Cast: Pansy Parkinson.
Notes: For Hecatesknickers' Seasons & Senses challenge.
Summary: Above all, Pansy remembers the warmth.
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NUTMEG AND GINGER
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Pansy remembers the way her parents' house smelled at Christmas: like cinnamon, like pine, like nutmeg and ginger. She remembers mulled cider in a steaming mug, and the plate of sprinkled sugar cookies offered to her as a good-natured bribe to keep her from tangling herself in the tinsel and scattering the needles on the pine wreaths tied with deep red velvet. She'd swing her feet back and forth under the table, and she'd watch her mother place decorations with a flick of her wrist, indicating her satisfaction with a nod toward her daughter.
She remembers being scrubbed clean and dried carefully, then lifted up to sit on the counter. She'd fidget while her mother combed through her tangles, but she'd keep still while her hair was curled and tied tightly with ribbons. She remembers her green dress, knee socks, and black patent mary janes, pressed and starched, prim and proper. She'd spin around in front of the mirror as the skirt billowed around her, until she was warned to be careful and not scuff her shoes. She'd do it again, just one turn, when her mother looked away, then she'd smooth her skirt and ask if it was time for dinner.
She remembers the relatives, though not all of them by name, Apparating into the entrance hall or bringing a gust of snowflakes and wind with them through the front door. She remembers Aunt Sophia and her patronising smile, and that look from her mother that kept her polite. There would be doting and fussing and talking about her as if she wasn't there, but she'd hold her head up and keep her back straight and remember that children should be seen and not heard, at certain times.
She'd click her heels together, quietly, under her chair, the one that had been raised so she could reach the cutlery on the long redwood dining table that had been polished the day before, and she'd barely keep from grinning when an uncle slipped her a peppermint, white and green and swirled, by dropping it into her hand as he passed the potatoes.
She remembers her mother's relieved sigh as the door shut behind the last guest.
Mostly, she remembers laughing, leaving her shoes in the kitchen and skipping through the house in her socks. She'd be caught up in a tight bear hug by her father at the end of the hall, and her shrieks would echo through the house as he swung her in the air. She'd wiggle and squirm to make things difficult, giggling while he tried to pull her nightgown over her head.
She remembers being almost tall enough to hang her own stocking from the mantle, and she remembers the charmed candles on the Christmas tree. They'd flicker, but stay lit, and the entire room would darken, bathed in a dim orange glow, after she'd begged for the fireplace and lamps to be extinguished. She'd be allowed to sleep on the sofa instead of in her bed, wrapped in blankets with a stuffed toy as a pillow.
She'd finally let her eyes close, just for a moment, promising that this would be the year she'd stay awake. Then the candles would be out and dawn would be breaking, and she'd run up the stairs then down again, full stocking clutched to her chest. She remembers the gold-and-silver wrapping paper, and the mess she was permitted to make.
Above all, Pansy remembers the warmth: the smells, the air, the fire, and her mother's smile as she watched from the sofa, a teacup cradled in her hands.
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2005.10.14