Christmas was an important time for my first mother-in-law, Norah. We would go and join her and my sister-in-law’s family for Christmas in the south of England.
Our family would invade her small flat, arriving late at night, after getting off the ferry in Fishguard and driving through south Wales and across England.
Norah liked things to be done properly. As a social worker she had had to decide whether the system should change to suit her clients, or the clients should change to suit the system. She had settled on the latter. Content with conformity, there was a right way to enjoy Christmas. Turkey and all the trimmings.
Her flat was one of a number in an old house, with a large garden behind it. The elderly residents formed a small community, consolidated by the occasional wine and cheese party.
One Christmas, the overall owner, Richard, also living in the house, decided to rear turkeys in the back garden. He sought out a commitment from the other residents that they would buy his turkeys at Christmas.
The residents would stroll in the back garden and see the turkeys thriving, that was until a fox discovered them. They became concerned that their Christmas dinners would lack a central ingredient.
Off to the butcher
Norah took precautions. Her meal was to be complete. She booked a turkey with the local butcher. She did not wish to appear unsupportive, so Richard was not told of this betrayal. The fox continued its depredations, while the residents encouraged Richard and his defences.
On Christmas Eve the turkey was collected from the butcher. Late on Christmas Eve there was a knock on the door, and Richard was proudly holding out a plastic bag. A large plastic bag. Enough turkeys had survived the fox to be distributed. How the individual turkeys were allocated was unclear, but it was evident why ours had survived. It was the Schwarzenegger of turkeys. No fox could take it on. We now had two. One could fit in the oven, one could not.
We had our traditional Christmas dinner, and cold turkey on Boxing Day, and Turkey à la King later on, without disturbing the carcass of Schwarzenegger. When we left for the ferry back, he was still hanging up in the pantry. I don’t know his final end, but Richard gave up rearing turkeys, and the fox had to hunt elsewhere the following Christmas.
