appointed Wassail Queen, she dipped a hunk of toast into a jug of mulled cider, placed it carefully on one of the branches and suggestively sucked her fingers while looking at you. I felt like a voyeur.
“She’s a bit serious, isn’t she?” I whispered to you when she poured the rest of the cider around the base of the tree.
You shushed me, and I felt a pang of jealousy. I wondered if you had in the past shared more with her than a cup of cider in a freezing-cold field. I took a swig and let the warm spiced liquid sink down to my stomach. It shouldn’t have mattered to me, but she’d known you for longer than I had. It wasn’t even that. You seemed to have this common acceptance of each other. Perhaps you loved her?
Penny signaled to you with a nod and you fired your gun to the sky to ward off the evil spirits. Even though I was expecting it to be loud, the shot still made me jump. I saw her snigger and scowled in her direction, but she was too busy rousing the crowd into a wassail song.
Old apple tree we wassail thee
And hoping thou will bear
For the Lord doth know where we shall be
’Til apples come another year.
For to bear well and to bloom well
So merry let us be
Let every man take off his hat
And shout to the old apple tree.
Old apple tree we wassail
thee
And hoping thou will bear
Hat fulls, cap fulls, three bushel bag fulls
And a little heap under the stairs
You nuzzled your beard into my neck and whispered, “Time for bed, Miss Scarlett.” Penny may have had you wrapped round her little finger, but I had you every night. As I looked again toward the branches of the trees and up above to the big indigo sky, I felt your heat reach me beneath my clothes and the effects of the cider creeping up my legs. How did I get so drunk?
The day after that night I felt invigorated. No hangover, surprisingly. We had probably burnt it off in bed. We had stripped off and launched naked under the covers as soon as we arrived home. The patchwork of warmth from your hot hands on my cold skin, and your tongue still sticky with cider, made me sink into a weighty sleep.
In my dreams you were chasing me round and round an apple tree, and Penny was laughing, hands on her hips taunting me with a bust that was more fitting on a twenty-year old. We were all naked.
The crabbit was hopping and flapping its wings beneath the tree and Felix was spraying warm cider from a champagne magnum over my head. I woke to find you kneeling upright on the bed beside my face, pumping a heavy erection. As I refocused my eyes, a globule landed on my cheek.
“I didn’t want to wake you.” You were out of breath from your exertions and sat back on your haunches gazing at me. The covers were pulled down below my waist and my naked body felt chilled. I sleepily reached for my face, the stickiness already sliding down toward the pillow.
“Here let me . . .” you wiped a tissue across my cheek, tossed it to the floor, then pushed your tongue into my mouth. As you slid down next to me, I could still feel your dampness fading against my thigh. You leaned over to kiss me again, but I felt a pang of anger. Even though we had shared every inch of ourselves the night before, this seemed like an intrusion into my dreams, an infiltration of my mind. I turned my head away, trying to catch glimpses of Felix from my dream, but you continued to nibble at my ear.
“You looked so sexy, so still.” The crabbit hopping and flapping.
“I was sleeping.” Felix, perfect in every way, splashing champagne over me.
“Did you enjoy it last night?” you continued kissing my neck, my weakness, sending shivers through me.
“My first wassail,” I said.
“A wassail virgin!” Hat fulls, cap fulls, three bushel bags full!
My fixation on others was just my way of proving how much I loved you. I hope you believe me. But the noises in my head grew louder. The crabbit was angry. Am I crow or am I rabbit? It squawked and squealed with all its might. I thought my head might explode.
When you went down to your workshop, I fetched my laptop and clicked straight onto the internet. Felix De Souza. His website said he had trained as a sculptor at the Royal Academy before providing blue chip art to galleries and private collectors. It certainly looked expensive. The magnificent coiled silkiness of a boa constrictor with wings mounted on a granite plinth, its mouth wide in attack; some sort of rodent with chicken’s feet and a snake as a tail. As I flicked through his portfolio, I felt a surge of jealousy; I wanted you to show off your work like that. Whenever I looked at your creations, I felt as if they were still alive, or an essence of them had been carried through the veil of death and lived on. Your crabbit signified such an important breakthrough; it really worked. But Felix’s site showed even more bizarre combinations. He seemed to mix up wild and domestic species to create almost alien-looking creatures. I know it went against all your training, but I also knew you could do it.
We all do things we don’t want to, and I thought participating in an exhibition would be perfect in the spring, something to work toward with healthy competition. That was why I suggested it to you. Partly because I thought you deserved it. Partly because I thought it would be a way to expunge my stupid fascination with Felix, by meeting him in the flesh and setting him against you, as if comparison would cure me of my obsession with things that weren’t mine to possess. Should I have stopped meddling and accepted things as they were? Nothing and nobody would ever come between us.
“I’m not sure about this.” We were sipping wine and admiring the crabbit on the mantelpiece. The crow’s dark head and wings were fixed onto the white rabbit.
“Alice in Wonderland gone wrong?” I said.
“No, it’s not the combination. More that it doesn’t feel right.”
“How do you mean?”
“When I stuff a whole creature—I mean without mixing it with another species—it seems pure somehow. These hybrids seem unnatural.”
“But you said yourself, the market is dwindling. It’s all high-brow conceptual stuff nowadays.” I sipped some wine. “I’ve entered you into a show.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Spring Show. I’ve entered you. As an exhibitor. There’s plenty of time to build your portfolio.”
“What show? What portfolio?”
I couldn’t tell you then that I knew Felix was a part of it, but at the time I thought it would be good for you. For us. I knew it would have to be your idea and you would distance yourself from me while you considered it.
I was surprised when you agreed with minimal fuss. I thought you complied to indulge me, and it pleased me indeed. We set about devising a strategy. Every morning we would wake, make love, then walk the dogs together before breakfast. Sometimes we would make love mid-morning if you were feeling aroused by the ideas we talked about. It seemed to be a routine we fell into rather easily.
I drew up a spreadsheet with timescales and sources for specimens. My sketches took up so much time that I felt the creatures swim inside my head. Some I’d never heard of before, but excitement ran through me at the prospect of you experimenting. Pangolin? Uakari? Capybara?
The searches for legal imports and laws around the protection of species, even extinct animals, needed certification, and the postage seemed extortionate. Nevertheless, we were not deterred. You had ways of acquiring the animals. I became your assistant as well as your lover.
I couldn’t help going back to what you said about the creatures not being pure once you had disassembled then stitched them together as something new. You felt it too, didn’t you?
Christmas Day—Today
Early Morning
Our home has been trimmed up. Red and gold tinsel drape the picture frames and curtain rails. Paper chains are tacked to the ceiling beams, and a new batch of halogen lights are set to slow-fade and flicker so they reflect on the window and make me think of musical notes ascending and descending on a scale. We have a real tree this year rather than the synthetic one that you keep boxed up in the loft. This glorious tree has been installed in the lounge, not too close to the log fire, so it has space to breathe and retain its needles. It’s a Nordman Fir, bushy and voluptuous, as if Narnia has arrived in our home. At any minute a horny Mr. Tumnus will appear, scarf adjusted at a jaunty angle tickling his bare chest, with a couple of beavers jostling in his wake. You sort of remind me of a manlier Mr. Tumnus, or maybe I’m confusing him with a centaur. Yes, you’re more of a centaur—strong legs like a horse, tough muscular back and proper chest hair I can burrow into with my long, cold fingers.
The pine needles look blue-rinsed and shimmer a hue so ancient that I want to cry with joy. You’ve lit a scented candle, hints of cinnamon and cranberry mixing with the other scents. Its flame casts shapes on the wall like the probing tongues of lizards. The smell reminds me of the Christmas cake my mother used to set on the table, steeped in brandy, fruit packed tight like glistening beads, loaded with promise. I am drawn to the flicker of the candle. I am drawn to the top of the tree.
I start at the top and work my way down the branches. A star, five-pointed and silver, twinkles and reminds me of the eyes set in the heads of your stuffed creatures. It is only reflection; there is nothing genuine about it—artificial and fraudulent. But I am enthralled by its status, all the way up there, elevated o
n high. Where is the angel? Did we not have an angel among our decorations? One of those hermaphroditic, symmetrical beauties with blonde hair and spread wings and arms, but no feet. Angels don’t need to walk when they have the gift of flight.
To fly I need only to lift my thoughts higher than that tree. I lift my mind, and my body seems to follow. There is freedom when I place my will above the confines of my form. By the way, angels are not sweet, trumpet-blowing lovelies like the ones on Christmas cards—no—they breathe fire, spit earth, cast demons from the shadowy pits of valleys and stagnant lagoons. Listen to me talking of angels like I’m some authority. There are no angels here.
It’s early in the morning. You are clattering around in the kitchen, metal banging against the ceramic top of the cooker, utensils rattling as you begin to prepare the Christmas feast. I have always loved your way of cooking, impulsive yet diligent. A turducken seems a bit extravagant for just the two of us, but I half expect Rhett to appear at the door empty-handed as an urchin. Most years he tends to make his way back to me, as if by being twins we have some natural homing device fitted to each other. Flesh and blood belong together at Christmastime.
Christmas wouldn’t be right without traditions and routines. Every family has them. Some of ours have merged and evolved, like what food to eat and when; others are devised or re-invented, like the order in which we open gifts and the patterns of the day. For one day of the year, it’s as if everyone else’s home has become an enigma. Unless you have the code to enter their world, you’ll be lost in translation. I’d imagine most people expect us to be quite eccentric on Christmas Day; they may be right this year.
Bread sauce, cranberry sauce, stuffing (ha!), gravy, mustard—all these delicious liquid accompaniments to what is only one meal of the year. But it is a meal charged with expectation. That’s probably why Rhett always turns up; he knows he’ll get fed. And the sprouts will take center stage, glistening like green bullets in butter and sprinkled with tiny cubes of crisp pancetta. Christmas without a momentous meal is like me without you. Unthinkable.
