Open Writing

My grandmother waved a letter. 'Cousin Albert's sending us a goose for Christmas. He's putting it on the train in the morning, and it will be at the station ready to pick up at 2 o'clock.'

'A goose, well that's good of him, I hope he's plucked it,' said my grandfather.

'How will we collect it?' asked my mother.

'Somebody will have to walk to the station and carry it back on shanks' pony,' said my grandmother.

'Joy and I could go,' I volunteered.

'No you won't, you'd never manage it,' said my mother, 'the three of us will go.'

My grandfather didn't offer to help.

The next day we set off. It was hot, walking to the station, and I moaned. 'I'm tired, why can't we go on the tram?'

'Stop whining, your sister's not.'

I made a face at my sister.

When we arrived at the station, the train had been and gone. The stationmaster took us to a storeroom, to a big wooden crate. We stared. The crate had gaps, and we could see movement.

'It's alive!' Joy said.

'Oh no!' said my mother.

'We can't carry that, it's too big and heavy,' I said.

Oh, I think we can manage,' my mother said.

'You two take one end, and I'll take the other.'

'It's smelly, I don't like it,' Joy cried.

'It's got wee dripping down the side. I'm not carrying it,' I shouted at my mother.

My mother gave me her look, so I picked up one end. Joy stood beside me, holding it as well.

'We can't,' I whined.

'Be quiet!' said my mother, picking up the other end. We struggled along, lopsided, taking lots of rests, as we slowly made our way home.

Our grandparents were on the footpath, looking worried.

'We were about to send out a search party for you.'

'It's alive,' snapped my mother.

'Oh dear,' cried my grandmother. 'Well, there's a job for you, Father.'

'Hrrumph!' grunted my grandfather. He picked up the box, and took it around to the backyard.

Joy and I watched as he got a hammer and chisel, and broke open the crate. The big goose walked out hesitantly, after he turned the box onto its side. It was a pretty grey goose, with flecks of a darker colour on the ends of its feathers. We made friends with it, feeding and playing with it. We called it Goosey. Over a week went by.

'I hope you've fattened that goose?' asked my grandfather.

'We feed him every day,' I said.

He laughed.

My grandfather came outside a few days later, and told us we must go inside, as he was going to chop the goose's head off.

We stood shocked, 'What do you mean, chop his head off?' I screamed at him. My sister started to cry.

'He's going to be our Christmas dinner, you knew that, and we can't eat him alive, can we?'

'We didn't, we thought he was a Christmas present,' I was crying now.

'You're going to kill him, you're a murderer!'

'Now, that's enough, go inside,' he bellowed.

'If you kill that goose, I'm not eating any of it,' my sister said.

'No, nor am I," I echoed, as we went inside.

'What's the matter with you two?' asked my grandmother.

'Grampa's going to kill Goosey,' I told her.

'Well, you knew it was sent for our Christmas.'

'Why can't we just keep him?' I asked. 'We like him.'

'We can't afford the money to feed a goose.'

We gave up. We knew there wasn't enough money for lots of things, until our ship came in. Whenever that might be.

At Christmas dinner, my grandfather carved the goose, and put pieces on everybody's plates, including Joy's and mine. There were relatives with us for Christmas.

'Come on Shirley, have a bite,' coaxed my Aunty Ruth. While everybody stared at me, I slowly put a piece in my mouth and started to chew, not looking at my sister.

She put her hands under her legs, and sat like that, not speaking or eating, staring at me coldly for the rest of the Christmas dinner.

After that, whenever she was mad with me, and wanted to make me feel bad, she would say, 'But you ate Goosey!'

© Shirley Henwood

Shirley writes for Bonzer! magazine. Please visit www.bonzer.org.au