by Heide Goody
Nell’s life was composed of monumental yet incremental transitions which inevitably took her by surprise. At the age of twenty-three she discovered that, without effort or choice, she had acquired a job in a grey and windowless call centre which she neither liked nor was suited to, a flat in a converted Victorian townhouse furnished with items that she could not recall buying and, most baffling of all, a man called Robert who might be regarded as her boyfriend. Although he could equally have been just a work colleague who she had sex with from time to time. (He’d once told her that he thought he sort of loved her, though if he didn’t then he certainly liked her a lot).
In the same diffident manner, over a course of months, Nell also acquired a pair of goat legs, complete with hooves.
It all started one Sunday morning when Robert rolled over in his bed, ran his hand up her leg, cleared his throat and said, “My, how continental.”
She protested that she’d shaved just the day before. Robert said he didn’t mind. Of course he didn’t mind. He, like her, was a great accepter of change.
Throughout the following month she shaved her legs, applied depilatory creams and hot waxes, and eventually made an appointment with her doctor. During the same period, her feet ached continually, her shoes grew too small, and the skin underneath her toes and the balls of her feet hardened and thickened. The doctor inspected Nell’s hairy legs and thought it might be hormonal. Nell indignantly pointed out that at the age of twenty-three she was hardly likely to be menopausal. She asked the doctor about her aching and inexplicably larger feet. He suggested bigger shoes.
Nell bought larger shoes, and took to walking around her flat barefoot. She didn’t realise that she’d also taken to walking on tiptoes until Robert pointed it out one evening. He’d come round for a spag bol dinner and a cuddle on the sofa. She immediately tried putting her heels on the ground but it felt wrong, sickeningly so. As though she was about to unbalance and tip backwards.
When her feet narrowed and her toes became encased in skin and nail, she abandoned shoes altogether. Not long after she surrendered her legs to the hair. Nell invested in long, floor-sweeping skirts that did not go down well with her supervisor, Josephine. She thought they looked suspiciously “folksy” and “New Agey”.
Embarrassment at her physical changes also led her to break up with Robert. Nell found this hard, not through any emotional attachment, but because she remained unsure whether he was actually her boyfriend. She spoke to him at work: about people and time and moving on, and sort of said that she probably wouldn’t be inviting him over again anytime soon. He nodded and said it was okay and returned to his cubicle; leaving her wondering if she’d actually broken up with him, or whether they’d really been together in the first place.
On the first of December, she pulled back her duvet and looked at her legs in the condensation-streaked light of day: at the tufty brown hair that covered each of them from hip to cloven toes. Like an optical illusion revealing itself Nell finally realised that she possessed, had possessed for several weeks, a fine pair of goat’s legs. In the light of this knowledge she made an experimental purchase of dog shampoo to wash her goaty fur. The results didn’t impress her; she went back to her regular shampoo and conditioner.
*
Nell prepared for a quiet Christmas. On the Friday before Christmas, the office underlings at the Blame ‘n’ Claim call centre decamped to the nearby Harvester pub. Nell found it easier to be dragged along than resist. She sipped a small rum and coke and smiled whenever anyone looked at her. Robert gave her a badly wrapped present, told her that it was just a little something for both Christmas and birthday, and tried to kiss her: bobbing his head like a chicken. He succeeded on the second attempt, half-missing, and kissed her on the cheekbone. Nell found herself ridiculously touched by the gesture, thanked him, downed her drink and went home to cry. She put her one and only present under the Christmas tree and did last night’s washing up.
As she dried her hands on a tea towel there was a knock at the door. Opening it she found a short man with thick wavy hair and a scruffy beard on her landing. He held an umbrella in one hand and an off-licence carrier bag in the other.
“Hey, hey, hey!” he exclaimed, spreading his arms wide.
“Yes?” said Nell. “What can I do for you?”
The little man shrank back and gave her a hurt look. “Is that any way to greet your favourite uncle?”
Nell frowned. “You’re not my favourite uncle. I don’t have an uncle.”
“That you know of,” he said with a waggle of his brolly. “I am your Uncle Kantzaros. Your only uncle, ergo, your favourite uncle.”
Nell sighed. She really wasn’t in the mood. “What do you want?”
“I come to bring an end to care and worry!” he declared, voice raised once more, arms open to embrace her.
“No thanks.” She shut the door.
There was a loud thump, a yelp and a whimper. She opened the door again: the bearded man was clutching a hairy knee. His lip was trembling.
“I banged it,” he said. “Very hard door.”
Nell looked at his little goat legs and hooves and at the roguish glint in his otherwise pathetic eyes. “My uncle?” she said.
“Kantzaros. Kalli Kantzaros.” He sucked through his teeth and rubbed at his knee. “You should have a sign. It’s a very hard door.”
“Were you trying to kick it in?”
He shrugged. “Worth a try.”
She sighed again, stepped back and ushered him in.
“For you,” said Kantzaros, passing her the off-licence bag as he hobbled in.
“Oh, what’s this?” she said without enthusiasm. Inside was a large bottle.
Kantzaros trotted into her kitchen, his wounded knee forgotten, and reappeared with glasses. “Wine,” he said. “The end to care and worry.”
As she poured, he whipped off his scarf and threw it onto the table. He took a glass from her and drank deeply.
She gestured at his legs. “Are you—?”
“Staying long?” He waggled his empty glass. “No. ’Til the last day of Christmas, no longer.”
“No, I was asking … saying…” She refilled his glass. “You appear to have goat’s legs.”
“Or is it the goat that has mine? Drink up.”
The wine looked cheap and nasty, the label indicating neither grape nor country of origin, and she sipped it cautiously. However, its taste was not the poky acidity she expected but a warm, round fruitiness that spoke of golden summer days, of sunlight on leaves, of wide cloud-speckled skies.
“That’s nice,” she said.
“Nice?” He was indignant. “Is that what passes for acclaim these days? That Bacchus should hear such damning praise! Where are your poetic metaphors of joy? Where are your superlatives?”
“I mean it is very nice,” she said.
He humphed. “You’re obviously not drinking it right.”
He pressed the tip of his brolly under the base of her glass, tilting it so that she was forced to drink or spill it. She swallowed in desperate gulps, gasping when it was done.
“Better.” Kantzaros snatched the bottle from her and charged their glasses once more (although she hadn’t seen him drink his second). “And do you?”
“Do I what?” said Nell.
“Appear to have goat’s legs.” He poked at her skirts with his brolly.
“Never you mind what’s under there,” she said, laughing. The wine had gone straight to her head. “Have you eaten?”
“More than once.”
“I think I could rustle up an omelette or something.”
“You have the omelette. I’ll have the something,” said Kantzaros.
She cooked while he drank and then they ate and drank together. Although she had no wine in, and he had definitely brought only one bottle, there were at least six empties on the table by the time Kantzaros put his knife and fork down and pushed his plate away. He passed wind and smiled.
“
Charming,” said Nell.
“You’re welcome,” he slurred. “Such a meal deserves thanks. It is the season of gifts after all—” He fell silent as his eyes slowly focused on the one present beneath Nell’s tree.
“You’ve got a gift for me,” Nell prompted.
“Have I?” he said in loud confusion. “Not yet. Let’s see. When I was king, I—”
“You were king?”
“Shush. When I was king, I offered another the gift that everything he touched would turn to gold.”
“No thanks. I know that story,” said Nell.
“It would make everything look jolly—” He paused to hold down a belch “—Christmassy.”
“No thanks.”
“Oh. Course, there’s nothing more Christmassy than an old goat. The old Yule goat. You ever been to Scandinavia?”
“No.”
“Lovely, lovely part of the world. All those…” He made a wobbly hand motion. “You know…?”
“Fjords?”
“Maybe. Think I need to throw up now.”
“Bathroom’s that way. Through the bedroom.”
As her uncle vomited noisily into the toilet, Nell made a half-hearted attempt to clear away the plates, trying to work out how she had a drunken satyr in her bathroom. Was he a satyr? Or a faun? Or just a goatman? Was he even her uncle? And, seeing as he wasn’t in any fit state to go anywhere else, where was she going to put him up in her one-bedroomed flat?
It took her a while to realise that everything had gone quiet in the bathroom. She went to investigate: her uncle was sprawled face up across her bed. He was very still.
“Uncle?” she said softly. She leaned over him. “Kantzaros.”
He simply chuckled and licked his lips.
“So I’ll sleep on the sofa then?” As she straightened, she saw something on the brow of his head. His wavy hair had fallen back and beneath it were two stubby points.
“You have horns.”
“Course I do. Two on me ’ead and a horn o’plenty just for you.” He grabbed at the fur-matted mound of his groin to make his point, and giggled.
“Disgusting.” She was at the door when he said her name.
“Nell. Nell…”
“What?”
“You want to know the truth?” he said.
“What?”
He beckoned her over. She hesitated. “C’mere,” he growled.
She went to the bedside.
“The best thing for a man is not to be born at all,” he whispered. “And, if already born, to die as soon as possible.”
She looked at him, confused. “Get some sleep.”
He was snoring before she had left the room.
*
Nell woke to the sound of banging. She sat, cautiously tested the crick in her neck and looked round. It was afternoon. And it was Christmas Eve. There was no sign of last night’s meal on the table. Kantzaros’ scarf had gone from the back of the sofa. In fact, there was no indication that a boozy satyr had been in her flat at all. She was quite prepared to accept she had dreamt the whole scene – except for the banging coming from the bathroom.
She got up, noting blithely that she had no hangover, and went into her bedroom. Kantzaros, his scarf once more draped around him, was hanging from the bathroom door, swinging it from side to side and doing his best to pull it off the wall.
“What are you doing?” she yelled.
“Waiting for you, my dear.”
“I meant what are you doing to my door?”
“Just testing it. Some of those screws are very loose, you know. Shoddy workmanship.”
“Could you stop?”
“I could do a great deal many things.”
She coughed.
He looked at her a moment before dropping to the floor. “But you’re up now,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?”
“I need to pick up a couple of presents. And a priest.”
“You need to pick up a priest?”
“And a couple of presents. Chop-chop. Let’s go.”
“In a minute.” Nell went into the bathroom, closing the door very firmly.
“Are you seriously going to wear that?” said Kantzaros when she came into the lounge fifteen minutes later.
“What?”
“That.” He pointed at her skirts with his umbrella.
“What would you rather I wore?”
Kantzaros gestured to his own, unclothed lower half.
“You can’t go out without anything on … downstairs!”.
“Why not? Donald Duck does it all the time.”
She stared at him for a long time. “The skirt stays,” she said, conversation over.
*
They walked arm in arm along the snowy high street. The passers-by appeared not to notice Kantzaros’ goaty legs. Nell wondered what would happen if she whipped off skirt and exposed her own to the world.
“Here,” said Kantzaros, stopping outside a shop Nell had never seen before: a dingy place with a low doorway and leaded windows. “Won’t be a minute.” He ducked inside, wagging his finger and shutting the door when Nell tried to follow.
She tried peering through the windows but the glass was dirty. All she could make out were two figures shifting and gesturing by what appeared to be candlelight.
When Kantzaros finally re-emerged he was carrying two parcels: one red with green ribbon and one green with red ribbon.
“That wasn’t a minute,” Nell complained, hugging herself and stamping her hooves against the cold.
He grinned. “That’s what I said. Now, a priest.”
“And where are we going to find one?”
“At Midnight Mass.”
“It’s not midnight yet.”
“Time for a drink, then.”
In the pub, Kantzaros both drank and talked at speed. At midnight they stumbled giddily to a nearby church from which came the sound of singing.
“We’re late,” said Nell.
“Best time to arrive.”
Kantzaros rattled the door latch as they entered. As one the carollers turned to look at them. “Excuse us!” he said in a loud voice and trotted across the flagstones to an empty pew near the front.
He picked up a service sheet and gustily joined in the song. Nell had half-expected him to be out of tune and slurring the wrong words. Instead he sang in a rich baritone which dwarfed the congregation in tone and passion. By the end of the verse, it felt as though the carol had not existed, not been worth singing, until Kantzaros had lent his voice to it.
As the last noted faded, Kantzaros nodded to the parishioners, soaking up the praise he imagined they were silently heaping on him. They sat for the sermon. Kantzaros grunted approvingly at everything the vicar said, throwing out a “Hear, hear,” every now and then. The young vicar gave both of them what Nell supposed was meant to be a stern gaze before trying, unsuccessfully, to ignore Kantzaros.
At the end of the service they passed the vicar, standing in the church doorway. Nell shook his hand.
The vicar was stiff but polite. “I hope you enjoyed the service.”
“Bloody loved it,” said Kantzaros, pumping his hand. “Can I just say something?”
“Yes?”
Kantzaros stretched to put his mouth by the vicar’s ear. Nell didn’t make out what was said, but the tone of it was clear. As was the vicar’s suddenly red face. The young man backed away as though slapped, looking around in wild embarrassment to see if any of his congregation had heard.
“See you next year.” Kantzaros patted him in on the shoulder and ran off laughing. Left with the mortified vicar, his mouth gulping like a fish, Nell decided the best thing was for her to also leg it. Somehow, running made it funny. She started laughing, too.
She caught up with Kantzaros on the corner. The satyr was bent over, catching his breath. “Hoo!”
“Was that it?” said Nell.
“Hmmm?”
“You wanted to find a priest j
ust so you could whisper vulgar comments in his ear?”
Kantzaros nodded happily. “It’s expected. We spend eleven months of the year underground, sawing away at the roots of the World Tree—”
“There’s a World Tree?”
“Of course. Do you doubt your brother’s word?”
“Brother?”
He pulled a face. “Uncle. King. Brother. What does it matter? It’s all good.”
She made a sceptical noise and started walking. “So you saw through the roots of the world tree. Why?”
“To bring about the end of the world, naturally,” said Kantzaros, falling in beside her. “An end to care and worry.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
He shrugged. “It’s expected. Anyway, that’s for eleven months but at Christmas, just when the tree’s cut all the way through, we’re allowed a month off in the world above.”
“I’ve got you all Christmas?”
“Wonderful, isn’t it? All the way through to Epiphany. Twelve days, like the song. Of course, I know a better version. Who wants two turtledoves, when you can have two plums, two melons—”
“Ah, crudity.” She wasn’t surprised.
“All the best things come in pairs. Well, apart from one thing.” He clearly would have grabbed his crotch again if his hands hadn’t been full of presents. “Can’t count any higher than two anyway. There are some numbers that I can’t bear to speak.”
“What? Like three?”
He recoiled and spat. “Horrible holy number.”
Made sense, she thought. “Wondered why you didn’t go up for a sip of communion wine in the church.”
“Waste of good grapes,” he said sourly. “Which reminds me.” He brightened, raising one of the presents. “It’s Christmas day.”
*
At her flat, in the dim light by the Christmas tree’s meagre fairy lights, Nell sat and opened the green parcel with red ribbon. Inside, nestling on a thick cushion of tissue paper, was a long-necked bottle of dark green glass with a waxy cork stopper. It looked very old.
