Here's my Christmas present to y'all; another chapter! If you're feeling jolly . . . some lovely reviews for Christmas would be marvellous :)
Chapter Five
The world was still white the next day, but Mrs. Pevensie had work for the children. A woman with a large heart, every Christmas season she baked a gross of cookies to be sold at St. Michael's bakesale, which would take place Sunday afternoon between the worship service and the evening Christmas choir concert. The Pevensies weren't a particularly religious family and mainly only attended service on holidays, but Mrs. Pevensie was frequently involved with charitable work around the holidays. Besides, seeing as every year many of the students she taught sang in the Christmas choir concert, it had become a tradition of the Pevensies to attend.
It was only Friday now, but Mrs. Pevensie thought with the extra help of two girls they could make an extra two dozen cookies to deliver to some of their kind neighbors. However, what she hadn't considered was the sheer logistics of having five women in the Pevensie's small kitchen at once. Lydia was eager to help but had next to no domestic skills, and Charlotte didn't know where anything was. Susan never had been much of a baker and Lucy couldn't keep her mind on one task at a time. The result was that Peter and Edmund made themselves scarce so as not to have to listen to the gossip and chaotic giggles, and the girls spent the better part of the day slaving away in a boiling kitchen, churning out cookies.
"Like a factory of elves. That's what we are," Charlie mused, trying to wipe a smudge of flour from Susan's cheek. That only made it worse. She tried again, then gave up and ran all four of her floury fingers down the side of Susan's face, who squealed and pulled away before reaching forward with her own dusted hands and shoving Charlie playfully; two floury handprints remained on her dress.
Charlie gasped but before she could retaliate, Lucy scolded, "Girls, girls, act proper now."
"Oh, please, mum, but proper's no fun at all," Charlie teased with a mock-accent, jabbing her fingers into Lucy's sides to make her giggle.
"What's no fun at all; aren't these cookies done yet?" Peter demanded, striding into the kitchen with Edmund.
Ed recoiled and made a face, "What is there an open flame in here? It's boiling, Mum!" She looked up at him as she set a cookie sheet down and her face, like all the girls, was bright red and glistening. Even Lydia's normally perfect coloring showed signs of fluster; she had been trying awfully hard to be of use and agreeable to the Pevensie women.
Peter reached for a cookie from the fresh plate and Charlie instinctively slapped his hand away. His pout made Lydia giggle and point to another plate, "There, Peter. You can have the cookies on that plate."
"But these are burnt!" Edmund sighed only seconds before Peter complained of the same thing.
"Exactly," Lucy teased. "The rest are for good little girls and boys."
Charlie noticed Susan quirking an eyebrow and pressed, "What?"
"I didn't know you were on terms to slap my brother's hand . . ." she muttered but Charlie just laughed, "Oh, I don't have to be on terms with anyone. Come here, Edmund, let me slap your hand."
"What? No!" Ed frowned, clutching his hand possessively against his chest. Susan tapped Charlie's forehead playfully, then tugged on one of the small curls that had loosened from Charlie's bun to frame her face in the heat of the kitchen.
"Well girls, I believe that was the last batch. We'll have to let them cool for a bit before we bag them up . . . why don't you children go relax for a while and then the boys can help bag them up?"
"That does mean counting to twelve. Do you think you can handle it?" Lucy asked Peter, then quickly looked away, realizing whom she was speaking to.
Peter leaned closer to answer, "I don't know . . . I always get a little muddled around eleven."
"I have an idea. Why don't . . . we go have a snowball fight? Vent some of this holiday anger?" Charlie suggested, already grabbing Lucy's arms and running for their coats.
Edmund groaned, "I hate snowball fights," and Susan whined, "Charlotte, it'll be dreadful cold and we're damp. We'll catch our deaths of cold."
"Then don't come!" she called back through the house, shoving her arms into her coat.
"Oh, I really hate this girl," Ed sighed, stomping off towards them.
Lydia whispered to Peter, "I think he just hates that she isn't younger," which made Peter throw his head back to laugh.
"I ought to make sure they're wrapping up proper," Susan sighed, though by the time Peter and Lydia were to the entry way, Susan too was wrapping her scarf snuggly around her fair throat.
Lucy suddenly turned to Peter and frowned, "I guess you're not going to come, are you?" Over her shoulder, Peter saw the pointed look Charlie gave him, as though worried he would be daft enough to miss the importance of this question.
"Is that a challenge?" Peter demanded of his youngest sister, standing tall and raising his chin. "I'll have you know, High King Peter has never turned down a challenge." He glanced at Lydia to see if this activity was okay, but she smiled and was already slipping on her own white overcoat.
Fortunately Charlotte was able to quickly figure out how to apply her snowpacking lessons from the day before to making snowballs, because as soon as the Pevensies were out of doors the war was on. Lucy let the first ball fly at Peter, who hit Edmund, who hit Susan, who hit Charlie, and from there there was no telling who hit who. Snowballs flew back and forth across the yard, occasionally knocking into the snowguards, though some attempt was made to avoid this lest their hard work from the day before be undone. The two trees were bare and far too scrawny to offer any sort of shelter, so the children had only each other and the snowguards to block themselves from projectiles.
Lydia remained sheltered by the front door, cheering or yelling out warnings. Occasionally a snowball would fly towards her, causing her to shriek and step away. She was not a big fan of snow in general: that is, she liked the way it looked from indoors, but much preferred to watch the flakes from beside the warm hearth in her family's estate. When Peter finally noticed her lack of involvement he tried to coax her into the game, which she politely refused. He decided he should probably not play if Lydia wasn't in it, but by then the game had ended at any rate and so Lucy didn't have to know about his change of heart. Charlie and Susan threw themselves onto the snowy yard as Susan explained about snow angels, and Lucy begged Edmund to help her make repairs on the damaged snowguards.
"This is awful," Charlotte laughed, squirming when the snow was pushed into her clothing as she flapped her arms and legs. "It's all in my mittens and down my coat and up my skirt. Snowangels – who does this for fun? Oh, I think I'm stuck!"
"Here, I'll get you," Susan assured her, carefully pushing herself up from her own creation. She leaned over to try and get Charlotte's hand without messing up the angel, but as soon as she started to pull she over balanced and crashed down on top of Charlotte.
There were shrieks and squirming until Ed came lumbering over and helped them up, muttering, "Leave it to Ed to sort things out."
"Well . . . yours is pretty," Lucy said to Susan as she, Peter, and Lydia came closer to inspect the angels.
Peter snorted and looked sideways, "Yours looks a bit like . . . like an octopus bursting from an angel's belly."
"That's awful!" Lydia scolded, giving him a stern look, but Charlotte laughed and insisted that was the look she was going for.
"I am an artist, after all," she reminded at they made their way back into the house, stomping in the doorway to knock the snow from their boots and coats. It fell in small piles, and their coats and scarves continued to drip on the entryway floor as the warmth of the house thawed the war wounds.
This reminded Lucy, who gasped, "Oh, but you're an actress! Won't you tell us stories of being in the films? Did you go to any premieres and have you met celebrities? Judy Garland – did you ever meet her?"
"Perhaps later, Lucy. Right now, we probably should go back those cookies wrapped before Peter eats them all," Charlie teased, giving him a stern look as he tried to subtly sneak a cookie from the rack. He quickly popped it into his mouth and held his empty hands up.
When he grinned, showing the cookie instead of his teeth, Charlie rolled her eyes but Lydia scolded, "Oh, Peter darling, don't do that. How crude."
The snowball fight seemed to have taken enough out of everyone that cookie-packaging went without incident, as did dinner. Afterwards, as though seeing in Lucy's eyes that she was going to ask about Hollywood, and knowing Charlotte really didn't want to speak about it much, Susan suggested they dust off the Wurlitzer upright piano in the corner and sing a few Christmas songs.
"Charlie plays, Mum, so you can just relax and sing," Susan insisted when Mrs. Pevensie looked uncertain. Having to cook three meals on top of the fourteen dozen cookies, she was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to relax with her head on her husband's shoulder while he read the post. They looked awfully sweet together, and Charlie wished her parents had ever been that affectionate towards each other. But then six children, the Great Depression in the Dustbowl, and a cross-country migration to the overhyped hills and valleys of California would take a toll on any marriage.
"You play?" Lucy asked with excitement, gripping Charlie's arm and leading her to the instrument.
"Lydia plays too," Peter offered but no one heard him.
"I learned from my Grandma when I was a little girl. Then, when we moved to California, I played in saloons for tips," Charlotte explained as Susan ran a cloth over the keys and pulled the bench out for her.
"What's a saloon?"
"Not any place for young ladies to be, that's for sure," Susan insisted, and Charlotte agreed, "Yes, but times were tough. It was a way to earn money so we could eat . . . what song shall we start with?" Susan had an old Christmas music book from when Mrs. Pevensie had tried to teach her as a child –unsuccessfully; Susan had no ear at all for music—so they began with "When You Trim Your Christmas Tree" and from there went on to "White Christmas" and "Winter Wonderland," and Charlie taught them a new song, "A Merry American Christmas." Even Edmund sang, or at least mumbled along, and the fire danced in the hearth and the candles hummed against the frosted windowpanes as a light snow fell in the dark evening outside. Lucy's sweet piping voice skipped along above Lydia's airy whisper and Susan's and Peter's middletones and Mr. Pevensie's sonorous hum. It was Charlie's strong vocal acrobatics that made Lucy sigh that she felt like she was straight in the films herself right then, and when the room as quaint and warm as it was, Charlotte agreed. She couldn't ever remember a cozier Christmastime.
The realization actually made her a bit mellow, though not enough for anyone save Susan to really notice. Eventually goodnights were handed around and sleepy bakers and warriors trooped up to beds. Charlotte let Susan hug her outside her room and beg her to not think too hard but just enjoy herself. Secretly, Susan couldn't have been more glad they were safely in Finchely and not in Paris; this was the first time Charlotte had shown the slightest sadness since they had arrived in London, so clearly the change in scenery was doing her good. Not to mention, it was for the best that Charlie didn't have a city of overly-friendly gentlemen callers at her beckoning here, because Susan had learned the order. Something made Charlotte think of home or her family or that awful boy, and so she went out for a night on the town, which only resulted in drinking and whispered amorous declarations, which only made her even more depressed.
"Do you want me to sit up with you for a bit?" Susan asked, clutching Charlotte tightly.
"Oh, no, I'll be all right. I think I'll go eat some of the burnt cast-offs and read by the fire. I'll be all right." Susan nodded, kissed her cheek, and slipped into her own room where Lucy was already dozing, exhausted after a full day.
Charlotte felt her way through the dark house to the kitchen, only to notice the light on and one Peter Pevensie rifling through an already sealed bag of cookies. He froze with his hand still in the bag and a cookie sticking from his mouth when he felt a presence behind him. Slowly he turned to find Charlie leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and eyebrow quirked.
"It's . . . not what it looks like."
"Really? Because it looks like you've decided to purchase a dozen of our cookies, payment due at the bakesale on Sunday," she quipped, brushing past him to pull a burnt cookie off the plate.
He groaned, "I shouldn't have to pay for cookies in my own house!"
"You don't, if you make do with the burnt ones. They're just as good, just a bit crunchier."
"Crunchy cookies—" Peter started to grumble, but stopped short when Charlie mused, "But then I guess High Kings aren't used to making do with anything, are they?"
Instead he choked on his cookie before demanding, "Beg pardon?"
"High King. That's what you keep calling yourself, isn't it? And Lucy's a queen and Edmund's a king. I guess Susan must be a queen, too, or it's really not fair," she mused, meandering into the living room. "Susan hadn't warned me I was coming to a household of actual royalty."
Peter felt his heart rate picking up; had she really figured it out? Surely not. No one in their right mind would figure out that he and his siblings had traveled to another world where they were the kings and queens of a magical land. He searched the carpet for what to say or how to explain.
"Oh don't look so embarrassed," Charlotte laughed. "I played games like that a bit with my siblings, too, though we were never kings or queens."
"I—oh, games, right," Peter quickly agreed, nodding his head. "What did you play?"
"Well, when I was really little we would . . . well, it's silly but you shouldn't laugh because you pretended to be a high king," she suddenly argued, turning a bit shy. "You're an adult now and you still call yourself a high king."
"You're right; I won't laugh. I promise."
"Well . . . when I was really little and we were still in Oklahoma . . . I mean, there wasn't much time to play, you know, but sometimes Mama would want us out of the house, so we would go out to the—okay, I lived on a farm," she confessed with a deep sigh. Peter laughed, which made her frown.
"No, I'm sorry, I'm not laughing that you lived on a farm. I'm laughing at what an ordeal it is for you to say that. Is that a bad thing, in America? To live on a farm?"
Charlotte seemed surprised by his reaction and stammered, "I . . . well, it . . . yes, it is a bad thing. I mean, it is to be one of the poor-- well to be from Okla—there's actually a horrible word that—Anyway, none of that matters, does it?"
"No, it doesn't. I don't care in the least if you were rich or poor or a farm girl or a movie star or any of the other lives you've apparently lead so far," he insisted, and his phrasing made her thoughtful. She certainly had led many lives already, and here she was just barely twenty! One would never listen to her talk now and know she had been born into a family of poor tenant farmers, that when she had first arrived in California her accent had been so thick she might as well have been speaking French to the locals. "All I care about is what games you played as a child."
"Right." She gave him a curious look, suddenly embarrassed that she had shared as much as she had. Of course he didn't care if she had grown up dirt poor, or had been an actress; it was irrelevant, really. She didn't know why she had even blurted it out like that. She blushed and nodded, "Right. Well Mama would want us out of the house, us younger ones, because me and Julian and Ashley were absolute terrors—I know you would never guess that of me."
"No, never," Peter assured her, rolling his eyes even as he said it.
"Well so we would go and pretend that the animals could talk, that the horses and cow and chickens, that everything could talk and play with us."
"That's not so silly," Peter mused, thinking of Narnia's talking beasts.
"It did make it awfully sad when everything started dying, though . . ." Her voice dropped as she said it, but she wasn't talking to Peter at all, instead looking down at her hands, her mind clearly in a different time. She shook her head to clear her mind and continued, "We would pretend we were slaves in a wicked kingdom and the animals were helping us plan our escape because they were trapped too, and our mean older siblings were our masters. I guess it was how we dealt with hardship, right? You see, there was this huge drought—Well, you don't want to bother with all that. Anyway, the game seems mostly silly now, but I don't know . . ."
"I don't think talking animals are silly at all," Peter assured her.
"Well what about your game? Did you have a particular story you played?"
"We . . . well," Peter waffled, not sure what he should say. Other than Professor Kirke, he and his siblings had never told anyone about Narnia. It wasn't something they had written out and signed an agreement for, but it was sort of understood that Narnia was theirs.
But surely Charlotte was now enough accepted by Susan, Edmund, and Lucy that they wouldn't be upset—and if she just thought it had been a game, there was no harm—and Peter couldn't help but notice that singing Christmas Carols had left her a bit morose. With what little she had just said about her family, and the fact that she was here instead of home for the holidays, he supposed she had every right to get a little blue, but so then what harm would be done in telling her a wonderful story to cheer her up? Perhaps he could skip the initial going to Narnia and just tell her stories about their reign.
"Oh, come on, please tell me. It is a very good story? I bet it's wonderful, and I could use a good story right now, now that you've got me thinking about my awful childhood."
He frowned, "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to stir up bad memories."
"No, it's not your fault. Only partially," she teased. "But it's all right. Christmas does that, you know? Makes you remember things you wish you could rather forget. Makes you realize how differently things turned out than you had expected . . ." He wondered if she was thinking about the ex-fiance Susan had mentioned and he felt bad for her. What he knew of Charlotte, she was so fun and friendly that it felt unreal someone would want to hurt her – though of course he didn't know the circumstances. For all he knew, she had been the one to call it off.
"Well, all right, now that you're getting me all depressed," Peter relented after not much coaxing. He moved from the couch to the rug in front of the fire, and Charlotte slid down onto the rug beside him. "But you must promise not to laugh. Promise?"
"On my honor," she nodded, giving him a serious nod.
"Well you see, there is a land called Narnia where talking animals are quite normal, and there we're the kings and queens . . .