A Goose for Percy

"Honestly, Vicky, you’d think the train station was on the Moon," Aunt Cathy said, her voice a little too bright, too loud in the small, warm entryway. Vicky shivered, not from the cold that still clung to her wool coat, but from the sudden, jarring noise after the quiet, snowy journey. She tried to pull off her gloves, fingers stiff. Her cheeks felt raw, wind-burned, and a faint tingling sensation crawled up her ears despite the knitted cap she’d worn. The hat had flattened her hair, she knew, probably made her look like a scruffy terrier. She pictured Percy’s mischievous grin, the one he’d wear when he’d tease her about her ‘winter plumage’. The thought, unbidden, was a dull ache. She swallowed it down, along with the lingering taste of train-car coffee.

"It felt like it, Auntie. A bit. The drifts were past the windows on the platform, almost," Vicky managed, pulling a button free with a small, reluctant pop. Her fingers, despite the heavy gloves, were still numb at the tips. The air here, in the vestibule, held the distinct scent of dried apples and something else – cinnamon, maybe, or bay leaves – a heavy, comforting blanket that only made the memory of the biting prairie wind more acute.

Aunt Cathy tutted, a rapid, nervous sound. "Well, we’re all just thankful you made it. Dreadful weather for travel, dreadful. But Christmas, eh? Mustn’t miss Christmas." Her aunt’s eyes, usually a sparkling blue, held a sort of desperate cheer, like a flag flapping stubbornly in a gale. Bea knew what it meant: <i>Percy’s gone, but we mustn’t dwell. Not now. Not at Christmas.</i> It was a message that hung heavy in the air, thick as the falling snow outside.

"Right," Vicky said, her voice flatter than she intended. She finally wrested her coat off, the wool heavy and damp. Aunt Cathy immediately took it, fussing over the collar. "Just give that to me, dear. I’ll hang it by the stove to dry. Don’t want you catching a chill after such a journey. You look a bit peaked, actually. Haven’t you been eating?" She eyed Bea with a critical, worried gaze, her brow furrowing slightly.

Vicky offered a weak smile. "Just tired, Auntie. Long trip." Her stomach gave a faint rumble, betraying her. She hadn't eaten much since a stale bun on the train. Mostly she'd just stared out at the passing landscape, a monochrome blur of white and grey, feeling the vibrations of the carriage deep in her bones, counting the miles from a place that now felt entirely hollow. The thought of food seemed distant, abstract, even as the rich, savoury smells of the kitchen tugged at something primal.

"Well, we’ll fix that. Come on in, love. Dinner’s almost ready. Just the goose to finish." Aunt Cathy turned, her movements quick, efficient, as if to outrun any lingering silence. Vicky followed, her boots thudding softly on the polished linoleum floor. The kitchen was a warm, bright rectangle, a stark contrast to the grey world outside. Copper pots gleamed on hooks, and a stack of freshly baked mince pies sat cooling on a wire rack, their sugary scent mingling with the goose.

Preparing the Feast

The goose. It lay on the big pine table, a colossal, pale mound, all bumps and slick skin. It looked less like a bird and more like an unformed thought, a fleshy, unsettling lump of potential. Its neck, disconcertingly long, was tucked beneath its body. A small, dark pool of something—fat? blood?—had congealed beneath one wing. Vicky swallowed, a dry, rasping sound in her throat. She hadn’t expected this. Not so soon.

"There we are," Aunt Cathy chirped, rubbing her hands together with an audible scrub. "The centrepiece. Your uncle shot it himself, you know. Up by the creek. A fine bird, he said. Plenty of meat. Good for all of us." The ‘all of us’ hung in the air, a silent, heavy omission. They both knew who wasn’t 'all of us' anymore. Vicky could practically feel the elephant in the room, larger and more ungainly than the goose itself, stretching its invisible trunk towards the empty chair at the head of the table.

Aunt Cathy handed Vicky a large, sharp knife. The handle was smooth, cool wood against her palm. "Now, Vicky, you always had a deft hand with the carving, remember? Or was that Percy? No, no, you. He always made a mess of things, didn't he? Always getting goose fat everywhere." Her aunt chuckled, a brittle sound that broke off sharply, leaving a jagged edge in the air. She didn't look at Vicky, instead busying herself with retrieving a bowl of sage and onion stuffing from the larder.

Vicky clutched the knife. Percy. Of course. Percy, who, at twelve, had tried to carve a turkey with a butter knife and ended up throwing half of it across the dining room, eliciting a roar of laughter from their father and a horrified gasp from their mother. Percy, who hated the smell of uncooked poultry, claimed it made him 'queasy in his innards'. He'd always vanish when the time came for the Christmas bird to be prepared, suddenly remembering an urgent need to inspect the barn or 'fix' the radio, which invariably meant taking it apart and leaving the pieces scattered across the parlour rug.

"I suppose I did," Vicky said, her voice thin, reedy. She put the knife down with a soft clatter that felt deafening. The goose seemed to stare at her with its vacant, unblinking eyes. Or where its eyes should have been. She felt a phantom chill on her forearms, a ghost of Percy’s hands, pushing at her, urging her to run, to escape the unpleasantness. Her brother had been a master of evasion, a talent Vicky had never quite cultivated. She often just stood, frozen, absorbing the impact, while Percy danced away.

"Well, then. Let’s get to it, shall we? You can start with the… uh… the dressing. I’ll just get some more water for the carrots." Aunt Cathy’s cheer wavered, becoming a little transparent around the edges. She gestured vaguely at the goose, then quickly busied herself at the pump by the sink, the squeak of the handle echoing in the sudden quiet. She wouldn’t meet Bea’s gaze. It was easier to talk about the goose, about carving, about anything but the yawning space where Percy had been.

Vicky reached for the stuffing bowl. The sage was pungent, sharp, mingling with the sweet onion and the dense, earthy scent of breadcrumbs. Her fingers, still a little cold, dipped into the mixture. It was clammy, springy, not entirely pleasant. She forced herself to focus on the task, to push away the invading thoughts. This was the only way. To simply do. To become a machine, processing ingredients, moving through the necessary motions of existence.

She picked up the knife again, hefting it in her hand. Not for carving yet. For opening. There was a certain art to it, one her mother had taught her years ago, before she’d become too frail for such heavy work. A precise incision, not too deep, not too shallow. The skin of the goose felt strangely yielding, yet tough, resisting the blade at first. Then, with a soft ripping sound, it gave way.

A wave of cold, fatty air wafted up from the bird’s interior, carrying with it a distinct, almost metallic smell. Vicky suppressed a grimace. Percy would have gagged. He had such a delicate constitution for anything unpleasant, a dramatic flair for physical disgust that always made their mother sigh and their father laugh. She remembered him once, at harvest, accidentally stepping on a dead field mouse, shrieking as if he’d been mortally wounded. He’d made a show of needing to lie down, while Bea had just wiped her boots on the grass and carried on, gathering potatoes.

She reached her hand inside the cavity. The flesh was cold, surprisingly firm. Her fingers brushed against something slippery, a cluster of organs. Liver. Gizzards. The heart. A shiver ran up her spine, not of revulsion, but of something akin to morbid fascination. This was the engine of a life, now still, quiet. Just like Percy’s. The thought was a small, sharp pebble in her gut. She pushed it down, deeper. This was a goose. A bird. Nothing more.

"Are you finding it alright, dear?" Aunt Cathy’s voice floated over from the sink, a little too loud, too cheerful. The water from the pump splashed into the bucket, a steady, rhythmic sound. Bea knew her aunt was watching her reflection in the dark window pane, not looking directly. It was the same way everyone had been since September, since the influenza had swept through the valley, taking the young, the old, and the vibrant.

"Fine, Auntie. Just… getting the bits out." Vicky’s voice was steady, even. She pulled out the giblets, placing them in a small bowl her aunt had provided for the gravy. They looked forlorn, disconnected. She cleaned out the cavity thoroughly, her fingers working with a practiced efficiency she hadn’t realised she possessed. The coldness seeped into her bones, a reminder of the winter that had settled so completely over everything.

"Good, good. Well, Percy always said your stuffing was the best. Always begged for extra, didn't he?" Aunt Cathy said, her voice a little wistful this time. Her hands, still at the pump, faltered for a second. The rhythm of the splashing water broke. Vicky felt a pang, sharp and sudden. It was a well-meaning comment, a gentle probe, an attempt to bridge the unbridgeable gulf. But it only highlighted the impossibility of it all. Percy wouldn’t be begging for extra stuffing this year. He wouldn’t be at all.

Vicky didn't reply immediately. She just continued to work the stuffing into the goose, pressing it firmly into every corner of the cavity. The scent of sage filled her nostrils, a comforting, familiar smell that was suddenly heavy with memory. She remembered Percy, a gangly fourteen-year-old, his face smeared with flour, trying to steal a spoonful of hot stuffing from the pan, only to burn his tongue and then exaggerate the pain for comedic effect. He’d always made a joke out of everything, a defence against the world’s quiet cruelties. His laughter, bright and clear, echoed in the silent, cold chamber of her mind.

She sealed the goose, sewing the opening with a thick needle and butcher’s twine. Each stitch was slow, deliberate. It felt like sewing up a wound, a futile attempt to make something whole again. The raw edges of the skin came together, neat and tidy, but the emptiness inside remained, simply hidden from view. A carefully constructed illusion of fullness.

A Different Kind of Chill

The winter outside the window deepened as the afternoon wore on. The light, already thin and watery, began to fail, casting long, bruised shadows across the kitchen floor. The snow had stopped, leaving behind an unnaturally brilliant white landscape, a canvas wiped clean. But Vicky knew better. Underneath that pristine surface, the earth was hard, frozen solid. Unyielding.

Aunt Cathy had moved on to peeling potatoes, her knife making quick, efficient work of the tough skins. The rhythm of her peeling, the soft thud of potatoes dropping into a pot of water, was the only sound for a long time. It was a companionable silence, one that had settled between them many times over the years, a comfortable blanket. But today, it felt different. It was a silence filled with unspoken words, with the ghost of a boy who should have been here, complaining about chores, making jokes, getting underfoot.

Vicky wiped her hands on a rough linen towel, the lingering smell of goose fat and sage clinging to her skin. She looked out the window. A single, brittle branch of the old elm tree, heavy with snow, hung motionless against the pale, bruised sky. It reminded her of a broken arm, carefully set, but never quite the same. Never quite right.

"He always loved Christmas," Aunt Cathy finally said, her voice soft, barely a whisper. She didn’t look up from her potatoes, but her movements slowed, became almost hesitant. "Loved the snow. Said it made everything feel… clean. Like a fresh start." Her voice trailed off, a little catch in her throat.

Vicky nodded, her gaze fixed on the elm branch. Clean. Yes, Percy had loved that idea. The snow, for him, was a grand eraser, wiping away the smudges and scrapes of the year. He’d believed in fresh starts, in turning over new leaves. Vicky, always the pragmatist, the cynic, had always known that the dirt was still there, just buried. Waiting for the thaw.

"He did," Vicky replied, the two words heavy, like stones. She remembered him, bundled in too many layers, making snow angels with an intensity that verged on the spiritual, as if imprinting his form onto the fresh powder was an act of profound creation. She remembered him building snow forts that lasted for days, their walls thick and impenetrable, until the sun eventually turned them into grey, weeping ruins.

Aunt Cathy sighed, a long, shaky sound. "It’s just… hard. To think of him… out there. In this. Alone." She still didn't look at Vicky. Her knife paused, hovering over a potato, before resuming its work with a jerky motion.

Vicky knew what she meant. ‘Out there’. Buried in the cemetery, beneath layers of frozen earth and a thick blanket of snow. Alone. The word was a fresh wound, though she’d tried to cauterise it weeks ago. Percy, alone. It felt wrong, utterly antithetical to his very nature. Percy was never alone. He always had a dog, a friend, a stray cat, a half-finished contraption. He radiated a kind of boisterous, chaotic energy that drew things to him, like moths to a flame.

She thought of the raw, red hands of the gravediggers, the frozen clods of earth piled beside the open pit. The quick, mumbled words of the preacher. The way the wind had whipped at their coats, snatching away any warmth, any comfort. It hadn't felt like a clean start then. It felt like an ending, stark and brutal.

Vicky walked over to the old pine dresser by the back door, where small, forgotten things often accumulated. Old receipts, stray buttons, a bent hairpin. Her fingers idly traced the smooth, worn wood. She knew her aunt was still waiting for her to say something, something comforting, something that would make this moment, this aching, shared grief, feel less sharp. But she had nothing. Only the cold, hard lump in her own chest.

Her fingers brushed against something small, smooth, and unexpectedly cool. She picked it up. It was a small, polished stone, a perfectly round, grey pebble, no bigger than her thumb. Percy had collected them. Called them his 'worry stones'. He'd always carry one in his pocket, turning it over and over when he was nervous, or bored, or just thinking.

She remembered the day he’d given her one, a smaller, flatter stone, after she’d failed her arithmetic exam and cried herself sick. "Here, Bea," he’d said, pressing it into her palm. "For worries. Rub it. Makes them go away." He’d been twelve then, utterly convinced of the stone’s magic, utterly earnest in his belief. She’d kept it for years, though she’d eventually lost it somewhere among her books. She hadn't actually believed it would make her worries disappear, but she'd appreciated the gesture, the warm weight of his small hand in hers, the unexpected kindness.

Now, this stone. It must have fallen out of his pocket, unnoticed, on one of his last visits. Perhaps during the frantic, disbelieving period when he was still strong enough to come over, before the fever had taken full hold. Before he had stopped being Percy.

Vicky turned the worry stone over in her palm. It wasn't magic. It wouldn't make the worries go away. It certainly wouldn't bring Percy back. It was just a stone, cold and inanimate, a small, hard fragment of the earth, just like the earth that now covered him. And just like the goose, neatly stuffed and trussed, its outward appearance of fullness belying the hollow space she’d just emptied within. She knew, with a chill that had nothing to do with the winter outside, that tomorrow, at the Christmas table, Percy’s absence would not just be a space, but a tangible weight, something they would all politely eat around, just as she’d now scooped out the empty cavity of the goose.