Here's the beginning of the new story i'm writing.
What I want to know mainly is what you think of my protagonist? Is she strong enough so far, how can I improve?
My mother always said that you can tell what people are like by what they do on Christmas day. They come in three types, you see.
There are the traditionalists. These are the religious types, always with a nativity scene on the mantelpiece and mother in an apron slaving over the turkey but with a smile on her face. The Grandparents fall asleep in front of the Queen’s speech and there are always enough batteries for the children’s new toys. Father insists on carving the meat and making a slightly slurred speech over dinner. The youngest child whines because he got a tape measure in his cracker and ends up swapping with Gran because she has no need for a yoyo.
Then there are the bachelors. After a Christmas morning fuck with a strange blonde he met in a bar, the typical bachelor arises at lunchtime, throws a ready meal in the microwave and attempts to be festive with the fibre optic tree in the corner. He might get a few visitors in the afternoon, bearing mince pies and dodgy knitted jumpers, but really he’s wondering when they’re going to leave so he can drink himself senseless and wonder why he can’t commit to a relationship.
Finally, there are the eco-warriors. Christmas day is free and unplanned; they simply feel the urge to go with the flow. Presents are opened all at once and exaggerated thank yous are exchanged. Children receive Greenpeace t-shirts and subscriptions to the World Wildlife Fund. Dinner is a spread of parsnips, nut loaf and onion gravy. When the neighbour pops round wearing her new fur hat, she’s quickly dismissed whilst everyone cries at the poor animal’s pain and promises to make New Year’s resolutions which will benefit the environment. Wrapping paper is recycled. Of course.
***
I was sitting on the doorstep. The Christmas wreath kept blowing in the wind and I was frightened it might decapitate me if it fell. Mum insisted on buying one with prickly holly so that if anyone tried to steal it, they’d end up cutting themselves. She could be really violent when she wanted to be. Mrs Rainford, who lives two doors away, had had her fairy lights stolen last week and now everyone in the road thinks that there’s some kind of festive vigilante on the loose. All the neighbours got together at our house and discussed what they were going to do to discover the criminal- Mum suggested taking it in turns to keep watch over the road in case they could catch them red-handed. I offered the ingenious idea of buying walkie talkies to communicate with one another, but mum gave me the glare and I figured myself well and truly shunned. She says that I watch too many spy films and that real life isn’t like that at all. Bear in mind that as she said this, Mrs Rainford was showing the group her collection of fishing nets they could use to capture the thief.
A booming, slightly familiar voice made me jump.
“What you doin’ sittin' on the doorstep, love? It’s Christmas Eve; shouldn’t ya be in bed waitin' for Father Christmas to bring ya presents?”
An ugly face reared its head over the garden fence. Mr Dean from next door had developed an unsightly form of acne as a child which resulted in his face being scarred. It reminded me of the surface of the moon, all pimpled and uneven. It was hard not to stare at it when you were talking to him.
“I don’t believe in father Christmas anymore,” I stated. That should get him to leave me alone, I thought. For some reason, denial of Christmas in our road makes you enemies pretty quickly.
“What? A little girl like you? Where’d ya think all ya presents come from?”
I hated his northern accent. It was whiny, a little too high pitched for a man and my mum always says you shouldn’t leave letters off of words, not when they are there for a reason.
“I’m not a little girl, Mr Dean. I’m sixteen in two weeks.”
I clenched my fists, please go away, please go away...
“Sixteen, eh?” He raised an eyebrow, “I remember when I was sixteen. I wasn’t sitting outside on Christmas Eve, I know that much.”
What did he know? He must have been a teenager back in the sixties when the Beatles were the best choice of music, films had only just been made into colour and boys still wore shorts to school. I shuddered at the thought of so many knobbly knees. Thank God times have changed.
“My mum locked me out.” I thought I might as well be honest with him, seeing as he didn’t look as if he was going to shut up anytime soon.
“Oh dear, lovey,” he smiled, unexpectedly caring, “You in trouble? What did you do?”
That was a good question and I didn’t even know the answer myself.
