Another White Christmas
A Flash Fiction by Stephanie Percival
It’s tradition. The first Saturday of December we visit the farm to choose our Christmas tree. It’s been snowing, a fine layer dusts the tracks and decorates boughs.
This summer, Ginny turned thirteen. She’s pale and delicate like the snow sprinkled trees surrounding us. In camouflage of white hoodie, white leggings, white trainers; she’s barely visible.
Her trainers are saturated. She won’t wear wellingtons. There was the usual argument leaving the house. My ex, Gary said, “Put wellies on. Your mum bought white ones specially.”
“Too hard,” Ginny retorted.
“Do you have to be difficult?” he’d asked.
“I’m not.”
Exchanges like this, are as irritating as Christmas jingles.
We’ve discussed our daughter many times. “Ginny’s not difficult and she’s a teenager now.”
“She’s always been difficult.”
“No. Just different.”
Today, Gary doesn’t say much. Just huffs, his breaths billows of steam, reminding me of a bull.
This used to be a family trip, meeting my in-laws, choosing trees; talking Christmas plans. The adults would sip mulled wine, Sister-in-law’s two kids slurped hot chocolate. Ginny would only drink cold milk. Then sister-in-law’s kids would whoop around, dashing in and out of the trees, their Disney wellingtons and hats bright spots, strobing down the rows. Gary whooped after the pair. Ginny hid behind me, clutching my coat.
Ginny’s first December, she was in a papoose, disinterested in anything but me. I felt the weight of her, nestled near my heart.
“Here’s a nice tree.” My too-bright words sound shrill in the icy air.
“Too short,” says Ginny.
“What about this one?”
“Too many forks.”
“You mean branches,” Gary says.
Ginny shrugs, “Whatever.”
Returning home, Gary pots the chosen tree and hurries back to his parents’ house.
Ginny directs the tree decorating; star lights, snowy tinsel, white baubles.
We used to have Christmas Day dinner with my in-laws. That tradition ended years ago. Ginny had tantrums. Hated any food that wasn’t white. With a bit of encouragement, she’d manage turkey breast and bread sauce.
When Ginny was seven, Mother-in-law said, “We don’t have any of that nonsense at my table anymore,” spooning vegetables onto Ginny’s plate.
Ginny flung the sprouts like missiles. Mother-in-law shrieking, “No. No. Stop it.” Holding her hands up in horror. “We don’t have that sort of behaviour here.”
Sister-in-law, nodded sagely, turning to me and saying, that trying to encourage a small change was good.
“Maybe, just try one,” she said to Ginny, a smile grimaced on her face, impaling a Brussel sprout on her fork. “They’re yummy,” she said, pointing the fork like a weapon at a screaming Ginny.
Her kids giggled as she spoke, pushing carrots around their plates, slopping gravy.
“Needs a smack.” Father-in-law growled his opinion.
Gary explained that I failed to enforce discipline.
Voice quaking, I’d said, “I’ll take her home.”
Gary went to his parents alone, for Christmas Day the following year. Then moved back in with them.
Ginny and I cuddle together, in matching snowflake pyjamas. Watch ‘White Christmas.’ A tub of vanilla ice-cream between us. Dipping our spoons in; giggling as icy mouthfuls tickle. When darkness comes, white light from the Christmas tree, sparkles over us.
Author: Stephanie’s writing journey began, when she was a finalist in a national writing competition. She enjoys writing in different genres and experimenting with different styles. Her collection, ‘How to Catch and Keep a Kiss,’ includes flash and short stories that have been long and short-listed and won various competitions.
Poor Ginny. I really felt for her and the narrator
I hate to be picky, commenting on an otherwise enjoyable story, but ‘disinterested’ should be ‘uninterested’. :-)