A Curious Girl: Boughs of Holly

It's Christmas Eve!

And yes, I'm feeling nice and Christmassy. I thought since last year I treated you to Nativity Scene, I thought that this year I might treat you to a Holly van Daan. To briefly explain - Holly van Daan is a self-confessed middle-aged-before-her-time boffin. She's half-Dutch and her best friend is a Dutch guy called Christian, although in this story she teams up with someone else - the identity of this mystery person will become cheesily apparent very soon. This is one of the few stories I've written in which Christianity is explored - there's a certain conversation (you'll know which one) where I'm not entirely sure which character I most sympathise with. I can see myself in both positions, which is probably quite a good sign :)

Legal stuff - It belongs to me, so don't steal it. There's plenty for everyone. Don't plagiarise it either. It's copyright to me.

Disclaimer: People named in this story are all purely fictional.

So, grab some popcorn and a comfy seat, and enjoy...

Boughs of Holly

Dedicated, since I wrote it with their friendship most fresh in my mind, to Christina, Sara and Abi

“Holly Amelia ‘Granny’ van Daan,” Sarah Cooling said, addressing me by the name I had crowned my homework diary with. The reason the nickname was included was because at last it was something better than ‘Boff’, which had ostracised me from the rest of the class for two years. Now I was just lovably middle-aged, and frankly, I liked being the agony-grandmother of the group. It was Year 9, and I was, believe it or not, thirteen. You wouldn't know.

“Sarah Jane Cooling?” I responded.

“How is it that you, self-confessed tone-deaf, ended up singing in the Christmas cabaret?”

She was the youngest person on the school magazine, and keeping her light-hearted column alive with the sparkling personality that is yours truly.

“Ah, well,” I said. What could I say? Yes, I was a self-confessed tone-deaf, but that wasn’t strictly true. Actually I’d just said that to stop Miss Redlake in her constant nagging to get me to come to choir. Frankly, I couldn’t think of anything more dull. And then she said, “Ah, my dear, but Mr. Parker tells me you were in Oliver and Return to the Forbidden Planet with your theatre group.” Curse my sucking up to Mr. Parker. I responded by saying that my singing voice has deteriorated since then. This is also exactly what I told Ivy. But Ivy was more persistent.

I turned my thoughts back to Sarah.

“I hyperbolise,” I explained. She stared at me.

“Try speaking English, Granny, not Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare wrote many of the words and phrases we use today. If it hadn’t been for him...”

She rolled her eyes heavenward, and said, “Please just answer the question.”

Biro poised, she copied down my answer in note form.

“I exaggerate,” I explained. “I haven’t done any singing for a while. About a year and a half ago I was Nancy in Oliver but I didn’t keep in practice and so I never really gave any thoughts to singing again. But it was Ivy’s idea, and let’s face it, we had a ready-made act in front of us.”

Of course we did. The Holly and the Ivy, singing Christmas carols. So simple and yet so brilliant.

“Ivy Banks really organised the whole thing,” I said, giving my absent friend the limelight for once. How odd that was. My first interview and I was running from the spotlight. But it didn’t seem right without Ivy there. However, I didn’t mention that my Return to the Forbidden Planet songs were actually given to other people. That was how averse to singing I was. All right, confession time, I didn’t just find singing dull. I found it deadly embarrassing. When people mock your singing, especially those virtuosos in the choir who hog the words just so that they can be seen to be not using them, the whole joy in the proceeding is taken from you. Most people can’t recognise a bad actor from a mile off, and in any case I am certainly good actor. But I am only an ‘OK’ singer, and criticism of such a personal art can be painful. Don’t ask me why.

All in all, that is why I needed Ivy.

Ivy Amaryllis Banks and I were a duo predestined by fate, preceded in spectacularity (if that’s a word) only when my aunt Charlotte (Charlie) met Mike Bravo when her Sierra broke down, discovered a common love for golf and married in a posh hotel in India., situated on a river delta. All right, so maybe I hyperbolise. They did take foxtrot and tango class in November, but only because they thought that was funny. As I explained to Christian, my Dutch best friend, it just wasn’t the same without her.

Ivy Amaryllis Banks. For once in my life, I actually saw fit to copy someone else’s idea when she crowned her pristine, whiter than white homework diary with that glorious name. The class was, as usual, in a complete and utter mess that September morning on the first day of term. Our new form tutor (please let it be Mr. Parker, the greatest drama teacher there is) had not yet arrived, and I spotted a new person, mousy hair and freckles, glasses and that particular shade of hazel eyes that also looks green. Fed up with listening to Jenna, later a leader of the 'Sweaty' movement (like a 'Goth', only not), prattling about a new nightclub she’d found (this girl was only thirteen; I call that worrying) I made my way over to where she was sitting, being interrogated by Rachel Williams whilst Alister Connall, who at that age was spotty party-lover, kept the boys intrigued with some football story.

“Morning Rache,” I said.

“Morning Boff,” she returned. She carried on interrogating the freckled girl, asking her what type of Reebok Classics she liked best. I smiled at the freckled girl. She smiled back, and then told Rachel that she didn’t really like trainers (I was impressed she knew they were trainers). Rachel’s eyes opened wide, and she turned to me for support.

“You don’t like trainers? But everyone likes trainers. You do, don’t you, Boff?”

“Actually,” I returned, “I think trainers are pretty scruffy. And anyway, what’s wrong with not following the fashion?”

“You’re such a granny,” she replied. She turned back to the freckled girl. “Don’t mind Granny here. What kind of music do you like?”

“Well I...” the freckled girl began, and having spied Folk Songs Of The Middle Ages in her bag, I thought I’d better leap in.

“Rachel, m’darling, I don’t think it’s very polite to question someone to that extent, especially when you’ll turn your nose up if it doesn’t match up with your particular boy band.”

“Don’t darling me.”

“Then change the subject, sweetheart, and make it interesting. F’rinstance, what did you do during your holiday? How many holiday romances did you have with eighteen year olds this year?”

“I did not have any romances, as I am still going out with Craig.”

“And what did you and Craig do?”

Rachel frowned at me, and turned back to the freckled girl, who had thought she was off the hook.

“I did snog a gorgeous bloke in Tory’s nightclub, but don’t tell Craig.”

And I said Jenna was worrying.

“It was excellent, right, and he had motorbike, and he let me ride on it. It was excellent, but then he span the curve and I ----ing thought I was gonna get knocked off! And then... No, I can’t say that, he told me not to tell anyone. What did you do?”

I was impressed. That must have been her first non-aggressive question to the freckled girl all morning.

“I sang in a concert,” she said. “And played the violin in a folk band in Edinburgh. I went to Skye on holiday, and then moved here, because of my Dad’s work.”

For the first time, I noticed her accent was gloriously Scottish. I thought of her two years later when I acted in the Scottish play.

“Oh, cool,” Rachel said distractedly. “See you later,” she said, and then breezed off with Sarah Cooling, no doubt to immediately tell her what the Tory’s bloke told her not to tell anyone.

“Thanks Rachel,” I said to her back. “I was the Science Officer in Return to the Forbidden Planet and they said I was fantastic, only the Bo’sun and Miranda had to sing...”

I shrugged my shoulders, swung myself over the table to the freckled girl’s side, just as Mrs. ‘Hitler’ Lawrence walked in.

Oh please let her just be covering for Mr. Parker. Or anyone, really. Just let it not be her.

“Everyone sit down. You may have just come back from your holidays, but that is no excuse. Sit down!”

We scrambled to places the best we could, except of course, for those already sitting down, of whom the freckled girl was one. Mrs. Lawrence put down this year’s new school planners (homework diary/calendar/doodling space/toilet paper) on the desk, and ordered ‘that lazy looking boy with the creased up shirt’ to hand them out. As the freckled girl received hers, she wrote her name at the top. Ivy Amaryllis Banks.

“Are you are form tutor this year?” Craig at last dared to utter.

“No, thankfully I am not,” Mrs. Lawrence said, and everyone breathed out in a rush. She glared, and we all held our breath again.

“Miss Redlake will be your form tutor for this year. However, she had to visit her sister in hospital today, and could not be here.”

Miss Redlake! Miss ‘I can smile even when I’m angry and shouting at people’ Redlake. She eventually became head of Year 11, did Miss Redlake, but as for now, we were stuck with her.

Mrs. Lawrence rambled on, and we dared not to even mutter, although, in the writing of my name on my planner, I shared a joke with the freckled girl.

The Holly and the Ivy. We were destined to be friends.

My best friend Christian was not at school that day. That didn’t matter so much, as I’d seen him only the day before, and besides, I wanted to get to know Ivy. Terrified to our very bones (I tell you, it’s the way she looks at you) we escaped at last into the September sunshine with our timetables and first day warnings.

The rest charged out towards the tennis courts and the vending machines. Ivy lagged behind, the rest impolitely ignoring her. I lagged behind, at a loose end away from Christian.

“You were in Return to the Forbidden Planet?” Ivy asked me.

“Yeah,” I said. “Only I refused to sing, so the Bo’sun had to sing Tell Her and Miranda had to sing Go Now.”

“I like that. I was Miranda once.”

“You were Miranda? You act then?”

I regarded this quietly spoken mousy girl, and she grinned at me.

“I sing. I just did the acting to annoy my choir. I take it you don’t sing?”

I looked at her incredulously. “I can’t sing. The last thing I did was Oliver a year ago and that was it. I’m not doing more.”

She nodded and smiled. A plan was in her head already.

That was the thing about Ivy – at first glance she was just a mousy haired, quiet and bespectacled girl. Actually, she was vicious – but that comes later.

As I had hoped, Ivy was at last another person for whom ‘Sweaty’ meant perspiring, ‘Grungy’ meant dirty, ‘Chav’ was a nonsense word and ‘Trendy’ was a word employed by parents to mean fashionable. Ah yes, and gothic meant arches and decorative typefaces. Although, unlike me, she was not particularly concerned with classroom politics. In fact, I spent rather a lot of time away from the rest of my form whilst Ivy was my friend. She had the perfect knack of understanding Christian’s Dutch accent, which was a good omen in itself, and was prepared to be patient whilst we deciphered her own Scottish accent. Ivy hit off immediately with Miss Redlake, joining the choir and orchestra straight away. Christian had a band going with some other boys, in which he played the drums – meaning that I spent rather a lot of time in the music department at lunchtime, a bizarre first (and last) for me. Ivy played the piano too, to about Grade 27 or something, although she enjoyed my personal repertoire of ‘Chopsticks’, the Rugrats theme, ‘Twinkle twinkle, little star’ and the first bit of ‘The Entertainer’ (melody only). Christian’s band played Euro-pop sounds, that mystical type of music you need non-English blood to enjoy. Meaning Ivy, Christian and I all liked it, but no one else seemed to. Christian’s band consisted of himself, and the French, German and Danish exchange students. For some reason they insisted on singing a weird mixture of all four of their languages. Most disturbing.

Ivy’s own singing was more restful. Apart from a rather unhealthy like of Simon and Garfunkel, her music was sweet, folky and had a Celtic feel. She also wrote her own songs. They were poetic.

Then one day came the announcement that the school was organising a Christmas Cabaret. Ivy looked at me, her eyes lit up. “Do you normally do something for that?”

“We’ve never had one before.”

“Do you want to do something for that?”

“What would I do?” Then, I realised. “We’d make the best Christmas duo ever!”

She nodded. “But what would we do?”

It was that lunchtime she suggested the most preposterous thing. Beforehand, though, after I’d suggested everything from jokes to juggling, she grabbed a guitar (which she ‘dabbled in’, meaning she only played to about Grade 5) and started to play ‘Scarborough Fair’, singing along. I foolishly joined in, and then she began to sing the words Simon and Garfunkel added.

Tell her to make me a cambric shirt
(On the side of a hill in the deep forest green)
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
(Tracing a sparrow on snowcrested ground)
Without no seam nor needlework
(Blankets and bedclothes the child of the mountain)
Then she’ll be a true love of mine
(Sleeps unaware of the clarion call)

She stopped there. And looked at me thoughtfully.

“What?” I asked her.

“You’re a good singer.”

I raised my eyebrows comically high.

“What have you done with the real Ivy Banks?”

“No, seriously Holl’. I think we should do a duet.”

If I had had food in my mouth, I would have sprayed it in her face. I almost wished that were the case. It took a lot of cajoling to bring me around. I hemmed and hawed and ummed and ah’d, and managed to put off saying yes. Unfortunately, I also put off saying no, and Ivy entered our act for approval. The only thing that really brought me around was the audition.

At the time, we’d compiled a list of Christmas carols for a medley, and we sung them straight – simple as that – beginning and ending naturally with ‘The Holly and the Ivy’. I finally agreed to go to the audition on the basis that when I sounded awful we’d be out, and Ivy would shut up, roll on next year’s when we could do something easier, like fire eating. We turned up on the audition day, and were promptly whisked away by a devastatingly gorgeous prefect (did I say gorgeous? I meant ‘attractive young man’) called Jack McKay to another room.

This is it, I thought, as my stomach did a few agile back-flips, you’ve got to sing in public. I looked at Ivy, contemplated strangling her, and she’d turned pale and was fidgeting. All right then, I thought, Ivy’s nervous. Shall I kill her now or beg a reprieve and do it later?

“OK,” said Jack McKay. “What’re your names?”

Ivy prodded me. “Holly. Holly van Daan.” He wrote down my name, misspelling ‘Daan’.

He smiled at Ivy. I hope that wasn’t flirting, Mr. McKay. Besides, she’s too young for you.

“And yours is?”

“Ivy.” He wrote down ‘Ivy’.

“Right, Holly and Ivy…” He paused, and regarded us both with a kind of weird twitching, beginning on his fingers and around his eyes. Like he was about to explode.

“That’s perfect! You’re not having me on?” He was so incredulous we had to give him ID. Well, show him the names on all our exercise books.

“And you’re singing?”

We nodded.

“Let’s hear you then. I need to know if you sound OK or if we’ll need to get a tape for you to mime to.”

We were in. Ivy was delighted – we weren’t miming. I was, of course, horrified. Couldn’t help feeling a little pleased when Jack said we sounded good together, though. Of course, he was probably just overwhelmed with my beauty… just kidding.

And so Ivy and I found ourselves in her parent’s huge sitting room, her at the piano, with a duet to prepare. She waxed creative, adding harmonies and codas and a whole multitude of things that would never fit into our ten-minute slot. “What about ‘Silent night’?” “What about ‘Once in Royal David’s City’?” “What about ‘Obscure Christmas Song You’ve Never Heard Of’?” “What about ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’?”

“Hark the who?”

“Herald Angels Sing.”

“How does that go?”

She stared at me in surprise and horror.

“You can name all forty-two of Shakespeare’s plays in order and you don’t know ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’?”

“Shakespeare wrote thirty-seven plays.”

“Actually, Christopher Marlowe wrote them, and that’s beside the point,” she countered, teasingly. “How can you not know ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’?”

“How does it go?”

She played and sang. I had heard it, Salvation Army Band, but I hadn’t known the words.

Hark the herald angels sing
Glory to the newborn king
Peace on earth and mercy mild
God and sinners reconciled
Joyful all ye nations rise
Join the triumph of the skies
With the heavenly host proclaim
Christ is born in Bethlehem

Hark the herald angels sing
Glory to the newborn king.

She played the last two lines with vigour.

“But it doesn’t mean anything,” I protested.

“It means a lot.”

“Can you explain it?”

“I can explain all the poems that were ever invented – and a good many that haven’t been invented yet.”

I stared at her admiringly. “You’re a class A weirdo. Lewis Carroll?”

“Yes.”

“But what does it mean?”

“It’s a song about the announcing – heralding – angels that told the shepherds about Jesus’ birth. ‘Hark’ means listen – it’s rejoicing about what his birth means to us. ‘Peace on earth and mercy mild’ – God can give us peace and mercy because of Jesus.”

She seemed deadly serious. Well, who would have thought it? Ivy didn’t only sing this stuff, she believed it.

“Go on,” I said, humouring her.

“ ‘God and sinners reconciled’ – meaning that they can be friends. ‘With the heavenly host proclaim…’ It’s about being joyful with the angels that Jesus was born so that this could happen.”

“God and sinners can be friends? I wouldn’t tell the Church that if I were you.”

She smiled uneasily, but didn’t say anything. I didn’t press further.

We did eventually work out our duet, you’ll be pleased to hear. It was a little more sophisticated than the audition, with Ivy adding in harmonies, our decision to add in a bit of ‘A Spaceman Came Travelling’ by Chris de Burgh, and a little politically correct ditty to put on the end. I ended up spending rather a lot of time at her house.

The night before the concert, we were discussing our respective Christmases. Ivy’s sounded nice – very traditional. Waking up bright and early, Ivy’s younger brother and sister would open their presents from Santa, which Ivy said always included a book to read, a colouring or puzzle book, a game, a cuddly animal, a packet of raisins, and a satsuma. The parents would get to work putting things in the oven, Ivy would help the children get ready for church. They’d all head off for church, picking up Ivy’s grandmother on the way, and singing carols and exchanging small gifts with their church friends. Then they’d come back home and have dinner. Main presents would be opened after dinner, the Christmas pudding would have gold coins in, and then they’d play charades and sing more carols. At the end of this description of the rosy-cheeked Christmas card family, Ivy asked me how I spent Christmas.

Ah. To be honest, I’d never been a great fan of Christmas. All that peace on earth and mercy mild seemed to have passed by my household. I debated with myself on whether I should tell her or brush it off as “It’s nowhere near as good as yours, I’m sure.” I decided tell her, but it was probably to get Ivy back for daring to have such a good time.

I must confess though, I did rather milk the story for sympathy… Don’t tell her, will you?

“I crawl out of bed at nine o’clock, and go make my mother a cup of coffee. I take it up to her with her present and card and wake her up. Half an hour later, she’s still lying there, covers strewn everywhere and staring up at the ceiling with an expression that probably resembles the expressions of soldiers about to be shot. She says, ‘Oh God, not another year.’ She sips the coffee, opens the present, says thank you and then leaves it somewhere where it usually stays for the next three months. She gives me a ritual kiss, which is vaguely affectionate, if not absent-minded. After that we eat cornflakes, I open my present which is usually I didn't want, need or ask for, then we sit in the living room for about two hours watching Christmas television and waiting for my grandparents to pick us up. When we get to my grandparents’, we argue over the roast potatoes, as there are never enough, pull our crackers and discard the contents almost immediately. We exchange ritual presents, and then sit down to watch more Christmas television, argue, or play Monopoly. My Uncle Alan always wins. There is never a card from my father, and very rarely a birthday card from anyone except my mother. You see, hardly anyone ever remembers that my birthday is December 25th.”

Vicious as Ivy was, she was by no means hard-hearted. She was as soft-hearted as an overdone cauliflower. Although she was rich, she tried hard to remember how fortunate she was. I’d struck a chord.

“I’m sorry, Holly,” she whimpered. “I had no idea.” She looked at me as if I was Tiny Tim.

I tried to remember what Christmases had been like with my father seven or more years before. I couldn’t recall anything but the haziest of memories. All I remember is that Santa hadn’t seemed as good when Dad had left home.

“I’ve been so lucky,” Ivy said. “I never think of the people not enjoying themselves… and isn’t that what Christmas is all about?”

“What, not enjoying yourself?”

“No! Thinking of others. If we all loved each other, the world would work much better.”

“Or maybe if we just agreed to obey all the laws and we cancelled Third World Debt?”

She looked pained. I did know what she meant – I would have liked my family to love each other more, but when is that ever going to happen? I was a realist.

Ivy tinkled a tune out on the piano, thoughtfully. I watched her.

She stood up, reached to where I was sitting, and hugged me. “I’m sorry you have a rubbish Christmas,” she said.

“It’s not that bad.” Her gesture was embarrassing – Year 9s in my school did not hug each other. That frigidity has worn off by Year 11, but that was beside the point. At that age, being affectionate to one another didn’t happen unless you were boyfriend and girlfriend.

“I’ve an idea,” she said.

“Who’s he?”

“What?”

“Ivan Idea… oh never mind. What?”

“Let’s go carol singing.”

She was the strangest girl.

“Why?”

“Not for money – we’ll make a sign that says, ‘No money please, purely for your enjoyment.’ Let’s go out and entertain people.”

“As opposed to force them out into the cold to hear us screeching?”

She squealed at me. “Get over it! Don’t you remember what thingy – John McKane…”

“Jack McKay.”

“…Said about our singing? We’re great! And people need a bit of Christmas spirit.”

I’ve no idea how she convinced me into the second maddest thing I’ve ever done in my life. Maybe – I confess – a bit of me knew what she was talking about. Gloves and hats and some mince pies in hand, with Ivy’s sign, we embarked on our tour.

A few people shut the door before they could read the sign. A couple of them grumbled and said we shouldn’t have dragged them from their warm sofas. Then there was an old woman. When she heard our singing, and squinted at our sign, her eyes lit up. We sang a short medley, and the woman looked thrilled.

“Oh, that’s lovely. Are you sure you don’t want anything?”

We both smiled and shook our heads, and Ivy said, “That’s quite all right. Would you like a mince pie?”

“Ooh, no, better not dear. Would you like to come in? I’ll not keep you for long.”

I shook my head as Ivy nodded.

“I’ll make you a cup of tea, it’s such a cold night.”

Ivy and I looked at each other, conveying messages with eyebrows.

“I don’t get many visitors.”

I could imagine she didn’t, being old and alone even on such a busy street with so many people living on it. If we all loved each other…

“If you don’t mind,” I said. “That would be lovely.”

She sat us down on her settee, and bustled around trying to prepare the tea. “I’ll help you,” Ivy said.

They brought in the tray, and we stirred in our sugars. I was suddenly struck by the thought that perhaps this old lady was an axe-murderer who enticed in all the carol singers who came by. At least, those probably would have been my mother’s warning words against helpful old women.

She showed us pictures of her children and grandchildren, and her late husband. She talked about prices of bread, milk, biscuits, about the war and about her hip replacement. She didn’t complain, although she mentioned, in passing that her children were far away and she saw them so rarely.

I made a mental note to visit my grandparents more often.

We did eventually manage to leave. The old woman (“Call me Eileen, love”) held the door open for us. “Thank you so much, it’s been such a long while since I’ve heard the carols anywhere but on the television.”

“Thank you… Eileen,” Ivy said.

“Yes,” I said, “Thank you for the tea.”

“If you want to hear more carols…” Ivy began shyly. She paused, and looked at me briefly. Please, don’t invite her to the cabaret, it’s tickets only.

“Yes, dear?”

“My church is having a carol service Sunday evening. I can give you the minister’s number, I’m sure you could get a lift up there.”

As we wandered off, I asked her, “What were you trying to do? Convert her?”

“Makes her sound like an electrical device,” Ivy giggled. “No, actually. I thought she’d like to hear more carols.”

I decided to drop the teasing and get to the point. Ivy was apparently a member of the same band who were trying to get me to repent of my evil ways outside Victoria Station on my last trip to London. “What is it with you Christians anyway? If that’s what you are.”

“If you mean I believe that Jesus died to save us from our sin and I follow him, yes. What is it with us?”

“Trying to change everybody’s beliefs all the time.”

“That never works,” she said.

“I know it doesn’t, but why do you do it?”

She thought for a moment. “People can’t believe in Jesus unless they know him in their lives. If we help people see how wonderful Jesus is, then maybe they will want to get to know him. We can’t make the decision for them but we can show them how to do it if they want.”

“But why does someone need Jesus? So they won’t go to Hell?” I said this a bit jeeringly. After I’d said it, I hoped I hadn’t hurt her feelings.

Ivy clenched her fingers in frustration.

“Jesus isn’t an afterlife insurance policy. Being a Christian is about being accepted as a child of God now… not because of our own personal merits. Because Jesus gave his life on the cross.” She looked at me, her vicious yet soft-hearted eyes wide. “I’m trying to show people a way they can be very happy.”

It was so… incomprehensible. How could she believe that? Nothing’s that good.

So I said, “But you’re rich, doesn’t that make it easier to believe in some supernatural force if you don’t actually need one?”

“I suppose it does,” Ivy said, a little sadly. “Do you know, it’s silly but sometimes I envy the missionaries and churches in poor countries, who have to rely on God all the time and so don’t take him for granted. Their faith is often a lot stronger than lucky people like me. I try not to take things for granted. I know sometimes I do.”

I could see we could be arguing all night. Religious nut or not, she was still my friend, and I wanted it to stay that way… I didn’t want to argue with her any more. So I just said, “You’re a nutcase, you know that?”

She smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

There were a couple more grateful people after Eileen. A family where the two small children pushed to the front and stared at us wide-eyed. A man on his own (his girlfriend was on a business trip somewhere), who took a mince pie gladly and said he liked the thought even if he wasn't too fond of carols. And then…

“Let’s make it our last,” Ivy said. “It’s getting late.”

She rang the doorbell of the house, and I gradually became aware of music playing. Was it Slade, ‘Merry Christmas Everybody’?

The door opened. We started to sing.

After a few seconds, I couldn’t take it any more. Liam Yaleford was looking at us so oddly that I had to burst out laughing there and then.

Ivy stopped as soon as she realised something was wrong.

“Holly – oh!” She finally noticed the fact that not only was a boy in our class standing in the open doorway, but a party also appeared to be raging behind him.

“Holly and Ivy?” he exclaimed.

“That’s right,” Ivy said cheerfully, just as I was saying, “Actually it was ‘Away in a Manger’ but nice try.”

“I didn’t know this was your house,” she said.

“It isn’t,” Liam said. “It’s Ali’s.”

Alister Connall at last fought his way to the door.

“Gatecrashers, huh?” he said.

“Carollers,” we replied in unison.

“Well come in then, it’s bloody freezing out there.”

Dressed in entirely the wrong attire, invitationless, and Alister seeming to have forgotten that we were known as fairly boffish, unpopular girls, Ivy and I strolled in to the crowded living room. We got some of the weirdest looks, especially from Rachel, who by this point in the term had dumped Craig, and had managed to get through the party’s first hour still single. I didn’t know it at the time, but that’s something of a record for Rachel.

“What do we do now?” Ivy whispered. All right, so she didn’t actually whisper – she yelled, but at a volume intended for my ears only. The music was obnoxiously noisy.

“Dance, I guess,” was my response.

Actually, considering we weren’t prepared for it, and weren’t the most popular people there, we really had a good time. Alister’s parties did change over the years (need I remind you, he was only fourteen years old). The advantage of this party, despite the fact that his parents were next door, was that if you were teetotal, there were still plenty of non-alcoholic drinks about. He played a mixture of pop music and Christmas hits, we played Twister, although sat out during the infamous ‘Spin the Bottle’ (no thank you). ‘Truth or Dare’ was interesting as ever, Charades produced some amusing results… and then (which some of Alister’s guests thought was the funniest part of the evening) his mum came in to tell us all to go home, party’s over. Ivy thanked our host for allowing us to attend, and asked which part of Edinburgh his mother came from. She is so embarrassing sometimes.

And suddenly I was waking up the next morning, and it was the day of our big performance. I was frantically stuffing tinsel and plastic holly into a carrier bag, forgetting to pick up my lunch money (as my mother often forgets to give it to me, I had no trouble convincing the school office I needed to borrow some), and riding my bike to school at top speed. In fact, I almost collided with Rachel, who was now arm in arm with Alister, taking a leisurely stroll up the school driveway.

“Watch it, Granny!” she screamed after me.

“Sorry… Great party last night Alister,” I yelled as I tore down to the music department. “Tell Redlake I’m here…”

Ivy and I literally bumped into each other in the corridor, giving her a nosebleed and me mild concussion. We slumped down into chairs in the main hall, to listen to Mr. Parker, flanked by an already too-stressed Mr. Wayne and assorted prefects, giving the rehearsal arrangements of the day. Mr. Wayne had taken first place with a jazz medley, with sax solo by Mr. Everly, the head of chemistry. He was the last person one would expect to play Snakes and Ladders, let alone the saxophone. We were in awe.

By break time, Ivy and I had missed double maths, and spent a profitable morning listening to alternate strains of the Year 13 band, ‘The Psychedelic Basket-Weavers’, and Mr. Wayne losing his rag and his ragtime. The Year 7 gymnasts were up next, and Ivy handed me a bar of chocolate to keep me going through the morning. “Let’s go practise… Or at least get out of here,” she suggested.

“Sure.”

“And another thing – have you seen the programme?”

“No, why?”

“We’re the grand finale.”

Oh, brilliant. Just fantastic. Now I’d be the last thing in everyone’s minds as they scoffed their final mince pies and prattled on about how much work everyone had put in.

We got up. “Mr. Wayne,” Ivy said quietly, to the back of the great man himself.

“WHAT??” he shrieked, whirling around.

“Um… we’re going to go rehearse in a practice room.”

The head of music attempted to digest this piece of complicated information, with a crazed look in his eye.

“If you want us… ask Brenda to come find us.” She motioned to a prefect. The crazed lunatic nodded vacantly, relieved to be able to pass the responsibility on to someone else.

“Let’s go,” she whispered to me, and we fled.

The rest of the school was in a somewhat holiday type atmosphere. It was the last day of term after all, and you could tell by the frantic snow-spray writing going on, the teachers festively telling pupils off for coming in wearing Santa hats, and the deluge of tinsel.

“Mad, isn’t it?” Ivy laughed, at the hyperactivity.

“Yeah.” Many of them planned to come to the cabaret tonight – it had promised more of an attraction than previous years’ concerts. My stomach did another back flip. “I’ll be glad when this is all over.”

O little town of Bethlehem
How still we see thee lie
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
The silent stars go by
Yet in the dark streets shineth
The everlasting light
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee tonight

I guessed I’d bashed Ivy harder than I had originally thought. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just I find singing soothing.”

“Really?” I said. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I find it terrifying.”

We sat back to back, wreathed with green leaves. The golden light swam around us, she and I sang.

The rising of the sun
And the running of the deer
The playing of the merry organ
Sweet singing in the choir

The sounds of our mingled voices danced across the hall, meeting only the very occasional cough or fidget from the audience. This wasn’t a rehearsal – the memory of watching all those performances, of seeing Mr. Parker at his most charming and Mr. Wayne at his most panicked, of the anticipating audience – they were all clear in my mind. The Year 7 gym had been superb, Mr. Everly’s wacky sax won great applause, the stand-up talents of the Head Boy and the gorgeous voice of Jack McKay (mmm…) had all passed from being expected to being remembered. Ivy’s Edinburgh clan were in the audience, all dressed up in their Sunday best. My Mum had actually made it, with her latest boyfriend in tow, who’d come because “I so appreciate classical music.” Unfortunately, I hadn’t had time to find out what he thought of the Psychedelic Basket-Weavers. Alister and Rachel were sickeningly arm-in-arm as if they’d just discovered that they were the other’s long lost love, and Miss Redlake, ushering the choir on and off, seemed terribly and overwhelmingly pleased with everyone’s efforts, even the Basket-Weavers who must have “put an awful lot of work into rehearsals”.

But for now, the Holly and the Ivy had just made their grand debut. And the hush that had descended seemed deeper than the one I was used to from audiences. I was used to rustling sweet wrappers, screaming children, and from my experience of musicals, I was used to a great big band in the pit. But there was no pit, and no orchestra. There was nothing to mask the sound of our bare voices.

Silent night, Holy night
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon virgin, mother and child
Holy infant, so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace
Sleep in heavenly peace

For a couple of seconds we allowed the echoes to die away. People shifted a little, unsure of whether they should be clapping or not. Ivy nodded to the pianist we’d recruited at the last minute – actually it was Yves Lefèvre, the keyboardist for Christian’s band – to start playing ‘Mary’s Boy Child’. It was excellent – we jazzed it up, got the audience to join in. I have to admit it was a thrill. And then Yves gradually faded out, and we sang unaccompanied.

Hark now here the angels sing
A new king born today
And Man will live forever more
Because of Christmas Day

A couple more songs later and we sang the final chorus of ‘The Holly and the Ivy’ and at last our final song. It was ‘We wish you a Merry Christmas’ with other festivals, a subtle satire of rife political correctness. For instance, for the Pagans in our audience –

We wish you a Merry Solstice
We wish you a Merry Solstice
We wish you a Merry Solstice
And a Happy New Yule

We gradually sang the last verses at increasing tempo, and then the final chorus, back with ‘Christmas’ again, and at last finishing to a large round of applause. Dazed, Ivy and I made our way back to our seats, and the headmaster closed the evening with a short ‘Let’s thank everyone’ speech. Flowers were presented to Mr. Parker and Mr. Wayne. Our various classmates and peers offered their congratulations, and soon the Edinburgh clan and the Mother-and-Boyfriend were itching to go.

“I’ll just go get my stuff.”

Ivy and I went to the practice room where we had left our bags, and suddenly I saw she was crying.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m going back to Scotland next week. Dad’s going back to his old workplace. He only told me this evening.”

“What, for ever?”

“Yeah.”

And suddenly I was crying too, and hugging her. Frigidity does have its limits.

“It was a great way to leave though,” she smiled, and I grinned through tears.

“But the real concert was yesterday night, wasn’t it? The carolling?”

Ivy beamed with delight at this, as if she’d been trying to convince me all along. “But… before I go, take this.” She handed me a gift. But we’d agreed a couple of days before that Christmas presents were just a commercialisation – that expecting gifts made us greedy, and unexpected gifts were better. Of course, she might have said all this so that her Christmas present really was unexpected, but Ivy wasn’t that complicated.

“I thought we’d agreed not to give each other Christmas presents?”

“It’s not a Christmas present.”

And so it wasn’t. The paper had ‘Happy Birthday’ all over it. Someone had actually remembered?

“Thanks Ivy.”

“…And so, that’s how she cajoled me, the self-confessed tone-deaf, into singing in the Christmas Cabaret.”

Sarah raised her eyebrows. “How on earth am I meant to get that into my column?”

“Look, you asked me. How you get it into your column is your business. It’s not like I’m charging for interviews… yet!”

“In your dreams, Granny,” she teased. “All right, I’ll condense it.”

And so, as Tiny Tim observed, don’t rely on an amateur journalist to chronicle events in depth. Actually, I have a funny feeling Tiny Tim didn’t say that. Maybe I should think of something suitably twee to say to sum up this tale, but instead I’ll just include Ivy’s response.

Dear Partner-in-Crime,
Thanks for the story. I’d forgotten about The Psychedelic Basket-Weavers… are they still around? I think I’d quite like to hear them again! Honestly, I swear I must be a simple soul, I would have never have guessed Eileen was an axe-murderer!

But you’re right; the carolling was the best bit. So, in deepest snow or in blistering heat, let’s be carollers! Let’s have a song to sing even when the world won’t join in.

(I’ll duck that furniture you’re throwing at me, shall I?)

Love,
Ivy.

The End

Post-script - incidentally, when I wrote this I considered it unlikely that, despite it being very enjoyable, I would ever meet anyone whose musical taste consists solely of folk music. How wrong I was. *waves to James*

Random word for today: christingle

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