Emily

Another Christmas tale - and a love story too.  There is a five letter word to describe Emily, but to state it would give the ending away.

I've noticed that a lot of my stories have an apocalyptic theme and/or feature someone meeting a sticky end.  I suppose it can't be helped for now - it was the PABC that encouraged me to start writing again after all.  I plan to rectify this situation in due course.

The world doesn't end in this tale - or at least not in the literal sense - but the protagonist might disagree.  

(Again...  Is this story auto-biographical?  In parts, yes.)

                                                                                                  

As a child I hated going to church.  Absolutely hated it.  I disliked getting up early on a Sunday morning and being frog marched into town with my parents, especially when it was cold and wet.  The awkwardness of having to parade out for Sunday School after the first hymn.  The incongruous jollity of the vicar when he tried to shoe-horn something funny into the sermon that he had heard on Radio 4 that morning. Not knowing what to do with my hands during prayers, or indeed what to pray about when we were supposed to pray for something of our own volition. And then there were the hymns.  Dreary dirges, every one.  Which was a pity, really.

Let me explain.

When I was in Junior School I had a young and enthusiastic form teacher called Miss Hadley.  I thought she was very pretty; she was petite, she wore her dark hair in a short bob and always wore dresses with a fine flowery print.  I remember once seeing her with wet hair when it rained during P.E. and being utterly transfixed by her (think Janet Leigh in That Scene in a certain Hitchcock movie).  Yes, I admit it - I loved her in that slightly confused, innocent and uncomprehending way that nine year old boys tend to love their female form teachers.  But the thing I liked most about her was the way that she played the piano during school assembly.  Most of the time she was like an over-excited labrador, playing as loudly as she could so that every child in the school hall could hear.  Occasionally she would play quieter, more subtle pieces and I loved to watch her delicate, slender fingers glide over the keyboard, showing that she had a musicianly skill and sense of expression in her playing that belied her usual sturm und drang.

This teacher always - always - played the happier, more modern tunes for the hymns during school assembly.  The ones that would make God Himself want to tap a dignified holy foot in time to the music.  All of this was completely lost on the vicar.  Every time he would announce hymn number 501 - 'O Jesus I Have Promised' - there was a ripple of anticipation in the congregation.  Would the tune be 'Hatherop Castle' (the one Miss Hadley played)?  Or boring, stentorian 'Wolvercote'?  It was 'Wolvercote'.  Every - single - time.  If I was God and 'Wolvercote' had been my worship music I would have made my displeasure very obvious.

I'm sorry. All this makes me sound ungrateful for the church upbringing my parents tried to give me.  I guess it didn't make much sense to the nine year old me.  A few years later, however, it did.  Perhaps not quite in the way that God might have intended.  Or maybe He did, I'm not sure.  ...But something changed and I suddenly wanted to go to church every Sunday, much to my parents' surprise.

Her name was Emily.

Remember what I said about my former teacher, Miss Hadley?  Emily looked like her, played the piano like her, wore the same kind of small floral print dresses as her... Unfortunately she was also completely oblivious of my presence.  I had known Emily since Infant School but I didn't really know her.  Small boys are highly suspicious of girls - or at least I was - so she didn't really register as being someone I wanted to get to know better until I was, well...  Fourteen, I guess.  Unfortunately (again) wanting to speak to someone so absolutely desperately and being able to string together any kind of coherent thought in her presence were two mutually exclusive concepts.  ...So every Sunday between the ages of fourteen and sixteen I would willingly go to church (because I knew she would be there), try to catch her eye across the congregation (and fail), shyly say 'Hello' to her if we met afterwards and then be angry with myself for the rest of the day for my complete inability to talk to the object of my affections.

As you can tell, I didn't particularly enjoy being a teenager.  And I am still ashamed that my near perfect teenage church attendance had nothing to do with wanting to be closer to God.

--

The years passed.  I never did manage to summon up the courage to ask Emily out.  She went to another college in the town for her 'A' Levels and we lost contact.  I went to University in another part of the country and overcame my teenage shyness around women (thank heavens).  When I returned to my home town during the holidays I used to visit the places of my childhood - a sort of morbid curiosity, I suppose.  I wanted to see if these places had changed.  I wanted to see if I still felt an affinity to where I grew up.

--

My parents' church always held an annual carol concert in the week before Christmas.  This was an opportunity to sing all the 'While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks By Nights' and 'O Come All Ye Faithfulls' interspersed with the traditional Bible readings from Luke and Matthew.  I really enjoyed singing these old traditional hymns - still do.  In my opinion it doesn't feel like Christmas until the Holly and the Ivy and King Wenceslas have had a proper airing.

So this is why I went to the annual carol concert the December before my finals.  There had been a couple of unexpected snowfalls in the week before, giving everything outside that chocolate box Dickensian feel.  Unfortunately the snow had frozen into ice; there had been an accident on the ring road that afternoon. I didn't feel safe driving so I walked into town instead.

I arrived a quarter of an hour early.  Even so the church was quite full so I had to sit upstairs in the gallery.  I was able to look down on the rest of the congregation and see some familiar faces from my childhood looking slightly older and greyer than before.  Then I heard a giggle and a familiar voice.  A voice that filled me with excitement and a peculiar, contradictory dread.

'Hello?  Is that really you?'

It was Emily.  She looked even more beautiful, even more desirable than I remembered - if that was possible.  Suddenly I was that tongue-tied fourteen year old again, incapable of talking to her.  She laughed then she held my hand.  It was colder that I expected, but she was still wearing her coat and it was cold outside so I thought nothing of it.  We smiled at each other and that angst - that fear that my love for her wouldn't be reciprocated - evaporated.

Like me she had come down from University and was revisiting old haunts.  I asked her the usual perfunctory stuff -  which university she was attending, what she was studying, how her parents were - and then she grinned at me.  It was a grin that I had seen many times at school, but she had never directed it at me before.  I could tell she was going to ask me something mischievous.

'All this stuff about University is a bit boring.  What I want to know is this...  You fancied me something rotten for years when we were at school together, yet you hardly said a word to me yet alone asked me out. Why was that?  And why didn't you pick up my incredibly unsubtle hints that I liked you too?  You were such a silly shy boy, weren't you?  Now shut up and sing - we can talk about this later.'

Well that told me, didn't it?  

The church organ had started playing.  So we sang.

--

Afterwards we went for a drink in a nearby pub and, as promised, we talked. At last, all that longing for Emily seemed worth it.  She was with me, talking and laughing with me, being the friends (and maybe lovers) that I had wanted us to be.  Five minutes before closing time, Emily said that she would need to leave soon - her parents were expecting her - so she scribbled a telephone number on a piece of paper and told me to call in the morning.

Then she kissed me goodnight.

--

I called the number in the morning.  A man answered it.  I asked for Emily and he said no-one with that name worked in the hospital mortuary.  I gave him a quick description of Emily and my name and number and asked him to call me if he heard anything from her.

I didn't hear back from him.  Perhaps it was foolish for me to think that I would.

--

There was an article in the local newspaper a couple of days later.  Two cars had been involved in the accident on the ring road.  The first - an SUV - had been driven by a man in his forties.  The second car - a Volvo estate - had been driven by a man in his late fifties.  There had been two passengers - his wife, also in her fifties, and their daughter who was in her early twenties.  The SUV had skidded on black ice and careered into the other car, killing the occupants instantly.

--

I never did see Emily again.  I miss her, even now.

Christmas, children, isn’t a date. It’s a state of mind

I wrote two tales for the Post Apocalyptic Book Club Christmas Short Story Competition.  The first was Tommo & The General; this is the second.  

The title is a quote by American educator Mary Ellen Chase.  The protagonist in this story - an actor called Nick - would probably agree with its sentiment.

                                                                                                

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick…

--

“Where’s Nick?  Has anyone seen Nick?”

“He must still be in his dressing room.  I’ll go and get him.”

The runner sprinted from the studio floor to the dressing room.  He knocked on the door – no response.  He carefully opened the door.  Sprawled across the dressing room table was a portly, white haired and bearded man in his late sixties, dressed in a Santa Claus costume.  He was in considerable pain; even with the stage makeup his skin looked almost yellow.

“Are you okay, Nick?”

“No…  Please, I need a doctor!”

--

"Here’s the next one."

“Who was he?"

“Don’t you remember?”

--

Holly:    “For the past thirty years my guest tonight has appeared on television and in the movies and he is known –and loved – by generations of children.   He has played many roles, but he is best known for playing Santa Claus.  For many he is that character.  Put your hands together, Ladies and Gentlemen, for Nicolas Christmas!”

Nick:    “Thanks for inviting me onto the show, Holly.”

Holly:   “You’re welcome.  So, Nicolas…  Or can I call you Nick? “

Nick:    “Yes, that’s fine.  I prefer it.”

Holly:   “So Nick, tell us about Santa Claus and how you came to play him.”

Nick:    “I’m sure you know, Holly…  I’ve told this story many, many times before.  Too many times, perhaps!  …But it helps people to understand why I have devoted myself to this role, why my portrayal is the one that people associate with the character.  I’m fortunate that I look a lot like an archetypal Santa.  There’s my stocky build, plus my Scandinavian ancestry, my cheerful demeanour, naturally white hair and bushy beard.  Then there is my name…  Nicolas was my maternal grandfather’s name.  And my surname, is… appropriately festive too, if sometimes... yes.   So I’m ideal Santa material.  …But it’s only when I put on that suit that I feel like I am him.  Suddenly I’m more…  I don’t know…  Jolly?  My grandfather was exactly the same.  One of my earliest memories was sitting on his knee wondering where he kept his reindeer.  I suppose it’s the family business.”

Holly:   “On the screen we have a photo of you and your grandfather at the start of your career, both dressed as Santa Claus.  Both of you looked very convincing!  So, when did you start working as a Santa?”

Nick:    “It started off small – local kids’ parties, school and church Christmas Fairs, seasonal work in department stores.  Then, some thirty-three years ago in a branch of Debenhams on a typically gloomy December afternoon, a young mum came in with her four year old son.  I gave them my usual jolly Santa, but there was something special there; a connection.  Yes, the child was initially shy but they usually are at first.  …And then suddenly he was smiling, laughing and hugging me.  His mother was in tears.   Later I found out why; the child and his father had been in a car accident the previous year and the father had been killed.  Since then the child had not talked, smiled, laughed or any of the things you would expect a four year old to do.  Somehow I had managed to bring joy back into the life of this little boy.  The mother called it a ‘Christmas Miracle.’ 

This incident reached the local news and I was suddenly in demand – I became the local ‘Go-To Santa’.  Then I met a young, beautiful and vivacious woman from a television production company and one thing led to another…  I was given a seasonal special and she became my wife.  Her name is Mary, though for obvious reasons I’ve always called her by her second name - Teresa.  That combination of her first name and my surname really is… too much.”

Holly:   “What happened next?”

Nick:    “Well, as you know, if anyone has needed a big jolly man with a beard in a red suit then I’ve been there.  There have been pantomimes, television shows, film contracts, charity events, merchandise deals and so on.  I’ve met politicians, royalty, the famous and infamous – everyone.   Of course I’m known for my Long John Silver and Shakespearian roles too, but it is Santa that I keep coming back to – he was my first role after all.   And Holly, I’ve never lost sight of what that role represents.  Yes, I’ve lived well, but most of the money I’ve put into a charitable trust to help the less fortunate.  I know all this makes me sound a bit sappy and mawkish but that’s who I am. I know I’ve been very fortunate.” 

Holly:   “I understand that you have some important news, Nick.”

Nick:    “Yes. I have.  As you know, I was ill while recording my televised Christmas message a couple of months ago.  I’ve tried to keep my health problems quiet but…. I guess I need to get them out in the open now.  You see, Holly…  I have been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.  The prognosis isn’t good…  I have only a few months left.   …But I would like some good to come of my situation.   Please…  If you are watching this – on television, your mobile, online, wherever - I want you to help.   On the screen now there are contact details.  Use them – tell everyone you know about my campaign to find a cure, donate whatever you can.  I know it is already too late for me.  …But please - let us give some hope to others also facing an uncertain future.”

--

“Mr Christmas to see you, Dr. Frobisher.”

“Ah, yes…  Thank you Miss Wright.  Show him in, will you?”

--

Nick walked into Dr. Frobisher’s office.  Behind the leather desk stood a tall, thin and very well-dressed man in his mid-forties.  He was wearing a pin-striped suit with a pair of spectacles perched on the end of his long nose.

”Ah yes, Mr. Christmas.  Take a seat, will you?  And how are you today?  I understand it’s been two years since your diagnosis.”

“Please… Call me Nick.  Well Doctor, I’m fine I guess…  I’ve kept busy, kept my mind off of things.  …Though I realise I’ve been very lucky; I wasn’t expecting to still be here.”

“Quite.  Yours is unfortunately a particularly unforgiving condition.  As you know Nick, there have been many advances in the field of cryopreservation over the past twenty years.  Even ten years ago a client who had undergone the process probably wouldn’t have made it out the other end with their mental faculties intact.  Nowadays a client at my clinic can be revived after several years without experiencing any major side effects.

Obviously it’s not a cure for your condition - it’s more a way of making you comfortable while you wait for one. 

Are you interested in finding out more?”

--

A bright light shone into Nick’s face.

"Mr. Christmas? “

"...Huh?"

"Are you awake, Mr. Christmas?"

"Yes, yes...  Who are you?"

"My name is Dr. Frobisher.   Do you remember me?  Don’t worry if you can’t.  Disorientation is quite normal following revival."

“Yes…  Yes, now I remember you.  Hello again.”

“So, how do you feel?”

”Groggy...  Like I have been asleep for a long time.” 

"You have.  Eleven years to be precise."

"Dear God...  Really?  Oh, my head..."

"The revival process isn't exactly pleasant.  Drink this - you should start to feel better soon."

"Okay…  Wait... You've woken me up!  Did they find a cure? "

"All in good time...  For now have a drink, make yourself comfortable and try to rest.  I'll be back shortly; I'll answer any questions you might have then."

The bed was comfortable and Nick felt sleepy.  He closed his eyes...

--

Nick awoke on a gurney in a small empty hospital ward.  Everything there seemed scuffed and worn:  the tiles and the paintwork were cracked, the flickering strip lights were slightly discoloured and there was a strong smell of bleach that didn't quite disguise the odour of urine and vomit. 

He saw Frobisher sitting beside him in a red plastic chair, reading.  He didn’t seem the same confident, almost bullish man he remembered.  This Frobisher had a rough beard and smelt of stale sweat; his clothes had not been clean for some time.  He looked exhausted. 

“Doctor?”

“Ah yes, Mr Christmas.  Did you enjoy your nap? Be careful moving – you might feel a bit stiff for a day or so, but don’t worry you’ll be fine.  And I imagine your appetite must have returned by now so let’s get you something to eat.  Here, let’s get you into a wheelchair and we’ll go to the canteen. "

Nick shuffled to the edge of the bed then transferred into the wheelchair.  Frobisher wrapped a blanket around Nick’s shoulders, wheeled him out of the ward and into a small, grimy canteen.  Shortly some people arrived, shuffling slowly.  Most were dressed in pyjamas and dressing gowns with plastic slippers; a smaller number wore white coats over crumpled jeans and sweat-shirts.  All looked thin-faced, grey skinned and tired.  Some were losing their hair; others had sores on their faces.  They sat down at the tables; Frobisher and Nick joined them.  A few minutes later a couple of white-coated men arrived from an adjacent room.  One was carrying white plastic dinner trays and a box of cutlery; the other a large dixie containing a grey, lumpy stew.  They served the food then sat down with the others.

Everyone ate in silence.

--

After the meal Frobisher showed Nick a small re-enforced glass window.  He cleaned it with the sleeve of his white coat. 

“Mr Christmas, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.  There isn't a cure for your condition.”

“So… why did you wake me up?”

“Please, look outside.  Tell me…  What can you see? “

Nick peered out.  Outside was a grey mist.  Immediately in front of him there were a couple of weatherworn bicycles, still padlocked to a rack.  Behind that he could make out a few stunted trees and the shadows of some nearby buildings.  There were street lights; none of them were illuminated.    

“It’s so gloomy - I can’t really see that much.  Is it evening?”

“No…  It’s about one o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Really?  …I don’t understand.  What happened?”

“Six weeks ago there was a …brief nuclear exchange.  Everyone came to their senses and peace was declared almost immediately, but it was already too late.  The fallout fell, the skies darkened...  and it’s been like this since.  Fortunately we have our own generator and sufficient supplies for a few months, though the clinic really hasn’t been as much protection as we hoped and…”

Frobisher looked at the ground, took a deep breath then continued.   

“I’m sorry but we are dying, Mr Christmas - all of us.  Radiation poisoning, you see.  When we realised this we decided to revive our cryonic clients.  We thought, admittedly a bit selfishly, that they would like to spend the time they had left with us.  As expected, most of them opted for… a way out.  A few decided to remain and we were hoping that you would like to join us.  If you do stay you can change your mind at any time.“

“I see.”

Nick stared out of the window.

“What’s the date today, Doctor?”

“25^th December.”

Nick paused then smiled weakly.

“So let’s celebrate.  There is still time.”