#especially to my saint lucy loving scandinavians

[thetarttfuldickhead]

A Jamie-centric pre-OT3 Christmas story told in 25 short chapters.

Masterpost / AO3

13.

”All right, listen up,” Roy said, glaring down at his sister, Keeley and Phoebe on the couch in his sister’s sitting room. “I’m not kidding around, all right? If either of you are the one pulling fu— fudging Twelve Days of Christmas on me, I need you to tell me right effing now, because if it’s not you, then I need to figure out what the he— heck is going on, because this sh— stuff is getting out of hand.”

His sister raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him. ”Roy, I work irregular and insane hours. I love you, but do you really think I have the time for anything like this?”

“Yeah, me too, babe,” Keeley chimed in. “And I mean, hiring a banner plane? That’s gotta be like at least a thousand quid, and you know I think you are an absolute legend, I really do, but I’m not going to spend that much money writing it across the sky. I’d much rather tell you in person.”

She would, too. Did, on a regular basis. Roy accepted her denial with a curt nod, and turned his stare on Phoebe.

“Roy,” Sophia said exasperatedly, “Phoebe is six.”

“Yes, Uncle Roy, I don’t think I could do all that.”

“Yeah, but you could have had an accomplice.”

“Roy.”

“Yeah, all right,” he muttered. But he’d had to ask, hadn’t he? Of all the people in the world, he was pretty sure Phoebe was the person most likely to want to do this kind of stuff for him, even if she didn’t quite have the means yet.

“Did you talk to Ted?” Keeley asked. “Sounds like it might be right up his alley, yeah? Always thought he’d make a great Father Christmas.”

Roy grunted. “Called him this morning. He said it wasn’t him and spouted a bunch of American nonsense at me. I think he was telling the truth.”

But who did that leave, then? Was it really just some random and insane fan? Feeling oddly deflated, Roy sat down on the couch next to Keeley, who immediately took his hand. “I’m sorry, babe,” she said. “It’s really messing with your head, huh? Not that it shouldn’t, it is fucking – sorry Phoebs – weird. And a bit creepy. Maybe you should talk to the police? Or I could talk to Rebecca, see if she has any ideas?”

”I don’t fu— I don’t know. Because I don't think they're about to take an axe to my head or anything. It’s all just so… random and thoughtful at the same time. This morning, a bunch of carollers knocked on my door but instead of Christmas songs they burst into a Sade medley!”

Unexpectedly, Keeley’s grip on his hand tightened. “Did you say a Sade medley?” she asked slowly.

Roy turned to look at her. “Yeah. Why?”

“Um,” Keeley said, looking both confused and a little worried. “This is going to sound mad, babe, but I think that maybe it’s… Jamie.”

Roy barked a laugh. Then he noticed that Keeley wasn't smiling, that there was no teasing twinkle in her eyes.

Roy stared at her. Then he stared at her. And then he stared at her some more. Then he got up at started pacing.

“What,” he said.

And: “That’s not mad, that’s so far beyond absolutely batshit crazy that if it went supernova the light from that explosion wouldn’t reach batshit crazy in a billion fucking years.”

(“That’s a quid, Uncle Roy.”)

 “Why the fuck would Jamie Tartt send me fucking gifts and decorate my porch and send fucking carollers after me?”

(“That’s another three.”)

“I knew something was up with him, it’s another fucking TV show, isn’t it, the little idiot’s signed up for another one, it’s a fucking prank, and we need to check the entire house for cameras. Jesus fucking Christ, I’m going to fucking strangle the muppet, I will actually fucking kill him.”

(“I think I lost count. Can we say ten?”)

“Babe,” Keeley said, rising from the couch to put a hand on Roy’s shoulder. “You need to calm down, yeah? For one, you’ll go bankrupt if you keep swearing like this around Phoebe, and for another, I— Listen, I have no clue what Jamie is up to – if it is Jamie, we don’t know that, but if it is, I don’t… I don’t think he means any harm.”

“It’s Jamie,” Roy said darkly. “Of course he means harm.” But even as he said it, he remembered the expression on Jamie’s face in the restaurant. Maybe… “What the heck is he playing at?” he asked the room at large.

“I don’t know, babe. But we’ll find out, all right?”

[parkpavilion]

Light and Life

It's always nice to be in the bookstore, but especially so at this time of year. It is (I hope) a warm, well-lit, inviting place, a welcoming respite from the outer world. Right now that world is literally quite dark—when locking up at night it seems as the sky through the window has been black all day.

That seasonal darkness always makes me think of John Donne: "'Tis the year's midnight, and the day's ..." That comes from his poem "A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy's Day, Being the Shortest Day." It conflates that saint's December 13 feast day with the winter solstice, which I'd always thought a bit of poetic license or calendrical confusion on Donne's part. I've been the one confused, though, as I realized only recently that he wrote the poem while the Julian calendar was still in use in England. In his era, before the correction introduced by the more accurate Gregorian calendar, the astronomical solstice would have shifted several days from its proper date. This is the kind of thing I think about while I'm shelving and reshelving copies of the popular A Very Scandinavian Christmas and God Jul: A Swedish Christmas, Santa Lucia being a major holiday of light in those boreal regions

Donne's nocturne reminds me that John Milton also wrote a seasonal poem, "On the Morning of Christ's Nativity." And guess what? There's a brand-new biography of him with a seasonally appropriate title: Making Darkness Light. While I'm at this, I can't leave out Shakespeare. There are those, myself among them, who claim that Hamlet is to some extent a Christmas play. We base this mainly on some dialogue that passes early in the action: "Some say that ever ‘gainst that season comes / Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, / The bird of dawning singeth all night long; / And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad, / The nights are wholesome, then no planets strike, / No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, / So hallow'd and so gracious is the time." Given where the plot goes after that, maybe some supernatural doings wouldn't have hurt.

I love spookiness around the holidays, which is why I never fail to mention the ever-growing collection of Seth's Ghost Stories for Christmas. This year's new entries are Mr. Jones by Edith Wharton, The Doll's Ghost by F. Marion Crawford, and An Eddy on the Floor by Bernard Capes. Joining earlier classics from the likes of Dickens, M.R. James, and Walter de la Mare, these are essential additions to all the stockings in my house. 

If you're in search of a poetic story of the solstice that's more accessible to readers of any age, Susan Cooper is your go-to writer. "The Shortest Day" has been brilliantly illuminated by Carson Ellis's art in one of my favorite picture books of all time: "And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world / Came people singing, dancing, / To drive the dark away." No matter how little the sun may be shining now, thanks to these and all the other books around me, this is a season of light and life.

--James