May 2025 bring you many good things, and thank you for your support and encouragement.
Season’s Greetings to all my readers!
Christmas
Childhood Christmas/Noels d’enfance: a bilingual memoir piece
Today I’m republishing a piece of mine, in English and in French (separately), which I posted on my blog a few years ago, but which had first appeared in a lovely (but now defunct) magazine called French Living a few years before that. It’s about our childhood Christmasses, which we celebrated very much in the French tradition. And rereading it recently, I thought it was worth bringing it back to readers’ attention—sand as a bonus, at the end, there’s a recipe for the very simple and delicious Christmas log (Bûche de Noël) I describe my mother making in the piece, and which has stayed in our family as a staple of the Christmas table.
The English-language version is first, the French-language version immediately after it.
Merry Christmas, Joyeux Noël, season’s greetings, happy holidays, and a wonderful New Year to you all!
Childhood Christmas
Christmas! Even the letters of the word to me glitter like the candles that shone on the festive tables of my childhood. My parents arranged our lives to the rhythm of traditional festivals: Easter, Mardi Gras, the Assumption, All Saints: but Christmas was by far the most important festival in our family. It was an enchanting time, a time when fairytales and religious stories seemed to come together in a warm and joyful atmosphere.
In Australia as in France, our parents gave us Christmases both extraordinary and traditional; something that later, as a mother myself, I took enormous pleasure in continuing. Some things my husband and I changed; we didn’t do the ‘réveillon’, for example—but the memory of wonderful childhood Christmases was something I was determined to give our children.
As a child, I would wait for Christmas in a kind of dreamy impatience; every year it was the same and every year I would wait for each predictable yet surprising stage of the great festival. In Sydney, that would start the week before Christmas, on a Saturday, when my father would take my sister Camille and I to David Jones in the city. (We also went with Maman to see Santa with the little ones during the week). First we looked in delight at the beautiful windows with their traditionally festive themes; then we would go onside the shop to choose the beautiful dress that would be one of our presents—the only one not from Father Christmas. Usually, it was with my mother that we went shopping, but here it was my father who enjoyed taking us with him. (Later, our brothers and little sister were taken too before it all ended when we were teenagers.) Lace, ribbons, fine lawns, velvets, vivid colours, it would all be paraded before us then, once the dress was chosen(my father of course had the last word!) we went to the store’s restaurant for lunch, an unusual treat!
The Christmas tree was ordered that week but would only be bought home two days before Christmas. But even before that you had to get out the boxes of decorations, the crystal balls, the satin stars, the little wooden figurines, the little birds with silky feathers and sequinned eyes, etc, to make sure nothing was broken. There again it was my father who was the master of ceremonies—we were allowed to look with wide eyes but not touch. But we were allowed to hand him, if we were very careful, the lovely clay figures for the Nativity scene. That would be prepared a day or two before the arrival of the Christmas tree. First my father would choose large pebbles or rather small rocks, which he arranged in the form of a grotto—his theory being that was what the Biblical stable had been. The whole was placed on the mantelpiece and then twigs and dried leaves were arranged artfully around it to represent the landscape. Mary and Joseph were placed at one end of the mantelpiece, to represent the fact they were journeying towards Bethlehem; at the opposite end of the mantelpiece were placed the three kings or wise men, as they’d be studying the skies before the birth of Jesus, and a little closer, the shepherds would be minding their flocks on a rock which represented a hillside near Bethlehem. Every day, May and Joseph got closer to the grotto; but baby Jesus stayed in tissue-paper in the box till very late on Christmas Eve when he would appear between his parents, now firmly settled in the grotto. At this moment too the shepherds had come close, two angels appeared above the grotto, and in their Oriental corner the three kings began their long journey which would only end at Twelfth Night, Epiphany, January 6, when they would arrive before the grotto to give their gifts of gold and perfumes to baby Jesus. (A day we celebrated with le Gateau des Rois, the King-cake, where there was always a broad bean hidden—whoever found the broad bean was king or queen for the day, and excused from chores such as the washing-up!)
In Sydney, my father worked for a big French construction firm, and several years running, the company director and his wife threw a Christmas party at their gorgeous harbourside home in Point Piper for the children of employees, the week before Christmas. They stopped doing that when I was around 10 (no doubt because of the large expense involved!), but they were wonderful parties. Not only was there a huge and delicious afternoon tea, a gigantic Christmas tree, exciting games with great prizes, and a Disney film to watch in the home theatre, but happiness of happiness, each child had been allowed to request from Father Christmas whatever he or she wanted. One year stood out for me in particular: I’d asked for a bride doll; my younger sister Camille a baby doll. Alas! When she set eyes on my doll, resplendent in her white lace, she was furiously jealous, grabbed it out of my hands and decapitated it, from sheer spite! My beautiful doll Isabelle had to spend Christmas headless and had to go quickly to the doll hospital at New Year…
Noëls d’enfance
Noël! Les lettres même de ce mot brillent pour moi sur la page, comme les bougies qui brillaient sur la table de fête de mon enfance. Mes parents ont fait vivre notre enfance aux rythmes des fêtes traditionelles; de Pâques, de Mardi Gras, de l’Assomption, de la Toussaint, mais Noël etait de loin la plus importante fête dans notre famille. C’était une période d’enchantement, un moment où le conte de fées et l’histoire sainte se réunissaient merveilleusement dans une ambiance chaleureuse et joyeuse.
En Australie comme en France, nos parents nous ont offert des Noëls à la fois extraordinaires et traditionnels; chose que plus tard, mère moi-meme, j’ai pris énormement de plaisir à continuer. Certaines choses mon mari et moi ont changé; nous ne faisons pas le réveillon, par exemple; mais le souvenir de Noëls enfantins merveilleux est quelque chose que je tenais absolument à donner à nos enfants.
Enfant, j’attendais Noël avec une sorte d’impatience rêveuse; tous les ans c’était la même chose et tous les ans j’attendais les étapes prévisibles mais surprenantes de la grande fête. A Sydney, ça commencait le samedi avant Noël quand notre père nous amenaient, ma soeur Camille et moi, chez David Jones, à ‘la city’. (Nous allions avec Maman aussi avec les petits pendant la semaine voir le Père Noël) Nous nous extasions devant les belles vitrines avec leurs thèmes traditionnels de fêtes et puis nous rentrions dans le grand magasin pour choisir les belles tenues que nos parents nous offraient chaque année —le seul cadeau que nous savions n’était pas apporté par le Père Noël. D’habitude, c’était avec notre mère que nous allions faire les magasins—mais là c’était mon père qui se faisait une joie de nous accompagner. (Plus tard, les garçons et ma petite soeur y sont allés aussi.) Dentelles, rubans, tissus fins, velours, couleurs chatoyantes: tout le matin ça défilait devant nous et puis une fois la robe choisie(mon père ayant bien sûr le dernier mot!), nous déjeunions au restaurant du magasin, chose exceptionelle!
Le sapin de Noël lui-même avait déjà été commandé, mais n’arriverait à la maison que deux jours avant le grand jour; mais il fallait quand même sortir auparavant les boites pleines de décorations: des boulles en cristal, d’étoiles en satin, de petits bonhommes en bois, de petits oiseaux au plumage en soie et aux yeux faits de sequins, etc, pour être bien sur qu’il n’y avait rien de cassé. Là encore c’était mon père qui était maitre de cérémonie—nous avions le droit de regarder( avec nos yeux bien ronds!) mais pas de toucher. Mais nous avions le droit de lui passer, si nous faisions trés attention, les ravissants personnages en argile pour la crèche.
La crèche, elle, se préparait un jour ou deux avant l’arrivée du sapin. D’abord mon père choisissait des gros cailloux dans le jardin, qui, mis l’un sur l’autre, ferait fonction de crèche, ou plutot de grotte, endroit où, mon pere théorisait, l’étable de la Bible se serait plutot trouvée. Le tout était placé sur la cheminée, et puis on arrangeait des feuilles mortes et des petites branches, pour représenter le paysage. Marie et Joseph étaient placés à un bout de la cheminée, pour représenter le fait qu’ils eéaient en route pour Bethlehem; au point opposé, les rois-mages etaient placés, car eux étudaient les cieux avant la naissance de Jesus, et un peu plus prés, les bergers et leurs moutons etaient placés sur une roche qui representait une des collines prés de Bethlehem. Chaque jour, Marie et Joseph s’approchait de la grotte, mais le petit Jesus restait dans sa boite jusqu’a trés tard la veille de Noel, quand il apparaissait entre ses parents, maintenant bien établis dans la grotte. A ce moment là aussi se rapprochaient les bergers, deux anges apparaissaient au dessus de la grotte, et dans leur coin d’Orient au fin fond de la cheminée, les rois-mages commençaient leur long voyage qui ne s’achèverait que le jour de l’Epiphanie, le 6 janvier, quand ils arriveraient devant la grotte pour donner leurs cadeaux d’or et de parfums au petit Jesus. (Jour ou nous célébrons leur arrivée avec le Gâteau des Rois, ou il y avait toujours une fève cachée—celui ou celle qui trouverait la fève serait le roi ou la reine pour la journée, et dispense/ée des corvées telles que la vaisselle!)
Mon père travaillait pour une grande compagnie française de construction, et plusieurs années, le directeur de la compagnie a offert une fête pour tous les enfants d’employés, la semaine avant Noël; cela a cessé quand j’étais encotre trés jeune, vers 10 ans, et je m’en souviens que d’une de ces fêtes somptueuses, et cela à cause d’un évenement particulier. Non seulement y a t’il eu un goûter merveilleux, un arbre de Noël gigantesque, des jeux passionants, et un film de Mickey a visionner, mais comble de bonheur, chaque enfant avait pu demander au Père Noël ce qu’il ou elle voulait (c’était la compagnie qui payait).J’avais demandé une poupée habillée en robe de mariée; ma soeur Camille une poupée-bébé. Hélas! Quand elle a vu la mienne, superbe dans sa robe en dentelle blanche, elle est devenue jalouse furieuse, s’en est emparée et l’a decapitée, de pur depit! Ma belle poupée a du passer Noël sans tête et aller dare-dare à l’hopital des poupées au Nouvel An..
Mais la plupart de temps dans mon enfance, il n y avait pas de fête de Noël hors de la maison. Un jour avant la veille de Noël, le sapin arrivait chez nous. Ce soir-la, mon père décorait l’arbre et là encore les plus grands avaient le droit de lui passer les précieux bibelots; les plus petits pouvaient regarder mais surtout pas toucher! Une fois le sapin chargé de son beau fardeau étincelant, nous restions là tous à le regarder avec émerveillement; n’entendant presque pas Maman qui nous appelait pour venir chercher une paire de chaussures chacun pour mettre sous l’arbre, prêts pour le Père Noël le lendemain.
Mais si ce jour la etait passionant, le lendemain, la veille de Noël , était le jour qu’on attendait avec le plus d’impatience. Car ce jour là était le jour des cadeaux, et du réveillon, certaines années. On ne faisait pas toujours le réveillon; ça dependait de l’année(et de la fatigue de nos parents!), mais c’est celui-la que je vais évoquer maintenant.
Toute la journée, Maman faisait la cuisine pour le repas du réveillon, et nous l’aidions, ou plutot, nous nous empressions de jouer à la mouche du coche. Si on était à Sydney pour Noël (ce qui était le plus souvent le cas) Maman adaptait les plats traditionnels pour un Noël estival plutot qu’hivernal. Elle évitait de chauffer la maison déjà assez chaude avec des plats qui doivent aller trop longtemps au four: donc pas de dinde ou d’oie rotie par exemple, mais un rôti de boeuf cuit trés vite ou autre viande rapidement cuite(le plat principal changeait tous les ans)pas d’entrées chaudes, mais des bons produits de la mer tous frais, huitres, moules, crevettes, langoustines. Et quoique nous avions toujours une Bûche de Noël elle etait un peu différente des bûches traditionellement servies sur les tables de Noël françaises; celle-ci ne se cuit même pas, mais est faite de biscuits à la cuillère reduits en poudre, mélangés avec du beurre fondu, du sucre, un oeuf et du café fort, le mélange arrangé en forme de bûche, mis au frigo, puis plus tard recouvert de chocolat fondu et remis au frigo jusqu’au dessert du réveillon. Cette Bûche facon australe a fait partie aussi de tous les Noëls de mes enfants, car j’ai gardé cette tradition pratique et delicieuse de ma mère.
Donc, la journée de la veille de Noël se passait en cuisine et pour nous enfants en tout cas en théories fièvreuses sur ce qu’on trouverait prés de nos chaussures dans quelques heures. Quant à moi, qui a cru fermement au Père Noël,comme aux fées, d’ailleurs, jusqu’a l’âge d’onze ou douze ans, je me faisais du souci au cas où le Père Noël nous oublierait, ou tomberait malade, ou aurait un accident, car, me disais-je, il y a déjà tellement d’avions qui sillonnent les cieux..Je me disais que je ne m’endormirais pas, ce soir là, que j’attendrais son arrivée; mais chaque fois, c’était la même chose. Nous, les enfants, étaient au lit à six heures du soir; d’abord je n’arrivais pas à fermer les yeux; mais arrivé onze heures et demie du soir, quand nos parents nous reveillaient pour aller à la messe de minuit, j’etais toujours surprise de decouvrir qu’en fait j’avais bel et bien dormi! Nous avions droit, avant de partir à la messe, de jeter un coup d’oeil dans le salon ou le sapin, étincelant de bougies, de cristal et de guirlandes, et sentant bon la forêt, tronait magnifiquement avec, à ses pieds, un déversement ruisselant de cadeaux. Pas de question de les ouvrir avant la messe; mais quelle joie de les voir là, et quelle douce tourmente, l’attente!
Dehors, il faisait noir, car il était presque minuit, mais l’église etait pleine de lumière, le choeur chantait des cantiques joyeux, le petit Jesus souriait entre ses parents ravis, et puis bientôt ce serait le temps ou on pourrait ouvrir nos cadeaux et manger le magnifique repas que Maman avait preparé et qui, dans la lumière des bougies, ressemblait à des festins de cour royale. C’etait Noël, vraiment Noël ; un jour que nous préférions même à nos propres anniversaires—car non seulement durait-il plus longtemps, mais tout le monde semblait rempli de joie de vivre et tout ce qui était ordinaire et ennuyeux avait disparu pour le moment dans une féerie ravissante, chaleureuse et inoubliable.
Super easy Bûche de Noël /Christmas log (needs no baking, can be made Christmas Eve).
As noted above, this was my mother’s invention, we had it every Christmas when we were kids, and I still make it every Christmas.
Ingredients:
1 packet sponge finger biscuits
200 g unsalted butter, melted
1 or 2 eggs(depending on how much mixture you have)
half to 3/4 cup hot strong sweet coffee(a good instant coffee works fine)
Cooking chocolate, melted with a little cream.
Crush all the biscuits, add the hot sweet coffee, the melted butter, and mix well. Add the slightly beaten egg(or two). You need to obtain a good stiff mix that you can easily shape into a log. That’s what you do then–shape it into a log, and then put it in fridge till it is set. Meanwhile melt the chocolate over a low heat with a little cream, stir till all melted and glossy. Spread over the cake, on the top and sides. Put in fridge to set overnight. You can also decorate the top with angelica leaves, almonds, sugar holly, whatever you feel like!
Easy and delicious version of Bûche De Noël
The French Christmas cake, or Bûche de Noël (Christmas log) is a delicious cake, normally consisting of a Swiss roll-type sponge cake, filled with coffee, chestnut or chocolate butter cream and covered with the same cream, then decorated to look like a log, with extra little decorations on top. But in my childhood, my mother invented a new and equally delicious version of it, which was eminently suitable for an Australian summer Christmas. It’s super easy, doesn’t heat the house up–because no baking required at all!–and can be made Christmas Eve. I make it every year. It’s always popular!
I’ve published this recipe before, but not for a while, so here it is again, Maman’s Bûche de Noël.
Ingredients:
1 packet sponge finger biscuits
200 g unsalted butter, melted
1 or 2 eggs(depending on how much mixture you have)
half to 3/4 cup hot strong sweet coffee(a good instant coffee works fine)
Good cooking chocolate, melted with a little cream.
Crush all the biscuits (you can do this in the blender), add the hot sweet coffee, the melted butter, and mix well. Add the slightly beaten egg(or two). You need to obtain a good stiff mix that you can easily shape into a log. That’s what you do then–shape it into a log, and then put it in fridge till it is set. Meanwhile melt the chocolate over a low heat with a little cream, stir till all melted and glossy. Spread over the cake, on the top and sides. Put in fridge to set overnight. You can decorate the top with angelica leaves, almonds, rose petals, candied flowers, whatever you feel like! (Picture above is of one I made a couple of Christmasses ago)
Story for the season: Christmas in the Kennels
Introduction: It’s a bit of a tradition for me to publish a Christmas story in this festive time of the year, and this year’s no exception. I first wrote this story quite a few years ago, but it’s never been published anywhere, not in print or online. To tell you the truth, I’d forgotten about it in fact until I came across it again in my files just a couple of weeks ago, and thought it still worked pretty well. It’s a story for a general audience, for both kids and adults.
It’s a seasonal story with a difference, told from the point of view of dogs in boarding kennels and was inspired by the fact that when our kids were growing up, we had a lovely dog called Tess, a Border Collie cross(see pic just below) and when we occasionally went down to Sydney for Christmas, she had to go into boarding kennels nearby, as we couldn’t take her with us. The kennels were run by some very nice people who were always kind to the dogs, but Tess was not very keen on being there, she just loved being with us, of course. There were always lots of dogs there, of all sorts, and one day, as we were picking Tess up, the idea for this story jumped into my mind. (Tess by the way also features in my picture book with illustrator Katrina Fisher, A House of Mud , published by Little Pink Dog Books, 2020).
So now, without further ado, here’s the story: Christmas in the Kennels. Hope you enjoy!
CHRISTMAS IN THE KENNELS
by Sophie Masson.
Look, Tess, this is a nice place, lots of space, and those trees, aren’t they beautiful and shady!
You’ll be happy here. There’s lots of other dogs.
See?
Mum, Dad, do you think she understands we’re coming back? She looks sad…
Of course she does. Come on, children. We’re late. Bye-bye, sweet Tess. We’ll be back soon, we promise.
That would have to do, Tess supposed. It didn’t make it much easier, being left behind, but holding on to the promise would have to do. She had little choice anyway. What dog did?
That’s right, my dear, look on the bright side, said a gruff voice from the next cage, where a St Bernard sat with his chin on his paws, looking at her. Tess started, for she had not been aware she’d spoken out loud.
They look like good people, the St Bernard went on, kindly. They’ll be back.
Hmmm, sniffed an elegant black poodle on his other side, if they were so good, they wouldn’t leave you here, would they, while they went off to their Christmas!
Please, Miss ffrench-French, said the St Bernard gravely, you must be patient and bear our lot with fortitude and show the world the true honour of a dog.
The poodle snorted loudly and was about to reply, when a mournful-looking Labrador broke in. It’s fine to think so, Professor, he said, turning to the St Bernard, but still, you must admit that it is strange. All year, they pet us and love us, but then disappear to this Christmas, and never take us. And I never stop wondering why. What is this place that wants no dogs near it?
I don’t know what it is, said Tess, perplexedly. This is the first time my people have left me here. I think they must only just have found how to get to Christmas.
It’s a place they go to every year, my people, said a Scottish terrier excitedly, they are bidden there by a fat man in a red suit, who you must never, never bark at.
Perhaps it’s a kind of kennel, suggested a timid-looking young spaniel, waving her plume-like tail.
Don’t be foolish, Carla, snapped the poodle. People don’t go to kennels. Only we do.
Christmas is a place wherever people are, said the Professor firmly. It is a place they carry with them, because even the kennel-people talk of it, and they do not move from their house.
Only people? said the spaniel. Not dogs?
Of course not, said the poodle. Whoever heard of dogs going to Christmas? No, it’s a place for people, and people only, whether they stay, or go away.
There was silence for a moment while they all thought about this, then the spaniel said anxiously, But even if people go away, they always come back, don’t they?
You are only ten moons old, Carla, said the poodle, contemptuously, what would you know? They don’t always come back.
Hush, hush, Miss ffrench-French , said the Professor, quickly, but too late.
All at once, a terrible sound tore into the air, a sound such as Tess had never heard before, not a yelp, not a bark, not even a howl, but a shriek, a scream, a veritable ululation of madness and grief.
And Tess saw that what she had taken to be an bundle of dark rags left in the empty cage opposite, was in fact a dog. A pitiful, shaking beagle, with a dull coat and thin legs and haunted eyes.
Tess was shaking too. She stared at the beagle, the dull coat, the haunted eyes. The terrible shriek rent the air again, and the same pain was on everyone’s faces, the pain of a big dark empty world, an endless space of lonely abandonment.
We can’t do anything, whispered the Professor sadly, nothing at all. You see…
But a woman was coming towards the dogs, rattling keys, tutting, and so he fell silent.
Now then, Bess, said the woman, opening the beagle’s door so that Tess saw the other dog was not even locked in; now then, Bess, what’s upset you this time, sweetie? And she got down on her knees, and gently patted the beagle’s shuddering head, and made her lie down on the little blue rug in the cage, and then she left. Once again, the beagle lay limp and listless, just like old clothes on the floor of her cage. Tess could not take her eyes off the pitiful sight.
Her people left her here two moons ago, hissed Miss french French’s haughty voice. They left her here, and they didn’t come back.
Weren’t they good people? breathed Carla.
They seemed like good people, said the Professor heavily. I was there when they brought her. They fussed over her, petted her, said goodbye with many promises. But they didn’t come back . And they still haven’t come back.
Silence, while they all digested the awful fact, then Tess whispered, But why, why hasn’t someone else come to take her? Why is she still here?
They’re kind-hearted people, in the kennels, said the Professor gently . They tried to find her a home–they even tried to adopt her themselves. But she won’t leave her cage: you can see she’s not locked in. She won’t leave the rug her people left for her. she thinks that if she stays here, in the same spot, with that same rug, that they ‘ll be back one day. She can’t bear to go anywhere else, not even out in the yard, in case they do.
But, said the Labrador with a sob in his throat, they won’t be back , will they…
No, said the Professor sadly, I’m afraid they won’t. They can’t. He whispered something to Tess , then to the poodle , then down the line , and as he spoke, the same look flashed on all their faces , even the poodle’s. They were nearly all quiet, though; all but the spaniel, who lifted up her muzzle to howl in fear and pity, for she was too young to keep silent before the mention of death. But everyone gave her such a glare that she subsided, twitching.
It was not a pleasant night, that night, for Tess; and the next day was grey and damp and gloomy. But the kennel-people seemed cheerful enough, they hummed under their breath as they hosed out the cages and let the dogs out to run in the yard. Tess ran a few paces, more from habit than conviction; the other dogs did the same, all but Bess, who sat in her cage crouched over her blue rug.
Well, my friends, said the kennel -lady, when she’d herded them all back in, we’ll give you an extra big feed today, because I’ll have no time tonight. She seemed excited, and hummed whilst filling the dishes, and in her hurry to get back to the house, forgot to lock the shed where she kept the dog food.
The rain came in the afternoon, drizzling at first, then thick grey ropes of it. The dogs were all in their cages, chins on paws, looking out at the rain, talking softly of this and that and watching the glow of the kennel-people’s house, lit up already for the dark afternoon. Their keen eyes could see busy shadows passing across the lit windows and their sharp ears could hear cheerful noises, and somehow, it made them all feel strange, jumpy, even a little excited. Only Bess did not move, hunched in her corner.
The rain eased towards night, then stopped altogether as the big white moon began to rise in the clear sky over the trees. The dogs ‘ chatter eased with the rain and stopped in joyful wonder at the sight of the moon, and peace descended on the kennels, a strange deep hush that was made up of tiny sounds, like the noisy silence of the sea.
All at once, ears pricked, heads turned, hackles rose. There was another sound, not made of moonlit night, but of something different. Tess sat bolt upright. A whisper.
Human. Rough, young. Normally, she would have barked, loudly, but tonight, she did no such thing, just rose stiffly to her feet and peered in silence at the people out there. A girl, a boy, stumbling a little; the girl round bellied, with a lovely face the colour of honey and long dark hair, the boy thin, pale, pinched face, sad blue eyes.
This is the place, Sal. I worked here once. The dogs were cool. There was a shed…it was dry, warm.
Oh, Tone, why don’t we just ask at the house? They’ll help us…and the dogs…I’m not sure about the dogs…Oh Tone, I’m afraid. I wish we could…
Tess could see the girl’s frightened brown eyes flashing over the kennels, the dogs silent and tense in their cages, listening but not barking at the intruders, not yet.
You know they’d call the cops, if we went to the house. And dogs are cool, repeated the boy. They’re kind. Not like people. Come on, Sal. You’ll be safe there, I promise. There’s hot water there, I remember. And spare blankets… I’ll help you. I won’t leave you.
There was a strangeness to his voice, thought Tess. A roughness that might turn fierce, that might be frightening, but with a timid tenderness in it , something not quite sure of itself, and deep underneath , a fear, a fear that all living creatures know well, the aching fear of loss. Held by the strange silver night, and the things she heard in the voices, Tess stayed quiet and, like the others, watched as the boy and girl made their way to the shed and disappeared into its darkness. Now the dogs stirred. We should bark and alert the kennel-people , whispered Miss ffrench-French. They should not be here, those people. They are intruders.
No, they’re just poor strays, said the Labrador, quietly.
Strays should go to the pound, Gelert, snapped the poodle.
Miss ffrench-French, said the Professor, that is not a fate to wish on one’s worst enemy. And that girl is carrying a pup in her belly, if I’m not mistaken.
All the same, sniffed the poodle, they should not be here. But despite her stern words, she did not bark, or yelp, or draw any attention from the brightly-lit house to the dark shed. Like the others, she waited, uneasily still in the moonlit night.
No-one took any notice of Bess, sitting huddled in her corner, almost as still as before, but with her ears twitching, feebly, once or twice.
Do you hear that, whispered the spaniel, presently, her body trembling all over. That noise, oh , what is it?
It’s the pup, said the Labrador, with his eyes huge in the moonlight. It’s the pup, coming. I remember when…
Spare us your stories, snapped the poodle. Oh, it really is too bad. We should bark. Someone should come, to help that girl.
We could help, said the Scottie excitedly, jumping up and down on the spot. We could do something …something, er…something really useful.
Oh, and what do you propose, my dear Jock? said the poodle with heavy sarcasm, silencing the Scottie.
The spaniel turned towards the Professor. Oh sir, what do you think? What can we do?
Don’t call me sir, said the St Bernard, rather glumly. Professor is my title. Er…my dear , I think Miss ffrench French is right. We should bark, and alert the people in the house. I think it is the only thing to…
But all at once, a new voice interrupted him. An odd voice that sounded cracked or rusty, as if it had been left out too long in the rain.
My rug, said this voice. It’s a baby’s rug.
The dogs all turned in amazement. Bess was standing at the wire door of her cage, and she had a limp blue thing in her mouth. The rug.
After a while, the Professor said, gently, That’s a lovely thought, Bess, but a rug won’t do anything…
Then from the dark shed came muffled screams, and then a tiny, thin cry. That little cry was like the opposite of Bess’ shriek, before. Tiny as it was, it seemed to fill the whole world. It resounded in the dogs’ ears like fear, and like joy. Tess felt the mystery of it tingling in all of her being, so that she wanted to lift her muzzle to the sky and cry her heart to the moon. And she saw that the others did too.
No, said the cracked voice of the beagle, don’t do that, my friends. Tess looked at the beagle and saw that her haunted eyes were filled with the mystery too, and that the mystery, somehow, had reached her sooner than the others, and caused her to stagger up onto her feet at last. You’ll frighten the baby, and the mother too, if you howl, went on the beagle. My people always said I must be quiet, near the baby. They all stiffened at those words, but the beagle’s eyes were not mad with sorrow now but calm and determined.
But Bess, said the Professor, humbly, at last, you know we only wanted to mark the birth of the child.
I know that, said Bess, but they don’t. And they’ll be frightened. And you’ll alert everyone in the house.
That would be for the best, then, grumbled the poodle, and almost jumped back in astonishment when Bess replied, quietly, Why, so it would be, Miss ffrench-French. But later. Later. For now…
And she pushed at the wire door of her cage. It opened, and she stepped out. She picked up the blue rug and trotted off towards the shed. They all watched her go, in an aching silence. Only the poodle spoke.
Well, really, the ungrateful chit, after all we’ve done, you’d think she’d think of us…
Hush, Miss ffrench-French, said the spaniel, not timidly at all. And so determined was her voice that the poodle subsided without another word.
Tess stood behind the wire of her cage in the moonlight and watched the dark space at the mouth of the shed. She was thinking of the human pup in there, of its parents, and of her own people. Her people had little ones too, though they were not so small as that unknown one in there, and she had never seen them very small. But once, she’d had a pup herself; a little black one, with white-pointed ears. He had tumbled over her, and she had let him bite her ears, and her tail, and put up with his frantic barking, and his foolish tricks, for he was her pup. In time he had grown up, and gone away, and for a while she had missed him, and howled.
But after a time, she’d grown used to his being gone. Now, she remembered him again, his bright mischievous eyes, and the white points on his busybody ears. Somewhere in the world, he was, and perhaps had fathered pups of his own. The thought made her tail twitch, and her ears prick, and her body fill again with the tingling sensation that was like fear, and like joy.
Look, said the Professor, look, my friends…
And there was Bess, and the boy beside her. He staggered a little, his pale face was no longer pinched, but somehow puffy, his blue eyes shone with the bright strangeness of tears, and his voice trembled with a tenderness that was no longer timid, and no at all rough.
Oh dogs, dear dogs, he whispered, she’s so lovely, so lovely, like you wouldn’t believe! So lovely, like her mum. So lovely, our little daughter. He paused for a while, then went on, An’ dogs, I think I’d better…I think we’d better go down to the house . She…they need proper care. They’ll call the cops, maybe, and then, well…His shoulders sagged. But otherwise it’s not fair to my love. Not fair to our little one. No more runnin ‘, see? No more. No matter what.
The moon shone on his face, and there was a smile on it, growing and spreading. And it was as if the moonlight itself was in that smile, as if it grew from it, and filled the whole of that place. He reached down to Bess, and stroked her ears, and he said, almost as though he was speaking to himself, Christmas…it’s Christmas. Never meant much to me, before. But I’ll never forget this one. Never.
The dogs watched him go, running towards the house, with Bess at his heels. Their sharp ears heard his knock, the surprised voices at the door, their keen eyes caught the succession of wary, then astonished, then urgent expressions on the faces of the kennel-people, caught in the yellow flood of light at the door. They saw how the people came hurrying across the lawn and into the shed to fill it with soft exclamations, and warm cries of delight and concern, with Bess making soft sounds, her nose pushed into the boy’s hand, and he was stroking her, his face filled with light.
The dogs stood there at their wire doors and watched the girl and her baby being helped gently, oh so gently, towards the welcoming house. They watched not in silence, this time, but with a chorus of joyful barks and shouts and yelps and howls that filled the moonlit night and made the people shrug a little, and smile, but not tell them to hush. And just as the people disappeared into the full yellow light of the house, the spaniel said, thoughtfully, Did you hear what he said, before? He said it was Christmas.
All eyes turned to the poodle, sitting silent on her haunches, staring up at the moon. Tess saw that Miss ffrench-French’s elegant nose twitched slightly, and her groomed black sides moved in and out rapidly, as if she’d been running. But when she spoke, the poodle’s voice was very quiet, and soft.
Yes, Carla, she said. That is quite right. It is Christmas, right here amongst us, in the kennels.
Text and photo copyright ©Sophie Masson.
The Buyers: a short story to enjoy
Well, here we are now in the festive season: Christmas, Hanukkah, Yule, New Year, all the lovely celebrations that happen at this time of the year. It’s not been the easiest of years for anyone, that’s for sure, but still we reach towards hope and joy as we approach the end of 2021. It’s a time when people like to relax and read, watch and listen to light, happy, warm stories full of love and magic and the unexpected. And it’s also a giving time. So I’d like to combine those things today and offer all my readers a short story I’ve written recently. It’s called The Buyers, it’s for adults, it’s set not long before Christmas, and I hope it will bring a smile to your face. You can download it from the link below.
(Do feel free to link to the story from this post but please note it is fully copyright-protected and cannot be used commercially. My authorship should also be acknowledged, if you share the story).
May you all have a peaceful and happy festive season, whatever you celebrate, and a relaxing and fun holiday break. And see you next year!
It’s that time of the year…
Best wishes to everyone for the festive season, and may 2021 be an easier year for all of us!
A seasonal gift to readers: Rebecca Doiley-Bird and the Christmas Case
Every year, I like to offer readers a fun little seasonal story. This year, it’s Rebecca Doiley-Bird and the Christmas Case, featuring a doll from the gorgeous Doiley-Bird series created by my talented friends at Granny Fi’s Toy Cupboard.
Rebecca Doiley-Bird and the Christmas Case
By Sophie Masson
Rebecca Doiley-Bird was fed-up. Out of sorts. Bored. Restless. Frustrated. And just about every other kind of tedious feeling of that sort.
She shouldn’t be bored. She knew that. She was one of the famous Doiley-Birds, a family of world-famous girl detectives who solved mysteries big and small. And each of the sisters had their own special skill. Rebecca’s was photography. With her trusty camera, she had snapped more shots of fleeing criminals and dastardly deeds than most of us have had hot breakfasts. She’d been in all kinds of sticky situations, and unmasked all kinds of villains. But that was the problem. Right now she was on a different sort of case, all on her own, one her sisters didn’t even know about. But what it mostly meant was that she had to sit by a window and wait for her quarry to come out of the house opposite. And they hadn’t moved. Not one inch, not one second! Nobody came into that house, nobody came out of it. It was hours since Rebecca had first got here and in all that time not a soul had been and gone in the place across the street. She was beginning to think she had made a mistake and her hunch had not paid off.
To make matters worse, it was nearly Christmas and Rebecca had not even started shopping for presents. Each year, it was the same. Each year, she promised herself she’d start earlier. Each year, she was the last one to finish. Often it was at the last minute on Christmas Eve that she finally rushed out and bought something. The others all had such good ideas, and sometimes they didn’t even buy presents, but made them. Like Lizette, for instance, who created cool individual handbags—Rebecca treasured hers from last year—and Veronica, who made up new crossword puzzle books for everyone. Rebecca could have given photographs. But she didn’t think those were good enough presents, especially as all her photographs were of crime scenes and stolen loot and crooks caught on camera.
At that moment, there was a movement in the house opposite. Not much, just the twitching of a curtain, and the glimpse of a face, but it was enough. Rebecca raised her camera and took a quick shot, and another, and another. Her heart beat fast. This could mean the case was about to break at last.
Forgetting all about the agony of choosing Christmas presents, Rebecca watched with eagle eyes as the curtain twitched back and in a few moments longer, the front door of the house opposite opened and someone came out. Rebecca took photo after photo. As the person headed down the steps and into the street, Rebecca was already grabbing all her things and racing down the stairs and into the street herself. Keeping a discreet distance between herself and her quarry, she followed them with an unhurried step.
On they went, into the next street and the next. And there they were, in front of the biggest department store in town. Rebecca’s quarry walked in. Her heart beating even faster, Rebecca took a quick shot of the person going into the store, then hurried after them.
The store glittered with Christmas garlands and lights. Green and white and red trees were decorated with shining baubles, and jolly music filled the air. The store was packed with people, with armfuls of gifts, wrapped with big bows, and children running around everywhere, saying, oh look at that! And that! And that!
But Rebecca took no notice. She was much too busy. Grimly, she followed her quarry up the escalators, to the next floor and the next and the next. They didn’t turn around. They did not seemed to have noticed they were being tailed by a camera-wielding Doiley-Bird in red shoes. Thank goodness!
At last, the quarry reached their destination. After all the glitter and noise of downstairs, it was dark there, and quiet. The figure plunged through a doorway without looking behind them. Rebecca stopped. Dare she go in after them?
Of course she would. She was a Doiley-Bird! Taking a deep breath, she marched over to the doorway. As she did so, lights snapped on, revealing a sign. SANTA CLAUS CAVE. More lights came on. Rebecca blinked. Her heart beat the fastest it had ever done. And then she stepped boldly into the light and called out, ‘Diamond Dan, alias Santa Claus, you’re nicked!’
In the next breath she gasped, ‘Oof!’ as a figure in red and white came barrelling out of the Cave, sack over his shoulder, knocking her down. But either Diamond Dan was dazzled by the lights or it was Rebecca’s lucky day, but the thief tripped and fell, twisting his ankle as he went down. The sack flew out of his hands, and a glittering shower of jewels—necklaces, bracelets, rings, earrings, and even tiaras—spread all over the floor like a river of stars.
Rebecca’s hunch had been right. Diamond Dan had been using Santa’s sack to store all his ill-gotten gains and that was the very day he was planning on taking it all away!
‘How did you guess?’ croaked Diamond Dan, as Rebecca, snapping photos (for evidence, of course!) stood guard over him, before the police arrived to take him away. ‘Yes how did you?’ asked Rebecca’s sisters, later.
‘It was simple,’ said Rebecca. ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about Christmas shopping. And that made me think of Santa. And his sack. And so when I saw Diamond Dan come out of his house, dressed in a Santa suit, I knew what he was up to!’
‘Curses!’ said Diamond Dan, but Rebecca’s sisters said, ‘Wow!’ And that made Rebecca feel good. Very, very good. Until she remembered. She still had one case to solve. And that was a hard one to crack. What was she going to get her sisters for Christmas?
But maybe you can solve that for her 🙂
Happy publication day to Santagram!
Today is the official publication day of my latest picture book, Santagram, which is illustrated by the fabulous Shiloh Gordon and published by Little Hare. It was such a fun text to write, the idea coming to me out of the blue one day when I thought about how letters to Santa are such a big thing, still: so what would happen if more ‘modern’ methods were suggested to him? I was so delighted when Ana Vivas and her team at Little Hare loved the book and took it on for their big Christmas title this year!
And I just love the wonderful, warm and funny visual world Shiloh has created for my text, full of great detail and so appealing! Plus there is even a real (blank) letter and envelope that children can write to Santa. Hope lots of children and families enjoy!
Here’s a bit about the story:
Santa’s mailbox is overflowing.
Santa loves getting letters, but the elves are FED UP with sorting through the huge piles of mail.
Surely an app would be better – quick, easy and heaps of fun! They’ll call it ‘Santagram’.
But once the letters stop arriving, will they be missed?
Can Santa use social media? And should he? This is a Christmas story with a twist that will have the whole family laughing out loud.
Includes special Christmas notepaper so you can send your very own letter to Santa!
Announcing Santagram, my Christmas picture book!
It’s been under wraps for quite a while but now that it’s officially up on the publisher’s website, I am delighted to announce the forthcoming appearance of Santagram, my picture book with illustrator Shiloh Gordon, which will be published by Hardie Grant Egmont in October, ready for the Christmas market. And here is the joyful, lively, and characterful cover–isn’t it wonderfully appealing! Shiloh has created a fabulous visual world full of magic, humour and fun, perfect for a story that I so much enjoyed writing: it was just pure, playful pleasure! And what’s more–look closely at the cover, there is going to be a real letter and envelope with it! For someone who absolutely loves The Jolly Postman, that is a dream come true 🙂
Here’s the blurb for the book:
Santa’s mailbox is overflowing.
Santa loves getting letters, but the elves are FED UP with sorting through the huge piles of mail.
Surely an app would be better – quick, easy and heaps of fun! They’ll call it ‘Santagram’.
But once the letters stop arriving, will they be missed?
Can Santa use social media? And should he? This is a Christmas story with a twist that will have the whole family laughing out loud.
The book can be pre-ordered at lots of different bookshops and retail outlets, check the list out here.
A Christmas story to enjoy: Barney Brown and the Christmas Cake
It’s become a bit of a tradition for me to feature on Christmas Eve on this blog one of my Christmas stories, and this year I’d like to feature one which was published in the fabulous anthology A Christmas Menagerie(edited by Beattie Alvarez, Christmas Press, 2017) and illustrated by the wonderful Ingrid Kallick. It’s called Barney Brown and the Christmas Cake. The gorgeous illustration featured here is from the published story in the anthology, and you can also get it as a poster, card, print, Tshirt, phone case and lots of other things at Ingrid’s Redbubble store. (By the way, the story is also available–without illustrations–at that fabulous site Read Me A Story, Ink.)
So here it is, my story of a young bear unexpectedly waking up to a surprise Christmas…Hope you enjoy it. Merry Christmas, happy New Year, and wonderful, peaceful holidays to all of you, and many thanks for visiting Feathers of the Firebird in 2019!
Barney Brown and the Christmas Cake
By Sophie Masson
Barney Brown woke up suddenly. The sun shone through the windows of his den and he thought it was spring. So up he got and looked out.
‘Oh my goodness,’ said Barney Brown. It didn’t look like spring out there. Yes, the sun was shining but the ground was all snowy and so were the fir trees. It was still winter!
‘Dearie me,’ said Barney Brown, and he was about to go back to bed when all at once he spotted something bright, at the corner of the glade. It was a tree, a small tree, but not covered in snow, like the others. This tree sparkled in the sun with what looked like red and green and silver berries. And under the tree was a little table, with a little man in a pointy cap standing behind it. On the table was a tray of round dark things.
‘What’s that?’ said Barney Brown, wrinkling his nose, for just then, a smell came to him. A rich, wonderful smell! A smell that made his stomach rumble and his mouth water.
Out stepped Barney Brown, into the winter snow. He’d never gone outside in the winter before and it felt funny, though of course he had a fur coat on so he wasn’t cold at all.
Pad, pad he went, making big paw-shaped patterns in the soft snow.
‘Mmm, mmm,’ said Barney Brown, as he got closer and closer to the sparkly tree, and the little table, and the glorious smell. Oh, the glorious SMELL!
‘Hello,’ said Barney Brown, politely, to the little man in the pointy cap. Now any other person might have run away, seeing a big brown bear come lumbering up, but not this person. Oh no! He was a Christmas elf, and they are not scared of anything.
‘Hello back,’ said the elf. ‘Have you come for one of my Christmas cakes?’
‘I think I have,’ said Barney Brown, happily, looking down at the table.
‘Good.’ The elf picked up a cake. ‘That will be one silver coin,’ he said.
‘I don’t have any money,’ Barney Brown said, sadly.
‘Then take a cake with my compliments,’ said the elf. ‘After all, it’s not every day a bear wakes up in winter.’
Barney Brown didn’t wait to be told twice. The cake tasted as delicious as it smelled and he licked his lips to catch the last crumb. Then he looked longingly at the rest of the cakes. He could easily have eaten them all!
‘Sorry,’ said the elf, ‘but that’s it. It’s Christmas Eve and all my other customers will be coming to pick up their Christmas cakes. Besides, they might be a bit scared if they see a bear out and about in winter.’
‘I see,’ said Barney Brown, even more sadly. But as he turned to plod off, the elf said, ‘Wait!’
Barney Brown thought he had changed his mind. But no, the elf just handed him a leaflet. ‘Christmas cake recipe’ it read.
‘Oh. Thank you,’ said Barney Brown, doubtfully.
‘Now you can make your own, with this magic recipe,’ said the elf. ‘Merry Christmas!’
Back home, Barney Brown looked at the recipe.
‘Flour, butter, sugar, eggs, dried fruit, nuts,’ he read out loud. ‘And some honey,’ he added. ‘It doesn’t say honey in the recipe, but I’m sure that’s a mistake. All cakes must have honey.’
He opened his cupboards. There was plenty of honey. Jars and jars of it. And some flour and sugar. Even frozen butter he’d forgotten in the back pantry. But no eggs. No dried fruits. No nuts.
The elf had said the recipe was magic. But how?
Barney Brown waved the recipe about. ‘I need eggs, fruit and nuts,’ he told it. Nothing happened. ‘Abracadabra, eggs, fruit, nuts!’ he tried again. Nothing happened.
‘Oh dear,’ said Barney Brown. ‘I think the elf made a mistake. The recipe isn’t magic at all. Now let me think. If it was spring, I could go into the forest and find birds’ eggs. If it was summer, I could find berries. If it was autumn, I could find nuts. But it’s winter, and I don’t know what I can find. Maybe I have to get someone to help me. Someone who is usually awake in the winter.’
He went out again. The table was gone, and the cakes, and the elf. But the sparkly tree was still there. And a fox was sitting under it. A fox with a beautiful white coat.
‘Hello,’ said Barney Brown.
‘Hello back,’ said the fox, a little surprised to see a bear out and about.
‘I wonder if you can help me,’ said Barney Brown. ‘I’m making a Christmas cake, and I don’t have any eggs or fruit or nuts.’
‘Well,’ said the fox, ‘There are some hens I know. They’ll give me eggs.’
‘Really?’ said Barney Brown, politely. ‘That is very kind of them.’
‘I will bring you back a basket full,’ said the fox, and she trotted off.
How nice people are, thought Barney Brown and he was about to plod off again when a voice said, ‘Has Belladonna gone?’
‘Er—maybe. Only I don’t know who Belladonna is,’ said Barney Brown, looking around for the person who had spoken.
‘That fox,’ said the voice. A lump of snow moved. Only it wasn’t a lump of snow, it was a hare, with pure white fur.
‘Hello,’ said Barney Brown.
‘Hello back,’ said the hare. ‘Why aren’t you sleeping? Bears always sleep in the winter.’
‘Yes. Only today I woke up. Because I smelled a smell,’ said Barney Brown. ‘Christmas cake smell! And now I’m going to make my own. Only I haven’t got any fruit, or nuts.’
‘I’ve got some fruit,’ said the hare, at once. ‘Blackberries in a jar. Will that do?’
‘Oh yes!’ said Barney Brown. ‘That will do very well.’
‘Then I’ll fetch it,’ said the hare, and off he bounded.
People are really very nice, thought Barney Brown, just as a squirrel hopped down from a branch of the sparkly tree. She had been hiding behind a red bauble almost the same colour as her fur.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Hello back,’ said Barney Brown.
‘I heard everything,’ said the squirrel.
‘Oh,’ said Barney Brown. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you.’
‘Not at all,’ said the squirrel. ‘Now then. Snowy has blackberries, and Belladonna has eggs. Guess what I have?’
‘Nuts?’ asked Barney Brown.
The squirrel looked a little disappointed that he’d guessed so easily, but she nodded. ‘Yes. I have nuts! Lots of nuts! A pantry full of them! How many do you need?’
‘I think a few,’ said Barney Brown, cautiously.
‘Very well. I’ll bring lots!’ said the squirrel. ‘Never let it be said that Hazel Conker is stingy!’ And off she scampered.
People are very very nice indeed, thought Barney Brown, as he went padded off. Now I can make my Christmas cake.
Back home, he took out a bowl, and put in the flour and the sugar. He melted the butter. Just then there was a knock on the door. It was Belladonna, with six eggs. Two brown eggs and two white eggs and two speckled eggs.
‘Thank you,’ said Barney Brown. ‘And please stay,’ he added politely.
Now came another knock on the door. It was Snowy the hare, with a jar of blackberries. ‘Thank you,’ said Barney Brown. ‘And please stay.’
Snowy looked at Belladonna warming herself by the stove. ‘It’s all right. We are all friends here,’ said Barney Brown. ‘Isn’t that right, Belladonna?’
‘Of course,’ grinned the fox.
Just then came the third knock on the door. And there was Hazel Conker, with a bag of nuts that was almost as big as she was.
‘Thank you,’ said Barney Brown. ‘And please stay.’
While his new friends watched, Barney Brown chopped and mixed and beat and stirred. In went the nuts and the fruit and the eggs, joining the butter and the sugar and the flour. ‘And last but certainly not least,’ said Barney Brown, ‘in goes the honey.’
‘It looks wonderful,’ said Hazel and Snowy and Belladonna, crowding around to look.
‘But the smell,’ said Barney Brown, anxiously. ‘What about the smell?’
‘You have to wait,’ Belladonna said.
‘For the cake to cook,’ said Snowy.
‘Put it in the oven,’ said Hazel.
So Barney Brown did. While they waited for that cake to cook, they played cards and drank pine tea and talked. When night fell and the stars came out, it was time for Barney Brown to open the oven. All his new friends crowded around, sniffing the air.
‘That smell!’ said Belladonna, as Barney Brown lifted the cake tin out.
‘That amazing smell!’ said Snowy, as Barney Brown put it on the table.
‘That is the best smell ever!’ said Hazel Conker.
But Barney Brown could not speak. That glorious smell was filling his nostrils and he had new friends around him to share the delicious cake they had made together. And it seemed to him he could hear an elf’s voice on the air: I told you it was a magic recipe. Merry Christmas, Barney Brown!
Feathers of the Firebird 