Short Stories

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It was Christmas Eve and we busied ourselves in the kitchen. The plum pudding was boiling merrily on the range, the goose roasting in the turf fuelled oven. The rich scent of festive food mingled in the humid air with the excited chatter of the kitchen staff.

I glimpsed the masters’ carriage wheels as they trundled past the scullery window. Darkness was ebbing across the sky, snatching away the last of the grey twilight. The lamplighter shuffled along igniting the street lamps, as snow began to gentle drift from the cold December sky and settle on the cobblestones, a crisp virginal blanket. The festive voices of carol singers resounded from the grimy walls of London town, echoing through bustling streets.
“God rest ye merry gentlemen let nothing you dismay...” and in a strange disassociated harmony the voice of the street vendors joined the seasonal refrain.
“Roasted chestnuts, roasted chestnuts”
“Hot potatoes get you’re hot potatoes”

Across the street I saw the waif of a ragged child huddled in the doorway. Shivering and dirty faced. He pleadingly held out an old and no doubt rusted tin cup. I could not hear the poor retch, but imagined his forlorn cry.
“Merry Christmas sir. Merry Christmas mam, spare a copper.”
I sighed as I turned from the window. Not one person had dropped a single farthing in to the battered tin cup.

I left the kitchen and made my way up to the masters study, the miserable old codger was due his brandy. No sooner had I entered the vast hall and closed the kitchen door the old duffer bellowed.
“Clayton where’s my brandy!”
“On the way sir” I hastily replied and entered his study; the masters richly furnished womb. A fire burned intensely in the mammoth fireplace and he was slumped in his plush leather armchair, as snug as a cocooned insect; firelight dancing across his sinister face. My thoughts flashed with sympathy for the dishevelled starving child, shivering outside in the doorway.

I served him his brandy, he swirled the amber liquid around the brandy bowl, sniffed it and swallowed in a single gulp.
“Well Clayton” he said in his rasping rattle of a voice.
“It’s Christmas again. The countries annual extravagant waste of money. Just then the muffled voices of carol singers could be herd, rendering silent night.
Suddenly the master bolted from his chair and stormed to the front door roaring.
“Christmas is Gump!”
I swiftly followed but stopped just outside the study as he wrenched the door open and screamed at the singers.
“Clear off all of you!” he screamed and slammed the door closed, then spun on his heels barged past me and flopped exasperatedly into his chair.
“Clayton” he rumbled
“Yes sir” I replied.
“Clayton I hope cook has not prepared goose or any other frivolity for tomorrow?”
“Eh no sir” I stammered.
“I hope for her sake she has not”
“No sir she hasn’t. Will that be all sir?”
“Yes that’s all. You may go” I said and made my escape.

“As I burst in to the kitchen cook started.
“Why Mister Clayton whatever’s the matter?” she said. Her plump homely face registering concern. She wiped her podgy hands on her flower dusted apron and waited.
“Him upstairs” I exclaimed. “He doesn’t want any goose tomorrow. In fact he wants nothing to do with Christmas at all. He just turned some carol singers away from the door” I added frantically.
“Why the miserable old miser. What am I going to do with all this food? It just ain’t right Mister Clayton” and she began to gentle sob. The rest of the staff stood mesmerized and said nothing.
“Calm down Mrs Clayton.” I said as I crossed the kitchen and peered out of the scullery window. A stiff wind had arisen and the gentle snowfall had become an icy blizzard. The child was still huddled in the doorway, he had been joined by a little girl I guessed to be his sister and a women that I assumed to be the children’s mother, gaslight flicked hungry shadows across their frozen faces. Turning from the window I looked at my wife as she dabbed the flowery apron to her eyes. I smiled affectionately.
“Is everything prepared Mrs Clayton?”
“Well of course it is you silly old fool. Why else would I be so upset?” She replied.
“Have we any cooked vegetables?”
“Only lunch leftovers.”
“Then heat them up women! Heat them up!” I exclaimed, and then continued.
“We are going to have guests!”
“Guests what guests?”
“Just do as I say” I persisted.
“Alright” she said and then mumbled.
“Raving mad he’s gone.”
“Anna, Maggie” I continued addressing the two remaining staff.
“Yes Mister Clayton” Came the simultaneous replies.
“Get the best silver out, bring champagne and squeeze some oranges for juice. I shall go and collect our guests.”

I stepped out the back door, climbed the frozen steps and with head down and collar turned up I shuffled through the frantic, wind whipped snow, to the other side of the street. As I stood before the freezing family, they eyed me suspiciously.
“Merry Christmas.” I said. The little girl looked at me with world weary brown eyes.
“Merry Christmas sir” she tentatively whispered, as weak smile played across her lips and I momentarily glimpsed the real child, behind the grubby face. I turned to the mother and with a slight bow I said.
“Won’t you and your family please join my wife, myself and our friends for dinner?










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