DAY ELEVEN: Eleven Pipers Piping

It began at dawn, which was unfair. Nothing good had ever arrived at dawn.

Stephen was dreaming of silence—clean, merciful silence—when the first blast of bagpipes tore through the bungalow like an alarm clock that had taken a personal interest in his suffering. His heart jolted; he sat upright, certain the world had ended.

For one long second, he didn’t move.

The partridge shrieked from the pear tree in the living room, as though filing a personal grievance.

Somewhere down the hall, a pigeon lost its footing and thumped softly to the floor.

Roo, predictably, was on her back—taking her role as Head of Tummy Tickles seriously.

Jane groaned into her pillow.

“No. Absolutely not. I will not survive wind instruments.”

The second blast was louder. The third harmonised. The fourth attempted something showy and immediately regretted it.

Stephen stumbled to the window. On the frosted pavement outside, eleven men in kilts marched in loose, sleep-ruining formation, puffing into bagpipes with the confidence of people who believed this was doing the neighbourhood a favour. A banner on the lead piper’s shoulder read:

Authentic Gifts Co. – Traditional Sound Experiences.

“Oh God,” Stephen whispered. “They’re early.”

Jane sat up, hair wild, t-shirt creased, the faint grey arc of a late-night sketching session beneath her eyes. Her tablet lay beside her, open to a hedgehog gazing anxiously at the moon. A smear of graphite streaked her thumb—evidence of stubborn erasing in hours she should have been asleep.

“You ordered pipers?” she demanded.

“It seemed festive,” he said in the tone of a man rethinking his entire approach to gift-giving.

She checked the clock.

“Do you know what time it is?”

“Seven?”

“It’s six thirty, Stephen. Six. Thirty. I was drawing until one.”

Outside, the pipers attempted “Jingle Bells.” It collapsed halfway through like a wounded accordion.

By the time the pipers reached the front path, half the neighbourhood was awake. Curtains twitched. A fox paused, listened, and left immediately, clearly deciding this human nonsense was beyond intervention.

Stephen opened the door.

Eleven pipers stared back—each a different flavour of determined. One had heroic lungs and a thistle-shaped beard. The lanky apprentice looked like a music student who had been tricked into this. Another piper had added a tasteful dusting of glitter to his bagpipes.

“Mr Stanley?” the leader boomed. “Premium pipers package. Three-hour slot. Carols, ceilidh, or interpretive fusion.”

Jane appeared beside Stephen, arms folded tightly.

“This is a residential street,” she said levelly. “People are sleeping. Children are dreaming. Illustrators are held together entirely by caffeine and spite.”

The leader saluted solemnly.

“Understood, ma’am. We’ll keep it lively.”

He raised his pipes.

“No,” Jane said sharply. “Not a single note indoors.”

He nodded as though accepting a sacred mandate, then inhaled deeply.

“Freestyle it is.”

The hallway vibrated. A mug trembled faintly.

Stephen grabbed Jane’s hand before she risked her clean criminal record.

“Let me handle it.”

“You can’t reason with people who accessorise with bagpipes,” she hissed.

But he was already in crisis–project-manager mode.

“Gentlemen! Change of scope. We’re relocating.”

The glitter-piper paused mid-breath.

“Relocating where?”

Stephen glanced toward the frost-tipped garden, where Roo had thundered outside, barked once, and was now trotting in perplexed loops. He thought of swans in the bath, geese in the kitchen, interns at the table, dancers spinning through the lounge, lords using the hydrangeas as gym equipment—and Jane’s face every time he’d said I’ll fix it and hadn’t.

“The park,” he said. “Open space. Natural acoustics. Minimal collateral damage.”

The leader nodded. “Field deployment. Excellent.”

It took twenty minutes to herd eleven pipers, one cockapoo, and several indignant birds out of the bungalow.

Jane raised one silent finger toward the front door, and two pipers abandoned their echo tests instantly.

The hens watched from beneath the sofa with glacial disapproval. A goose honked once from the bathroom in what was unmistakably its daily complaint.

Roo trotted confidently beside Stephen, nails tapping, tail high. She attempted a dignified march for eight steps before a leaf distracted her and she sprinted to catch up.

Neighbours filmed. A toddler in dinosaur pyjamas applauded.

“Play something cheerful!” an old man hollered.

The pipers responded with something that sounded like a lively pub disagreement set to music.

By the time they reached the park, frost caught the pale morning light, giving the grass a soft, silvered glow. The sky was a flat winter grey that implied judgement. A swing creaked idly in the breeze.

The pipers deployed like a regiment.

“Set one!” the leader declared. “Classics!”

“Auld Lang Syne” erupted with enthusiasm completely untroubled by volume control.

Stephen stood among them, shivering, socks inadequate. Roo flopped onto her back in the frost, claiming her frozen Tummy Tickle Zone with the entitlement of a tiny queen.

For a fleeting moment, he felt proud: for the first time in days, the chaos was not inside their house.

Then the memory of ten consecutive disasters pressed at his ribs. Pride evaporated.

Jane arrived a few minutes later, wrapped in Stephen’s navy coat over pyjamas, scarf looped loosely around her neck. Her sketchbook was tucked beneath her arm—habit or shield. Her hair was pulled into a messy knot with two pencils still lodged through it, graphite smudging her thumb.

She looked furious, freezing, and stretched thin.

“You realise,” she said, handing him a coffee, “we’ve become the neighbourhood’s Saturday entertainment.”

“They’re good,” he said weakly.

“Technically.”

A small crowd watched. The apprentice piper hit a car-alarm note and mouthed sorry. The glitter-piper spun like a festive tornado. A woman in headphones appeared to be Googling noise-related bylaws.

Jane sighed.

“This week we’ve had aquatic rebellion. Dairy interns. Dancers. Lords trampling my hydrangeas. And now a sunrise bagpipe festival.”

The sound rolled across the park and offended the ducks.

Stephen cleared his throat.

“I thought… after your illustrator dinner… you might want something celebratory.”

Her expression softened.

“It was good. They talked to me like a real peer. Asked about printing costs, ISBNs, cover proofs. And for the first time in ages… I felt like maybe I’m actually building something. Not just hoping.”

Her shoulders loosened slightly as she said it.

“You are,” he said quietly.

She tucked her nose into her coffee.

“I just wanted a quiet morning. No feathers. No interns. No lords. No damp sketch pages. Just… quiet.”

Roo barked once—almost on-beat.

Jane closed her eyes.

“You think this is still about Christmas, don’t you?”

He blinked.

“What else would it be about?”

She didn’t answer immediately. The wind lifted the wavering sound of pipes across the grass. Roo wriggled joyfully.

“Maybe,” she murmured, “you needed to make noise.”

He stared at her.

“To drown out what?”

She held her cup a little tighter.

“The quiet bits. The ones where work might not improve. Where I’m scared this self-publishing thing is just an expensive hobby. Where you wonder whether… maybe you’ve made things harder.”

Stephen rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly ashamed.

“Have I?”

She looked up—tired, but kind.

“You’ve made everything… louder. But that’s not the same as worse.”

A piper stumbled, recovered with flair. The crowd applauded.

Stephen let out a slow breath.

“I wanted each day to mean something. Instead, I filled the air because I didn’t want to sit in the quiet and feel how much isn’t fixed. Including us.”

Jane leaned softly against him.

“You’re allowed to want big things. They just need to be livable too.”

He nodded.

For the first time, he realised how frightened he’d been of silence—how much easier noise was than honesty.

Roo rolled up, shook frost from her fur, and nudged his hand—warm, certain, uncomplicated.

By nine, the pipers had gone joyously rogue.

The glitter-piper was teaching teenagers to stomp in time. The apprentice had gathered a ring of delighted small children.

Roo trotted proudly between them, collecting crumbs and offering important little howls.

Stephen and Jane sat on a damp bench, sharing one scarf looped between them like a gentle treaty. The noise was overwhelming—but strangely comforting.

“Remember when you played guitar badly?” Jane murmured.

He groaned.

“We agreed I should stop.”

“I think the problem wasn’t the guitar.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you fill space when you’re scared of it. Noise, plans, gestures. If you stop… you have to feel what you’ve been avoiding.”

He watched his breath cloud in the cold air.

“Maybe I thought the quiet would prove every fear I had.”

She rested her head on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to earn being here, Stephen. Not with chaos. Just… be here.”

For once, he didn’t argue.

The pipers spun. Roo trotted proudly out of step. The frost glowed quietly around them.

Stephen realised that sometimes the mess made more sense than the silence.

At ten sharp, the leader strode over, cheeks rosy, pipes mercifully silent.

“That’s our contracted time, sir. Any requests for next year?”

Stephen glanced at Jane.

She raised a single eyebrow.

He smiled.

“No. Absolutely not.”

Jane produced a folded note and a crumpled tenner.

“Tip them. We’ve traumatised enough musicians for one Christmas.”

The pipers saluted, formed a crooked little parade, and marched off. Roo watched them, then trotted dutifully back.

The park settled. Dog walkers drifted off. Frost softened underfoot.

“One day left,” Jane said, brushing grass from her pyjamas. “Do I want to know what’s coming?”

Stephen thought of the notification:

Order Confirmed: Twelve Drummers Drumming.

He winced.

“Probably not.”

“Are any of them quiet?”

“Well… define—”

“Stephen,” she warned—but her smile betrayed her.

They walked home, Roo sniffing frosty patches with earnest investigation.

The morning felt both lighter and louder—echoes of eleven pipers tugging faintly at the air. Behind their curtains, the partridge was undoubtedly plotting grievances from the pear tree; the hens drafting formal complaints; the geese lecturing the swans about comparative suffering.

Stephen looked at Jane—pink cheeks, pencils still in her hair, sketchbook tucked like a promise beneath her arm.

For the first time, he thought he might miss the noise.

At the gate, a single distant thump travelled through the quiet—just once, like a drumstick testing its first beat.

Roo’s ears shot up.

Jane narrowed her eyes.

“That better be a bin lorry.”

Stephen felt his instinctive panic rise—then soften before it reached him.

Roo bounded into the doorway and immediately flopped onto her back, paws aloft, ready for duty.

He looked at Jane, at Roo, at the quiet waiting for them.

Maybe the quiet bits weren’t so frightening after all.