Candy Canes and Buckets of Blood

by Heide Goody

  Esther gave Dave a confused look as she shook his hand.

  “Ah, this is Duncan Catheter,” said Dave. “The construction king.”

  “Guilty as charged,” said Duncan.

  Esther shook his hand. “Duncan…?”

  “Catheter,” he said.

  “Catheter. As in…?”

  Duncan chuckled. “Yes. Fine old Scottish surname. The catheter was invented by an ancestor of mine, a great-great uncle, and named after him.”

  “What’s a catheter?” said Guin.

  “Well, it’s a—” She caught herself doing hand gestures. “It’s a medical matter. Ask your dad.”

  “Thanks,” said Dave.

  “The gong was rung some minutes ago,” said Mrs Scruples sternly from the doorway. She had a tray laden with ornate glass dishes of prawn cocktail. “If no one is seated, how am I going to serve them?”

  In the face of such chastisement, the Woollbys and the Roberts hurried to find their seats.

  ***

  24

  Newton picked at the prawns in his dish. They were grey, tightly curled things and very chewy.

  “I met King Leopold of Belgium,” he said. “It’s a parrot. In the lounge. I think it swore at me.”

  “Esther and I saw an elf on the shelf,” said Guin. She had the book on her lap, below the edge of the table, and didn’t look up when she spoke. Apparently she wanted to compete in the unspoken competition of ‘things that had been seen’.

  “Yes, we saw that too,” said Dave.

  “But it’s not a proper elf on the shelf,” said Esther.

  “How is it not?” said Newton.

  “I meant it’s just an elf toy on a shelf. Elf on the shelf is a thing. It’s a copyrighted toy and a book.”

  “Really?” said Guin.

  “I thought it was an old Christmas tradition,” said Newton.

  “Not at all,” said Esther. “It’s only a few years old.”

  “Huh!” said Dave, pleasantly surprised. “I never thought about that.”

  “But you can’t copyright an elf,” said Newton.

  “Canny bit of marketing there,” said Duncan Catheter.

  “But it’s just two words that rhyme. Something on a something. You can’t copyright that.”

  “You’d be surprised what you can copyright, squire.”

  “So, like … Troll on the Pole?”

  “If you like. Getting people to buy it. That’s the trick.”

  “I don’t like them,” said Esther.

  “That’s okay. Trolls on poles are unlikely to catch on,” said Dave, topping up his wine before offering the bottle first to Duncan and then Esther.

  “The elf on the shelf I mean,” said Esther. “It’s like the robins.”

  “What?” said Dave.

  “My mum used to tell me that robins were sent by Father Christmas to spy on us to see if we’d been good or bad, and if we deserved any presents. Same thing.”

  “Makes sense,” said Duncan. “He’s making a list and checking it twice and all that.”

  Esther sipped her wine. “It’s the surveillance state,” she said.

  Newton recognised his mum warming to a theme. The surveillance state. Any moment now, she was going to mention that there were more security cameras per person in the UK than any other country in the world. Newton decided to stay out of it and tried to think of other mythical creatures that could rhyme with things they sat on. Minotaur on the floor?

  “The elf on the shelf is a toy you’re supposed to have in your house but aren’t allowed to touch,” said Esther.

  “Is that right?” said Dave.

  “It’s one of the rules.”

  “There’s rules?”

  “Of course there’s rules,” said Guin, nose in her book.

  “It sits in your house and watches you,” said Esther, “and every night parents move it somewhere new but, allegedly, if the child touches it then the magic is gone and the elf won’t come back.”

  “It’s a bit of fun, dear,” said Duncan.

  “Fun? It’s conditioning us to be obedient. Did you know that there are more CCTV cameras per capita in this country than anywhere else in the world?”

  Bingo, thought Newton. Cyclops on the worktops?

  “I thought it stood to reason that good children should be rewarded. Perhaps I’m wrong,” said Duncan, very much in the manner of a man who knew he wasn’t wrong but thought it better to indulge the little lady at the table.

  “We should all be good, Mr Catheter,” said Esther. “But not because we hope to be rewarded. I raised Newton to be a good person but he’s not good because he thinks he’s going to get something for it.”

  Newton smiled at his mum. No, he wasn’t good because he expected something in return. He was a good person because of the crippling fear of disappointing others, his mum most of all. Of course, he didn’t say this and pondered whether Griffin on your Tiffin was sufficiently good.

  “What did you raise me to be, dad?” asked Guin.

  Dave gave it some thought. “‘Raise’ is a strong word.”

  Duncan swilled his wine, sniffed it, sneered but drank it anyway. “In the old days, naughty children were given lumps of coal or sticks to be beaten with. What’s that goaty creature they have in Germany who comes to steal wicked children at Christmas?”

  “Krampus,” said Newton.

  “Right,” said Duncan, clicking his fingers. “Put the fear of God into them. If we’re rewarded, then we know we’ve done good. If we are punished or deprived then we know we’ve done wrong. That’s what the good book says.”

  “That’s what the rich tell the poor,” said Esther. “And themselves.”

  Duncan pulled an expression of disgust. Dave put a hand on Esther’s and Newton felt the sudden tension. Duncan had pressed Newton’s mum’s political buttons; they were easy buttons to press. Dave had reached out to calm Esther, which she would definitely take the wrong way. Dave was probably irritated they’d wound up staying the night in this weird bed and breakfast that Esther had seemingly picked on a whim. No one wanted to be here and it was all somebody else’s fault but the little irritations would creep to the surface and Newton knew his mum was going to say something snappy and Dave would weigh in and then there’d be an argument and—

  “Krampus on a hamper!” Newton said very loudly.

  Everyone stared at him. Even Guin looked up from her book.

  “Pardon?” said Dave.

  “Krampus on hampers,” Newton tried again. “Kramper-s on hamper-s. It almost works.”

  Duncan pushed his prawn cocktail away and dropped his screwed up napkin on the table.

  “Lovely pair of children you have, Esther,” he said.

  “Thank you,” said Esther, polite if nothing else. “Except Guin’s not mine.”

  “I’m not,” agreed Guin.

  “Guin’s mine,” said Dave.

  “And Newton’s mine,” said Esther.

  “Oh,” said Duncan. “I just thought…”

  “We’re not yet,” said Newton, doing a big circular, all-inclusive motion.

  “It’s complicated,” said Esther.

  “Life is, m’lady. Life is,” grinned Duncan Catheter. “Course, I discovered the secret to peace and simplicity years ago.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Two simple words. Thai brides.”

  ***

  25

  The Little Folk in European Folklore book fascinated Guin. Not just the contents (which were really interesting) but the manner in which it had been written. It was, basically, a collection of different fairy stories and accounts of meetings with ‘little folk’ but it had been padded out and added to with difficult and flowery words to make it seem far more impenetrable than it really was. For example, on the topic of a creature called Jenny Greenteeth, the author had written:

  Synonymous with the duckweed and algae which perpetually covers deep, stagnant pools with their luminous green sheen, J
enny Greenteeth is a witchlike creature of faerie who preys on careless children and unwary travellers. Akin to Peg Powler and the Grindylow (she also goes by the names of Ginny Greenteeth, Jeannie Greenteeth and Fowl Jenny), Jenny Greenteeth is a river harpy, enticing children and the elderly into the depths where she drowns and devours them.

  However, unlike other enticing water sprite (c.f. neck, nacken, nix, mermaids) this siren is far from pulchritudinous. Her piscine looks, green skin and weed-like hair make her quite a ghastly prospect.

  It was almost as if the author, this Dr Epiphany Alexander, was worried people wouldn’t take her seriously if she just wrote a really interesting book about fairies and elves and felt the need to stick in big words willy-nilly. Pulchritudinous indeed! Nonetheless, once she’d realised the difficult language was just a trick of sorts, and that the meaning was almost perfectly clear if she simply skipped over any words that were too big for her to understand, Guin found herself reading the book at speed. And there were illustrations every few pages, of sharp-faced and sly-eyed creatures executed in scratching pencil, harsh inks and gloomy watercolours.

  Fairies and pixies and ancient gods were all the same to Dr Alexander. It was all part of something that she more than once referred to as the ‘rich tapestry of folklore’. This imagery was compounded by Dr Alexander’s mention of the Norn, witch/god/fairy creatures who wove the fates of all people. And it was while reading about these that Guin had one of those minor epiphanies that children had far more than adults, in which she realised that the word ‘yarn’ had two meanings: that although yarn (a thread) and yarn (a story) were quite distinct concepts, in the hands of the Norn, they were one and the same.

  The hotel woman, Mrs Scruples, made a disapproving noise as she came to collect Guin’s starter plate. “We never read at the table in my day,” she said. “Or played with our devices.”

  “I’m reading about changelings,” said Guin. “That’s when fairies swap babies for evil fairy babies. And reading is a good thing, not like playing on your phone.”

  Newton, who had been waving his phone around as though he might magically scoop up some missing data signal, blushed and put it away. “I was just seeing if there was any update from Lily.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine without you for the next couple of days,” said Esther.

  “Ah, young love,” said Duncan Catheter.

  Dave and Esther smiled at that. Newton did not.

  “I’m going to try the phone again,” said Dave, getting up. “See when the breakdown people can come.”

  Esther patted his hand as he excused himself from the table. As he left, he held the door for Mrs Scruples to come in with plates of roast turkey.

  Duncan refilled his glass. “What did you do to your hand there?” he asked Esther.

  “Oh, cut it. My own fault, I guess. But Dave’s patched it up for me. He’s a paramedic.”

  “Fine job. Damn fine job. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise,” said Duncan, as though there was a very real danger people might tell Esther it wasn’t a damn fine job, and only people like Duncan could say otherwise. “And what line of work are you in, m’lady?”

  “I work for a women’s refuge charity,” she said. “I find new homes for women and their children fleeing domestic abuse.”

  Duncan made thoughtful noises. “Very noble. Very noble.”

  Mrs Scruples all but slammed Guin’s plate down in front of her. “Eat it while it’s hot. I’m sure there’s nothing so important in that book that can’t wait.”

  In fact there was. Guin had found a picture of a five pointed star, fashioned from sticks and twine, like the one she had picked up earlier. It was, the description explained, an elf-cross. They were originally from Scandinavia (which Guin vaguely recognised as being somewhere near Norway and Sweden and those countries). In Scandinavia elf-crosses were called Älvkors and used to protect homes and livestock from elves. Scandinavian elves, it appeared, caused disease and bad luck and homes needed protecting. Guin traced a five pointed star on the tablecloth with her fingertip.

  “Women’s refuges. Busy line of work then?” asked Duncan.

  “Endless,” said Esther. “There’s never enough accommodation for those who need it.”

  “I think it’s a shame,” said Mrs Scruples, placing a steaming bowl of vegetables in the middle of the table.

  “It can seem quite bleak at times.”

  “I just think if people made more effort to keep their families together, there wouldn’t be the need for these refuges and whatnot.”

  “The women we help are escaping from violent and abusive partners,” Esther pointed out.

  “Well, no one said marriage was easy,” said Mrs Scruples. “You have to work at it, don’t you? People should learn to stick together.”

  Her gaze drifted to the window. The world outside was black. Snowflakes occasionally drifted close enough to the glass to be caught in the light before falling away again, tiny ephemeral ghosts.

  “Christmas is a time for families,” she said faintly.

  “Hear, hear,” said Duncan.

  “You have family?” said Esther. Guin guessed that Esther didn’t mean to sound so surprised.

  “I do indeed,” said Duncan. “Indeed I do. Tangmo, my oriental queen and my two little princes, Gamon and Joe are waiting for me at home. I’ve just got to wrap things up here in the morning and then it’s off homeski.”

  “Wrap things up?”

  Duncan started to ladle sprouts and carrots onto his plate. “Top level talks with the local bods about opening up some of their brownfield sites for property development. It’s taken me an age to get my foot in the door, but I got a letter last week, arranging a meeting. Tomorrow morning, Christmas Eve. Unconventional but strike while the iron’s hot, says I.”

  Guin read on.

  Mrs Scruples put roast potatoes on the table. As Guin looked up, her dad re-entered.

  “No. Nothing but static on the line,” he said.

  “Give them time,” said Mrs Scruples.

  Guin’s dad spooned vegetables onto her plate for her. He made a surreptitious neck slicing motion as Esther reached for the roasties. Esther frowned.

  “Oh, I forgot!” said Mrs Scruples and dashed out.

  “Don’t eat the potatoes,” whispered Dave.

  “Why ever not?” asked Duncan.

  “She dropped half of them on the floor.”

  “Which ones?”

  “I didn’t take photos,” said Dave.

  “This one’s got a footprint in it,” said Newton.

  “I’m just asking how many,” said Duncan.

  “Does it matter?”

  “I like roast potatoes.”

  “Some. Some fell on the floor.”

  Duncan grunted. “I’ll take a piece of that action,” he said and grabbed half a dozen.

  “I’ll risk it,” said Newton and reached for the bowl.

  “Germs,” said Guin.

  “People are too fussed by cleanliness these days,” said Esther.

  “Everything in moderation,” agreed Duncan.

  “Crackers!” declared Mrs Scruples, returning.

  “Totally,” said Guin before she realised the old woman was carrying a bundle of shiny red Christmas crackers.

  “It’s not Christmas Day yet,” said Esther.

  “It’s near enough,” said Mrs Scruples, handing them out. “They’re locally made.”

  “You like things locally made,” said Newton and held one out to Esther to pull.

  Esther put one finger in her ear as she pulled. The crack of the explosive snapper was loud and there was even a whiff of smoke. Newton caught the little toy and the paper hat as they fell out. Esther picked up the dropped joke.

  “What’s the difference between snowmen and snowwomen? Snowballs.”

  “See?” said Dave. “Locally made and recycled. Come on, Guin.” He waggled a Christmas cracker at her. “Put the book down now.”

  Guin c
losed the book, slowly so her dad could see it was a major inconvenience, and dutifully pulled the cracker. The toy was a little plastic jumping frog. Guin quickly spirited that away to a pocket. Her dad unrolled the joke.

  “Help me! I’m being held prisoner in a Christmas cracker factory!” he read.

  Duncan chuckled.

  “Marginally more original,” said Newton.

  Dave scratched at a red, inky fingerprint in the corner of the joke. Guin poked at her turkey with a fork. It looked dry. She poured some gravy on it. The gravy was the colour and consistency of marmite. It didn’t enhance the turkey much.

  Guin saw Duncan looking at Esther’s joke lying on the table. A dark expression crossed his face. His hand went involuntarily to his chest, as though feeling for something in his breast pocket, when he caught Guin watching him.

  “So, princess, what are you reading?” he asked. Princess apparently meant Guin.

  “A book about fairies,” she said.

  “Fairy in a dairy,” said Newton.

  “What?” said Guin.

  “Elf on a shelf. Fairy in a dairy,” said Newton. “Work in progress.”

  “Ignore him,” said Esther. “Bad jokes and puns are his speciality.”

  “Medusa on a juicer,” said Newton.

  “Fairy princess stories, eh?” said Duncan.

  “Not really,” said Guin. “It’s about elves and spirits. Like, did you know, that at Christmas time, there was this thing called Yule—”

  “It’s an old word for Christmas,” said her dad.

  “—Yule,” said Guin, ignoring the interruption, “when this thing called the Wild Hunt came riding through the land. Some say it was led by Odin and some say it was the elves, coming through to steal people away.”

  “What people?” asked Esther.

  “Unbaptised babies mainly,” said Guin, doing her best to remember. “But there was this one called, um, Dando. This man called Dando who needed a drink so much that he said he was willing to go to hell for it.” She gave her dad a special look, just so he could understand the significance of that. “And the Wild Hunt of elves and things, came along and took him.”