Page 1 of The Twelve Days of Christian
Chapter 1
Day One
Some days it’s perfectlyacceptable to still be wearing pyjamas at lunchtime and today is one of them. Especially if they’re this gorgeous candy-cane coated pair that literally begged me to buy them as a Christmas gift-to-self; and especially if it’s the day I’ve waited a whole agonising twelve months for. Finally, I can indulge in my favourite thing of the entire year: Christmas decorating.
There must be some hidden law of physics that allows time to speed up between one birthday and the next once you hit your twenties, while dragging its heels approaching other annual celebrations with painful slowness. Halloween, Christmas, and New Year’s—I love them all, but this one’s the biggie.
Although, it always seems to be over as quick as one blink of the fake candle lights draped on my tree. Come January 1st, once again I’m damned to eternity in a dreary wasteland—well, only eleven months, but it feels like more. Eleven months to be endured until December 1st, when I can once more set to work creating the perfect Christmas fantasy.
Today is the first Saturday in December—the traditional start of my decorating. The tree must be in place, and it is. Not just any old tree will do. There’s no substitute for a live tree, and I inhale the fresh woodsy scent with deep satisfaction.
There are some tasks a girl of five foot two can’t handle on her own, no matter how determined she may be. Wrangling a monster tree is one of them. However, living in London, nothing is a problem. I got off work early yesterday to meet the delivery guys who manhandled this seven-foot beauty into place. After suffering a self-inflicted headache all day—one so bad it felt like a boisterous Salvation Army brass band had taken up residence inside my skull and was playing their noisiest Christmas carols on repeat—I was grateful for the excuse. Now I admire how the fir tree stands framed by one of the tall sash windows, the delicate needles not quite brushing the white plaster ceiling. It waits patiently for adornment.
But before I can attend to this Cinderella, who will be the belle of the ball when I’m finished with her, my phone rings. Without looking, I know who it is. Britney Spears bellows out ‘Stronger’, my ringtone a tribute to one of the toughest people I know, my friend Samantha. She’s small but fierce and she loves me in the same way.
When I pick up, her familiar “Hi hun,” is submerged in the background clatter of clanging trolleys, and voices echoing off vinyl-coated walls. It might be a weekend day shift, but the A&Esounds hectic. I can imagine her in the blue scrubs, that tumble of dark curls she battles daily piled on her head in an untidy bun, issuing directions with the air of calm authority suited to an emergency room nurse.
“Hey, I was on a break. I thought I’d check how you’re doing?”
If she wasn’t working, I know she’d be here. Instead, she’s checking in on me. The sole guest at my Thursday night wine-fuelled pity party, and only witness to my drunken blubbing, Sam knows how fragile I am right now.
“OK,” I say. “Better than yesterday. I haven’t got a headache this morning.” God, yesterday is one bad memory from hungover start to heart-breaking finish. “And I’m decorating the tree.” I try to sound cheerful in the spirit of the season, rather than a girl still in the grip of the deep despair that led to yesterday’s killer hangover.
“Great idea,” she says. “Doing something nice for yourself is exactly what you need.” She pauses a moment. “OK Haley—I wasn’t going to bring up the ‘w’ word—but I think a little gloating is called for. Have you looked outside?” I turn to the window. I’ve been so focused on the job at hand, I’ve barely given outdoors a glance. It’s raining. Hard. “Isn’t it a perfect day for a wedding?” Sam’s sarcasm is as thick as the low blanket of cloud hanging over the city. She unleashes an evil cackle.
The grey sheet of rain sends an uncharitable surge of pleasure through me. Jack Maplethorpe, my one ex-boyfriend who ever really mattered, marries my ex-friend, Paige, today. A girl who I’ve known since kindergarten, yet betrayed me with barely an apology.
I’ll admit it: I’m the sad, pathetic creature who’s tortured herself for weeks stalking their socials. I know every detail of this wedding, and today, the painful obsession is paying off. I have perfect imagesin my mind of what the downpour outside means: the formal gardens unusable, the horse and open carriage not an option; her white satin shoes soaked in muddy puddles. I’m not normally a vengeful person, but being cheated on is enough to send the most forgiving girl to the dark side.
“Looks like the karma train is pulling into the station.”
“Exactly,” she says. “The universe speaks when people do shitty things. They brought it on themselves,” she adds with a satisfied sniff. I hear a flurry of raised voices in the background. “OK, gotta go,” she says. “Incoming. Talk later, eh?”
Despite Sam bringing up the one subject that should make me feel like shit, I’m strangely better at having faced it. Now it’s time to get back to the only important thing about today.
My fingers jab at the phone, seeking an essential ingredient, my extensive Christmas playlists. First up is the Christmas movie collection, the ultimate accompaniment for the task. There’s a blissful sense of freedom as the first bars of ‘Rock’in Around The Christmas Tree’ ring out. I’m straight intoHome Alone.
Today, being home alone is not a bad thing. I can flood the house with music to my heart’s content. While technically I share my brother Ollie’s house, he’s so often away I get to revel in the delicious solitude, doing whatever I please. Today that means hard out Christmas music, the perfect soundtrack for decorating.
It’s time to retrieve my treasured old friends, my collection of ornaments, from their nests of tissue where they’ve slept in patient hibernation since I put them safely into boxes back in January. My dogs, Tully and Mularkey, watch, fascinated, as I dance around the tree, seeking the perfect place for every decoration. I’m particular,some might say obsessively so, choosing the exact space between the strings of lights that will show each to its best advantage.
By the time we reach the end of theLove Actuallysoundtrack, I have only one last bauble to place—a spun glass sphere of pale green, with a hand-painted snowy scene of a deer and fawn under winter trees. It’s a new one from Liberty. On finding the right spot, I celebrate a job well done, bopping across the room to the strains of ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’, and singing with the type of abandon only possible when no one is listening.
Tully Hart raises her muzzle skyward, offering her deep alto voice in joyful harmony with mine. As we reach the chorus, Kate Mularkey joins in. We go for that final high note together, but I can’t hold it. I dissolve into giggles at the sight of her earnest little face, pointed at the ceiling as she maintains a surprisingly tuneful “Woooooo.”
This is the first time I’ve been able to have a dog. It seems everyone involved in rescue ends up with an unadoptable dog or two—or more. I’m no different. These came into the shelter as a bonded pair; neglected seniors with a long list of medical issues, and a slim chance of adoption. Especially since most people who visit looking to home a dog inevitably gravitate towards the small, cute ones, leaving behind big lumps like my girls.
Pretty much all of us who work there eventually succumb. I held out for eight months after taking up the veterinary nurse position at one of the clinics run by the Canine Haven Dog Rescue Trust. I stood firm, while needy candidates streamed in the door, each with a sad story, each a dog deserving of a loving home.
But when these two dear old ladies arrived, there was something about them that tugged a little harder at my heartstrings. I couldn’t bear to see them live out their last days in the caring but not homelikeconditions of our shelter kennels. Ollie doesn’t care if I bring home one or ten. So here they are.
Alice, our clinic receptionist, is to blame for their odd names. Mularkey’s goggles of white, where her dark hair has lost all pigment, give her the appearance of wearing spectacles. She’s the spitting image of a lead character in one of Alice’s all-time favourite TV shows,Firefly Lane. Sadly, the appealing markings result from a nasty autoimmune condition, expensive to treat, and a factor which made her a poor prospect for adoption.
Her best friend Tully’s ever-present smile reveals broken and missing teeth. Adopters often pass over dogs like her, knowing the potential cost. But I don’t begrudge the dental work that keeps me poor, or the pricey special food I buy so she maintains a healthy weight.
Taking on both of them is a big commitment, but no one with a beating heart could separate these two. I fear what will happen when inevitably one passes over the rainbow bridge. Maybe they’ll be like some old married couples, one following the other, unable to inhabit the world alone.
I giggle to myself as our human-canine chorus ends and plunge back into decorating. There are still gaps to fill with ribbon bows. The task distracts me from not only the wedding happening today but also the dull gnawing that’s taken up residence in my stomach since the events of yesterday morning at my workplace.
