The Longest Day of the Year

The unjustly accused 'Fluffy' in Xmas regalia. (Source: Shutterstock)

Celebrate the season with a little storytelling magic. This Christmas, I’m sharing a free short story with you. No sign-ups, no catches, just a festive gift to you. It’s a distinctly Aussie tale wrapped in warmth, wonder, and a touch of mischief, written to offer a moment of escape during the busiest time of year. Whether you’re curled up with a cup of something warm, downing a coldie or stealing a quiet break between festive celebrations, I hope “The Longest Day of the Year” brings you joy.

By midday the temperature had reached thirty-nine degrees and the inflatable Santa on the front lawn slumped like he’d consumed too many beers. Callum knew exactly how Santa felt. Another Christmas meant another round of forced cheer and family tensions.

Callum took a deep breath of the desiccated air and called through the flyscreen door.

‘We’re here!’

The moment the door opened, the aircon, wheezing like an asthmatic pensioner, puffed lukewarm hope into his face.

‘Callum!’ boomed Aunt Lorraine, her blue-rinsed hair looking out of place amongst the red and green decorations. ‘You must be on a good paddock. Geez, you’ve put on a bit of pud!’

He hadn’t. He was the same lean 87 kilos he was last year and every year of the last decade before that. But Aunt Lorraine’s refused to alter her ritual opening line. He assumed it was her way of getting a weight-related discussion in first. A pre-emptive strike to put you on the back foot, defending yourself instead of commenting on her ever-expanding girth.

‘Good to see you too, Aunty,’ he said, patting her shoulder lightly in case she split like an over-ripe mango.

The dining table was set with the usual Christmas excess; glazed ham, turkey (stuffed of course), roast potatoes and salads that would limp their way into the bin later that evening. In a passing salute to the ever-increasing diversity of the extended family, a tepid green chicken curry sat to the side of the more traditional fare. A small plate of cucumber sandwiches waited condescendingly for whichever niece had decided she was vegan this year.

An impressive Xmas spread (Source: Google)

Grandma sat patiently in front of the trifle, in a bowl the size of a baby’s bath. Grandma was a life-long acolyte at the altar of trifle. She loved it even before it was the only thing she could eat now, she’d lost her teeth.

Pop sat in his Lay-Z-Boy recliner, demolishing fruit mince pies. Four empty beer cans, VB of course, lined up beside him. ‘The mince pies are a bit dry this year, love. You need a bit of a drink to wash them down.’ It was doubtful that the beer consumption would have been any less if the pies were oozing.

At the kids’ table, in defiance of the summer heat, four of the O’Connor children, clones from a shallow gene pool, wore identical Christmas jumpers. The jumper was emblazoned with a cow, its horns festooned with Xmas lights declaring ‘This is my Ugly Christmas Jumper.’ It was impossible to argue with the cow. The jumper was definitely ugly.

By the end of the day it wasn't only the turkey that was stuffed! (Source: Nadia Lim)

Callum gave a collective wave. A solitary child waved back. He had no idea who’s it was.

Before Callum sat down, Cousin Nathan slid up to him and said, ‘So, Cal, have you seen the stats on the latest A380? Massive. Absolutely massive.’

Here it was. Nathan’s annual aviation dissertation. It was going to be a long day.

‘CASA is stalling, but authorities in the States have charged ahead,’ Nathan droned, stroking his ginger goatee. ‘I’m thinking of getting over to LA to get a few snaps of the upgraded variant before she comes over this way. Have to go through Singapore, of course. Always good at Changi. You never know what you’re going to see flying there.’

Callum’s gaze drifted to the ham. At least when they started eating, he didn’t have to feign interest in Nathan’s obsessions.

‘So really, we’re on the verge of a completely new market for mid to longe range passenger transport,’ Nathan concluded. ‘I just don’t know if the three-four-three seating arrangement in economy is the right way to go in today’s more discerning market.’

‘Entirely,’ Callum said. ‘I couldn't agree more.’

Nathan beamed at Callum’s feigned interest.

One down, thought Callum. Eight cousins to go.

Dad stood at the head of the table and tapped his glass. ‘Before we eat, your mother wants to say grace.’

‘I never said that,’ Mum hissed, but rose dutifully.

Before Mum could start, Cousin Alison raised a finger like a judge on her favourite ‘Dancing with the Stars’ TV show. ‘Just a point of clarification for you’se all to know. Christmas isn’t actually Christian. It comes from pagan solstice rituals, Saturnalia and Yule. Basically, ancient celebrations that were appropriated by the church.’

Mum closed her eyes. ‘Please, Alison, not this again.’

‘Actually,’ Alison continued, louder now, ‘it’s important we recognise the cultural theft that has occurred …’

Dad interrupted with a raised beer.

‘To paganism then! Let’s leave it until the New Year before we sacrifice a virgin though.’

Everyone laughed, even Alison. Callum smiled at the perplexed faces on the little kids as much as at Dad's tipsy toast.

They’d barely started to carve the ham when a smell bloomed across the room. Thick, warm and sulphurous, like a team of rugby players in an overheated sauna.

‘Oh Lord!’ gagged Aunt Lorraine clutching a well-used handkerchief to her face. ‘What in God’s name is that smell?’

Heads swivelled, and everyone gagged. Mum swished her napkin about like a fan.

‘Fluffy! Get out, you bloody little stinker!’

Right on cue, Fluffy—Mum’s French bulldog trotted into the room. Her nub of a tail wagging with the confidence of a dog who had never once had its character so questioned.

Callum folded his arms. He knew Fluffy was innocent.

Grandma, meanwhile, wore a furtive smirk, the kind that said: I know what I did, and I’d do it again, but I dare any of you to dob me in.

A triffle not to be triffled with! (Source: Google)

Pop didn’t notice the smell. His nose was masked by cinnamon and cloves from yet another steaming fruit mince pie that was quickly disappearing down his throat.

‘Must be those new neighbours. A fine time they pick to put Dynamic Lifter on the garden.’

Mum flapped her napkin harder.

‘Fluffy, go on, get out!’

Fluffy slunk away, totally confused about why she was being banished. Grandma giggled into her shandy.

Callum whispered to Tabitha, ‘That was definitely Grandma.’

‘Oh, one hundred percent.’

A small hand tugged Callum’s sleeve.

‘Hello, Uncle Callum! Look, I made a drawing for you!’

‘Oh, wonderful,’ Callum said, staring at what looked like a child that had just walked off a Xmas Grinch movie set. The drawing appeared to be a red blob being chased by a green blob. 'Lovely.'

‘I’m Jocelyn!’ the child declared proudly.

Another child ran past. ‘No, she isn’t—I’m Jocelyn! She’s Pansy.’

A third child popped up from under the table. ‘No, she’s not, I’m Pansy!’

Callum looked at Tabitha. ‘Are they all called Jocelyn now?’

‘No, sme are Martin, Bartholemew or Evelyn,’ she said. ‘But just go with Jocelyn. You’re sure to get it right at least once.’

‘So!’ announced Trish, Nathan’s partner with the garish makeup, ’I’m a micro-influencer now.’

‘Oh, lovely,’ Mum said, ladling out gravy as if she was the workhouse master splodging porridge at Oliver’s orphanage.

‘I’m into sustainable mascara,’ sadi Trish as she flicked her hair, almost dislodging one of her oversized false eyelashes. ‘Do you know that ninety-eight percent of mascara is made from carbon-based products. I’ve launched my own line of mascara that incorporates blockchain-traceable carbon credits. It so good for the planet.  I already have 237 thousand followers on Insta. And I’m about to launch a fifteen second YouTube series where I explain complex topics like global warming and the role that mascara can play in saving our planet.’

‘Very interesting,’ murmured Tabitha.

‘Exactly!’ said Trish. ‘People don’t want deep knowledge anymore. They want snackable facts.’

Callum thought of Nathan’s monologue about aircraft. Some people's knowledge still trawled the depths. He only wished some people would keep it to themselves.

Lunch rolled into dessert. Grandma’s trifle gleamed under the lights like a quivering Jello iceberg to Grandma's Titanic. With Aunty Carmel’s crème brulé, it seemed that Grandma might get to have the trifle all to herself.

‘So, Cal,’ Aunt Lorraine dabbed her mouth with a table napkin, ‘seeing anyone?’

He took a dangerously large mouthful of trifle. ‘I’ve been with Tabitha for three years now, Aunty.’

‘But you haven’t put a ring on her finger yet, have you?

He took a big swig of the cheap red wine that he’d brought.  ‘No, were not legally married.’

She beamed at him. ‘Exactly! Me neither. We’re all on the same sinking ship! Maybe we should see if we could get family discount on Tinder.’

Across the room one of the Jocelyns leaned over, burped twice, and vomited into the huge punch bowl that only came out for Christmas.

A festive Christmas punch prior to the Jocelyn incident. (Source: Adobe)

‘Sorry, heatstroke!’ someone, presumably her mother, shouted.

‘Too much jelly!’ someone else suggested.

One of the older kids had probably spiked the punch. No one would ever find out now it was festooned with partially digested ham, potatoes, and mysteriously, carrots.

The child wiped their mouth, shouted, ‘It’s okay. I feel much better now!’ and sprinted down the hallway at full speed.

‘Whose kid was that?’ Callum asked.

Tabitha shrugged. ‘Who knows.’

In the late afternoon, after several strategic retreats from exceedingly boring conversations, Callum found himself on the veranda, letting the sea breeze that had finally arrived cool his overstuffed belly.

Inside, someone yelled, ‘Who ate all the trifle?

Grandma giggled.

Fluffy barked in support.

Tabitha exhaled. ‘You doing okay, Callum?’

‘I’m surviving,’ Callum said. ‘Mostly.’

‘That’s the Christmas spirit.’

He nudged her. ‘At least Grandma is in good form.’

‘She’s an icon isn’t she.’

‘An icon who farts like a demon.’

‘Yeah, I guess every heroine has a flaw.’

As the sunset morphed into oranges and reds, a synchronised exodus began. Like lemmings that knew the exact time to run toward the cliff, the family timed their departure with precision. Some used the excuse of cars needing to be shuffled to let others out, but the reality was everyone had had enough.

The Martins, Bartholomews, Evelyns, and numerous Jocelyns were herded into oversized SUVs and people movers.

Alison hugged Callum and whispered, ‘Blessed Solstice, comrade.’ Nathan promised an aviation slideshow next year and Trish thanked Tabitha for the ‘content opportunities.’

Pop cracked another beer. ‘Still cold,’ he announced triumphantly. ‘Do we have any more fruit mince pies?’

Grandma winked, still smug that no one had accused her of being the source of the odour.

Mum hugged Callum tenderly. ‘I love having everyone here at Christmas. No matter how crazy it gets.’

Callum believed her. Next year, he knew the sun would be scorching, the trifle would be wobbling, Nathan would be equally boring and the Jocelyns would all be a year older.

Callum smiled to himself. He’d knew he’d be back next Christmas doing the same.

It was worth putting up with all of it, just to see the joy on his mother’s face.

If you've enjoyed this short story, you might like to read some of my others—several are collected in "Read My Shorts".