A Very Pickled Christmas Carol
A Cautionary Tale of Brine, Bells, and Brotherhood
In the perpetually fog-wrapped town of Brineford-on-the-Moor, where the air smelled permanently of vinegar, and every resident had fought at least three arguments about proper ham etiquette, two brothers had built rival pickle empires.
Well, “rival” was generous. One was an empire. The other was more of a principality. A very cheerful, slightly broke principality.
Bartholomew Bragg owned the largest pickling operation in the Midlands. His factory, Bragg’s Premium Pickling House, gleamed like a cathedral devoted to preserved vegetables. His offices sparkled. His profit margins were extraordinary.
His soul, however, was somewhat under-marinated.
And here’s the kicker: Bartholomew despised pickles. Couldn’t stand them. Would rather eat his own hat than a pickled onion. Which raised the obvious question of why he was in the pickle business, but Bartholomew had never been troubled by things like “logic” or “joy.”
His younger brother, Timothy, ran a much smaller operation with approximately twelve employees, four of whom were named Dave. His factory was modest, his profits were slim, but his pickles? Legendary. Word on the street (and by “street” we mean the High Street, where Mrs Puddington sold artisanal cheese) was that Timothy’s chutneys could make angels weep with happiness.
Timothy paid fair wages. He bought premium ingredients. He donated jars to the local shelter. And every Christmas, he created his masterpiece: Winter Wonder Pickle, made from a secret recipe he guarded more carefully than the crown jewels.
Naturally, Bartholomew wanted that recipe more than he wanted functioning kidneys.
THE ROYAL PICKLE CRISIS
Both brothers had entered the Royal Household Christmas Supplier Competition, the Oscars of British pickledom. The winner’s pickle would grace Her Majesty’s Boxing Day table, alongside the coronation chicken and the disappointment of extended family.
Timothy’s entry was the bookmaker’s favourite.
Bartholomew’s entry had been described by one brave taste-tester as “aggressively mediocre” and “what sadness might taste like if you boiled it in vinegar.”
This would not stand.
Bartholomew, in a fury that could only be described as “pickled rage,” made a plan. He would steal Timothy’s recipe on Christmas Eve. Simple. Effective. Morally bankrupt.
To ensure maximum factory output, he also ordered his entire workforce to labour through Christmas Day.
“Christmas?” he barked at his terrified employees. “CHRISTMAS IS CANCELLED UNTIL I WIN THE ROYAL PICKLE CROWN!”
A worker timidly raised her hand. “Sir, that seems a bit…”
“SILENCE! If the Royal Family wants pickles, we make pickles. Now someone fetch me the spice inventory for tomorrow’s batch of pick…”
DING-A-LING-A-LING-A-LING-A-LIIIIIIIING!!!
The bells were apocalyptic. Sleigh bells, church bells, cow bells, bells that had no business existing all clanged at once with the enthusiasm of a thousand over-caffeinated carollers having a collective breakdown.
Bartholomew catapulted backwards into a crate of cabbages.
THE CURSE OF THE P-WORD
“WHAT IN THE NAME OF QUEEN VICTORIA’S CORSET WAS THAT?!” Bartholomew shrieked.
The workers looked around nervously. A crowd was forming.
“New alarm system?” someone suggested.
“GET BACK TO PICKLE-MAKING!” Bartholomew roared.
DING-A-LING-A-LING-A-LIIIIIING!!!
A brave soul stepped forward. “Sir? I think... I think the bells ring every time someone says... you know... the P-word.”
“What P-word?”
“Pickle, sir.”
DING-A-LING-A-LING-A-LIIIIIING!!!
“DON’T BE ABSURD! It’s one of you playing tricks! Until the culprit confesses, NOBODY GETS PAID!”
And thus began the worst day in pickle-production history. Every time anyone mentioned the word “pickle”, which, in a pickle factory, is roughly every forty-five seconds, the bells would erupt like a brass band falling down the stairs.
Workers started using code words:
“Vinegared items”
“Spiced blobs”
“Jars of regret”
“He who shall not be named (the vegetable edition)”
Production efficiency plummeted 86%.
Morale was found dead in a ditch.
Bartholomew blamed everyone except himself, which was very on-brand.
ENTER TWINKLEBREEZE: BUREAUCRAT OF THE SPIRIT REALM
That night, Bartholomew lay in bed snoring like a wounded accordion when a tiny spark of light appeared.
A minuscule winged creature in a smart waistcoat, clutching a clipboard with the dedication of a particularly officious librarian, flew directly into his face.
“Good evening!” the creature chirped.
Bartholomew bolted upright, swatting wildly. “WHAT ARE YOU? A sparkle with a to-do list?!”
“I,” said the creature, adjusting tiny spectacles, “am Twinklebreeze, Junior Enchantment Clerk, Magical Seasonal Oversight Division, Joy Enforcement Department, Brineford Branch, certified under the Magical Union of Seasonal Spirits.” He showed Bartholomew a laminated badge.
“Oh no,” Bartholomew groaned. “It’s one of those Christmas Carol things, isn’t it?”
Twinklebreeze consulted his clipboard. “Technically, it’s a legally distinct intervention. You’ve been cursed for extreme anti-Christmas sentiment, appalling management ethics, and general vinegar-based villainy.” He ticked a box labelled Subject is grumpy.
“I have EXCELLENT ethics!”
Twinklebreeze ticked another box: Subject is delusional.
“Come along,” he said, tapping Bartholomew with the clipboard. “Time for your retrospective ethical review.”
THE GHOST OF PICKLE PAST (SECTION 7B: HISTORICAL WICKEDNESS)
In a blink, they stood in Bartholomew’s factory ten years earlier.
Bartholomew watched his younger self bully a supplier. “Take this discount, or I’ll sue you into the Stone Age!”
Another scene: workers begging for Christmas bonuses.
“Bonuses?” Young Bartholomew laughed. “You’re paid with the HONOUR of employment! The prestige! The joy of making pickles you’ll never be able to afford!”
Then the vision shifted to Timothy’s tiny workshop. Younger Timothy was handing modest envelopes to his workers.
“I haven’t much,” he said warmly, “but you’re the heart of this place. You deserve your share.”
His workers beamed. Someone brought out homemade biscuits. There was laughter. Actual, genuine laughter in a workplace. Bartholomew had forgotten that was possible.
He felt a strange pang in his chest. He decided it was indigestion, down to breathing in pickle vapour all day long.
“Seen enough?” Twinklebreeze asked.
Bartholomew folded his arms. “Kindness doesn’t pay bills.”
“No,” Twinklebreeze said softly. “But it pays people.”
THE GHOST OF PICKLE PRESENT (THE BIT WHERE THINGS GET AWKWARD)
Now they stood in Timothy’s workshop at that very moment. Timothy was cooking his Winter Wonder Pickle, humming cheerfully, surrounded by workers sharing festive jokes and discussing their families’ Christmas plans.
He was poor in pounds. Rich in everything that mattered.
Then Twinklebreeze pulled Bartholomew forward through time, not far, just to tomorrow night.
There was Bartholomew, sneaking into Timothy’s workshop on Christmas Eve, reaching for the precious recipe book...
A worker wandered past in the corridor. “Has anyone seen the latest batch of pick…”
DING-A-LING-A-LING-A-LIIIIIIIING!!!
Timothy appeared instantly, catching Bartholomew red-handed.
The vision fast-forwarded: Police. Handcuffs. Headlines.
LOCAL PICKLE MAGNATE ARRESTED FOR CHRISTMAS EVE THEFT “THE BELL-RINGER OF BRINEFORD” SENTENCED
In court, the prosecutor dramatically asked, “Why would you steal your own brother’s pickle recipe?”
DING-A-LIIIIIIING!
The gallery collapsed in laughter. The video went viral. Bartholomew’s moustache wilted from shame.
His sentence: Life in his own factory, eternally stirring vats of pickles while the bells mocked him.
His workers: Jobless and hungry.
His factory: Shuttered and seized.
Timothy: Dining with royalty, celebrated as Britain’s finest pickler.
“NO!” Bartholomew wailed. “This can’t be my future!”
“It will be,” Twinklebreeze said sadly, “unless you change.”
THE GHOST OF PICKLE FUTURE (THE NICE ONE WHERE EVERYONE LEARNS SOMETHING)
One final vision shimmered into view.
Two elderly brothers, greying but grinning, stood together in a renovated factory. Above the door: BRAGG BROTHERS’ BRILLIANT BRINERY.
They were arguing cheerfully about nutmeg ratios.
Their combined workforce was thriving. They were happy, well-paid, telling jokes around the mixing vats.
Charity jars lined the walls, ready for donation.
And there, Bartholomew saw himself laughing, actually laughing! His face was pink with joy rather than rage. He was eating a spoonful of chutney and not gagging.
The curse was broken. No bells rang.
The Royal Household had awarded them both the prestigious Pickle Crown for their collaborative masterpiece.
Bartholomew felt warmth bloom in his chest—actual warmth, not the usual cold void where his heart was supposed to be.
When the vision faded, he was back in his bed, gasping.
CHRISTMAS MORNING: THE GREAT PICKLE REDEMPTION
Bartholomew didn’t walk. He didn’t jog. He sprinted through Brineford-on-the-Moor in his nightshirt, hair wild, shouting:
“TIMOTHY! DEAREST BROTHER! PICKLE PRINCE! CHUTNEY CHAMPION!”
DING-A-LING! (He didn’t even care.)
Shoppers stopped and stared. Mrs Puddington nearly dropped her cheese.
Bartholomew burst into Timothy’s factory, breathless and glowing.
“Brother! I have been a fool! A brined, vinegar-soaked, morally bankrupt fool! I’ve been horrid! I’ve been cruel! I’ve been…”
“Are you all right?” Timothy interrupted, genuinely concerned. “You look feverish.”
“I AM BETTER THAN ALL RIGHT! I want to work WITH you! Share recipes! Share profits! Share CHRISTMAS SPIRIT!”
Timothy blinked. “Have you been replaced by a festive body double?”
“I WANT TO EAT A PICKLE!”
He tensed, anticipating the cacophony to come. But there was nothing. Just... silence.
The curse lifted like fog in sunshine.
Bartholomew laughed. Actually, properly laughed. Timothy tentatively joined in. Then they hugged while confused workers whispered:
“Is this happening?” “Should we document this?” “Has Mr Bartholomew finally lost it?”
THE HAPPILY EVER AFTER (WITH PICKLES)
That Christmas Day, the brothers combined their operations.
Bartholomew reopened his factory, with paid holiday leave for all.
They created new recipes together, bickering good-naturedly over spice levels.
Their joint entry won the Royal Pickle Prize unanimously. The Queen herself declared it “criminally delicious.”
Every December thereafter, Bartholomew hung bells in the factory, cheerful ones this time, to remind himself how close he’d come to losing everything that mattered.
And though he tried his best, he still couldn’t quite bring himself to love pickles.
But he loved his brother.
He loved his workers.
He loved Christmas.
And in the end, that was the most important thing to preserve.
🎄 And they pickled happily ever after. 🎄
(Twinklebreeze was promoted to Senior Enchantment Clerk and now handles a lovely portfolio of hauntings in the Lake District.)