Every month, Cotswold Scribblers meets, a small group of Christian writers. We choose a theme, and share some of our writing. This was November’s contribution, the theme was Turkey. I have been working on a few pieces to do with adoption, fostering, pre-fostering etc, so this is one of them.
She knew there would be no turkey. Not this year; probably never. For one thing, it would need a working oven, and then there was the turkey itself. “We will have fish and chips. Best British food ever,” he had said, and laughed. She had nodded, what else could she do?
Christmas morning had started nice and idyllic, with the girls shrieking over their presents and chocolates. As they ate their breakfast, she had hidden the largest gifts, still half wrapped. He would need them later, tomorrow most likely, judging by the speed the large glass bottle was decanted.
The girls didn’t eat much of the fish and chips, neither did she, pushing happier memories far away, where even the smell of vinegar couldn’t reach. Fortunately, the ice cream she had hidden at the back of the tiny freezer went down well. “It’s the bestest Christmas ever,” Molly declared, which at five meant a lot to Sarah’s heart.
The afternoon was a great opportunity to turn this into the worst Christmas ever, as there’s nothing as drunk as a Christmas drunk, she had decided many years ago, when she’d still had plenty of opportunities to get herself a wonderful Christmas, turkey, trimmings and all. What would her parents have said though?
Jus before it’s dark, there is a knock. Sarah scurries to the door, fast and quiet, before he wakes up. It’s the neighbour, with a large platter. “Some turkey, love,” she says, “I saw the takeout bags, and thought you might like some turkey as well.”
Sarah nods, “The oven gave up,” she smiles, listening to the sounds or rather, blissful lack thereof behind her.
“Oh dear, do you want Jim to have a look? He’s ever so handy?”
Sarah can feel her smile becoming laced with panic, but manages to keep it in place. “No, don’t worry, it’s been like that for ages, it will get sorted soon, and this platter is wonderful, thank you so much!”
The neighbour nods and leaves quickly for her warm cosy home, and Sarah leans against the closed door for a moment, eyes closed, smelling the still warm turkey, stuffing spiced with the ever-present smell of his beloved liquid, that seems to be part of the paintwork. “Merry Christmas, Sarah,” she whispers to herself, before finding the little girls, to make the bestest Christmas even better.