12 Daves of Christmas Read online

  ‘What do you have in the smaller sizes?’

  ‘Your grandma is petite?’

  ‘Yes, about a size ten?’

  ‘Ten? My oh my, she must have done well to have kept her figure. How old is she?’

  ‘Oh, age is all in the mind, isn’t it?’ I flicked my hand. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got here.’ I rifled through the racks of beige, beige, and more beige, with occasional accents of white, pale pink, and lemon. Lemon underpants? Sheesh.

  I eyed the lady who was standing over me, and she seemed to get the hint. ‘I’ll be over at the counter. My name is Hattie, if you need any assistance give me a holler.’

  No way in hell would I be hollering for help from hundred-year-old Hattie.

  When she was out of earshot I whispered to my ghostly Grandma, ‘I just want a normal pair of undies!’

  ‘How about these?’ She pointed to a plain pair of hi-rise beige briefs.

  ‘Gee, they’d be irresistible to the opposite sex. They just scream “take me now”, don’t you think?’

  ‘Do I detect some sarcasm?’ she replied. ‘You’re right though. In my day, a husband knew when his wife was willing to be seduced based on the underwear she wore. My red panties were the equivalent of saying “let’s get it on”. But the beige hi-rise? They said “not tonight, darling”.’

  I burst out laughing and folded forwards at the waist.

  ‘What’s funny?’ Hattie called out.

  ‘Oh, nothing, remembered a joke, that’s all.’

  ‘Do tell, we need some laughter around here.’

  ‘It’s um, a bit private, sorry. I’ll just, ah, keep looking through these racks and be at the counter in a sec!’ I moved aside the beige briefs to see what else was available. They were too big anyway. I needed to find something that would fit me, at least until I could find an alternative store with normal underwear for a twenty-nine-year-old petite woman.

  ‘These look about the right size.’ Grandma pointed to a white pair with pink dots hanging on the bottom of the rack. They were puffy and had frilly hems.

  ‘Bloomers?’ I tried not to raise my voice.

  ‘Well, at least they’re your size. There’s not much else that would fit you.’

  She was right. It was either the hi-rise briefs that would be all saggy on me and probably fall off, or the pink dotted bloomers that would fit but look ridiculous. At least no one would see them, and they were only a temporary measure. I reluctantly pulled them off the rack and headed for the counter.

  ‘Lovely choice,’ said Hattie. ‘This style is one of our most comfortable. Great for summer too, due to the breathable cotton.’

  She was absolutely right. The next day, I put on my newly acquired undergarment and sighed in satisfaction. Why couldn’t stylish undies feel this comfy? They were light as air and didn’t pinch, though they wouldn’t be suitable for a tight-fitting dress or anything. I dressed in my long, khaki-coloured cheesecloth skirt, and put on a black singlet and a necklace of grey glass beads. I lifted my foot onto the bed and hooked on a matching anklet, and put on my black Roman sandals.

  ‘A skirt. Well, at least that’s close to a dress.’ Grandma Charlotte shrugged. ‘Though the depressing colour is questionable. It looks like bile.’ She, however, had no need to change outfits. Her white slacks glowed as strongly as when I first saw her, and her pink shirt made me think of bright flowers and candy and girls’ toys.

  ‘C’mon, Grandma, time to leave this classy establishment.’ I zipped up my suitcase and flung my handbag over my shoulder. ‘You can lecture me further on my fashion sense and its colour resemblance to bodily fluids on the drive to Berrinda.’

  She rubbed at her arm and nibbled her bottom lip. Why did she suddenly look anxious? I mentally recalled the next Daves on the list and realised. Berrinda was the last place she’d seen Dave Smith all those years ago, and she hadn’t been back since.

  Chapter 7

  Grandma Charlotte made the drive to Berrinda seem faster, as she sang along to tunes from the radio and reminisced about life when she was my age. Before too long we approached the entrance to the picturesque small town, and I slowed as we drove past the park with its grand white gazebo encased in flowering vines.

  ‘So beautiful,’ I whispered.

  ‘So is the town, now get a move on and stop dilly-dallying.’

  I turned my head to the side, where Grandma sat in the front seat. ‘Aren’t you all about taking opportunities to admire and notice positive things?’

  She ran her fingers around the frame of her coiffed hair. ‘Of course, dear, sorry. It’s just that …’ She looked back at the park. ‘That gazebo is where I waited for Dave, every Saturday, for months after the war.’

  ‘Oh, Grandma, I’m sorry.’

  ‘I haven’t seen it since … since I left town to be with Harry.’

  ‘Did you ever try to find Dave after years had gone by, look into war memorials or anything? And when the internet came on the scene, you didn’t try then?’

  ‘Couldn’t. I vowed when I agreed to marry Harry that I would never look for Dave again. When all signs pointed to him not having survived the war, I couldn’t keep holding my life back. I knew that when I decided to move on it would be for good, for the sake of my family.’

  ‘I can’t believe I never knew all of this. It must have taken enormous strength to leave Berrinda, and Dave, behind.’

  ‘It did. But study, then working at the hospital, and of course raising a family kept me busy, and I was blessed with a great life.’ She nodded and her eyes became glossy.

  ‘Do you think he ever looked for you? I mean, if he’s not “at the pearly gates” as you say, he obviously returned to Australia at some point.’

  ‘Whether he returned to the gazebo I’m not sure; part of me hopes he did, and another part hopes he didn’t because I wasn’t there anymore. I hated the thought of breaking our promise and disappointing him. He had my parents’ phone number too, but if he ever tried to call after I’d moved out they never told me.’

  I tried to imagine Grandma Charlotte as a fresh-faced eighteen-year-old girl, ready for a wonderful life ahead with the man she loved. ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Oh,’ she sighed. ‘Dashingly handsome. He had light brown hair, neither overpowering nor understated, it was the perfect match for his soft brown eyes. His smile, it was infectious. One flash of that dimple in his left cheek and I was gone.’ She held her hand over her heart. ‘And he had a real way with words, as you can see from his letter. He always knew what to say and how to say it, as though he was channelling the spirit of Lord Byron himself.’ She smiled, then laughed. ‘And he would call me Charlie. Charlie! A boy’s name, of all things, but I loved it.’

  My phone pinged with a Facebook message and I glanced at the screen as my phone sat in its dashboard holder. It was from a fellow writer: How’s the book going? Haven’t seen you online much! I’d reply later, but certainly wouldn’t mention I’d been a bit caught up helping my deceased grandma with matters of the heart. Then I had a thought …

  ‘Grandma, he wouldn’t be on Facebook by any chance, would he?’

  ‘Facebook? I still don’t quite understand exactly what that is, so unless he’s more savvy than I am, I doubt it.’

  I pulled to the side of the road and searched for his name. A zillion possibilities came up, of course. I narrowed the search to males (since when was Dave or David a female name?) and those in Australia, but still there were too many to search through. A quick Google search led to the same problem, even when I added ‘war veteran’ to the search terms. For now, we would have to stick to our plan with the good old phone book.

  ‘Shall we go straight to Dave number three or to the bed and breakfast first?’ I asked Grandma.

  ‘I’m anxious to get through this town as quickly and painlessly as possible. The wait will kill me, pardon the pun. Let’s go see Dave.’ She managed a smile and I drove back onto the road and followed the directions to Crest S
treet.

  ‘Nice place,’ Grandma said, as we arrived at the house. It sat high on the street and had a distant though definite view of the ocean, and an abundant orange tree at the front of the driveway.

  ‘Oh, I’d kill for a bite into one of those right now, they look divinely delicious.’

  I got out of the car and wondered whether to sneak a fallen orange into my bag. I really should eat more fruit to counteract all the coffee, croissants, and chips that formed my personal food pyramid. But I’d see if Dave was home first. Didn’t want to cause any problems by stealing produce before I’d even knocked on the door.

  Instead of knocking, there was a doorbell that sent a deep, slow, dinging sound throughout the house. I readied myself for the usual ‘Hello, is Dave there?’ speech. Nothing. No footsteps, no clattering of pots and pans, no television noise blaring through the walls. I rang the doorbell again and waited but, clearly, nobody was home. I looked at Grandma and sighed. ‘Bummer.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘We’ll have to come back later, or tomorrow, or failing that, on our way back up the coast after the rest of our trip. Unless, of course, we find your Dave further south.’

  ‘Let’s hope. This house looks lovely, I’d love to look inside.’ Grandma peered through the side of the curtains shading the windows, and even tried to poke her head through the wall. ‘I thought ghosts were supposed to be able to transport themselves through walls, but no such luck for me by the looks of things.’ Though she managed to appear and disappear occasionally, but maybe it wasn’t a conscious thing.

  ‘C’mon, let’s keep moving.’ I gestured to the car and we got back in, then I turned to face her. ‘Since we didn’t have any luck here and might come back tomorrow, do you want to break with the schedule and go straight to Dave number four?’

  Grandma opened her mouth as if to object to my spontaneity, but then closed it and furrowed her brow in thought. ‘Actually, why not? Yes, let’s see if the next candidate is home.’

  I nodded and smiled and started the engine, humming a tune to myself …

  For the third Dave of Christmas, my grandma gave to me

  A Dave who was an absentee …

  * * *

  Knock-knock! My knuckles were going to get blisters soon. I fixed my eyes on the ‘EZ-Tech’ sign on the door until it opened, and a middle-aged man talking into a mobile phone caught my gaze. He held up a finger to indicate he’d be a minute, then gave some sort of technical instruction to the person on the phone and ended the call.

  ‘Sorry about that, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Are you Dave Smith?’

  ‘Me? No.’ He smiled. ‘Dave is the better looking one.’ He winked, and Grandma brightened. Maybe Dave was his father.

  ‘Is he … home?’ I leaned slightly forward to peer into the house-slash-office.

  ‘Afraid not. But you’ll find him at the Christmas Fair in town. I would have gone too, but you know—work is keeping me busy. I’ll check it out tomorrow on my day off.’

  I nibbled my bottom lip, wondering how to ask for more details on how to find him, when he gave me the answer I was looking for without having to ask.

  ‘I wouldn’t miss the chance to see him all dressed up. He’s got guts, that’s for sure. Wouldn’t catch me dead wearing his costume!’

  ‘What sort of costume?’

  ‘A Christmas tree. I swear, he’s probably sweltering in that thing, covered from top to bottom with only an oval-shaped face hole for ventilation. But he’s become quite fun and adventurous in his retirement, so I bet he’s taking it in his stride.’

  Retired … a good sign. That meant he was at least within the correct age range. And dressed as a Christmas tree? Easy to find! ‘Well, thanks for your time. We’ll, I mean, I’ll head over to the fair.’ I smiled and shook his hand, just as his phone rang again and he waved me off as he answered the call.

  We took a quick detour to check into the B&B, then found a parking spot behind some shops in the main street, which joined onto another park and town square, the location of the fair. We joined the crowds of people who swarmed around like bees in a garden, sampling the delights from various stalls and admiring the colourful Christmas displays.

  Grandma appeared lost in her thoughts, then her eyes widened. ‘Oh, they still have the old nativity set!’ She dashed towards the holy figures gathered around the manger, straw cushioning the sculpted animals. ‘It’s the same one they’d put up in the park every Christmas. It was made by a local artist in the 1930s. So wonderful to see it’s stood the test of time.’ She clasped her hands together.

  I took a photo with my phone, then another of the crowd. The ambience was breezy, blissful, and hopeful. Maybe it had been a good idea to get out of the apartment and enjoy some Christmas cheer. Though I still had to write some words this afternoon to keep on track.

  Grandma glanced around and smiled. ‘There are a few nice-looking young chaps here, Abby Dabby. You should keep your eye out.’ She winked and tried to nudge me.

  I shook my head. ‘You should let me focus on finding your Dave.’ I made the effort to appear like I was talking into my phone so people wouldn’t think I was weird.

  ‘Oh look, what about him?’ She pointed to a young man walking towards the sausage sizzle. ‘He has a nice tush.’

  ‘Tush?’ I laughed.

  ‘Yes, he must work out. Look at those perfectly firm curves.’

  ‘Grandma! You cheeky thing.’

  ‘Ha!’ She folded forwards in hysterics. ‘Cheeky thing! Get it? Good one, sweetie!’

  I chuckled when I realised what she meant. ‘But, Grandma, nowadays, we just say butt or arse.’

  ‘Tush is cuter,’ she said, wandering towards the stalls. I chuckled again. Did anyone else have the pleasure of such a fun and open-minded grandmother? I was—had been—very lucky.

  I scanned the crowd, looking for a human Christmas tree. Perhaps he was wandering around, handing treats to young children. Or pretending to be completely still and tree-like, then suddenly saying ‘boo!’ and scaring the pants off passers-by. Or … my breath quickened. Standing on a platform next to an elf and the man in the big red suit himself.

  ‘Grandma!’ I urged to the distracted ghost getting ahead of me, my phone still to my ear to keep my cover. ‘Grandma! He’s over there.’

  She turned in a flash, and looked towards the festively decorated platform where Santa sat at his chair and children lined up for photos. The elf handed out treats as children finished their photos, and each child got to hang a glittery bauble on the human Christmas tree—aka Dave Smith. I squinted, trying to get a better look, but his face was painted green and it was hard to tell his age. I nudged through some of the crowd, but still wasn’t close enough to get a good look.

  ‘I see only one way to handle this,’ Grandma said, gesturing to the line of children.

  ‘A photo with Santa?’ I spoke into my phone. ‘But I’m too old!’

  ‘Never too old, love, and photos are half price for the rest of the afternoon. Get in line if you wish!’ a woman in a Mrs Claus outfit said.

  Okay. All I had to do was pose for a photo, and then while hanging a bauble on Mr Christmas Tree, I could get a closer look along with Grandma, and if he was potentially the right one, ask him some questions. Too easy. Slightly embarrassing, but easy.

  I paid in advance and lined up, some of the kids overjoyed with excitement, a couple overwhelmed with fear, and one overloaded on artificial food colourings by the looks of it. He licked a multi-coloured ice cream in a cone, while pleading with his mother to buy him a giant candy cane like the ones lining the fence around the platform. Little did he know, they were most likely made of plastic and painted with toxic chemicals not fit for eating.

  The sun warmed my face and shoulders as I waited, and I was glad for the gentle cool breeze that greeted us all the way from the ocean on the other side of town. The line moved forward and the ice cream kid went up to Santa, still licking his melti
ng mess. He spoke to Santa and pointed to one of the giant candy canes, but Santa reluctantly shook his head. The boy wasn’t impressed, and the best photo they could get after several attempts was one where he looked like the long-lost cousin of Chucky, the serial-killing doll. The boy refused to hang a bauble on the tree then, on turning around, dropped his ice cream cone on the platform. He screamed, picked it up and blew at it (five second rule), and before his mother whisked him away, he tried to steal the prized giant candy cane but managed to snap it in half instead.

  The poor mother’s face grew as red as Santa’s suit, and she scolded her son as I walked up to meet Santa, who seemed just as surprised to see me as I was at actually being there.

  ‘What does the lovely lady want for Christmas?’ Santa smiled.

  ‘Oh, nothing!’ I flicked my hand. To find the real Dave Smith, I thought. And while you’re at it, a million dollars, a super idea for my next book, and Chris Hemsworth.

  ‘Smile!’ The photographer spoke as though I was a child, so I flashed my pearly coffee-stained whites for the camera.

  I accepted a candy treat from the elf (who was actually taller than me), then with bated breath, approached the Christmas tree. Grandma floated alongside me, her eyes wide and wondering. I pretended to take my time choosing a bauble, while Grandma appraised the man in front of us.

  ‘You’re Dave, aren’t you?’ I asked.

  ‘Why, yes! How you can tell, though, with me hidden behind all this green I have no idea. Sorry, do I know you?’ His voice had that gritty, dry tone that many elderly people had, but it didn’t sound quite old enough.

  Grandma suddenly straightened. ‘It’s not him. Darn it, it’s not him.’

  ‘Um, no, sorry. I know your, ah … the guy at EZ-Tech. He said you were dressing as a Christmas tree, so I put two and two together.’

  ‘Oh, you must be a client, I see. Tell you what, I don’t miss working in the company. This job is much more fun. As long as I earn a few bucks to add to my seventieth birthday holiday fund, I’ll be happy.’

  Seventy. Old, but not old enough. Definitely not him. Grandma had already stepped off the platform and was waiting for me in the crowd.