A Modern Christmas Carol

Full of festive magic

There was a sense of panic in the air. Christmas crowds swirled through the streets of the old town, pausing here and there, then pressing on towards the next destination, the next must-buy present.

Gordon Masters stood at the window of his gift shop at the bottom of the narrow alley that curved up the hill towards the town square. He looked across the cobbles to where people moved in and out of the arched doorway of what had been an ancient chapel, now a centre for various charitable enterprises. A large notice proclaimed “CHARITY CHRISTMAS CARDS AVAILABLE HERE” and they were obviously doing good business. Good luck to them.

Opposite the shop, tucked behind a sturdy buttress, a man dressed as Father Christmas and wielding a collection box had appeared this morning, He didn’t seem to be attracting much attention.

Gordon felt for him. Not many people lingered in the alley these days. Mostly it served as a short cut to the brand new mall with its posh shops. That’s where he should be collecting. It’d be a lot warmer for a start, away from the easterly wind that whistled over the cobbles and rattled the strings of golden stars slung between the higgledy piggledy eaves. A few shops in the alley had smartened their windows with Christmassy displays but most had a defeated look.

Gordon hadn’t quite got to that stage. Everything in the window was carefully arranged. Plenty of evergreens around the beautiful scarves and purses and jewellery from the craftspeople they’d always been keen to encourage.

Gordon sighed. This would be his last Christmas here. Business had sunk to an all-time low and it hadn’t been the same

His BUSINESS had SUNK so he feared this might be his LAST Christmas

since Laura died. He’d done his best to struggle on alone but though he’d sold the house and made the flat above the shop into a comfortable retreat for one person he wasn’t sure that he’d ever consider it home. It was time he gave some sensible thought to retirement.

A few snowflakes fell. That poor chap playing Santa must be freezing. He’d take him a cup of coffee in a minute.

Angie Jones paused on the corner of the alley. Wasn’t this a short cut to the mall? It was ages since she’d been here and she’d only come because she needed something decent to wear for Fiona’s wretched party. Now the sky had turned the heavy purplish-grey colour that meant snow.

The wind flapped at her anorak and trousers. She’d noticed when she got out of the car that there was a splodge of red paint on her knee. Blast! She should have made an effort, put on heels and her one good coat – a classic she’d kept when she’d vacated her old life. She’d stick out like a sore thumb once she got to the smart shops. Just like Fiona, but for opposite reasons, as she ponced around the village in her immaculate Barbour and Hunter wellies.

She wished she had been firmer when Fiona had mentioned the party.

“You must come, Angie. Your marvellous picture will be spotlit in the hall and I shall be sure to point it out.” She’d beamed and wafted her immaculately manicured hands as though gathering paintings out of the ether. “And couldn’t we set up a little gallery in the conservatory? Just for a few days. We have a house party over the weekend, you see. It would make a wonderful talking point. All your atmospheric pictures of the marsh.” “Possibly, but…” “No buts! I’ve quite made up my mind. Now when would it be a good time to pop over to your studio?”

Never! That’s what she should have said. She didn’t want Fiona poking around the cottage and comparing it to the grandeur of the Old Manor House. Fiona and Mark were supposed to have made a brilliant job of restoring her childhood home. Not that she’d been inside, but people who had made a point of mentioning it, rubbing it in. Still, she was a bit curious. And look where curiosity had got her. Here, in the teeth of an easterly gale with snow in the air, looking for clothes she didn’t want.

Angie had lived in the cottage for eighteen months and had done nothing more than ensure that the roof and walls were sound. She lived amid comfortable clutter, a world away from the flat she’d shared with Sam in London. Which was precisely what she wanted.

Fiona had bought one of her paintings at the village show in the autumn. Angie had secretly been quite chuffed until she realised that Fiona had bought something from every stall. Huh! Fiona might think she was buying her way into the village’s favour, but she’d never be more than an incomer.

She’d scarcely started up the hill when a gust of wind thumped her

in the back and her feet lost purchase on the cobbles. She embarked on a sort of windmilling war dance in an effort to gain her balance. A man crossing the alley dashed towards her. She was vaguely aware of a red robed figure on the other side, before the man cried, “Whoops!” made a grab at her arm, but failed to stop her falling.

Two faces peered down at her. One belonged to a bespectacled chap holding a tilted mug that dripped coffee, the other to Father Christmas with a collecting box.

“Are you hurt?” enquired the coffee man. “Let me help you up.” “Ow. It’s my ankle…” “Can you manage to get to my shop? And you, too, Father Christmas? Come and get warm.”

“Why, that’s jolly decent of you,” Father Christmas said. “I have to confess it’s getting a bit parky.”

The shopkeeper propelled her across the alley and she had to admit it was a relief to get out of the wind as the shop door clanged to behind them.

Fiona Ingles had watched the incident from the chapel door. She was on the way to do some Christmas shopping and to have lunch with friends when she’d glimpsed Angie emerging from her mud-spattered old banger on the next aisle of the multi storey.

Her instinct had been to hide. She’d tried her best over the past months but really Angie was such a prickly person that she’d felt daunted at the thought of this much anticipated day out being spoiled by her crossness. Mark thought she was an idiot to have invited her to the Christmas party.

“Why do you waste time on her, darling?”

“I feel sorry for her, I suppose. And I do believe she’s enormously talented. As I’ve tried to tell her. Not that she listens. She’s very disparaging about those paintings of hers.”

Mark laughed. “There’s loads of other nice people in the village. How do you always find these lame dogs?”

“Put it down to being the daughter of a vicar. It’s in my genes. And I confess I do feel a bit guilty because we’re living in the house that used to be in her family. She feels we’re intruders. I just want to show her that we adore this place.” She shook her head. “I reckon she’s unhappy because of the tragedy in her life. It’s common knowledge. A child who died young, a divorce. She was an illustrator in a publishing house and threw it all in when her marriage fell apart. Fled back here.”

Mark hugged her. “You’re a soft touch. But don’t change. It’s the reason I fell in love with you thirty years ago.”

So now she stood in the freezing wind and her instinct was to duck into this old chapel and buy some charity Christmas cards, keep out of the sight until she was sure Angie had gone.

Charity. The word spun in her head, So easy to salve one’s conscience with a few cards. Far less easy to help someone when it was an inconvenience to oneself. She sighed. She’d known what she must do when she saw Angie fall. Slowly she started to walk up the alley.

The cat had hung around the shops for days. It was hungry and unloved. It seized its chance. A ragged streak of black and white fur nipped past Fiona as she opened the door. It shot around the two men settling Angie into a chair and disappeared behind the counter.

“I’m sorry,” Fiona said. “It just whizzed past me.”

“It’s a stray that’s been hanging about… I’ll ring the RSPCA later.” Gordon smiled at Fiona. “How may I help? Are you looking for something in particular?” “I saw this lady fall. I know her.” “Of course,” Gordon said, crestfallen. “Fiona?” Angie said. What was she doing here? For a few seconds she felt relief at the sight of a familiar face. Aloud she said in her usual sharp tone, “Fancy seeing you.”

“Is there anything I can do? It’s such a shock when you have a fall like that.” “I’ll be fine in a minute.” Angie looked at Fiona then glanced away. She couldn’t bear to see the sympathy in her eyes. She was too vulnerable at the moment, undermined by the distress of the accident. “No need to fuss.” “It was a nasty fall,” Fiona said. “Those cobbles can be tricky when they’re damp,” Gordon said.

Angie sipped the coffee he handed her, cross that she was shivering. It was good coffee. She felt it slide down, restorative, calming.

Fiona hesitated. Angie was a bit white round the gills, for all her protestations. She’d hang on for a bit. She accepted the mug of coffee pressed on her by the shop owner, admiring the swirls of pattern on the mug, then began

It’s sad that the MALL has taken so much CUSTOM from the LOCAL shops

to wander round the shop looking at the displays of crafts. Father Christmas, too, was admiring the shelves.

“Interesting stuff isn’t, it?” he said. “Sad that the mall has taken so much custom away from here.”

“D’you know, I might take a couple of those mugs.” Fiona said. “And look at those silver earrings. So pretty. Perfect for a dear friend for Christmas.”

Angie glared at her mug. Fiona doing her Lady Bountiful act as usual.

She was shocked, suddenly, by seeing Sam in her head. Usually she pushed away his image, buried herself in work. Weakened as she was, she hadn’t the energy to dismiss him, his thin, clever face, heavy with sadness… “There’ll be other babies, Angie.” “Others? Why should we go through this again? Three months, that’s all we had with him.” Her grief was overwhelming, bitter. “Why us?’

The question had hung between them. They’d pretended to the world they were getting over the loss of their beautiful boy. For a while it

worked. Then everything blew up, suddenly, shockingly. Then there was the other woman, the one to offer sympathy and draw Sam into her cosy aura.

“I’m sorry, I can’t go on like this,” he’d said. “If I thought you still cared… Well, I know that you don’t.”

For a few seconds she had almost cried out, “But I do!” Instead, she’d said coldly, “I understand. Better the clean break, Sam. I’ve been thinking about going freelance, heading back to the country.”

The relief in his eyes had cut her to the quick.

A loud mewing from somewhere behind the counter jolted her.

“The poor cat must be starving,” the shop owner said. “I’ll give it some milk.”

Angie closed her eyes. The plaintive sound rang round and round in her head, and something in her responded. She had never cried when she split up with Sam. Something had frozen within her then, but now, terrifyingly, the tears welled up and poured down her cheeks.

Angie clung to Fiona’s arm as they left the shop and she gingerly attempted a couple of steps. “OK?” said Fiona. “Not bad,” Angie said. She took another step with more confidence.

“Lucky the shop owner was such a whizz with a bandage,” Fiona said. “Gordon Masters. I’ve got his card safe and you must contact him, when you get home. It would be such a wonderful outlet for your pictures.” “Oh, I don’t know…” “Well I do,” Fiona said firmly. “And in the meantime let’s get you up to the mall. My favourite dress shop’s quite handy. She hesitated, then said, smiling warmly. “And maybe you’d like to join me and my friends for lunch…”

Bossy boots, thought Angie, but she didn’t say anything. For once she was content to let someone else take charge. It was a relief, as if her embarrassing breakdown had shifted something. She could feel a softening, a weakening that hadn’t been there before.

It had happened when Fiona had taken her in a bear hug and soothed her as though she were a child. She had given in to the feeling of comfort for those few moments when Fiona had gently stroked her back.

Something had changed. And she knew the change was for the better.

When everyone had gone. Gordon scratched the cat’s chin. “What am I going to do with you, then?”

The cat butted its head against Gordon’s hand.

“You need a good feed and a good home”, he said, sternly. “And don’t think you’ll be stopping here…” He broke off.

Could he take in a cat? Perhaps it belonged to someone, had one of those chips. Well, he could find out. It seemed a friendly little thing. Its purr seemed to bring a cosiness to the usual silence that hung about the shop.

It had been a funny old morning, in a good way. Despite that poor woman’s accident, it had been heartening to have the shop full. And interesting that she was a painter. He’d made a good sale, too, with Mrs Ingles. She’d promised to tell her friends about the shop and to drop in herself again before Christmas. If she kept her word – and he felt she was the sort of person who would – perhaps things would look up. The shop bell pinged and Father Christmas breezed in. “Just popped back to bring you these.” he said, beaming. He plonked two tins of cat food on the counter. “Well, that’s very good of you, but…” “My pleasure. Can’t stop,” he called from the door. “Busy time of year. The cat’s called Toby. He isn’t chipped. You’ll love him. Happy Christmas.” “Toby?” Gordon said, bewildered. The cat’s ears twitched and the purring intensified. Gordon shook his head. There was a sort of muzziness in his head for a few seconds. After that, he forgot Father Christmas had called again. He picked up the cat. “I think I shall call you Toby,” he announced. “Does that suit you, my new friend?”

It was reindeer feeding time, Father Christmas decided. He gave his collection box to the jolly ladies who ran the charity card stall and walked out among the snowflakes. It had been an interesting morning’s work. He’d done his bit with the introductions and now it was up to the three of them. And a cat.

Nobody took any notice of the rotund chap dressed in a red robe but as he passed through the crowds there seemed to be a sprinkling of warmth flowing in his wake that brought smiles to frowning faces, cheered up worried hearts and wafted hope to those who had forgotten what hope was.

The strains of Good King Wenceslas floated on the air. Father Christmas smiled as he decided on his next stopping place…

It had been a FUNNY old morning, but PERHAPS things would look up