A marvellous Christmas Day was had by all at Charis’s house, where I am house-sitting currently in Seventeen Mile Rock (I know, what a funny name for a suburb of Brisbane, Australia!). Would you believe that Rudolph the reindeer turned up, minus his red nose but with rose pink hair (he’s such a deer!)? Then, of course, there was Merry Lorelle, who wore a cute festive red apron while she and I prepared the roast dinner; and, good sport that she is, Merry Christmas didn’t object when presented with a black Afro wig to wear under her tiara. (specially designed with her name on it). Like Merry, I was wearing red shorts and an identical tiara – but without the red feather. Santa rolled up at twelve-thirty and the day got into full swing, in particular, when the little deer took on the role of disc jockey.
Instead of wearing big black boots, evidently, Father Christmas had changed into summer snow shoes; and he wore red shorts trimmed with white fur (for the expected authenticity). Likewise, his coat was made for a Christmas party in Queensland, therefore it was short-sleeved and worn without a modest thermal vest beneath (and it barely covered his brown stomach).
We were grateful we had opted for roast pork rather than roast turkey, if not only because no-one had thought to buy a turkey but also because the little deer was nursing what we first believed to be a duckling back to health (after it had been mauled the previous night by Archer the cat – one of my current charges). Sadly, the baby brush turkey (notorious, but protected, in these parts for scratching around and ruining gardens) died during the course of the afternoon and the tiny brown bird was laid to rest near the fence at the bottom of the back yard.
“Perhaps it’s for the best,” Merry Christmas consoled Rudolph, “Charis may not have wanted her plants dug out… and I certainly wouldn’t!”
Nevertheless we were sorry for the mite that had flown but once in his short life – when he had fallen from Rudolph’s knee to the ground.
“At least he experienced flying,” said the deer wistfully.
At length it was time for some good things to come to an end. Merry Christmas had far to go – back up t’North Coast – and Rudolph accompanied her like the good deer he is. Finally Santa, also had “fish to fry” (or catch, perhaps) and continued on his merry way with a “Ho, ho, ho…” (to his own patch of garden?). And I was all alone…
And yet, I wasn’t completely alone. I had slept with a ginger male (everything has been red this Christmas!) who had been content to bask in my company all night and lapped up every stroke and touch; he was still on the bed as the light of dawn permeated through the curtain. A crow cawed outside and I awoke to find the familiar furry body snuggled against my thigh. I stretched my hand down to find him. He licked me. A siren sounded, long and deep, which was followed by the barking of a nearby dog – “For Christ sake shut up!” the barker seemed to say. For what seemed several minutes the siren kept howling… and then I realised that it was howling.
After hours of housework, and feeling so alone on Boxing Day, I considered going to Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary (not far from Seventeen Mile Rock) but decided I would not enjoy it enough on my lonesome ownsome to justify the $36 entry fee. Instead, I went for a walk to discover the local nature corridor behind the fence – Santa had said that it might lead to the Brisbane River. I couldn’t have been out for much more than thirty minutes – it wasn’t a long corridor after all – and I ended up in a cul-de-sac. Kookaburras laughed on the boughs of distant gums while I returned home, even more lonely, with stomach-ache.
I was somewhere “between a (seventeen mile) rock and a hard place”, not wishing to be a burden on anyone – wishing I was home with Chris in England. Ginger stretched seductively on the rug and I stroked his head. It didn’t do “it” for me this time. The pet lorikeets heard my feet on the floor as I passed their room and they catcalled. We chatted nonsense – none of us understood – but I felt I understood their need to speak, especially on Boxing Day. The telephone rang and I said some more nonsense.
“What’s up with you?” Santa asked.
“It’s just that it’s the first time I’ve ever been on my own on Boxing Day,” I complained.
I looked out the window as we spoke and I noticed a crowd of crows in the garden, down by the fence… down where the baby brush turkey had been laid to rest.
Nevertheless, by the end of the conversation I was smiling again. Then I phoned Chris. He was up and had already shaved and had breakfast. He had to get ready for Boxing Day visitors – our middle daughter and her boyfriend. Chris was glad I had called. I phoned Lorelle (Merry) and she quite understood why I’d been feeling blue on Boxing Day (girl friends always do).
Finally, I went in to chat to the birds again and I was feeling confident that we were becoming friends. While I was talking, and replenishing their food supplies, Gregory Peck bit me – hard enough to draw blood – but I didn’t scold him; he is just a lonely bird who talks nonsense and enjoys having a peck sometimes.
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