A bit of seasonal nonsense!
"Are you going home for Christmas?"
It was early December and Camille and Richard were sitting on the veranda drinking beer.
"Well, that's the plan – like last year, you know? Though hopefully for a bit longer than last year – if you remember I came back in time for the New Year celebrations. This time, provided the Commissioner approves my leave, I'm going to take two weeks – two, whole, glorious weeks of not feeling hot, two whole glorious weeks without sand, sun and sea. The very thought of it makes my head spin!"
"Do you celebrate Christmas very much at home?" She was curious. Frankly, the words 'Richard' and 'celebrate' were like chalk and cheese, and she really couldn't imagine him ho-ho-ho-ing in the midst of general jollity.
"Well, not now of course – it's just me and mum and dad and we have a pretty quiet time. But I used to love Christmas when I was young."
"What was Christmas like when you were growing up?"
"Well, … um … Dad would decorate the house. We had loads of fairy lights and the house used to blaze. It was in the days when neighbours used to compete with each other to see who could make the biggest impression. Dad always had to win so every year there were more and more lights. Then mum would make a Christmas cake, Christmas puddings and mince pies – she would be baking for weeks beforehand. There was the carol concert in the square and then on Christmas Eve all the neighbours came in for sherry and mince pies. And on Christmas Eve I used to hang up a stocking at the end of my bed for Santa to leave my presents in. Mind you, that was only when I was very young – it didn't take me long to realise that the presents were from mum and dad really."
"In France – and here on Saint-Marie – the children don't hang up stockings, they leave their shoes in front of the fire for Santa."
"Well, nowadays I'm afraid children up hang pillow cases – the sort of presents they expect don't fit in a stocking!"
She laughed. "Clearly English children are greedier than French!" He gave the lopsided smile that she so liked but didn't see often enough.
"You may well be right there!"
"And did you go to church?"
"We used to go to morning service on Christmas Day, then mum would rush home to check on the turkey she had left in the oven, and she and I would spend the rest of the morning peeling potatoes and parsnips and sprouts and getting the dinner ready. Then at 3 o'clock, when dinner was finished, we would watch the Queen's message to the nation, then collapse in a heap until it was time for television."
"Don't tell me, Fiona Bruce?"
"Not in those days! No, there was always a Bond film, but without a doubt the highlight was the Morecambe and Wise Christmas Show." He sighed nostalgically.
"Morecambe and Wise? I've never heard of them!"
"No, I suppose you wouldn't have. They were so … well … so very English that their humour just didn't travel. They were a double act – like Laurel and Hardy, if you like – and they were hugely popular. One Christmas show brought in 28 million viewers. 28 million! It's inconceivable today. They were so funny, I really loved them – well, everyone did. They're both dead now, of course. You forget just how long ago it was …" He tailed off, lost in memories of a time long past.
"Well, it won't surprise you to know that in France they do things quite differently. It all starts tomorrow, the fête de St Nicolas, and in some places that's when presents are exchanged. We don't do that here on Saint-Marie, but as you know we do like a good party so you can expect the festivities to get underway and to run more or less continuously until early January."
"Yes, I seem to remember from last year that it was very noisy for weeks on end. And I see your mother has got even more lights up in the bar than usual. Well, I'll think of you partying all night long when I'm safely tucked up in bed at home!"
"Yes I know, mum, and I'm really sorry but there's nothing I can do, I've tried everything."
Camille hesitated on the veranda. She didn't want to eavesdrop a private conversation. Richard looked up and spotted her.
"I've got to go, mum, my lift has arrived and I'm due at work. I'll speak to you later."
He grabbed his jacket and briefcase and climbed into the Defender, which was pulled up outside the shack. Camille shot a brief glance at him.
"You look a bit upset. Is everything all right?" she ventured.
"No, it bloody well isn't. The Commissioner has approved my leave but I can't get a flight. Can you believe it: every flight off this godforsaken island is fully booked until after Christmas. I've just had to break the news to my mother. She isn't amused. It's the first time I've not been at home for Christmas and she seems to think it's all my fault."
"I should have warned you that flights get very booked up at this time of year. You have to book really early."
"Well thanks for telling me now!" She looked offended, so he muttered "Sorry, I know it's not your fault. So now I'm stuck here. What am I supposed to do? I can't possibly spend Christmas in 90 degree heat – it's just plain wrong on so many levels."
"Well we all manage to survive so I'm sure you will too. I'm sorry that your holiday plans have fallen through but try to think of it as a new experience."
"I don't like new experiences!"
"Well if you're determined to be grumpy you can find someone else to talk to!" and she parked the Defender and ran lightly up the steps to the station, rolling her eyes at Dwayne and Fidel as she made her way through the office.
Richard sat at his desk moodily pushing his pencil around and throwing screwed up balls of paper into the basket. He scrolled quickly through his emails, found nothing of importance, paced up and down the room a few times then stared fixedly out of the window at the remorselessly blue sky. Dwayne and Fidel had heeded the warning in Camille's rolled eyes and were keeping their heads well down. The Chief was clearly not in a happy mood. Suddenly he grabbed his jacket and with a brief muttered "Going out for a few minutes" disappeared down the stairs.
He didn't really know where he was heading, he just knew that he needed to get out, to be by himself. Almost without realising it, he found himself at La Kaz.
"Good morning, Richard" called Catherine in surprise. "We don't usually see you here at this time of day."
"No, I just … er … I just needed a cup of tea." He sat on the terrace, watching the waves breaking gently on the shore and faced his disappointment. It was true what he had said: he simply could not imagine spending Christmas on a tropical island. Christmas meant cold – not usually snow but biting cold and often rain as well. Christmas Day at home was normally grey and overcast; it did not take a meteorologist to predict that Christmas Day on Saint-Marie would be hot, sunny and steamy.
Of course he would miss seeing his parents, wouldn't he – though the exchange he had just had with his mother had seriously annoyed him and since he hadn't had a proper conversation with his father for at least 20 years maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing to give it a miss for a year. He thought back to last year's Christmas. It had not been the type of Christmas that he had described to Camille – the Christmas of his youth was dead and gone. The tinned carols piped through every store, the Christmas sales that started in November, the Christmas tree that got smaller every year, the turkey that had lasted for for five days, the sprouts that were boiled to death and the soggy parsnips, the TV programmes that were somehow far less exciting than they used to be, the lack of Christmas lights because no-one could afford the electricity bills – these were the images that came to mind, not the happy, carefree Christmasses of his boyhood. Even the church service on Christmas morning was now a thing of the past, since his father objected to the female vicar who had been appointed.
Perhaps, thought Richard, he wasn't going to miss it as much as he had imagined.
"My mother insists that you should join us for Reveillon on Christmas Eve."
"In English, please!"
"Reveillon – I don't think there is an English equivalent. It's our big Christmas meal. We eat it after Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve."
"You eat in the middle of the night? That's terribly bad for your digestion!"
"It's only one day a year, Richard."
"Well it's very kind of your mother, but I'll be fine, honestly. I've ordered some new books to keep me occupied."
"But it's Christmas, Richard! You can't shut yourself away at Christmas."
"Well I can't go to midnight mass, I'm not a catholic."
"You don't have to go to mass. Just come for the meal afterwards. Dwayne will be there and this year maman has also asked Fidel and Juliet. After the meal we exchange presents and then sleep late the next morning."
He looked at her suspiciously. "I suppose there will be lots of seafood?"
"Well you suppose wrong. For Reveillon the tradition on Saint-Marie is pork braised with rice and sweet potatoes and lots of salads. And my mother's cooking – as you well know – is second to none. And she will be deeply offended and serve you tea without milk for the rest of your days if you refuse her invitation. So will you come?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"No"
"Then I'll come."
As Christmas approached Richard went into an increasing state of panic. Presents. Camille had said they exchanged presents after the meal. That meant he had to buy her a gift. Well, he had to buy gifts for all of them, but the others weren't really an issue. It was Camille that was the problem. Last Christmas he had given her chocolates, but that was when he didn't know her that well, before they had become friends, before she had started to fill all his waking moments. Chocolates would be fine for Catherine but not now for Camille. What on earth could he buy her? It had to be personal, it had to show that she was important to him, but not too personal – she wasn't after all his girlfriend. Jewellery? No, too personal. A handbag? He didn't really know her taste. Perfume? He wasn't sure what she wore. Underwear? Certainly not (unfortunately). It was a nightmare. In desperation he almost rang his mother for advice until he realised that he would have to explain exactly who Camille was and why he couldn't just give her chocolates. He certainly wasn't prepared to discuss that with her. He knew he should really ask Catherine, but somehow couldn't bring himself to face those shrewd, all-seeing eyes.
In a flash of inspiration he started googling manically, searching for Christmas gift ideas for women. That was when he stumbled upon Liberty's website. As soon as he spotted the vibrant colours of the silk scarf he knew it had Camille written all over it. He gulped a little at the three-figure price tag but truth to tell there was no limit to what he would have spent for her. A few clicks later and it was his and all he had to do was endure the interminable wait for it to arrive. By the third week in December he had gnawed his fingers to the bone and virtually given up hope, but at last – o happy day – with just a couple of days to spare the postman knocked on his door and delivered the all-important package. Richard was finally able to relax: the Food Hall at Harrods had provided for Catherine, Fidel and Dwayne so everything was now ready for the big day. Curiously Catherine and Camille insisted that this was 24 December though the rest of the non-French islanders celebrated on the more familiar 25th. Well, that was the French for you, thought Richard – couldn't even get the date of Christmas right.
With some trepidation he arrived at La Kaz during the evening of Christmas Eve, the presents safely tucked away in a bag. The others were already there. Catherine was busy preparing the meal but Camille welcomed him with an offer of rum punch. He demurred at first but she insisted.
"Come on Richard, it's Christmas, and this is my mother's own recipe. Just try some."
He took an apprehensive sip, certain that the concoction would be revolting. To his surprise it was remarkably pleasant.
"You see, maman remembered you don't like lime so she put hardly any in."
He raised his glass. "It's delicious, Catherine, thank you."
Catherine bustled in from the kitchen. "Now I'm going to leave you three men in charge of the pork, which is cooking slowly in the oven. Just baste it now and then and don't let it dry out. And while we're at mass, you can prepare the salads. We'll be back by about 12.30."
And with that she swept up Camille and Juliet and the three women departed for the Catholic church at the bottom of the hill.
"This is good punch" said Dwayne, re-filling their glasses. "Catherine is a great hostess."
"Perhaps we had better make a start on the salads?" ventured Fidel.
"Oh not yet, there's plenty of time. Sit down and have another drink." The three men seated themselves round the punch bowl. "Here's to whatever makes Christmas special for you. That's a crate of beer and a cuddle from a lovely lady or two for me." They clinked glasses and Dwayne topped them up again. "Fidel?"
"Oh, no contest - watching Rosie open her presents. Chief?"
"Re-runs of Morecambe and Wise!"
"Oh they were funny."
"You watched them, Dwayne? I didn't think anyone here knew them."
"Oh yes, I remember watching their Christmas shows when I was a lad. I loved the one with that conductor fellow."
"André Previn, yeah that one was good. And Glenda Jackson as Cleopatra."
"What do you think of it so far?"
"Rubbish!" shouted Richard, draining his glass and holding it out for a refill.
"What was that song they used to sing?"
"Bring me sunshine in your smile …" Richard started singing, Dwayne joined in and Fidel looked at them both in increasing bewilderment.
"And then they did that skip-dance thing with the hand behind the head to finish." Richard got up slightly unsteadily. "No, wait, let's watch it on Utube." They dragged out Catherine's laptop and were soon singing along happily with the clip.
"Did I ever tell you about the time the Commissioner invited me to his Christmas party?" Dwayne launched into a long and rambling anecdote, interrupted by continual bursts of laughter which grew more and more raucous as the punch bowl began to empty. "I'll never forget him drunk as a lord singing Christmas carols with some decidedly unholy lyrics!" Dwayne wiped his streaming eyes and started to warble:
"We three kings of Orient are
Spending Christmas eve in a car
Glasses clinking, driving, drinking
Who needs a pub or a bar?"
"No, no" cried Richard, "you can't murder carols like that. Got to sing them prop … properly."
"Come on, then, let's have a shing-shong." They sang the first verse of We Three Kings somewhat unsteadily.
"We need to make more noise for the chorus – there's only three of us."
Richard had an idea. "I know – the kitchen!"
Leaving the calm and sanctity of the church behind them, the three women uncovered their heads and started to walk slowly back uphill towards the bar. It was a beautiful, warm night and they felt at peace with the world. They had marked the passing of midnight during the mass and it was now Christmas morning. As they made their way up the hill Camille paused.
"What's that noise, maman? It sounds as if it's coming from La Kaz." They stopped and listened. On the still night air the unmistakeable sound of carolling male voices reached them. Each man sang a verse: they could pick out Dwayne's bass and Fidel's baritone and then finally to the astonishment of them all Richard's light tenor. But it was the chorus that stood out, accompanied as it was by a cacophony of crashing, clashing noise.
"What on earth …?"
"My saucepans!" wailed Catherine. "Just wait till I catch those naughty boys."
"God resssht you merry, gentlemen, let nothing you disshmay" they roared, thumping the table and banging the pans and lids together. This was followed by an even louder rendition of Bring Me Sunshine.
Catherine strode purposefully up the hill and through the doors of the bar.
"Bring me fun, bring me sunshine, bring me love!" All three men were skip-dancing wildly around the bar, knocking into tables and chairs.
"Just what do you think you're doing?"
They looked up and caught sight of Catherine descending on them like an avenging fury.
"Oops" said Richard. Fidel started to giggle uncontrollably. Dwayne threw open his arms and caught her. "Happy Chrisshmas, Catherine!"
She scolded them. "Honestly, you're like a bunch of schoolboys. I can't leave you for five minutes. I expect it of you, Dwayne, but I thought you were supposed to be the sensible one, Richard! Look at the state of my saucepans." She went into the kitchen. "And what about the salads you were supposed to make? And I bet you forgot to baste the pork. Yes – look, it's all dry!" She flicked them hard with a tea towel. "You should be ashamed of yourselves, you're drunk!"
Richard dragged himself up. "Shorry … sorry, Catherine. I'll get you some new pans."
She sighed in exasperation and pushed him out onto the terrace. "Go and get some fresh air and I'll make you some strong coffee. Take him outside, Camille." Fidel was already sobering up under the steely gaze of Juliet and Dwayne had collapsed into a chair and was snoring gently as Camille propelled Richard outside and made him sit down.
"I'm not drunk" he insisted. "I'm what my mother would call a little bit tiddly. And I didn't drink that much of the punch – Dwayne had twice as much as me."
"Yes but Dwayne is twice as used to it as you are" she retorted drily. She was actually loving seeing Richard for once carefree and out of control. "Drink this" she ordered, as Catherine brought a large quantity of strong black coffee. He made a face but drank it obediently.
"You should get drunk more often – it suits you. I didn't know you could sing – you have a really nice voice."
"I used to sing in the church choir at home. We used to do sheveral shervices several services every Christmas so I know all the carols."
"Which is your favourite?"
"In the bleak midwinter. Prob… probably the most unsuitable carol you could think of for Saint-Marie. He sang softly:
"In the bleak midwinter, froshty wind made moan.
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a shtone stone.
The epitome of the English Chrishmas. Well, English Chrishmas weather, anyway. What's yours?"
"You won't know it, it's a French carol.
Il est né le divin enfant,
Jouez hautbois, résonnez musettes !
Il est né le divin enfant,
Chantons tous son avènement !"
"I like that." He sipped his coffee.
"Now I know you're not yourself! You never like anything French."
"I like some things that are French." He took her hand and looked at her intently. She flushed, torn between hope and embarrassment.
"The food is ready" called Catherine, and the moment vanished.
Richard sat back in his chair. "That was a fantastic meal, Catherine, thank you." He still felt distinctly light-headed but the coffee and the food had helped to restore his equilibrium and his speech was no longer slurred.
"Well, the meat was a little drier than I would have liked, thanks to the intoxication of three-quarters of the Saint-Marie Police Force, but I'm glad you liked it. I hope you've got room for the Bûche."
Before he could open his mouth, Camille whispered "It's the Christmas Log. We have it instead of Christmas Pudding. Chocolate sponge with creamy chestnut filling. Maman spent all day making it."
It was certainly a spectacular confection. Richard carefully nibbled a bit. Then a bit more. It didn't banish all memories of heavy fruit mixture but it made an ideal complement for the meal they had just eaten. By the time he had finished his second piece, he was totally full.
Catherine announced that as a punishment for their recent transgressions the men would be clearing away and loading the dishwasher while the women organised the presents. Presents! Richard suddenly felt very nervous. Would Camille like the scarf he had chosen for her? He watched her face as she opened the parcel that Liberty's had so prettily gift wrapped. Her smile told him everything he needed to know.
"It's the most beautiful scarf I've ever had. Feel how soft and silky it is. Thank you." And she threw her arms round him and gave him a big hug. Her gift to him was a book of travellers' tales written by 19th century British visitors to the Caribbean. She thought some of their first impressions of the tropics might be quite similar to Richard's. Fidel and Dwayne gave him some recent BBC DVDs – Sherlock and Dr Who. He wondered how they had guessed that he had been a secret Dr Who fan since childhood.
All too soon the evening came to an end. It was past 3 am when Juliet linked her arm into Fidel's and firmly steered him in the direction of home, which fortunately was quite close by. Dwayne accepted an invitation to crash on their couch and swayed along after them.
Richard got up to go. "Goodnight, Catherine, and thank you for a wonderful evening. And I'm sorry about your saucepans." He reached for the keys to the Defender.
"Well I'm glad you enjoyed yourself, but I'm afraid I can't let you drive. You've sobered up quite a bit but you're not fit to drive. You'd fail your own breathalyser test. Camille will drive you home." It was said with a finality that brooked no argument so Richard weakly gave in and passed over the keys.
Some hours later he gingerly opened his eyes but shut them again quickly, wincing at the bright sunlight that was pouring through the shutters. He lay still for a while, his head throbbing gently. It was a weird feeling. It was Christmas morning and he should be looking forward to opening his presents, but that had already happened. Then he remembered. He turned his head slightly and contemplated the black curls which lay tossed on the pillow next to him. He had been given the best Christmas present of them all.