“Jim! Come here quickly!”
“I am here,” he said, placing a strong arm around my waist. “What’s the emergency?”
I pointed out the window to our backyard. Jim looked over the top of his glasses, squinting through the midday sun. All he could see was his deck chair under the gum tree and the empty beer glass that he had left outside the night before.
“Okay, I give up,” he said. “What is it?”
“There’s a galah in the tree.”
He looked at me as if I were a sandwich short of a picnic and sat back down at the kitchen table.
“It is!” I squealed, full of an excitement I had not felt for a long time. He rolled his eyes at me and sipped his coffee.
“Jim, I’m serious,” I said, annoyed that he did not believe me.
“And I’m Father Christmas,” he joked, waving me away as if I were some blowfly he wanted to swat.
“You heed my words, that’s a galah!” I threw my soggy Tim Tam biscuit at him and he ducked.
As I watched, the bird flew off.
“Jim?” I asked sweetly. He was now immersed in the local newspaper.
“Oh for goodness sake, Peg,” he said, and threw his hands up in the air. “It wasn’t a galah, just a common bird.”
I poured my now cold tea down the sink.
“I think we should invite the girls over tomorrow for Christmas morning.”
That got his attention; he placed the newspaper down and walked out of the room.
I made another cuppa and sat at the table alone, hoping the galah would visit again but the tree remained bare.
I so desperately missed our daughter and our grandchild. Little Molly would be five now and we had barely seen her since she was a tyke. If only Jim wasn’t so stubborn. It all started because he had wanted Sally to go out Christmas tree hunting with him.
It had become a family tradition, cutting down the best tree and then decorating it. If I closed my eyes I could still hear them giggling and full of excitement, like when Sally was a kid. But four years ago, the year Jim found the most beautiful tree, they had a falling out.
“What about this one, Sally?” he had called out.
“It’s a beauty, Dad,” she had told him, eyeing off the full branches. “But Dad! Wait! Stop!”
“What? What’s the matter? We have to get it home, it’s nearly dark.”
“Look, Dad. The pink and grey. There’s a galah nesting in it.” She had pointed to a bird sitting proudly among its thick branches.
Jim had cursed and cussed, and told her he would shake the bird out, but Sally, holding little Molly in her arms, had stood her ground and would not allow him to touch it. Sally hadn’t come to Christmas again after that.
“You silly old thing!” A raspy little voice knocked me out of my memory. The words echoed off the kitchen walls.
“Who said that?” I demanded. I spun around to find five garden gnomes quite animated in my kitchen. One had his head in the cookie jar; one was sitting in the refrigerator eating custard with a spoon. Another had his whole body in the cake container and all I could see was painted concrete legs and little black boots sticking up in the air.
“Hey you!” I yelled. His head popped up. Smeared across his painted face was chocolate icing off my cake!
“What?” he scowled. “Can’t a gnome finish eating without you yelling like a banshee?”
I grabbed the fly swatter and started whacking. “Got you!” I shrieked, as one gnome went flying headfirst into the apple sauce.
“Don’t mind me, I’m bopping mad for apples!” he said, licking his lips.
“Get out!” I yelled, close to hysteria. “You… you… burglars!”
“Burglars?” A gnome in a Santa suit scoffed at me with a look of utter disdain on his fake face. “Indeed! We came here to offer you some help and this is what we get! By the way, where’s the fruitcake?”
I rubbed my eyes in the hope that they would just disappear, but when I looked again they were still there grinning at me with their little cement teeth. Look at them, butter would not melt in their mouths, I thought.
“I know you’re not really here; I’m just going to ignore you all! You are a figment of my imagination!” I yelled, before chiding myself for talking to gnomes that didn’t exist.
I walked outside to where Jim sat in his old cane chair, staring off into the distance. Gently, I placed my hand on his shoulder and he turned and looked at me, his eyes filled with sorrow.
“Peg, what’s the ruckus?”
“Jim… can you see anyone beside me?” I asked, knowing the gnomes had followed me outside and were lined up like bowling pins on my left.
He rolled his eyes.
“You have got to be kidding? Have you been into the sherry again?”
I swiftly changed the subject. “Maybe that galah is a sign that we should have the girls home for Christmas?”
“I didn’t see it, woman, stop carrying on. I don’t believe in signs, you know that!” he yelled.
“Fine!” I yelled back, and stormed off inside sobbing.
“Wah wah, crying like a baby. Wah, wah.” I could hear one of the awful little gnomes teasing me.
I spotted one racing by. He had a bundle of my freshly made fruit mince pies! His mates cheered him on, clapping their concrete hands, and the little jolly Santa winked at me.
Enough of this nonsense.
I ran off to Sally’s old room and hugged her quilt. I missed her and little Molly so much.
♦
The sound of cockatoos squawking woke me up in the late afternoon. I had dozed off on Sally’s bed, tired from crying and trying not to focus on the odd sounds coming from the hallway. Now though, it was very quiet, except for the faint rattle of cutlery and plates. In the kitchen, Jim was busy plating up and, bless his heart, he had made me his famous shepherd’s pie.
“Jim, this is lovely! How about we go out the back and eat?”
He smiled a sly smile. “You’re in a good mood now. What’s gotten into you, woman?”
I laughed and led him outside, where we cheerfully ate at our garden table, watching the birds swoop for worms and the chickens run amok. I did my best to ignore the five little gnomes that arrived and started playing catch with the eggs. Yet there was no sign of what I was praying for. It was Christmas Eve and I so hoped the galah would come back and show itself to Jim.
“I thought I might make some White Christmas slice. You know how much you like it?” I suggested.
“Oh, I don’t know. Don’t make a fuss about Christmas this year,” he replied.
Before I could say anything, the indignant little Santa gnome jumped in.
“Don’t worry about him, we’ll have it! It’s been a while since we had White Christmas slice in Gnomeville.” He patted his rotund belly and grinned at me.
“Oh please, just go away,” I said, picking up our cups and plates.
“Peg?” Jim looked confused.
I left him sitting in the garden and brought the dishes inside. In the kitchen another gnome in a green beanie jumped up on the table, with his little shovel at the ready. To my surprise, he started stabbing the chicken that I had left sitting in the baking dish, waiting to be plucked.
“Stop that right now!” I cursed, swatting at him with a tea towel. He ducked and laughed. His partner in crime, a rosy-cheeked gnome with a dog sitting on his lap, had my fresh dark red cherries hanging from his ears as earrings. “Put them back!”
“Make me!” he scowled, shaking his head and sending the cherries across the floor. I grabbed my potato masher and chased him, while the dog barked and the jolly Santa chuckled, rubbing his belly.
“Ho! Ho! Ho!”
“I’ll ho, ho, ho you,” I replied, lunging at him instead and chipping his white concrete hand. His fist shattered across the floor. They all stopped in their tracks and looked at me in shock. A gnome with a fish in his hand waved it at me angrily.
“That’s not nice at Christmas time. Where is peace on earth, love they neighbour?” Then, winking, he whacked the eggnog over the floor before shooting off into oblivion. I surveyed the disaster; the kitchen looked like a tornado had gone through it. I bent down to pick up the shattered hand and a small concrete broom hit me from behind sending me sprawling across the eggnog splattered floor.
“Are you right down there?” Jim asked, looking at me puzzled, his left eyebrow raised.
“Yes, thank you.” I wiped eggnog from my legs with a tea towel. “I, umm, made a big mess.”
“I see. For a moment there I thought you may have lost the plot,” he laughed, but with a worried expression on his face.
“No, I am quite okay, but thank you for the concern.” I answered courteously, so as not to look like a fruit loop!
Out of the corner of my eye I could see little jolly Santa peeking around Jim’s girth and poking his tongue out at me. I smoothed down my hair and fixed up my skirt, which had been showing off all my unmentionables, and stood up.
“You know that White Christmas slice you want to make? Go ahead and make it. I’m not in the Christmas mood, but do it if it’ll make you happy.” Jim said sadly, gazing out at the bush land behind our property. I could tell he was looking for the elusive bird even if he didn’t want to admit it. He was a proud man, my Jim, and he was not going to give in easily – nor was our daughter; she had her father’s stubborn streak.
♦
That night, we watched television snuggled up on the lounge. Miracle on 34th Street was on, but even that could not soften Jim. I elbowed his ribs. “See? Miracles do happen.”
“Miracles do happen,” a gnome wearing a matching orange hat and vest repeated after me.
I pretended I did not see him until I felt a pine cone down my back. “Ouch, that’s enough!”
“What?” Jim mumbled, and then turned to look at me. “Give it a rest will you, Peg. If Sally wanted to come home for Christmas she would have rung and not carried on about a stupid galah!”
“Oh, yeah right. When you, her father, has carried on for four years!” I replied sarcastically. He rubbed at his temples.
“Listen, that tree was one of the best ones we had ever seen in all the years. But Sally said no, and made such a fuss. Okay?”
The gnome blew a big raspberry at me, and started juggling two bottles of my fine wines. Up they went, down they came.
“No!” I shrieked, startling Jim. I looked at him, and managed not to cry. “It’s not okay. It’s Christmas and all I want is for things to be just fine!”
♦
When I woke on Christmas morning, I checked the gum tree and saw that blasted bird had not come back. It was fate, not to be, I thought miserably. Did I even want to get up? No children’s laughter, no squeals of delight and no hugs and kisses. No family breakfast. The presents sat under the tree looking forlorn. It just wasn’t the same. I wiped the tears away, the ones that sat on my eyelids ready to fall. I started to prepare lunch.
“Having fun?” The Santa gnome appeared as I was setting the garden table with two sad lonely plates. He was munching on a candy cane in his good hand, his other arm bandaged up.
Aha! No mates with him today, I thought, perhaps I can stuff him into the chicken. I made a wild grab, but he jumped away wagging the lolly at me.
“Naughty, not nice! I have a list you know,” he said.
Back in the kitchen, everything was ready; the chicken roast, the potatoes and gravy, the salads, the plum pudding, the brandy custard and even the White Christmas slice. I looked out of the kitchen window for the umpteenth time and saw Jim emptying the chicken’s coop, his shoulders slouched. He looked as if he carried the whole world on his shoulders. What he didn’t see was the garden gnomes following him around.
As I went to pick up the chicken to take it into the back yard, my little friend opened his concrete mouth again.
“We are here for lunch. Set some more plates!”
“You are not welcome here!”
“Yes, we are, we are having Christmas with you.”
“No.” I replied. I couldn’t believe I was still talking to him.
“Yes!”
“No!” I turned my back on him and realised there were more. Twelve! They all had little swags hanging off their backs. Good, they might go off hiking and fall in a river. Hi ho. I smiled to myself.
Determined to ignore them, I poured eggnog into two glasses as Jim came in the back door. He was sweaty and had that grumpy look about him again.
“What’s the matter, Jim?” I asked, and he waved away the glass I handed him.
“It’s nothing. I’ll wash up a bit first,” he said, showing me his dirty hands.
I turned the Christmas lights on the tree, the coloured twinkling reminded me of when Sally was small and the excitement in her little face. And then all of a sudden, the blasted gnomes were playing havoc with the lights, swinging from branch to branch like Tarzan. My fairy lights were destroyed! Ever so quietly, I snuck up to the tree and grabbed at Santa.
“Gotcha, you wretched gnome!” I yelled, surprising him. He wriggled his little lump of a body out of my hands and flashed his bottom at me with a smirk on his face.
“Not for long! Jingle bells, Batman smells.” He pulled up his pants, and with his good arm began swinging on the gold tinsel I had paid quite a considerable amount for.
Without hesitation I grasped at him again. He fell onto the coffee table’s edge and smashed into pieces. His fractured torso lay flat on the floor. Unable to move, he looked up at me with his painted glaring eye.
“Now, what are you going to do?” I mocked, glee filling my heart.
“Watch me.” He whistled and all his friends surrounded me. I was tied up on the floor like a turkey with the Christmas lights twinkling on and off. I had become the Christmas tree and that’s how Jim found me.
“How on earth?”
He untangled me from the lights, shaking his head. Then the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” Jim said. I listened as his heavy feet went to the door, followed by the patter of many little hard concrete footsteps. Was that Sally’s voice? I stuck my head around the corner.
She stood there with her flaming red hair framing her face with her little replica, her daughter, beside her.
“Hi, Dad.” She spoke softly. “Molly has something for you.”
I watched with tears in my eyes as Jim bent down to his granddaughter and took her offering.
“What is it?” he asked puzzled, looking at the wrapping paper.
“Open it!” she giggled, looking at her mother for support.
With the skill of a clumsy oaf, he ripped the paper off to reveal a golden bauble. On it, painted beautifully, was a perfect Christmas tree. A tear sat in his eyelid ready to careen into the ravines of his face. He quickly brushed it away. He looked up at Sally.
“I’m so glad you could come,” he said smiling. I looked at him quizzically.
“You invited them?”
He nodded.
“Thank you,” I whispered. He patted me on the back.
“And Mum, we haven’t forgotten you.” My daughter handed me a big box wrapped in red and gold ribbon.
“Oh love, this is lovely.”
I unwrapped the gift. Inside was one garden gnome looking up at me cold and still. A Santa gnome. I touched him and he winked. Horrified, I closed the lid.
“Thanks, sweetie,” I said. “Why don’t you head into the garden for lunch? I’ll just be a moment,” I continued, and carried the box into the kitchen.
I looked around for somewhere to put the box so he could not get out. Ah ha! The oven. I opened the oven door and forced the box inside. After closing the door quietly, I turned the oven onto high and smiled sweetly at him burning in his box. Merry Christmas, you nasty little thing! A moment later, I was arranging the fruitcake on a plate when I heard Jim call out my name.
“Peggy! Come here quick!”
I walked over to the backdoor and he pointed happily to a galah perched on the gum tree.
“And look! Oh, Mum. It’s so beautiful!” Sally exclaimed with joy. “How do you find the time?”
She pointed to the garden table, all laid out in red and gold. Where before it only had two simple settings, now there was a full table spread, with linen, candles, wine glasses, decorations and bonbons. Santa gnome stood proudly as the centrepiece. Brand spanking new, he watched everyone sit down to lunch with a bemused expression on his face.
“You know me, I’m a miracle worker.” I said, scowling at Santa. After Christmas, I am going to bury you and your mob if I can find them. See if you can get out of that! I thought. Santa tipped his red hat to me.
“I’ll carve the chicken, Jim,” I said picking up the carving knife. I glared at the gnome with my eyes full of menace. He shuddered but stayed put, grinning at me. I gave him a wink.
About the author
Vicki Griffin with her mob comes from the Shoalhaven area – Tharawal tribe from the South Coast of New South Wales. Her Indigenous heritage inspired her to investigate her cultural and artistic talents and she began writing and painting.
Discovering more of her talents in the realm of writing, she enrolled at the University of New England and in 2006 completed a Bachelor of Arts majoring in Communication.
She also completed a course in creative writing and Indigenous arts and crafts.
Her book, Nanna’s Storm, was published in 2010 by Black Ink Press.
Vicki Griffin is married with four children and lives in Queensland. In 2001 she became a guardian of a Torres Strait Islander child and is leading him into his culture.