The Miniature Orchestra of Gnomes
Oh my, a totally new and unexpected little story from me to you! A kidfic, not my usualy style but here goes...
Chapter 1
House was running behind schedule. He limped as fast as he was able, every step accompanied by an inappropriate curse under his breath. Glancing at his watch, he slowed for a second to pull his jacket more tightly across his chest. A cold snap had hit hard and suddenly, the kind of weather that meant you never warmed up; no matter how fast you limped.
Neatly avoiding an icy puddle of slush, he progressed through the full parking lot, dodging high-end mini-vans, people carriers, 4x4s and the occasional telltale 2-seater belonging to the divorced. Though he maintained a litany of imaginative curse words he neared his destination nonetheless, almost despite himself. The first flurry of snow began to drift down fluttering every which way and he cursed again, more audibly this time, lamenting the distance he’d had to park away. The news had forecast a ton of snow during the night.
He squeezed through the gate and searched in vain for an open door. He hadn’t been here all that often if truth be told. The occasional visit aside, his schedule rarely allowed for impromptu visits; nor did his general hatred for hockey moms.
Soon enough the telltale glow of fluorescent light drew his eye and he picked up his pace hell-bent on reaching the door. He grabbed for the handle, pulled it toward himself and stepped up into the reception area hallway.
He could just about hear the first god-awful hoots of some poor kid violating a trumpet pouring out from the theatre. He followed the sound, wincing at the insult to his pitch perfect ear. Closer and closer with every step, he detected just a tiny bit of pride building; Sam was good; much better than trumpet kid.
Pausing for a second to balance his cane, his jacket and the programme thrust into his hand by a well-meaning woman at the door, House took a mental deep breath and pushed the door handle as slowly and as quietly as he could.
Several people turned in his direction, glaring in anticipation of someone daring to interrupt a star turn. House ignored them, set his chin against the stifled murmur of sympathetic realization upon sight of his cane, and limped into the nearest available seat.
There they all were. Lined up along the stage like a miniature orchestra of gnomes, the violin players, the woodwind section, the myriad recorders, and there, patiently waiting at the back were the percussionists. House watched as Sam made no attempt to stifle a yawn and continued to gaze off into the distance. It had been a tough semester, for them both.
A round of enthusiastic applause sounded at the end of a slow, out-paced rendition of Jingle Bells and House knew what was coming next.
The conductor turned triumphantly to the audience, announced the final song of the night and thanked everyone for making this a performance to remember.
The first few bars rang out, and slowly recognition amongst the audience spread like a bad case of Chinese whispers. The choir settled into some kind of agreement regarding the pitch and soon enough those immortal words rang out across the auditorium: ‘On the first day of Christmas…’ House knew he had cut it fine, but a big part of him wished he’d cut it a bit finer still; eleven days of Christmas still to come.
Sam flinched suddenly on the stage, awoken from his daydream on hearing those immortal words. Ready for his big moment, he stood a little bit straighter and peered around the auditorium.
The seventh day of Christmas came and went, then the ninth, and suddenly House was surprised to hear the eleven pipers piping and the tension in the pit of his belly rose. Here it was, the big moment, the weeks of practice, the solemn concentration, all leading up to this point.
‘Five gold rings!’ sang the audience, but House couldn’t take his eyes off the stage.
‘Four calling birds, three French hens…’ and Sam took up his instrument.
‘Two turtle doves, and a-‘ House could hardly bear it much longer.
‘Partridge in a pear tree…’
And with that, Sam rose to the occasion striking the triangle at the exactly the right moment.
‘Ting’.
Beautiful, resonant, perfect. House felt the tiniest prickle of a tear threaten the corner of his eye. Sam beamed out his 60-watt smile suddenly spotting House all the way at the back of the theatre. House smiled back, lost in that face, those big dopey eyes.
Sam, his perfect boy, his beautiful son.
Chapter 1
House was running behind schedule. He limped as fast as he was able, every step accompanied by an inappropriate curse under his breath. Glancing at his watch, he slowed for a second to pull his jacket more tightly across his chest. A cold snap had hit hard and suddenly, the kind of weather that meant you never warmed up; no matter how fast you limped.
Neatly avoiding an icy puddle of slush, he progressed through the full parking lot, dodging high-end mini-vans, people carriers, 4x4s and the occasional telltale 2-seater belonging to the divorced. Though he maintained a litany of imaginative curse words he neared his destination nonetheless, almost despite himself. The first flurry of snow began to drift down fluttering every which way and he cursed again, more audibly this time, lamenting the distance he’d had to park away. The news had forecast a ton of snow during the night.
He squeezed through the gate and searched in vain for an open door. He hadn’t been here all that often if truth be told. The occasional visit aside, his schedule rarely allowed for impromptu visits; nor did his general hatred for hockey moms.
Soon enough the telltale glow of fluorescent light drew his eye and he picked up his pace hell-bent on reaching the door. He grabbed for the handle, pulled it toward himself and stepped up into the reception area hallway.
He could just about hear the first god-awful hoots of some poor kid violating a trumpet pouring out from the theatre. He followed the sound, wincing at the insult to his pitch perfect ear. Closer and closer with every step, he detected just a tiny bit of pride building; Sam was good; much better than trumpet kid.
Pausing for a second to balance his cane, his jacket and the programme thrust into his hand by a well-meaning woman at the door, House took a mental deep breath and pushed the door handle as slowly and as quietly as he could.
Several people turned in his direction, glaring in anticipation of someone daring to interrupt a star turn. House ignored them, set his chin against the stifled murmur of sympathetic realization upon sight of his cane, and limped into the nearest available seat.
There they all were. Lined up along the stage like a miniature orchestra of gnomes, the violin players, the woodwind section, the myriad recorders, and there, patiently waiting at the back were the percussionists. House watched as Sam made no attempt to stifle a yawn and continued to gaze off into the distance. It had been a tough semester, for them both.
A round of enthusiastic applause sounded at the end of a slow, out-paced rendition of Jingle Bells and House knew what was coming next.
The conductor turned triumphantly to the audience, announced the final song of the night and thanked everyone for making this a performance to remember.
The first few bars rang out, and slowly recognition amongst the audience spread like a bad case of Chinese whispers. The choir settled into some kind of agreement regarding the pitch and soon enough those immortal words rang out across the auditorium: ‘On the first day of Christmas…’ House knew he had cut it fine, but a big part of him wished he’d cut it a bit finer still; eleven days of Christmas still to come.
Sam flinched suddenly on the stage, awoken from his daydream on hearing those immortal words. Ready for his big moment, he stood a little bit straighter and peered around the auditorium.
The seventh day of Christmas came and went, then the ninth, and suddenly House was surprised to hear the eleven pipers piping and the tension in the pit of his belly rose. Here it was, the big moment, the weeks of practice, the solemn concentration, all leading up to this point.
‘Five gold rings!’ sang the audience, but House couldn’t take his eyes off the stage.
‘Four calling birds, three French hens…’ and Sam took up his instrument.
‘Two turtle doves, and a-‘ House could hardly bear it much longer.
‘Partridge in a pear tree…’
And with that, Sam rose to the occasion striking the triangle at the exactly the right moment.
‘Ting’.
Beautiful, resonant, perfect. House felt the tiniest prickle of a tear threaten the corner of his eye. Sam beamed out his 60-watt smile suddenly spotting House all the way at the back of the theatre. House smiled back, lost in that face, those big dopey eyes.
Sam, his perfect boy, his beautiful son.