The Apprentice Writer

It had been snowing all day and his mother had only just nipped out to the shops. He strained to see his father on the ladder. They were both all togged up in sheepskin coats and gloves.   

 ‘But I can help, Dad. I can pass you stuff.’ His foot sat on the first rung, just waiting for the word to let him scurry upwards. He blinked and blew at the snowflakes that lightly landed on his face as he stared upwards.

Paul trundled to the ground and grabbed more lights from the plastic box beside the boy. ‘No. Just stay at the bottom, Dane. I need to get this done before your mum comes back. She’ll be mad enough at us for doing it in this weather, but it’s the only day I have this week. Next door’s got theirs up, so we need to do this and it’s not easy with these gloves on. So don’t give me any grief. Don’t you want to go in and watch TV or something?’  He untangled the flex and made his way upwards again.

Dane pushed against the first rung and lifted himself up onto the next one, then the third and the fourth and finally one more. He stopped there, not saying anything, just staring upwards into the falling flotsam. . Dane didn’t want to look down but it felt quite high. He wiped at his face and realised his error too late as he leant backwards and felt himself fall into the open air. Panicked, he grabbed at the ladder but both cosy hands missed.

There was no bone crunching thwump but he was on the ground and as he stood he realised he was no longer in his garden. He was not even outside. Around him was wood and fences and gates and straw and . . . what was that smell?

Dane peered at the plaques on each gate and his mouth dropped as he recognised the names. Prancer and Dancer and Donner and . . .

‘No way!’ he squealed.

‘Hey, less noise. I’ve got a sick reindeer back here.’ A small head had poked out between wooden fence slats further down the barn. Dane couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The man, if it was a man, was the same height as he was but looked a lot, lot, older. Dressed in green with a floppy hat and large pointed ears, his nose wrinkled as he peered at the boy.

‘You’re an elf!’

‘And you’re a boy, and this is a stable, and I’ve still got a sick reindeer here. So hush your noise,’ he hissed.

Dane wandered over to the creature and looked tentatively into the stall. The small man was adjusting a blanket over a large reindeer, which was half sleeping and half snorting. Its eyes opened slightly and it gazed up at Dane, then sneezed. The poor things eyes watered and it sniffled, strangely. Its nose had a purpleish dull, hazy, glow.

He checked the name on the gate and shook his head.

‘I thought he had a red nose?’

‘He does. Do you look your best when you’ve got a cold, Dane?’

Dane hummed in agreement, that made sense, about the only thing that did so far.

‘Wait a minute, how do you know who I am?’ he stared incredulously at the sprite, who chuckled.

‘I’m an elf silly. We know all the children. We have lists to check after all.’ He pulled a bucket towards him and scooped a handful of mixture, then fed it to the snuffling animal. ‘And no, you haven’t been naughty so don’t panic,’ he laughed.

Dane grinned. That was exactly what he had been wondering but hadn’t dared ask, just in case. ‘But how did I get here, what happened?’

‘Oh that. It happens sometimes. Did you fall or trip or something?’ Dane nodded.

‘Yup, it’s the Christmas magic. It seeps out sometimes. Santa’s out practicing with the other reindeers right now, probably flying in your area. Some of the fairy dust must have filtered through the clouds. It happens.’

‘Wow!’

‘Usually it’s not noticeable things, maybe the odd plant here and there or talking cat. Sometimes we hear about an old lady falling over and amazingly having no injuries, things like that. But if it’s a child, they can sometimes end up here. We think it’s the wishful effect, wanting to be safe at that exact moment and the fairy dust acting on it. Don’t worry, we can send you back, you’ll be fine’

‘This is brilliant.’ He looked again at the stricken reindeer and then realised it wasn’t all brilliant. ‘Will he get better?’

‘Oh yes, it’s just a cold. But he needs to rest, a big job next week as you know. Here, take some of this, it’ll help ease his discomfort.’ The bucket was pushed towards Dane. ‘Take your gloves off though; we don’t want Rudi munching on those.’

Dane took off his gloves and clenched some of the food. It smelled pretty bad but he tentatively held out the mulchy mixture. It felt odd as the animal snorted and licked at his hands, devouring the offerings gratefully. To Dane it almost looked like he was smiling at him, but that was silly wasn’t it?

‘Right, we better get you back. Time isn’t the same here but we don’t want you gone too long, it’s much harder to put you back in place correctly.’ The elf clamboured out through the slats and wandered over to the feeding buckets, bringing one back towards Dane and motioning him to climb on top. He did and wobbled a bit as he rebalanced himself.

The elf reached into his pocket and sprinkled something all around the boy. It looked like sparkly sawdust or glitter. ‘Have a good Christmas, Dane. Oh, where were you when you fell?’

‘On the ladder at home . . .’ and as soon as Dane said this the elf gently pushed the boy from the bucket and he fell backwards for the second time that day.

Danes eyes widened. He couldn’t believe the elf had just done that, he had seemed so nice. He closed his eyes anticipating the impact of the hard stable floor.

As he felt the sensation of falling a gloved hand grasped his. He looked up at his father further up the ladder and dangling by one hand, the other had caught him in mid-air and he dangled there, five feet from the ground.

‘I told you to stay at the bottom. And why aren’t you wearing gloves, it’s too cold out here.’ He placed the boy safely back onto the ladder and they both made their way to the ground which scrunched underfoot as they stepped on it.

‘Sorry, Dad. I must have left my gloves somewhere. I’ll go look for them.’ Somehow he knew he’d find them in his drawer, as usual.

© Andrew Whyte

Sitting slumped over the desk David wondered just why he was doing this work.   Surely if he put a bit of thought around the problem he could find something better than Cold Calling for the sales department.

He tapped the number into the computer, brr…brr…

He hated the ringing tone and the waiting.

“I’m always afraid of what sort of abuse I may get,” he whispered to himself whilst waiting.

“Hello,” the woman’s answering voice seemed quite pleasant and certainly not aggressive.

“I am just calling,” he began his spiel.

“I know, you are calling to declare your undying love, and I have been waiting here by the phone for you.”

“Well, not exactly,” David stuttered. “We are having a…”

“Oh! wonderful.  You are giving a party as well.  It is ages since I went to a party.  I am not very young you know.”

“I must clarify everything here,” he broke in, “this is a sales call and we are having a promotion.”

“Oh! Dear.  It is nearly Christmas Day and I thought you were bringing the declaration of future and lasting love if I would only …” then the woman burst out laughing.  “I am really quite tired of these telephone calls intruding on my life so I vowed on the next one, I would at least have a laugh.  I’m sorry it happened to be you, you sound really quite decent and possibly don’t deserve to be harassed”

“Actually, some people answering the ‘phone are really abusive, sometimes their language is ear splitting, so you having a joke is a nice surprise.  I didn’t think of it being nearly Xmas day - it doesn’t mean a lot to me. I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment.”

“That makes you a real saddo, I wish I were a bit younger and I could possibly do something about that.” And she laughed again.

“Where are you exactly?” he enquired, “I would love to go out tonight, and I am not all that young myself.  Are you up for a blind date this nearly Xmas Day?”  He hesitated at the end of the line. What was he doing making a date on the firm’s phone in the firm’s time, a blind date with a possibly very old woman.

“I could meet you at the Chinese in High Street, at 7.30 pm and we could take it from there.  I hope you won’t be disappointed, there are reasons I have no date tonight, obviously.”

“I look forward to this evening more than I have for a long time.   I must go now or I’ll be minus anything to foot the bill.”

“I’m very prompt and will see you at 7.30pm.”

He hung up, and sat gazing in front of him – he must be mad.  That’s the trouble with me, I am not mad enough. Laughing he carried on with the cold calling.

The day passed with surprising speed, and there were only two replies when his ear needed protection from the decibels of abuse.

Turning up at 7.30 p.m.  in the Chinese Restaurant David felt a complete pratt.  Where was this old woman who was so appalling she didn’t have a date? What did she look like?

 The only lady standing alone seemed to be that very elegant person over near the beautifully decorated Christmas Tree – hair piled high, beautifully groomed face, and the two piece she was wearing was most suitable for an evening like this.  She couldn’t be the one without an escort could she?   David hesitated only a second, or else he would have turned and run.

“I am looking for a lady who is without en escort,” he mumbled, trying to be as cool as possible.

“You want to be careful,” this lovely lady laughed, “you may find you are stuck with me.”

“This is a lovely surprise; to have your company.” David smiled.

They called the waiter, and asked for the table by the window

“You’re very fortunate. There has been a cancellation”.

Again she laughed out loud,  “I wonder who could have been so unfortunate to have needed to cancel?  Especially so near to Christmas.”

David faced her over the table, “I think you know more about this cancellation than…”

“Yes, I am the culprit.  My partner of long standing has decided to take a bit of younger arm candy out tonight, and I decided what’s good for the gander is good for the goose.”

Although she was obviously into her 60’s she was very lovely, perfectly turned out, and her attitude seemed to promise an interesting evening.

Holding out his hand he introduced himself fully and claimed she was the best arm candy he had ever encountered.

They chose very similar items on the menu and David noticed she was very considerate in her choices.  Towards the end of the evening he turned to her,

“This has been a wonderfully unexpected pleasure  for me. I have been  very lonely since coming to this part of the world; you have made my day.”

“That’s so kind, and it could have been a disaster for you, you know,” she answered, slightly more serious than she had been. “This Christmas Eve will be  a lovely memory for me, instead of the heartbreak I expected.”

“Let’s do this again.” David went on “It doesn’t have to be a special day to get together for company, does it?  Though  tomorrow is a special day and maybe we could do this again then?”

“You’re a very special cold caller, I will have lots of days spare in future.  I am an independent woman now. My ex-partner is going to get a big surprise.  You can cold call me any time, and tomorrow would be wonderful.”

They took each other’s hands over the table.

Age didn’t really matter and it wasn’t much was it?

They raised their wine glasses to each other. “Happy Christmas.”

By Sylvie

 
Celia Brown was in bed. It was Christmas Eve and time was getting on.
For the hundredth time she sneaked a look at her bedside clock, 11. 59
pm. Not long now.
At the stroke of midnight Celia got out of bed and wandered over to her
window. Outside the snow was falling heavily there were no footprints on
the pavements. Everyone was tucked up in bed.
Celia cocked her head to the side to pick up any sound and scanned the
rooftops opposite. Nothing yet; this could be a long wait.

Celia yawned and stole a glimpse at the clock. 12..45. Only 45 minutes
had passed, it seemed longer than that. She thought about getting back
into bed but brushed the idea aside. She was 8 now; she should be able
to stay awake. Last year she had tried but ended up falling asleep with
her head on the window sill. She woke up next morning to a stiff neck
and a ticking off from mum.
'This time,' she told herself, 'I'm going to stay awake.'

20 minutes later her eyes became heavy and she pushed herself back in her
chair, yawning, she laid her head on the velvet cushion and drifted off
to sleep.

She was awakened by a soft, warm hand pushing the hair back from her
eyes. She looked up and gasped; there he was, Santa, she hadn’t missed
him this year. Celia gave a huge grin and started to say how happy she
was to see him, but Santa put his finger to his lips and shook his head.

Suddenly she heard his voice in her head. ‘Merry Christmas, Celia, it
was very kind of you to wait up to greet me like this. All children get
one Christmas in their lives when they will meet me. This is yours. Now
tell me, have you one question for me, don’t ask directly, just think, I
can read your thoughts.’

Celia thought hard, there were so many, choosing one would be very
difficult. In the end she asked, ‘Can I take your picture with my
digital camera.’
Santa laughed and nodded. ‘This is only the second time I’ve been asked
that question. Would you like to be in the picture too?’
Celia clapped excitedly.

Santa took the camera from Celia and set it on the dresser then he
gently picked Celia up and sat her on his lap. ‘Think cheese,’ he laughed.
Celia grinned widely and thought ‘cheese.’ The camera flashed, lighting
up the whole room.

Santa carried Celia back to her bed and covered her with the duvet.
‘Have a very happy Christmas, Celia. You won’t see me again, you’ve had
your turn, but I will be back every year, count on that. Your presents
will be under the tree, downstairs. Goodbye.’
Celia nodded tiredly and just managed to mumble ‘Happy Christmas,
Santa,’ before falling into a deep sleep.

Celia slept in late. Her mother looked in twice before finally waking
her at 8.30 am. Most years she was up and about for 7 o’clock.
‘Are you feeling aright,’ she asked, a little concerned. ‘You’re
normally up way before now.’
Celia nodded slowly as the events of the night came back to her. ‘I saw
Santa, mum. He was here.’
Celia’s mum smiled. ‘What lovely dream that must have been.’
Celia grabbed her camera and pressed the button to show the picture on
the back screen. There she was, sat on Santa’s lap. ‘See,’ she said
happily. Santa and me.’
Celia’s mum took the camera and looked at the screen closely. ‘I can see
you,’ she said, ‘fast asleep on the chair.’ Celia snatched the camera
back and looked at the picture again. There she was, sat on Santa’s lap
on her chair by the window. She started to tell he mother but stopped
herself. Maybe adults couldn’t see, this was Santa magic, a moment that
belonged to just the two of them.

Mum gave her a cuddle and told her to get her dressing gown on. There
were presents under the tree waiting to be opened.
As she walked to the door Celia’s mum stopped. A memory from long ago
came into her mind but left almost as soon as it arrived. She turned and
looked at Celia, a smile forming on her lips. ‘I think I remember a
picture too, a long time ago.’ She shook her head and the memory
vanished. ‘Maybe I dreamt it.’ She said.

 Trevor Belshaw

The old lady lay cowering on the pavement, crouched into the foetal position, dark eyes large and pleading; the teenager stood over her, and the dog began to growl deep in its throat.

“What happened?” asked the girl, bending down.

“They ran away when they heard you coming.”  The voice was small and hesitant, with a whisper of fear.

“Are you hurt? Can you walk?”

There was no reply, but the old lady began to stir and attempted to rise. The girl gave her hand and put the other under the old woman’s elbow.

When she was on her feet, she managed a wan smile. “I think I can manage now they have gone, thank you.”

“I can’t leave you.  I am going home to Laurel Street. Where do you want to be?”

“Just round the corner from there. It would be a help”

As the girl took the old lady’s arm, the dog growled again.

“She won’t bite.” There was a smile in her voice. “She is just a bit worried with those boys jumping up and down and shouting - then they gave me a good push when you came, and  I fell over.”

The teenager didn’t say anything, just walked slowly to accommodate the shuffling pace of her companion.

“What is your name? You are very considerate – young people don’t seem to have much time for the elderly these days.”

“I’m Laura.” And they carried on.

After she had taken the old lady to her bungalow and seen her safely inside, Laura wandered  home thinking of this little old lady being all alone with no-one to care for her.

At school there was a careers officer wanting Laura to decide on her future, and arrange a work practice.  That night Laura decided her work practice would be to care for old ladies, and she had found her first patient.

They got on like a house on fire.  The name she called the old lady was Gran, because her own Grandma didn’t live near enough to visit now. But best of all was the dog.  She needed to go for walks and Gran wasn’t up to it.  Her hip hurt more than she would admit, so Laura called and took the dog out every day and for long walks at weekends.  They both loved the freedom and ran together through the woods.

Gran asked Laura about her home life, and found she was the youngest child by some years, the older siblings had their own homes and lives, and Laura was virtually an only child.  Her father didn’t spend much time at home either.  That was an area which Gran didn’t delve into.

“You do love dogs, don’t you?” she laughed one day when Laura and Pip returned from a long walk dripping with rain and filthy underfoot.  Pip needed a rinse down, she was so dirty.   Laura gave her a good rub and smiled. 

“I would love a dog, but I wasn’t allowed one when I was little as Dad said they gave you asthma or something – Mum said it was just because he didn’t want a dog under his feet”

“What does he think about dogs now?” Gran continued.

“Oh! He isn’t home long enough to say much now”

The subject was left, but Christmas was near once again and Gran was thinking of something to please Laura, because she really wouldn’t have been able to manage without her help.

The next week Gran asked Laura to take Pip to the vet for her check over.

“She will have to stay in for a few days” she explained, “and you can fetch her when the vet clears her. Would that be all right?”

“Is there anything wrong with her?” Laura asked anxiously.

“Oh! No. Just a little check up” and the old lady laughed.

When the dog was collected from the vet. Laura examined here very closely for trouble, but she looked happy enough and the routine exercise days were resumed.

A few weeks passed and Laura fancied Pip didn’t run quite so much as she used to do.

“Do you think Pip needs to go on a diet?  She certainly doesn’t seem as active as she was, though I give her the same daily runs.”

Gran smiled “I wouldn’t worry, a bit of weight won’t hurt her – it will all go away in a little while”

Laura’s days seemed to be filled with thoughts of what Gran would need and if the dog was in good health.  Christmas wouldn’t mean a lot to her, as there was no party at her own house, though sometimes they might visit one of her sisters for Christmas Day.  Her Mother didn’t always feel up to going and Laura wouldn’t leave her alone for Christmas Day.  Dad didn’t always appear, as business kept him very busy over the holiday period.

Only a week to Christmas, the weather had been very poor and Pip seemed disinclined to sally forth into the wind and rain, though Laura enjoyed a walk if well wrapped up.  She didn’t complain but if the dog wished to turn back Laura just wandered on behind.  There was a ripple of worry in her heart as she was sure Pip wasn’t as bright as she used to be.

The very next day, Gran rushed as quickly as she could to the door, but Pip didn’t give Laura her usual excited welcome.  “Come in, Pip is in the kitchen under the table, in her basket.”

“What’s the matter with her?”  Laura called out “Pip” hurrying into the kitchen.

 Gran followed at her own pace, smiling as Laura bent under the table to find Pip lying in her basket with two tiny pieces of fur snuffling there.

“Puppies!” gasped Laura. “Oh! How wonderful” and she pushed her hand round the dog’s ears.  “When will we be able to pick them up?”

“Pip needed to have babies to keep her healthy, and that is why she was at the vets.

We can pick them up in a day or two when she gets less anxious about her new brood.  Then there is a big surprise for you, Laura. You can choose the one you would like most – Happy Christmas”

S. J. W.

By

Sylvie

            On entering the boss’s office, she stood almost ashamed and definitely embarrassed.

“I’m really sorry to inform you I am pregnant.”

“But that was one of the points of honour when you were engaged – you didn’t have or want any children.”

“Which was quite true at the time.”

“So you changed your mind?”

“Er…not really, maybe I laugh too much at the wrong time.”

“We won’t go into that.  Are you sure?  It will of course, affect your promotion, and we cannot guarantee your position on return.”

“I understand perfectly.”   He picked up some papers with a grunt in obvious dismissal.

Returning to her own office, she flumped into the chair and sat over the typewriter, shoulders sunk in despair – not crying but not far off.

“Ah well.  Easy reached easily lost – my wonderful office position.”

Some six months later in the maternity clinic.

Husband –“ Are you OK? Dear”              

“What do you think, that was the worst experience I have ever had – I will never ever  go through that again.”

“How can I help? Is there anything I can do, love?”

“I could tell you, but it wouldn’t be very nice.  They are shortly going to bring in the little……”

“Haven’t you seen her yet?

“No, they said in view of the condition I was in, maybe a good rest would be the best tonic.  I don’t think I will ever feel right again.”

“Oh! It will pass.  They say...”

“Oh! Yes, I’ve heard of what they say, but I rather think those statements come from people who have never had the dreadful experience.”   She began to sniffle.

“Don’t get upset, love, you’ll feel differently when you feel better.”

“If I ever do.  I don’t think I have the sort of ideas which encompass having to deal with sickness, nappies…   Oh! I feel ill just thinking about them.”

“Don’t think about them then – here comes the nurse with the babies.  Oh aren’t they cute?”

“It wasn’t the word I had in mind”

Watching the nurse scurrying into the room carrying too many closely wrapped small blankets in her arms:  “Be careful with those bundles – should you be carrying so many?   That one is mine.

No, not this one.  I can tell my own, you know.  How?  I just know.  Look on the wrist tape – there, I knew this little bundle was mine.   Gosh! Aren’t her eyes blue? And she’s got quite a lot of hair – I thought they were bald at first – it’s a lovely blond isn’t it?   There…there…Sh…Sh.”

And she slowly rocked the little bundle too and fro as though she was a veteran all with such new arrivals, and suddenly she smiled up at the others.

He sighed a deep and relieved sigh “Mum will be so relieved – though she said she knew you’d be all right when the baby came.  Her little Christmas Carol, she said.”

                                                    * * * * * * *

Christmas again and what will it bring?
Goodwill to all men, that kind of thing?
It would be a first, I do have to say.
It’s not what we normally get
On the big day.
Year after year, on the TV screen,
We see death and destruction,
Along with the Queen.
The world seems at peace
As the church choir sings,
But a disaster or two,
Lurks in the wings.
Earthquakes, tsunamis, mudslides,
And worse,
Soon have us reaching for wallet, or purse.
But this year it’s different
There’ll be none of that,
I’m leaving the box off
I’ll eat and get fat.
I won’t see the starving, the dying
The slain.
I won’t hear the crying
Of people in pain.
The phone won’t be answered,
I won’t take that call,
Or read the papers,
That drop into my hall.
Instead I’ll play music,
I’ll hum a refrain.
As I walk with my dogs,
In the park, in the rain.
And after 12th night
When nothings left to be cursed,
I’ll turn to the world
And say, "you did your worst"
But I’ve not been caught up
In your gloom and despair,
I’ve sailed through this Christmas
With a nonchalant air.
And I’ll have survived,
But be chilled by the fear,
Of knowing it all happens again,
Next year.
Merry Christmas.

© Trevor Belshaw

   ‘Coma? No he...’

   ‘How long has it been now? It’s such a worry isn’t it? The trouble is there’s no knowing if he’ll have brains like vegetable soup if he does ever wake up, and what with it being Christmas as well... still he’s lucky to be alive I suppose; thank the lord for small mercies I say.’

   ‘... actually, it was just a concussion not a coma.’

   ‘Oh well... that’s not so bad then, is it? I expect he’ll be up and running in no time.’

She smoothed her hands one over the other, over the other. ‘Yes, I’m sure it’ll be no time at all... Is it right – I heard that Catherine has moved away?’

   ‘Yes that’s right love, she’s moved up north with her work, she didn’t want to leave me of course - her being all I got left now. Roger and me we were all set for a brood, but it wasn’t meant to be... still, we were happy, the three of us. When I think of the mayhem on Christmas morning, I ought to be glad it was...’

Julia fidgeted with her appointment card, smiling politely.

   ‘Actually, I’d better go and let reception know I’m here - my appointment is for half past.’

   ‘You go on my love; mind you I’ve been sat here the best part of an hour, so I wouldn’t worry about rushing if I were you.’ 

   ‘I’ll tell Catherine you were asking after her shall I?’

   ‘Yes, of course. Wish her a Happy Christmas from me and Brian.’

Mrs Tyrone smiled all false teeth and smears of badly aimed lipstick.

She watched the succession of patients hopefully as they entered and exited through the door, letting the icy air blast through each time. She wondered if she would have enough tokens for the meter to last her through Christmas. But it didn’t matter, the house would still be cold and empty, heating or no heating.

   ‘Beryl love! Don’t you look festive today – positively glowing.’

   ‘Oh, do I really? Thank you Mrs Tyrone.’

   ‘I haven’t seen you in ages, come and squeeze in next to me. I’m not contagious today, so you’re all right.’ Beryl didn’t look entirely convinced but squeezed herself between Mrs Tyrone and the grotty looking youth anyway, immediately he sniffed dramatically and wiped his nose in the end of his equally grotty jumper.

   ‘Do you know that Julia Jones? She’s a frosty one, not a bit of wonder her fella’s taken up with another woman.’

Beryl shifted uncomfortably on the bristly seat.

   ‘Oh really? I didn’t know that,’ she eyed the youth- who was nudging her as rummaged through his pockets. ‘Actually I work with Brian, I can’t imagine that he would do something like that though - he’s not the cheating kind,’ the youth snorted,

   ‘But I suppose if the marriage was already over...’

   ‘You’d be surprised what happens behind closed doors. I heard the nurses talking last week and apparently it was his over-excitement with this floozy that nearly landed him in a coma - jumping off the wardrobe apparently.’ She didn’t even have to look past the curtain of greasy hair to know his face was contorting with contained laughter.

   ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, Mrs Tyrone. It was just a concussion. He had a fall in work.’

   ‘Well I expect that’s what his wife thinks, too. I was speaking to Mrs Jackson. She lives a few doors down from them and she told me that they’ve been trying for a baby for quite some time, years apparently. Bound to put a strain on a marriage something like that.’

   ‘Norman James for the doctor please.’

Beryl breathed a sigh of relief as the youth, released her from the vice she had wedged herself into.

   ‘I didn’t realise... are you sure that’s right Mrs Tyrone? Not just idle gossip? Brian would have told me...  I expect it would have come up in conversation at work at any rate.’

   ‘Well gossip it may be, but it’s not idle. Mrs Jackson’s active in these things, she could sniff out a scandal a mile away - those long-range binoculars she had last Christmas, are the culprits. Wildlife fanatic she is. Still, she said she seen them with her own two eyes; older woman by all accounts.’

   ‘Oh...’

   ‘And if I were you Beryl I’d keep my distance from that one; you don’t want to get yourself tied into that mess.’

   ‘No, no I don’t associate with Brian or any of the others outside work - except for the Christmas do and company days out of course – I wouldn’t have the time. Derek lets me off the leash to work overtime, but that’s about the extent of it.’

   ‘Beryl! This is the Noughties. You shouldn’t have to put up with that nonsense. My Roger loved my free spirit; we had friends on every continent you know.’

   ‘No, I shouldn’t. It’s funny I’ve just recently come to realise that myself.’

   ...‘Hello Mrs Tyrone, what are you still doing here? Haven’t you seen the Doctor yet?’

   ‘No, my love she’s very busy today, isn’t she? All manner of ailments and injuries this time of year I imagine.’

    ‘Well yes she is, but you’ve been here since 9.30 this morning; perhaps you should make an appointment for tomorrow - you’ll be here for evening surgery at this rate.’

   ‘Actually I was just going to drop off my repeat prescription but I thought I’d wait for Doctor as I was here. Save me another trip.’

   ‘Well okay then, I’ll speak to the doctor and see if she’ll fit you in a bit sooner.’

   ‘Oh no, I’ll not jump the queue; I’ll be fine waiting here just like everybody else. I’ve got some boiled sweets in my bag and besides my Catherine can come and pick me up after she’s finished work. It’s turning to snow out there and I rather wait in here if it’s all the same to you.’

   ‘Okay then, if you’re sure.’

   ‘She’s a right little madam that one isn’t she? She’ll be having the bouncers escort me off the premises next. Where’s her bloody Christmas spirit?’

   ‘Who, Linda?’

    ‘Her on reception. That’s her name, is it? She won’t take my repeats on the phone, you know. Insists I come in here exposing myself to all manner of germs and me with my arthritis.’

   ‘Is Catherine home for Christmas then?’

   ‘No, no she isn’t, but she is hoping to get the time off, she’s in a very important position though so I don’t know if they’ll be able to spare her. Anyway what is it you’re in for Beryl love?’

   ‘Oh it’s just a routine check up.’

   ‘What’s that for then?’

   ‘It’s a bit embarrassing to tell you the truth... It’s probably the menopause.’

   ‘Happens to us all love; it’s a bit late though isn’t it?’

   ‘What? Oh the menopause - no I wouldn’t have said so.’

   ‘Are you going to have the hormones, are you love?’

   ‘I certainly hope that’s not necessary. I’ve got plenty as it is and they’re all over the place.’

   ‘Are you still menstruating then Beryl?’

Suddenly the bristly seat became very uncomfortable again,

  ‘I haven’t had a period in a while, actually that is the main reason I think it probably is the Menopause.’

  ‘Well its twelve months for the Menopause Beryl love.’

   ‘Beryl Simmons, the doctor will see you now.’

She jumped up immediately, snatching her handbag from the seat.

   ‘That’s me then... It was nice chatting to you Mrs Tyrone... informative.’

   ‘Oh, there’s Julia now...  Julia love, we were just talking about you. Everything alright, was it? You know Beryl don’t you; she works with your Brian. What am I saying, I expect you will have met at the Christmas do - Beryl was just telling me about it.’

   ‘No... Actually, I didn’t realise Brian had had his Christmas do already – of course I would have been far too busy to go in any case. Work doesn’t stop for Santa you know, well maybe for Santa. Brian has mentioned you a few times, Beryl is it? It was lucky you were there when he had his fall.’

   ‘Yes, I suppose it was really.... It’s nice to have met you Julia; but I must dash, the doctor’s already called me in.’

She was gone in an instant, leaving nothing but her floral scent in her wake.

   ‘Don’t mind Beryl. She’s all hormones – menopausal apparently.’

   ‘Well Julia love, you’re looking very happy for someone who’s just been for a trip to the doctor’s.’

   ‘It must be the Christmas spirit Mrs Tyrone.’

   ‘Nothing else?’

   ‘I haven’t even told Brian yet but... Do you think you can you keep a secret Mrs Tyrone?’

   ‘Julia love, I’m known for it!’           

Julia beamed, she was positively glowing.     

   ‘I think it might just be the best Christmas ever, Mrs Tyrone.’

Mrs Tyrone smiled limply and turned away...

Kristina JJ Meredith

      Christmas was about  six weeks away and Mum was unusually tetchy. We all knew

 something was bugging  her.  We were waiting for her to point her finger at the culprit.

 Dad  muttered things like, `I wish your mother'd get, whatever it is, off her chest,' and

`Is it you or young Tom's been getting on your mother's  nerves?'  

   I  doubted  it  was  Tommy.   He  rarely  gave Mum  any trouble and when he did

she sorted him out smartish. I might be the cause of the  trouble.  Mum didn't like my

latest  boy-friend’s hair style,  but  she  knew he wouldn't last long; I hadn't  stuck

posters on my walls or coloured my hair, I'd done my ironing and some of Gran's too,

so what was wrong?

          `Dad, has  Gran  upset  her?' Gran was looking smug as though she knew

something  we  didn't.  Dad tut-tutted, said  something  about  'the  crows'  under  his 

breath and then exploded, `Women! If I live to be a hundred, I  still shan't understand

them.'

          At  supper  that  night  we  were  congratulating Mum on not having burnt the

custard for a change, when Gran said, `She's practising for Edith’s visit,' and winked.

          Mum's lips tightened, but she didn't say anything.

          `Who's   Edith?'   Tommy   asked  innocently. 

          `She's my sister,' said Gran,  'So that makes her your great Aunt Edith.  She lives

 in The States and is coming to stay for Christmas.  Won't that be nice?'

         `Aunt Edith, coming here?  It's the first I've heard of  it,’ said  Dad.  `I thought

you two didn't get on.  Pass the custard please.' He sniffed it and said, `So  that's  how

custard  should  smell.'  He  beamed  at Mum.  `Nobody tells me anything.  I only pay

the mortgage.'

          `And  I  only  do  the  cleaning and cooking and washing and ironing and...'

          `I did my ironing and Gran's last week.'  I  said,  feeling my efforts had gone

unnoticed.

          `Yes dear, thank you, but it's the cleaning gets me down. Everything's so shabby,

 no matter  what  I  do,  nothing  looks  nice.'                     

          `Don't bother then,' Dad  said.  `Nobody'd  know would they?' Big mistake!

          Mum stood, I've never seen her look so mad.  She banged the  serving           

spoon into  the  gooseberry crumble  with enough force to break the dish; she

screamed, `Men!', and stormed out.  We exchanged glances.

          `Eat up,' said Dad, then he went too.

          Five minutes later they returned to the table.  Mum blew her nose, Dad looked

sheepish and said,  `Problem solved, we're getting in the decorators.  Mum doesn't

want Aunt Edith to  see we live in a slum.'

          `There  isn't  much  time to get decorators in, is there?' Gran was asking a simple

 question to which it seemed she alone  knew the answer.  We waited, `Edith arrives

three weeks  on Saturday.'

            ‘How  long for?’ I asked.

            ‘About six weeks, ‘Mum said.

            Dad looked horrified and said, ‘That’ll take us past Christmas.’

           ‘We can’t just turn her out on Boxing Day,’ Gran said.

            ‘OK, OK, I’ll get someone in as soon as I can.’

 By  Saturday  Dad  still hadn't  found  anyone  who  could  start  redecorating our four  bedroom house and be finished within a month.  Then the  milkman  told Mum about Ted. ‘You want it done by Christmas, that right?

‘Before that, I’m afraid.  I have to get things ready for Christmas too.’

          `Ted'll do it for you Mrs Franklin, sure as  eggs  is  eggs. No one works like Ted

 does; crack o'  dorn  till dusk,  that's  Ted.  He don't stop for cups o' tea nor nuffin'. I'll

 arsk 'im to drop in.'

          Ted dropped in crack o' dorn  next morning.  Mum had surfaced in her dressing

gown and the rest of us were still  snoring.   Not  wishing  to  seem ungrateful, she gave

him a cup of tea and went to rouse Dad.  By the time he'd  made himself   respectable,  

 Ted   was   sandpapering   the  kitchen .

         `Good morning,'  Dad said through clenched teeth.

          `'Mornin' Misser Franklin'  says  Ted,  hardly  looking  up.  `I thought I might as

 well get  crackin' seein' as  'ow  you're  in  an 'urry.'

          `But   we  haven't  discussed  terms;  I'm  not  sure  I  can  afford...'  I could see

Dad was   niggled.

          `Don't worry,' says Ted, `Pay me what ya can, when ya can, I likes to be  busy. 

 Decoratin's   no   'ardship  to yours truly, it’s bills wots the problem.' All the time Ted

was working away  with  sand  paper, spreading dust everywhere. `Don't mind me,' he

grinned when Mum  said  she  must  get  breakfast, `You carry on, your not in my way.

  I'll get the blow torch onto the stubborn stuff later.'

          We  had  lunch at the pub and tea in the garden.  We spent the  afternoon  at the

  D.I.Y.  superstore  buying paints, and wallpapers, brushes  of every description,

strippers,  fillers, adhesives,  thinners,  bottles, tins and tubes and we took them all  

 home to Ted.  He was covered in dust from his spiky hair and moustache down to the

toeless trainers on  his  feet  -  he was using Dad's sander.

         `Don't start  the  bedrooms  until we've had time to clear  them.'   Mum said

anxiously.

          `Don't worry your  'ead about that,' says Ted.  `I'm 'ere to work and work is

what I'll do.'

          Ted left the house on the first day  having  stripped  every inch of paintwork in

the house down to the wood.  He swept up  mountains  of  dust  and strippings, left just

 as much still lying around the house and wished us good night  at  half  past  ten.   We 

were speechless, coated inside and out with a layer of dust. Mum and  Dad  made sure

every door was locked and bolted so Ted couldn't effect  entry until they were good

and  ready,  next day.

          Mum  was upstairs when we arrived home from school, making our tea in the

bathroom.  Ted  had  been  told  to  stay downstairs.  Mum was making upstairs

Ted-proof  before he got to work.

            ‘I think we’ll  do the Christmas shopping  while he’s here, then when

everything’s in apple pie order we can get Edith’s room ready and get the extra

cooking and odd jobs done.  He certainly works fast,'  said  Mum  but  the  strain 

was already telling.  Ted had had a couple of mishaps.  First he set the banister on fire

with his blow torch.

          `Don't  worry,' he said, `I'll soon get rid of the scorch marks.' And he did,

creating a whole lot more dust in the process. Secondly in his haste to get the wallpaper

 on the sitting room walls  he  knocked  over  a bucket of heavy duty paste on the

carpet which didn't please Mum.

          `Don't worry, that'll mop up clean as a whistle.' It  looked O.K until it was dry, and then the pile became hard and stiff.

          `The man's a maniac,' said Dad, `I'd better tell him to go.'  Mum was cleaning the stiff patch on the carpet.

          `No!   You  can't,  we'll  never get anyone else, and your mother's already told

Aunt Edith she can come.'  Mum said. ‘There’s still a bit of time before the Christmas

rush.’

          `Mum, the stairs are wet.' She rushed to see  what  Tommy had  found.  Rubbing

  her hand on the stairs she discovered Ted had spilt a tin of emulsion paint at the top 

of  the  stairs and it had bounced all the way down.

`Don't worry,' said Ted when Dad tackled him about it next morning, `It's  quick

  drying  and  it's the 'zact same colour as the carpet - you won't know it's there

 tomorra'.'

          That  night Mum and Dad spent over an hour cleaning up after Ted. Splashes of

paint had crept under the dust  sheets  and  blobs  of  filler  and adhesive had attached 

themselves to the furniture.  Dad was furious but Mum insisted Ted's work was faultless.

  True  enough;  apart  for the  mess  he  was  making everywhere,  Ted  was  a first

rate craftsman.

          `I'd have made less mess myself.' said Dad.

          `Oh yes,' Mum agreed, but you'd be still thinking about starting, whereas Ted's

almost finished  the  kitchen  and  he's done other bits all over the house.

          That was the trouble.  Ted's mess was  everywhere.   We  ate  where  we  could

 and slept where there was a space on the floor big enough to put down our sleeping

bags.  The beds were piled  high with  furniture  from all over the house.

          `It  won't  be  for  much longer,' Mum said comfortingly. Ted thinks he'll finish by

 the end of next week. ‘It will be worth all the pain, once it’s done.’

           Dad had almost lost his cool with Ted several  times and if Mum hadn't

intervened he might have left.

          `It  may  be  torture  now  but  it'll  be short lived,' she assured Dad. 

          Ted continued to work all hours.  He was  in  the  house  as soon as the door

was open in the morning and rarely left before ten at night.  He didn't tire but Mum and 

 Dad  were flagging  from  mopping  up  spillages and clearing away dust  and rubbish

manufactured by Ted in less time than it took  anyone  else  to cough.  By Thursday of

the second week things  were  looking  good.  Gleaming paint, clean and colourful

wallpapers,  carpets like new after so much sponging and shampooing.

          `One more day,' Ted assured us, `And you won't  see  me  fer dust!' He joined

in the laughter.

          We  worked  all weekend vacuuming and polishing.  Eventually Mum was

satisfied and there was still time to finish the shopping and cook the Christmas fair 

before Christmas, if not before Aunt Edith arrived.

          `If you're happy, I'll  go  and  pay  our craftsman.'  Dad said. 

I  walked  with him to Ted's cottage door and we knocked.  Ted was hardly

recognisable.   No longer  covered  in paint and dust, his hair was clean and

tidy  and  his  moustache  trimmed.   He  wore  a  white shirt,  a loosely

knotted tie and freshly washed jeans.

          '`Mornin' Misser Franklin, 'mornin' Miss.  We went into his  hall which doubled

as the office. `Your account ain't ready.' Papers were  everywhere.  Ted  had  been

trying to do his sums and had failed miserably.  `I'm a one man band Misser  Franklin. 

  Paintin' an'   decoratin's  my  pleasure,  I enjoy  decoratin', but I can't abide figures. 

Wot was the  job  worth to you?'

          Dad had never done business like this before, but he  was  a fair man.  He named

 a price and Ted readily agreed.

          `I'll  give  you  an  extra 5% for speed and deduct 6% for mess,' said Dad. 

`Is that O.K.?'

          `Take  another five fer doin' the sums,' said Ted.  `You done me a real favour. Is

 your Missus happy?' he asked.  `She was worried your Aunty from the States would

beat me to it.

          `Aunty from the States isn't coming,' said Dad. 

No Aunt Edith! I couldn't believe it. What was he saying?  Dad went on,  `It was a plot

 to get the house redecorated, cooked  up by  my mother and my wife because I had no

 enthusiasm for the job.'

          `No!'   Ted  said  thoughtfully.   `Its  not  so  much   the actual 

paintin'  'n' paperin', it's  clearin' up after gets most people.  That's not summit  ever

worries  yours  truly  over much,'  and I thought he winked at me.

          Dad had to agree the house looked great when we’d hung the decorations and

put up the Christmas tree. ‘A pity  Aunt Edith won’t see it.’ he said.

FM

    Jo wasn't looking forward to  being the rear end of a tap-dancing pantomime cow again… 'It isn't easy dancing with a full udder between your legs,' she was heard to say. 'It's more like slap-dancing as it swings to and fro.'

Well paid, vacation jobs weren't easy to find and she wanted experience on the stage; getting the feel of the professional acting world, meeting actors who'd already made it,  learning the tricks of the trade.

She and Kate had  scoured the pages of theatre journals for weeks, hoping for  understudy slots though they knew it was a long shot. All that was left for students was  a series of different shapes and sizes in animal costumes.

Jo had been the rear end of a cow twice, a horse once and they had been a camel together. Managing its four  unwieldy feet was tough but Jo, who was tall  had been able to stand upright with her head in the hump.

They made sure  one of them was always available to answer the phone in the run up to Christmas. They'd inquired in so many theatres they didn't want to miss a call if  one came. Jo  had been to the library again and when she returned Kate was looking smug.

'So, what have you got?' she asked.

'I'm in Peter Pan. Starting tomorrow. There's a number by the phone for you. I think  they're looking for a genie,'  she  giggled.

At least there are no animals in Aladdin, thought Jo.

The Director invited Jo for an audition immediately   but her enthusiasm  waned when she was offered the back legs of a mule — used for laundry deliveries. With no alternative she was tempted to accept,  but Kate was in Peter Pan and Jo wasn't prepared to admit to her she was being type cast yet again.

The bus  stopped outside a theatre, advertising Peter Pan, on her way home and on a whim Jo jumped off and dropped in to see if they were short staffed. Rehearsal was in progress. She sat at the rear of the rehearsal room.  Apart from a burly assistant stage manager standing-in for Mrs Darling, things were going well.

Jo moved to The Director's side. She could see he was  agitated by the mechanical voice of the stand-in.

'I could read  Mrs Darling?' she smiled, 'I'm an actor.'

The Director looked Jo up and down. 'Could you? Would you mind?'   He stood and shouted to the actors on stage  'Cut! I may have found a replacement for Julie.' He turned to Jo. 'What's your name, Luv?'

'Jo will read Mrs Darling. Give her your script Mike.' Before she knew where she was Jo was on stage, having acquired a  husband and three children.

'Go back to the Darlings' entrance, right…' He sat again.

'Shove me into position when you can,' Jo whispered to her newly acquired spouse.

'Will do,' he said 'I'm Jack by the way.'

It was possible Kate had landed a part in a West End production whereas she'd have to be content with Mrs Darling in this second rate theatre - if she was offered it, but at least Mrs Darling was human.

          She was slow with her moves in the first run through the scene but the second time   she'd got it taped and words of a good script came easily. There was another short scene which followed with a recording of Nanna the dog barking at the window as the children disappeared over the sill,  flying off to the Never Land. That went well too. The part was Jo's.

'Julie's got domestic problems. Her kid's  ill and her Nanny's buggered off home to Fiji. Can you open with us on 26th and stick with it probably for a month till she gets back? You'll really get me out of the shit if you will,'  said The Director.

When Jo eventually got home after ten, stressed right out,  Kate was  watching TV.

          Where the hell have you been?' she yelled, I thought they'd stuffed you into a bottle and corked it.'

          Jo had forgotten about the genie. 'I didn't take it.  They didn't want a genie, they needed a sodding mule's arse…,' she said vehemently   Kate's laugh told Jo  she'd known all along.

           'Luckily… I wandered into rehearsals of Peter Pan…  at the King's.'

          'Not The King's,' Kate shrieked.

          'The same as you?'

          'The very same.' 

          'Great. Who are you? One of the lost children?'

          'No.' said Kate 'I'm Nanna. Back and front legs!'

‘A double whammy!’ Jo laughed. ‘Well this time I’ve  only got two legs of my own, but I’ve collected a husband, three children and a dog called Nanna.’

            ‘You can’t complain about type casting this time then,’ Kate laughed. ‘I reckon I’m just cut out to be an animal. It’s all work, isn’t it?’

By Rosa Johnson 

Charlie saw Christmas lights and  pantomime advertisements in the city. Bright twinkling  displays attracted him to shop windows. This wasn’t a part of his Christmas. Hands in his empty pockets, he dreamed of the Christmas stocking he wouldn’t get and of presents he would like to wrap for his Mum and his little sister.

Charlie was excluded from school last term because he was  disruptive in class. No one ever gave him the time of day if he didn’t cause a stir, so he attracted attention by pinging the bra’ elastic of the girl in front of him, or taking his shoes off  to cut his toenails with the flick knife he’d lifted from another boy’s pocket. He carried on  loud conversations with his mates across the class room and told the teacher where to go when he was corrected.

None of this behaviour was natural to Charlie but  something inside him egged him on so that he wasn’t ignored.

He wanted to do something to make someone pay attention to the poverty suffered by his family. His mother didn’t like people to know she often went to bed hungry when there wasn’t enough food to go round so she never complained and continued trying to manage as best she could.

Charlie kicked a beer can between the pillars of the church yard gate and followed it onto the grass among the  head stones.  The Vicar called out to him.

            ‘Hey, boy! Don’t do that. Pick the can up and put it in the bin, there’s a good lad.’

Charlie gave the can another kick straight at the Vicar. Bending to pick it up he beckoned to Charlie.’ Come here, son. I want to speak to you.’

            Like everyone else, the Vicar gave Charlie a dressing down. ‘At Christmas time, young man, God asks us to think of others. Do you do that?’

            ‘No, Sir.’ Charlie said politely, surprising himself.

            ‘Why not? Don’t you like to make other people happy.’

            ‘’Ow, Sir?’ the boy asked.

            ‘You see this bag.’ The vicar rattled the money in the collection purse he was holding. ‘In here is money, kind people have given to help the poor this Christmas.’

            ‘Goowan! Nobody ever ‘elps my Mum or gives ‘er money. She’s poor. ‘Nobody, gives ‘er nuffin.’

            ‘And where do you live?’ The Vicar asked.

            When Charlie told him, the Vicar said he was sorry, but that wasn’t in his Parish.

            Same old story the boy thought but he knew the money must have been collected during church services and he knew when church services were held, so he worked out a way of helping himself to some of the takings.

On the Sunday evening just before Christmas  the family was sharing a tin of  thin soup.  Charlie told his mother he was going out afterwards. He would see a vicar who gave money to the poor at Christmas time.  ‘You’re poor ain’t  ya, Mum, so I’m gonna get you some.’

            Charlie’s slipped out through the ill-fitting door into the street.

            ‘Don’t be long, Charlie,’ his Mum  called, ‘and be careful.’

            The boy crept along under cover of the church yard wall to the gate and peered round it to see if anyone was about. The last of the congregation was leaving and he expected to see the Vicar locking the church door with the money bag in his hand, though this evening it wasn’t so easy to discern him through the fog.  Charlie spotted  him in his flowing cassock going away down the church path towards the vicarage.

            Charlie’s hands were itching. He couldn’t wait to get them on that money. He’d be able to buy everything his mother wanted for Christmas. There were a lot of people at the service, the bag ought to be pretty well full. His Mum would be really pleased. Charlie hurried along the path after the figure, not making a sound. Now was the moment! Charlie rushed towards the man and made a dive for his legs.

            He hit the ground hard but he missed the Vicar altogether.  He wasn’t there. There was no one there and what was more there was no money bag; only the sound of  someone sobbing. He looked  around to see if he’d been seen.  A hollow, disembodied, transparent face loomed in front of him, tears seeping from red eyes. A low moan rent the air. Charlie cowered, petrified.

            ‘Oo the ‘ell are you?’ he yelled. ‘Get away from me.’

            He could see now the face was a part of  the pale  figure of an elderly woman in wretched clothing who reached out to touch him with cold, bony fingers.

            Charlie’s feet were rooted to the spot. ‘Don’t touch me,’ he howled, ‘Don’t touch me.’

‘Return to your mother,’ whispered the wraith. ‘And may God go with you,’

Charlie sat dazed on a fallen head stone.

 Where had the old woman come from? Where was she now? She’d disappeared. Suddenly he knew. She was a ghost. His blood ran cold. Down the path  he rushed and back along the street  to his Mum’s door.

He burst in and collapsed on the floor breathing heavily and snivelling.

‘Mum, Mum, I swear I just seen a ghost.’

His mother put out her arms and drew him towards her. ‘You’re a good boy Charlie. You told the Vicar where we lived and he sent an old lady round. Almost as poor as us she  was, she  didn’t look very well, neither. It was a pity you wasn’t here to see. She gave me some money and  look at all the things she brought.’

On the table was a collection of Christmas fair. The ingredients for a good meal for the three of them, Christmas crackers and chocolate and several wrapped presents. There was also a bag of clean, warm, second hand clothing.

‘Blimey!’ said Charlie, ‘ow, the ‘ell did she carry all that lot ?  —   Mum, can I tell ya about my ghost, now?’

~

 By Abe Joiner

       Mist rises on a cold and glistening stage.

       Two gulls, one to the left, one to the right,

       diving, lifting, and wheeling, describe

       matching halves of an infinite vision

       on a sky-blue backcloth.

       A synchronised display of precision flying

       in faultless sequences.

       Swooping and soaring with perfect understanding

       flight paths cross and re-cross,  a breath apart;

       the  elated  duo call out -

       pleasurable sounds rise and die.

       They skim the dark flood water,

       mirror images  in  harmony  with  each  other

       and with their reflections,

       performing for sheer joy.

       A sweeping flight of birds, candescent, joins their play,

       and then as one before the sun,

       a flotilla of white wings

       glints to silver-grey;

       and I alone the audience.

 By Rosa Johnson

She had always known the old house held a secret, but that Christmas she would finally realise it was their own.
   Margaret sat at the window gazing out at the tiny, twinkling lights of the village spreading out below her, every flicker making her heart ache. The frost was beginning to gather at the edges of the window panes, but she just pulled the blanket around her shoulders and continued to sit there gazing out into the night; waiting patiently for the first sign of snow. It could have been a scene from a picture perfect Christmas card.
   The figures standing in the shadows looked on with fascination and frustration; this should have been their Christmas.  

Margret and her daughter had spent hours crunching through frost crisped leaves gathering holly and mistletoe; it had become a tradition for them over the years. Elena shivered; the darkness had already begun to slip over the woods like suffocating smog, the air growing thick with the cold, the fog swimming all around them. The little girl looked up at her with pleading eyes. ‘Can we go home yet mummy?’

She smiled weakly at her daughter, carefully avoiding her eyes – she didn’t want to go.
Elena sighed. She could sense them there now, watching in the darkness; taking in their every movement, with eyes that cut straight through them. She shivered again.
   ‘Can we go back to the house now? I don’t like the noises the night makes.’
Margaret squeezed her daughters hand, she hadn’t realised how late it had become; the day had disappeared sooner than she would have liked. Now she had no choice, they would have to return to the house. He would be there of course, waiting in his study in silence.
   Walt had never been one for Christmas, but over the years his bitterness and distaste for the season seemed to have grown to a crescendo. ‘Ebenezer’ she would whisper, softly, quietly beneath her breath. Because the fact was that she, in complete contrast, had always adored the season with a passion. The carolling, the sweet smell of pine needles and cinnamon mingling together; it had always filled her up with warm nostalgia and happiness. But ever since they had moved into the old house perched on the hill, it had brought an inexplicable sadness with it, too; from the very first Christmas they had spent there, it had smothered everything like a blanket of hot ash choking their happiness.
   Elena was nine years old and so beautiful she could bring a tear to her father’s eye if he gazed at her too long. She understood far more about the old house, than either of her parents did. She hoped that they too would soon come to realise its secrets, so that they could find the happiness they all yearned for.
      The fire was roaring in the grate, Margret watched it, mesmerised by the flames that jumped and danced with wicked glee. The fire couldn’t bring her any warmth or comfort now. She rubbed her hands together instead, blowing on them with icy breath, ‘Cold hands, warm heart,’ that’s what her mother had always told her. Her smile melted away – but she was wrong, her heart wasn’t warm - not anymore, he’d seen to that. 

     She walked over to the study door. He was in there now waiting for her; she knew what she had to do. She turned the handle; her hand froze as an icy blast blew from behind the door, the cold air cutting through her like a blade.  
   ‘What? What do you want from me?’ He was shouting, but his voice seemed muffled, far away.
   Elena appeared suddenly.  ‘Mum? You shouldn’t be here. I thought we were going to bake ginger bread men?  - Come on‘. She took her mothers hand and led her into the kitchen, turning her head just in time to see the shadows shift. Once her mother was safely in the kitchen preparing the gingerbread, she returned to the study. ‘Daddy? We need to talk about Mum.’
Her father rose from his chair slowly, ‘I was expecting her. Why isn’t she here yet?’
She looked at her fathers tortured face, but he didn’t dare look at hers.
   ‘Daddy it’s time to leave; we can’t stay in this house any longer.’
He shook his head mournfully. ‘She won’t leave, darling. I’ve try to explain to her that we can never be happy in this place now. She won’t listen to me; she won’t leave, so none of us can.’
She took her fathers hand. ‘Look at me, Daddy.’
He shook his head, ‘…I’m so sorry my darling girl, and I don’t know what I can ever do to make everything right.’
   ‘You can look at me Daddy.’ But she was wrong, he couldn’t – not anymore.
   ‘Don’t you understand? This will never end, not until we leave. If I stay with you this time; it can be different - it’ll be different if we go together.’

He lifted his eyes to look at his daughter’s face. She was so young and beautiful once, and now she always would be. How could she understand any of this when it was beyond all comprehension?      ‘Okay sweetheart, we’ll try.’
   The smell of freshly baked gingerbread wafted from the kitchen. 

   ‘Oh, there you sweetheart. I was wondering where you got to. You’ll have to take over from me here; I need to speak to your father before we finish.’
He stepped into the kitchen, behind his daughter. ‘I’m here.’
She looked her husband up and down in disgust. ‘I was just coming to see you in the study.’ Elena took a step toward her mother, ‘Well, he’s here now, and you can speak to him here.’ She leant down to her daughter, stroking her face. ‘It’s private darling, Christmas secrets.’ She smiled awkwardly.
   ‘No, Margaret it’s not a secret…’ he hesitated momentarily. ‘It wasn’t our fault. You know that, don’t you? It was just a stupid, pointless accident.’
She swung around to face him. ‘I know it wasn’t our fault and I also know it wasn’t an accident. Because I told you to turn those fairy lights off before you came to bed.’
He saw the familiar glint of anger in her eyes.
   ‘I told you Ellie. It won’t work,’ he said solemnly. He felt the air shift around him as his daughter swiftly stepped between him and his wife; it was then that he saw the glint of the knife as it plunged through them both. Her heart was breaking all over again; she didn’t understand anything anymore; so she took the knife towards her wrists. Elena looked at her mother, and then pulled the knife away from her. ‘This can’t hurt any of us.’ Taking the knife, she pushed it into her heart. Her mother could only look on in horror. ‘My heart is broken Mummy, but it wasn’t the knife that broke it - you did that.’
Her mother fell to her knees.

   ‘But it was his fault, the fire it was his fault. I had to punish him,’ her voice fell to a whisper, ‘…and myself.’
Elena smoothed her mother’s hair gently. ‘You have to let us leave this house; it isn’t ours anymore.’
Her mother’s eyes were wide and spilling with tears. ‘But where will we go?’
Her daughter looked at her mother, and it was only the truth that spilled from her eyes.
   ‘We’re going home.’

   When the house was finally filled with warmth and laughter again, it wasn’t theirs. The lingering scent of gingerbread on Christmas Eve was all that was left of them now.

S. J.

‘Shut up, mum! What makes you think that you can speak to me like that?’

‘Eh? I beg your pardon?’

‘Don’t you take that tone with me.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Try listening!’ Jen seethed with anger. How dare her mother criticise her?

‘Go sort out your own wardrobe. You’re a disgrace. And tomorrow we’ll do something about your hair. Don’t you ever look in the mirror?’

‘Now look!’

‘I just did, mother.’

‘Take a look at yourself, my girl.’ Her mother stifled a chuckle.

‘Don’t you dare! I’ve had enough of this.’ Jen turned to the mirror, furiously back-coming her bright red tresses.

Her mother peered over her shoulder at the red-haired, leather-clad reflection of her daughter – big hoops dangling from her ears and silver bangles and leather-straps at her wrists. How did she get away with it?

‘What are you looking at?’

‘I was wondering how you get away with that look at your age.’

‘I’m only thirty-eight, mum. And when did you worry about dressing your age? You look like a Christmas tree in that outfit. It would suit a little girl at a fancy dress party.’

It was Mabel’s turn to feel hurt. She’d dressed for Christmas, adding a few touches, a bit of sparkle, you know – and her hair was newly dyed. Black, as it was in her youth. She looked at the pair of them in the mirror and giggled. Jen couldn’t help but join in.

‘What, mum?’

‘I hadn’t noticed what I looked like myself. Perhaps I’ll look better in a set of leathers?’

‘Mother! Perish the thought!’

‘Oh, okay. Twin sets and pearls it is, then.’

Jen rolled her eyes. ‘Just stay as you are, mum – and let’s get going. The children are waiting and they won’t recognise you if you make too many changes – and we’ll have to hide your hair. Who’s heard of Mother Christmas with black hair?’

                                                     * * * * *

 M.J.

    Arthur Montgomery was making his way  from The Dog & Duck back to his cottage, through the church yard. The wind was blowing hard and he was muffled up to his eyes and wearing his deerstalker hat with the flaps down over his ears. He was walking as fast as he could, head down against the wind, when he almost bumped into someone. They both stopped and looked up through frozen eyebrows.

            'Oh, it's you,' they chorused gruffly but  Charlie Price recognised a stroke of good luck on this awful morning.

            'Ah Arthur, you free next Friday at eleven in the mornin'?'  the sexton asked ' Matthew  Briar's looking for two more pall bearers, he's short with it bein' Christmas an' all that.'   They moved into the lee of the yew hedge which ran along the north side of the church to shelter while they talked.

            'Is he payin' double time?' asked Arthur, 'It being' Christmas an' all that.'

            'You'll have to sort that out with him, but will you do it?'   Arthur said he would and suggested Charlie should ask Cyril Capstick as well seein' as how he was experienced at pall bearin'  too..  Charlie was pleased to have settled the problem, he said nothing to Arthur but decided there and then to put out his hand for a bonus from Matthew for helping him out at a difficult time.

            He went to see Cyril as Arthur had suggested. 'Who needs bearin'?' asked Cyril.

            'Your neighbour,  Alice Critchley,' replied Charlie. 'Died last night by all accounts, funeral day after Boxing Day because her sons have to get back to work.'

            'I shall be glad to help,' said Cyril, 'She was always askin' me fer favours. This time I'll be pleased to do it, and what's more I'll get paid, won't I? Will it be double time?'

            'You're as bad as Arthur, you are,' said Charlie. 'I told him he'd have to sort it out with Matthew, and so will you.'

            Charlie had been hoping for a bit of a thaw, but instead snow fell heavily in the night onto the already frozen ground. It froze again and went on freezing. 'I can't dig no graves until it thaws,' Charlie told The Reverend Thomas Carshallton, ' I can't get a spade or a fork near the ground till it stops freezin'  fer at least a day.'

            The funeral of Alice Critchley had to be postponed; the cold weather helped with the preservation of the corpse but Cyril and Arthur were concerned about their double time. If they had to wait too long then it'd be past Christmas and into the New Year. Double time after New Year's Day couldn't really be expected.

            'Mind you, Alice's sons can't get away because of the funeral and because the roads is bad.' Cyril told Arthur.

            'Trains aren't runnin' proper neither,'  said Arthur, 'So the  pall bearers what's away won't be able to get back. So Matthew might have to pay double time if he wants reliable, relief pall-bearers even if it is past New Year.'

            Ten days later when the thaw eventually came, Thomas Carshallton, the Vicar of  St Peter's was knocking on Arthur's door. 'Mr Montgomery, can you possibly help? Now the thaw has come, the grave diggers have gone on strike, and our sexton has joined them.'

            'That's bad news, ain't it Vicar? What are you going to do?'

            'I have to recruit some good friends of the church to help and I was wondering…?'  Arthur coughed.

            'Yes Vicar?'

            'I was wondering if you and Mr Capstick would be so kind.'

            'That's a real possibility,' said Arthur.

            'Thank you so much, I am most grateful,' said the Vicar buttoning his jacket and preparing to move off, 'You are both very dependable parishioners.'

            ' Providing…' said Arthur,   'You're willing to pay us well. Double time is it?'  The Vicar rubbed his chin. 'That will be possible I imagine?'

            'If I ask Mr Capstick. Do you think he'll need double time too.'

'Undoubtedly Vicar. But then, it's very hard to find willing hands when you have an urgent need, like now,' he said. 'Is there anyone else looks like needin' our services before the strike's over?'  The vicar didn't reply.

'Arthur went round to Cyril's house later that day. 'Did you get double time too?' he asked.

'I did,' said Cyril, 'And Matthew's giving us double time on the bearin' .'

The two friends were well pleased when they had dug the grave and set it up for the burial.

'Do you know,' said Cyril, straightening his back. 'I'm more than pleased to be doin' this for Alice, she always said I did nothing to help her willingly and one day she'd get her own back - the miserable old bat. This time I'm very willing and she won't get the opportunity to get her own back, will she?'

'I reckon all that toil deserves a pint,' said Arthur, leaning his spade against the head stone next to Alice's plot, 'See you in The Dog & Duck at half past eight.  Does that suit you?'

'They're open all day now you know.  We could get one in before dinner and another this evening

Cyril reminded him. So they repaired to The Dog & Duck for a swift one after they'd returned their tools to the sexton's shed behind the church. The church clock struck twelve as they walked into the public bar.

' Alice Critchley's  funeral's already been put off fer near three weeks,' Cyril told Bert Newman the landlord, and if it wasn't fer us they wouldn't be able to hold the funeral tomorrow. We've done a full service for Alice, you know. We dug her grave and we'll be helpin' to  put' er in it, and then we'll be coverin' her over, and fillin' her  in, won't we Arthur?' he said. 'Well, you can't  'ave corpses lyin' around too long can you. It's not decent.'

'Don't you mean hygienic?' asked  Bert.

'And that,' Cyril replied.

'You know snow is forecast for tonight, I suppose,'   Bert asked, and even as the two friends made their way home a few flakes were already falling.

Next day at ten thirty the hearse arrived at St Peter's Church and when the pall bearers reverently took the coffin into the church it was still snowing. it wasn't easy for them to stay upright with Alice's dead weight on their shoulders but somehow they managed. The Reverend Thomas Carshallton seemed to be in an unusual hurry to get through the service and to lay Alice to rest;  His haste did not go unnoticed..

Afterwards when the pall bearers carried the coffin out to the hearse which would transport it to  the cemetery, two miles away, they noticed  the Vicar was not with them.

'I hope we don't have to wait long for him to catch up,' whispered Arthur to the others. This weather is enough to do a mischief to brass monkeys.'  The mourners in the car following behind had seen the Vicar disappear into the Vicarage and they were hoping too he wouldn't keep Alice waiting.

When the coffin had to be carried about a hundred yards from the cars across the snowbound  cemetery to the grave, a thin trail of mourners followed. Bringing up the rear was Alice's daughter in law helping the deceased's elder sister to stay on her feet.

A sudden flurry and a  fast-moving priest in orange, fleecy track suit,  beneath a billowing cassock careered past them. His trousers were tucked into his wellies and because he was running like a hare he left the mourners all standing. He removed his sou'wester  as soon as he reached the graveside stuffed it into his  pocket, and immediately launched into  the committal.

            The mourners were seen to quicken their steps but those trailing at the back weren't in the running at all, a meteoric Thomas Carshallton  passed them on his way back to his car before they reached the  already interred coffin.

            'I've never seen the Vicar move so fast.' Arthur told Bert Newbury in the pub that night. I don't know what  got into him.'

'There was frozen pipes in the Vicarage roof,' said Bert, he was paying Charlie to help him thaw them out. I don't think he trusted him entirely. He was probably hoping to get back before a pipe burst. Not a nice experience, pipes bursting.' he said.

'No,' Cyril said, 'I expect he was having to pay Charlie double time too, don't you Arthur? That wouldn't be a nice experience for The Vicar either. Labour can be very expensive when the weather's bad, can't it?'

'Chilly in the cemetery was it?' Bert asked.

'Chilly!' Arthur banged his fist down on the bar, 'It was so cold Cyril had a two inch icicle on the end of his nose.'   

'And Arthur's moustache stood out like a boot scrubber,' said Cyril.

They all laughed and Bert said  'I reckon old Alice had the last laugh after all, Cyril. You might 'a' got paid for doing her that favour but I'll bet she was laughing fit to bust, sitting up there on her cloud, when she saw you carrying her remains across the cemetery in a foot of snow.'

'You're right! I hadn't thought of that. 'Cyril snorted. 'That  is the very last time I'll do anything for her!'

finis

  By Douglas Freaker 

And all round my house, nothing was stirring, except for my two mad
Springer spaniels, Molly and Maisie, who seem to have got
themselves full of festive cheer well before the big day.

Every car, or delivery van that pulls up on the road outside, is
greeted with clatter of skidding paws on the fake wood floors and a
chorus of woofs. Every dog that appears on the TV, is told in none too
friendly a manner, to go play elsewhere. Every bird landing in the
garden is a potential spy that has to be seen off, before they get a
chance to look through the window and spot the parcels lying under the tree.

It’s only fair really, as some of the gifts are theirs and they don’t
want anyone messing with them before the big day. Woe betide anyone or
anything that gets to get their paws, hands, or beaks, on the dog choc
Santa’s or the rope Frisbee before they’ve had a go at them.

It’s been winding up gradually; they’re always mad, always full of
beans, (and therefore farts). They are always up for a game of
something, anything, providing it involves making lots of noise,
and charging around madly; trying to see who can be first to get to the
virtual burglar or invisible cat, that somehow managed to sneak past the
two legged guards and invade their space.

No amount of exercise seems to be able to quell their enthusiasm. A
brisk 3 mile gallop around the country park, needs only a 5 minute
breather in the car on the way home before they are ready to go again. A
20 minute doggie wrestle in front of the TV, a play fight over an old
rawhide chewy, 5 laps of the coffee table followed by a mad dash up and
down the stairs, before being let out to investigate the new smells in
the shrubbery, takes up a mere fraction of their day. They make me tired
just watching them. They get yelled at and sent to their cages when
they’ve been naughty, (a punishment that doesn’t seem to deter them one
bit,). They are made to ‘wait’ (something they do find almost impossibly
difficult at times,) ’sit stay’ (even more difficult) and worst of all
‘down stay’ a phrase which seems, (in Springer at least) to have a
meaning akin to the threat of being shot; such is the air of miserable,
abject desperation they show whenever the words are uttered.

My little Springer’s are scoundrels, scamps and bath dodgers and would
assuredly have been in the canine version of St Trinian’s, had it been
made. They love the weather I hate, The more a wind howls, the more
the rain pours, the muddier, filthier, fouler it is, the more they want
to be out in it.

I sometimes despair of them, I pull out my hair, I go hoarse, I stamp,
yell and throw up my hands in frustration. But I wouldn’t swap them for
a king’s ransom...no, I’m sure I wouldn’t.

Trevor Belshaw

I'd like a party this year. We used to have good Christmas parties, Flo thought, but in her heart she knew her Christmas would be solitary.   Her only son hadn’t even sent a card. 

      She’d bought some little extras, just in case Jim came home but rreally she knew she'd be eating alone as usual.

 Jim hadn't written since October. "Found a nice squat," the card said. When was a squat nice for Heaven's sake?

         Same old decorations. The tinsel on the tree sparkled, but the      

l  lights didn’t work and the fairy's head had come off.   It didn’t matter tthough, who was going to see them?

          Flo was drawing the curtains when a bus trundled to the stop

.   outside. A young couple got off, laden with bags and carriers of all

.   descriptions. As they crossed the street, laughing, Flo recognised

 Jim.

        'What little tart's he got hold of now?  Fancy arriving on 

    Christmas Eve without saying, and with someone I don't  know!  Well they can’t stay, there's only one spare bed.' 

         The door bell rang.  Through the spy hole, Flo saw Jim. He  

    wasn't as mucky as last time he turned up. The earring was still there tthough.  She'd make him wait. — The girl was smiling at him. She llooked okay, not like some of the women she’d seen him with. The   

   bell rang again.   Flo's hands went to the chain and latch.

       `That you Mum?'

       `Who else would it be? What are you doing here?' she grumbled.

       `Nice to see you too, Mum! Aren't you pleased?'  She was, but   

   she wasn’t letting on. `Mum this is Cindy.'

       `You'd better come in.'

        `Kitchen or parlour?' said Jim closing the door and dropping   

    bags everywhere.

       Cindy held out her hand, `Hello, Mrs. Biggs. Happy Christmas            to you.'

       'Fat chance of that. My son didn't even send me a card.

    Don't fall  over the bags, seems he's as untidy as ever.'  She led

    Cindy into the parlour.

        `So I didn't send a Christmas card.  I brought one instead.' Jim  

,    said, giving Flo the biggest envelope she'd ever seen.

        `What a waste of money. A little one would have done.'  Cindy 

     flashed a smile at Jim.

`I told you didn’t I, Cindy?' Never happy unless she's grousing.     Wait till she hears we're staying.'

         `You can't,' said Flo    'Everybody needs warning if folk are 

    stopping for Christmas.'

         `We wouldn't dream of staying Mum, but we could do with a  

.cuppa.'

         `I'll make it, you look after Cindy.'  From the kitchen Flo heard 

 them chuckling together. 

          ‘Wouldn’t dream of staying?  Isn't my flat good enough? ' she

   thought.

         `The best cups, eh? And milk in a jug!'  Jim teased, ‘You’re 

    swanking, Mum.'

         `How can you stay?'

         `Don't worry, Mrs Biggs.'  Cindy took her tea from Flo.

         `It doesn't matter, we're not stopping, Mum.'

         `I'm not good enough. Is that it?'

         `You've probably made plans.' said Cindy.  

         Flo hadn't any plans but now there were three of them they'd     

    have that party. They might even invite him upstairs and her down 

 below, too.

        `I suppose you could sleep on the settee Jim, and let  Cindy

     have your bed.'

       `That's very kind but we won’t put you out,' said Cindy.

       `You wouldn't be putting me out Love. It's him. He's put me           about all  his life.'

       `You love it. You know you do.' Jim said.

       `You've no consideration Jim.'

       `I'll second that,' said Cindy.

       `Make your mind up last minute, and expect others to fit in,' said 

     Flo.

       `Yes,' said Cindy. `Until midnight we were spending Christmas i    in the flat.'

       `Flat?' Flow's eyes were wide. 'He said he was in a squat!'

     `He was sending you up, Mrs.  Biggs… He does it all the,   

    time, I didn't know he had a nice home and a lovely Mum like you.'   

    Flo was warming to Cindy.     

       'Cindy's the best thing ever happened to me, Mum. We've been 

    together two years.'

       `Not quite,' corrected Cindy `We met at that New Year rave, rremember?'

       `You don't live together?'

       `Does that shock you?' asked Cindy.  `We aren’t shacking up ttogether for a laugh,  it's love Mrs Biggs or I wouldn't put up with

    him.'

        `You're not keeping him, Cindy?' she turned to Jim, `Aren't you  

  ashamed, James?'  He took his mother’s hand, `Sending you up again

    Florrie Biggs, I've had the same job for three years.'

         `You said…'

         `Just giving you something to grouse about.' he laughed.

         `I'd like you to stay Cindy Love, I've got a few things in. We'll       manage.'  Flo said.

        Jim planted a kiss on Flo's cheek.   'What did I say?  "Tell her   we aren't  staying and she won't let us go?"'        

       `I hope you won't mind Mrs. Biggs, I brought Christmas with us. I  I packed it before Lazy-bones got up, and I prepared the vegetables ffor tomorrow.'

          `Put your feet up, Mum, she can cook too!'

          `You're just a slob?'   Cindy said.

          `You've got his measure.'  laughed Flo, `He needs someone like     you to knock him into shape.'

          `No promises, but I'm working on it.'     Cindy emptied tthe  carrier  bags.        

          'An oven-ready turkey, Christmas cake, mince pies, and                vegetables.'  'Fruit in that bag, nuts, the pudding,' said Cindy. 'Wine and presents.' 

          Flo sniffed, wiped her eyes and rushed into

      her bedroom slamming the door.  She sat down and wept.       

        `Mum! Can I come in? I've got something for you.'

         'It isn't Christmas yet. I don't want a present.' Jim offered her a 

    pretty parcel with a card.   

        `I can't,' sobbed Flo, `I’ve nothing for Cindy. 

        `Mum, this is scent for you to give Cindy.  Write on the label.' 

      He found a pen.

        `Oh Son... Thank you.'    She wrote,      Cindy, Love from Flo.           

        Cindy was arranging parcels under the tree when they returned t       to the parlour.                

        `The lights are working!' exclaimed Flo.  'And the fairy's mended! 

     This will be a real Christmas. I am glad you both came.'

      'We'll have a proper Christmas party .tomorrow?' Cindy said.

       `There's certainly enough food,’ observed Jim, `Two of

     everything!  Are you expecting guests Mum?'

      By Lily Plank

   I wonder if it is whom you know, rather than what you know? When it comes to publishing, I mean. I’ve asked myself the question every time I’ve received a rejection slip – and that’s more times than I care to remember. I do know a publisher, you see, but it seems a bit, I don’t know, too forward, somehow, to ask her to read any of my manuscripts. Why ruin a good friendship, I say.

    I’ve done her a few favours in the past, but it mainly comes down to childminding during the school holidays and the school run, if she can’t make it. Not quite in the same league of favours, I know. And with Christmas coming up I suppose I’ll be standing in at the school plays while Lizzie entertains some well known author with a book destined for the best seller list. At a posh restaurant. A publisher’s lot, eh?

   Perhaps this year I’ll parcel up my latest offering – or go for one of those print on demand deals that are available, just to show her how the book might look if she were to take it on. I’ll make it a Christmas present, that’s what I’ll do. Wrap it up in a big box, with tinsel and ribbons. Won’t she be surprised? Perhaps even pleasantly so. And I don’t have to ask her outright; she’s bound to realise the importance of my book … Isn’t she?

   She knows that I know my stuff. I only write about what I know – and isn’t that what they say to do?

                                                         * * * * *     

   I wanted to invite Bel along on this trip, too, honest I did. Christmas on a canal barge is a bit out of the ordinary – and she’s a treasure with the children. A bit of an eccentric, but you really can’t fault the way she deals with them – and she loves them.  I know she does. That’s why I never feel guilty when she takes them off my hands – so to speak – so that I can deal with business. No one would believe she hadn’t had any children herself.

   I didn’t even get her a present and she presented me with this big, gift-wrapped box… I do feel quite guilty about that. Thoughtless of me not to think of her, I know. The children say I have to wait till Christmas Day, so it’s under the tiny tree we’ve got below deck.

                                                           * * * * * 

   Oh. What’s this? ‘The Importance of Being there for Your Child’.  By Bel Jones. Is she trying to be funny? Dave wants me to read it, but I think that our relationship is at an end. Not his and mine. Mine and Bel’s . She could have told me how she felt, and not made it a title of a cobbled-up manuscript. She’s even had it printed up into a book, for goodness sake.

                                       * * * * *

   Lizzie didn’t even open my book; the title was enough to put her off – and put her off me, too, it seems. It didn’t dawn on me that she’d take it personally – and that wasn’t my intention either. I’ve heard that she sat on the deck of the barge they rented for the Christmas weekend (that’s one way of getting away from it all, I suppose), and cut it to shreds with her nail scissors, of all things, before flinging the lot into the canal.

   Still, her loss is my gain. I’ve got time to polish it up now that I’ve got more time – and the publishing house that took it on, reckons it’ll be a best seller in no time. They’ve got me billed as Super-Nanny 2, you know – and next week I’m on telly – telling the nation how to cope with children and Christmas. I learnt a lot from looking after my former friend’s children.

   I wonder who would like my next gift, the manuscript about stolen moments? I’ll pitch it for Valentine’s perhaps, as it’s a love story. I know a bit about that, too. You ask Dave.

                                    * * * * * * *

 By Bel Jones

    `Them's  Hellebores.'  Ellen turned quickly, startled by the sound of a man's voice.  She straightened her aching back and   shading her eyes looked up at the tall figure silhouetted against the sun.   `You gave me quite a start,' she said, ` 'I didn't know anyone was in the garden.'

              `You wouldn't,' he replied. `I come across the lawn.'  His voice was hoarse and slow.  `I planned this garden forty ye’r ago; cultivated it, tended it, cherished it.'

              `We lived in Birmingham; I had to make do with window boxes,'   she laughed. `When my husband died two years ago I resolved to look for a proper garden, and at last I’ve found it.   The village, the cottage, the garden; everything is perfect.'       

              Ellen had been gardening all morning.   Now the house was straight she could devote time to her newly acquired plot.  `I've   never enjoyed   myself   so much,' she told him.

              `I did the garden to please Madam.   We had beautiful blooms right

 through the ye'r.  Madam understood gardens. '

               `Madam?'  Ellen was still looking into the sun. Through the   haze she made out an elderly, angular man wearing a flat cap over wispy white hair.

             `Christmas roses bloomed for us from late October right   through winter into spring.  Them was Madam's favourites.  I put Christmas roses on her grave; poor lady.'

              `Mrs Gear lived in the cottage until recently I believe.'

             `They put her in an 'ome.  She died three weeks after;  and d'you know why? Ellen opened her mouth to make a suggestion but he answered himself.   `She   suffocated!  Deprived of fresh air.  They took 'er away from 'er garden and in the unnatural heat of that place, like a cut flower she wilted and died.'

             `How very sad.'

             `We was gardeners together for forty ye'r.  This garden was our pleasure.'

             `It's beautiful.  I wonder if you'd care to  do a few  hours  a   week  to  help  me  keep  it  up  together?   I don’t want it to deteriorate.'

            `That wouldn't never do.  A garden's like a woman.   Care and attention from

 them what loves her keeps 'er looking 'er best.'  He pushed back his cap, stroked his pate and nodded towards the border.   `Only them what knows should lend nature an  ‘and.’ He paused.  'If you don’t understand, don't meddle s'what I say,’ he added emphatically.  ‘Split ‘em   in Autumn; 'tis too late now.  Madam always said that once Solomon's  Seal’s out  'tis too  late fer splittin'  Christmas roses.'  

            The old man half turned and Ellen saw a craggy weather-beaten profile. `Beautiful leaves ain’t   'em?'  he said and disappeared round the corner of the house leaving a hint of tobacco smoke hanging in the air.  Ellen dropped her trowel and stepped over the   trug. 

             `Mr er.  come back, just a minute, please,’ but he was gone and she had   no idea which of the plants were Christmas roses.  There were no thorns, and no    leaves resembling rose leaves. Never  mind; she would consult her gardening book.

             The very next day she brought out two gardening forks from the shed.   She was going to dig up one of those big clumps of stuff. Their leaves were hanging right over the path, though most plants as yet were showing no sign of new growth.

           There was an empty spot on the other side of the garden which she wanted to fill.  The book told her to take two forks to split large perennial clumps.  She knew the theory; now to put it into practice. First loosening the earth round a plant she lifted its large fibrous bulk out of the soil. There was plenty of root with soil attached, as the book said.  She stabbed one fork hard  into  the middle  of  the  plant  between the tired leaves, took the other and was  about to ram it into place with its  back  to  the  fork  already  there, when someone spoke.

           `Split Christmas roses in early spring or autumn, Madam said.'  Ellen turned.  He was there again.

         `Ah, so these are Christmas roses.'

         `Helleborus Niger!'

         `Well!' she said, `I had no idea.'

         `No!' he said abruptly.  'Meddlin'  'll get you nowhere.' She thought she glimpsed the flicker of a smile on the weathered face, `But I can always come by   when you needs advice, if you've a mind to take it.'

         Well, that was telling her. Ellen straightened up again.  `I could pay you to work, five or six hours a week if that would be....'

         `That won't be necessary,'   he said with derision and made off across the lawn. 

          His tread was light. Unlike most veteran gardeners she'd seen in town parks,    he moved easily with little sign of stiff limbs or arthritic joints.

         The plant was out of the ground and rightly or wrongly she decided to    transfer it to the bed she had prepared by the back door. If flowers were forthcoming   in the winter months she'd be able to enjoy them when she was in the kitchen.    

          Ellen was washing her lunch dishes when the door bell rang.  From the hall window she saw an old bicycle against the gate. The Vicar was standing on the    steps when she opened the door.

           'Mrs Griffiths isn't it?  So pleased to see you in church on Sunday.  May I come in?  Ellen began to lead him into the sitting room.

            'I'm a kitchen man myself.  We used to sit round the kitchen table with cups of hot cocoa in the winter and glasses of lemonade in the summer,’ He paused.   'Oh, very   nice…'  She watched him taking in all the changes she'd made.  'You have smartened it up haven't you?'

            'I'm afraid I have no cocoa.  Will tea suffice?' she enquired.

           'Certainly; can't stand cocoa.  Jacob liked it, so we had it too.'

           'Jacob?  Was he Mrs Gear's gardener?'

           The Vicar smiled, 'Yes, a fine one.  He'd have done anything for Mrs Gear.  She was fond of him too, though she detested his disgusting old pipe, as she called it.  Both were blessed with exceptionally green fingers.'

           Ellen set a tray with a pretty cloth and her pink, rose-bud china.

           'Milk and two sugars, please.'  The Vicar was very much at home.  More than Ellen herself.  He took a biscuit from the plate and bit into it.  I think you'll enjoy life here, Mrs Griffiths. I'm rather hoping you will give us a hand with church flowers.   At once Ellen said she'd be delighted..

            'May I put your name in the space left by Mrs Gear?    She produced flowers from this lovely garden, even in winter.  There were always Christmas roses in the church from Christmas Eve to Epiphany.'

             'I shall be happy to help.  Thank you for asking me.'

             'Many of the congregation thought there were some sort of miraculous goings-on, going on here between the two gardeners.  Not many people actually have Christmas roses in their gardens until well after Christmas, but those two green fingered wonders produced then for us year after year, as regular as clockwork.'

            Ellen enjoyed working with the other ladies.  She glowed with pride as her garden produced leaves, buds and flowers of every shape and hue.  Each season brought new and unexpected pleasures and perfumes she had never dreamed of.  She was complimented on her charming and artistic arrangements.  A splendid array of late irises was particularly successful, but she was looking forward most of all to Christmas week when she'd take armfuls of Christmas roses to the church and the congregation would be captivated by the breath taking display.  After all if Mrs Gear did it why shouldn't she?

           September and October glowed red and gold.  She expected to see masses of Christmas rose buds among the lush leaves on the borders but none appeared.  In the middle of November she began to worry.  Mrs Gear's favourite plants were not performing for her as they should.  Ellen didn't know where to find Jacob and she wished he'd drop by to give her the benefit of his experience. 

          The flower ladies smoothed their skirts and spoke in hushed tones when she mentioned his name but gave nothing away.  As things were going, there wouldn't be enough, even for a small vase of Christmas roses.

         On a crisp morning in November she was tipping toast crumbs onto the bird table when she heard a voice, laconic as ever.

         'Hellebores is poor this year!'  Ellen almost fell on Jacob with relief.

         'Everything else is doing well but the Christmas roses seem to be grieving for Mrs Gear.  'I'm afraid there will be none for the church this Christmas.  I have a feeling Mrs Gear doesn't want me to have her Christmas roses, Jacob.'

          'Maybenot.  Madam had me split 'em in the early spring,' he said.  'We always had a wonderful show for the altar at Christmas.'

         Today Jacob stood in the shadow of the shrubbery.  A tattered leather jerkin hung   over his baggy jacket, his trousers were tied with raffia above brown leather boots. The frost wasn't clearing at all and there was a nip in the air.  Jacob looked tired and cold.  She offered him hot cocoa but he declined saying he had an appointment, but he would be back.

         The first week of December came and went.  A paltry bloom on a very short stem opened in the second week of the month and Ellen began to despair.  She loosened the soil slightly around the roots of the plants, took away a few dead stems and some pale leaves but to no avail.

         With her secateurs Ellen set about gathering what she could to make the church look its best for Christmas, without Christmas roses.  She'd soak everything in water overnight and tomorrow take it to the church in her wheelbarrow.  She could cross the lawn and go through the wicket gate to the church yard.

          She sat in the kitchen next day with a cup of tea, attempting to dispel her disappointment.  The Vicar tapped the window and beamed at her.

          'How nice to see you,' she said, 'I expect you'd like a cup of tea.'  The time seemed appropriate to tell him there'd be no Christmas roses in the church this year.

           'My wheelbarrow's full and all ready to go over to the church.  I'm just recharging my batteries before I begin.  I have winter flowering jasmine and there's bergenia.  Holly and ivy will be seasonal…'

            The Vicar got the message.  'No Christmas roses? '

             Ellen shook her head. 'I'm afraid not.  I split some of them too late last spring, Jacob says.'  She noticed a curious expression stealing across the Vicar's face.  He inclined his head.  'The Solomon's seal was in flower, Jacob says that's too late.  I seem to have upset them all.'

           'I thought that's what you said. Jacob died several years before Mrs Gear, you know Mrs Griffiths.'

            'But he told me… he said he put Christmas roses on her grave.'

            'Someone did, but we were never sure who it was.  You seem to have solved the mystery.'  Ellen swallowed hard.  'You mean..?   she said.  The Vicar nodded.

            'Don't fret Mrs Griffiths, I sense no unrest, no animosity.  Your arrangements will do very nicely.'

            They went out into the cold air and together walked across the soft velvet lawn. The Vicar pushed the barrow and Ellen picked up stray pieces of greenery which fell from the top of the load...  When they reached the church the Vicar went to open the door and Ellen wheeled the barrow through the porch into the back of the church.  She stood open mouthed as she faced the altar.  It was sensitively decorated with a host of pure white Christmas roses and strands of dark green ivy. The Vicar stood beside her and it seemed to Ellen he was a little taken aback.

           'Well I'm blessed,' he said.

           'Oh, yes,' said Ellen, 'So am I.'

FINIS

 By Rosa Johnson