A Christmas Tale.
By Patrick Brigham
Once more the languor of a Balkan Christmas was upon me, and the torpor of
inactivity has dulled the mind with a diet of turkey and sticky sweets;
punctuated by the ever present TV set which spews out the accumulated detritus
of fifty years of Hollywood’s seasonal obsessions.
Within
the remit of my little expatriate world, it was well known that the Balkan God
had been practically dead up until 1989. Now his re -awakening is not one of
spirituality, but the mockery of commercialism. That, and the winging family,
drove me - not to despair - but to write. But what could I write about?
I
made several vain attempts to start the muse working, but without a computer
and many false starts, it all ended up as a pile of disjointed paragraphs
scrawled on crumpled paper, which I then tossed into an ever filling wastepaper
basket. Irritated by the usual family interruptions, my attempts at fiction became
more absurd and desperate, but never the less I tried.
STORY ONE.
Great
Aunt Florrie sat amidst her accumulated collection of antique furniture, which
gleamed and smelt of beeswax polish. As one might do when visiting an antique
shop, one needed time to navigate a precarious route between the Hepplewhite and
Chippendale furniture, her inheritance from more than thirty years close
observance of family duty, and the ever mounting mortality of ever aging
relations. During her life she had frequently admired various antiques -
bric-a-brac, objects of virtue, items big and small - and their proud owners
had often said to her, ‘When I die, I will leave that to you in my will.’ And
true to their word, they always had.
Now; the last of her decrepit
generation, she sat comfortably within her Aladdin’s Cave, enjoying the history
of a large family, which in turn had collected furniture and keepsakes from all
around the world. Brass topped tables from Turkey with little brass cups and a
brass coffee pot, little side tables shaped like an old threepenny bit -
octagonal and inlayed in ivory from India - nodoubt given to her by some long
forgotten District Commissioner. Faded sepia photographs of Victorians who
stared at you from round black ebony frames, little pieces of porcelain and
glass standing on the worn red velvet shelves of a sparkling book case bureau.
And next to it a marble mantelpiece adorned by a French sevrais ormolu gilded
clock surrounded by silver framed photographs of smiling 20th
century and brilliantined men with their families and dogs sitting posed on
verandah’s somewhere in India, Africa or even Birchington-on-sea.
She
smiled at me and said ‘Dear, it has been so long since I have seen you, I
expect you have been very busy traveling around the world in your job.’ The
brass faced sun and moon long case grandfather clock chimed five times, the
mechanism whirred, and she looked up at the clock face not waiting for my
reply. She said ‘Is that the time? We had better have our tea now dear; I’ve
got a Christmas cake especially for your visit today. I don’t usually bother on
my own, not these days.’
She
opened out a pretty gate legged table, lifted the flaps, and carefully pulled
out the candy twist legs. From the drawer she removed an embroidered table
cloth, and then went over to the sideboard to get the Spode cups, saucers, and
tea plates. She rattled around in the sideboard and finally counted out four
silver tea spoons - one for each of us, one for the sugar, and one for the jam
- two small silver knives and forks, and a silver cake slice. She put them on
the table, and then bumping into various objects en route, she made her way to
the kitchen of her crowded Kensington terrace house. I looked around the room
which I had not seen for some years, and glanced at the fading wallpaper, and
the ornate ceiling.
The
whole house needed some attention. I had noticed from the outside, when I
arrived, a bad structural crack running over the front bay window, and sitting
there I also saw that there was some movement in the flank wall. You could just
see a stepped crack appearing, which also ran across the ceiling. It was here
that a large glass chandelier hung, with twenty candle-bulbs. From the kitchen
her thin reedy voice shouted. ‘China or Indian dear, the tea I mean?’ I could
hear the water bubbling in the electric kettle. ‘Indian, please Auntie.’ I
shouted back, and remembered the holidays I had spent here with her when she
had been younger and more mobile. It had been a time when London was more
genteel, more English, and now Kensington was full of foreigners, which was how
I often felt about myself these days.
Aunt
Florrie came to the door of the kitchen carrying a large mahogany tray, on
which I could see a big silver teapot and a Fortnum and Masons Christmas cake.
Getting up I said ‘Let me take that auntie,’ as I collided with various tables
and chairs ‘it looks very heavy to me.’ I grasped the handles of the butler’s tray,
and placed it on the table next to the buttoned back chaise longue on which she
had been sitting. The crustless thin slices of bread and butter sat uniformly
on a crown derby plate, placed carefully on a paper lace mat. ‘Shall I pour the
tea auntie,’ and without waiting I said ‘and I had better cut the cake too,
this sugar icing looks very thick to me.’ She smiled at me again, and then
shuffled towards her seat on which she had placed her crochet. It lay on top of
an old copy of The Lady magazine.
She
switched on a nearby table lamp, announcing the fact that darkness had begun to
descend on a wintry London. Through the window I noticed that the street lights
had begun to automatically switch themselves on, and so I got up and went to
the window to pull the thick draped curtains. What happened then I will never
forget!
For a
moment I stood there looking into the street, watching someone attempting to
park their car in the snow, and then looked at the heavily restored houses
opposite. Someone had ostentatiously erected a Christmas tree in their front
garden, which was covered by hundreds of white glittering lights. Then it
happened!
As I
pulled the curtains I heard a slight cracking noise, so I naturally turned to
see where the noise had come from. As I did the cracking noise turned into a
roar, and before me the room seemed to disintegrate into a cloud of dust and
plasterwork, pressing me closely and painfully into the bay window.
Aunt
Florrie had her back towards me, and I could just see her head through the dust
as a large four poster bed crashed through the ceiling, its passage lit by the
blazing glass chandelier. This was followed by two large six draw drop handled
walnut chests, a French armoire, and a large marble statue of Gladstone ………….
This is complete rubbish. No one will ever
believe this! I had better start again, and write a new story.
STORY TWO.
It
was Christmas and the gray haired man wiped a tear from the corner of his eye
and contemplated his life so far. He was confused. But why? After all, he was
one of the most powerful men in the world.
However
power was not everything, particularly when it came to family life. His wife
Tensing was not only uncontrollably ambitious, but had been pushy throughout
their entire marriage. Their daughter Fulham was spoilt, and he strongly
suspected a little promiscuous. His love for her had been demonstrated by his
relentless indulgence, and her love for him, by her total self indulgence. The
family power struggle was reaching its peak within the metamorphosis of his
marriage, and the visible signs of discontent were now more difficult to
contain. This was despite his professional advisors and the public relations
experts who daily surrounded both him and his family. Had he come all this way,
only to concede that his loneliness now far exceeded his sense of political
adventure; the adrenaline on which he existed?
In
the background the TV set blandly kept him in touch with international events -
with the help of CNN - but on it right now the pundits were discussing domestic
issues and the country’s constant obsession with popularity ratings. His were
dwindling. But, it was the all too frequent discussion about his private life -
and almost historical business deals - which were beginning to irritate him.
Was there no part of his life that the media had access to? How anodyne did he
have to be, in political office, in order not to attract adverse publicity?
On
the glass topped coffee table next to his leather buttoned back chair, there
was a copy of Readers Digest, and a Freeman’s catalog - left there nodoubt by
his wife Tensing. He pushed them to one side, and then out of a heavily ornate
silver box he removed some cigarettes, a packet of Rizla cigarette papers, and
a small ball of crumpled kitchen foil - which he undid - revealing an innocuous
small brown lump.
First
he removed four cigarette papers, which he stuck together in a stepped fashion,
seeming to form one large paper. Next he broke open one of the cigarettes,
which he sprinkled onto the paper. He then picked up the brown substance, and
removing a small gas lighter from the box, he started to burn it. The smell was
quite noxious, and he smiled with expectation. He then crumbled some of the
warm brown substance onto the tobacco, and then assembled the whole thing into
a large cigarette. He twisted one end of the now tightly packed cigarette, so
it looked like a fuse. Finally, he ripped off a piece of the cigarette packet,
which he rolled up like a tube, and inserted it into the remaining open end.
He
tidied up the table top, leaving the long cigarette in the ashtray, and then
sat back in his club chair, watching - once more - the hourly announcement of
his declining popularity. He put the cigarette in his mouth feeling the hard
cardboard tip between his lips, and with his soft manicured hand, he squeezed
the firm paper tube. He then lit the cigarette carefully, and sat back in his
chair awaiting the effect to manifest itself; the craved for feeling of peace
and well-being. But, it never happened.
As he
puffed on the rocket shaped cigarette, he carefully blew the highly scented
smoke out of his mouth, making sure that he did not inhale any of it, because
he knew that it was wrong …………..
I can’t go on! No one will believe this
either. Better start again.
STORY THREE.
I
don’t know why I particularly noticed her; after all she was only one of many
old and poor people who were shuffling through the snow that day. I think it
may have been her shoes which I noticed, they were made of plastic. On her feet
she appeared to be wearing short white socks, which only partially covered her
thin bare legs as she trudged to the tram stop.
She
hugged herself, as the cold wind blew. It seemed determined to find a
circuitous route through her threadbare coat, chilling her thin body with its
callous breath. The fat woman looked at her through her thick glasses. She was
perched inside her kiosk, her fur hat pulled down to cover her ears, her
nicotine stained hands holding a dirty coffee cup. The old lady cleared her
throat, and with refined deference, she inquired the price of a tram ticket.
The
gruff and uncouth mouth spat out the answer, flecks of white cheese hanging
precariously to her chin. ‘Two Leva each, Maminka.’ The old lady was already
clutching a ten Leva note, which she then held out in her trembling hand.
‘You
will have to have five tickets, I’ve got no change,’ said the round red Slavic
face, snatching the crumpled note. She grinned as she handed over the five
white tickets. Her rotting teeth bit hard into a frankfurter sausage.
‘Please
I only need two,’ the old lady said, ‘I am going to the cemetery to visit my
husbands grave, I always do that at Christmas.’
‘Too
bad,’ said the woman, slamming her window shut. ‘Who the hell did she think she
was, talking like a lady; talking to her in that way?’
Grinding
down the road between the cobbled stones, the old yellow tram rocked as it
crossed another track, metalically squeaking as it attempted - very reluctantly
- to stop in the square. When it had finally come to a halt, the workers
climbed down the steps, pushed past the old lady and made for their shops and
offices. They would toast the health of Father Frost later that day, with a
half liter bottle of Rakia, which they drank most nights to blot out the
relentless frustration of their lives.
Slowly
she climbed the steps, put one of her tickets into the broken ticket punch and
then settled herself by the folding door. Through the window there loomed the
heroic statue of the communist worker; it stood arrogantly before the backdrop
of the forest, the Vitosha Mountains glistening in the distance through the
mist.
It
had all been so different in the old days. She could remember waving a bunch of
flowers, as the Russian troops drove over Eagles Bridge in their tanks, having
fought their way from the Danube. Things had been different then. They all
believed that finally their dreams would all come true and everything which
they had held so sacred; and for so long, would at last transform their world
into a socialist utopia. One that would last forever.
The
Jew had been right, and the intellectuals had realized that Marx was their only
salvation, from the war raddled country which the Nazi’s had left behind them.
But since the silk revolution everything had changed. People like her - the old
guard and the conservatives - had become objects of scorn. Now everywhere she
looked there were foreign businessmen, and the only Marx that people spoke of
these days, was a new shop that some English company would open in the City
center.
The
yellow tram swiftly ran down the hill towards the town, past the drab empty shops,
past the newspaper stalls and the Gypsy’s who sold sunflower seeds. She looked
at the faces of the people as they shoved their way through the crowds,
frantically going nowhere, or mindlessly queuing. Where was her dream now? What
had happened to all those dedicated Communists? What had happened to their
spirit? Had everyone forgotten all her rousing speeches?
The
cemetery was about a kilometer from the tram stop, a journey which she had
taken for almost forty years. She remembered the tears which she had shed in
the early years, as she walked the well trodden path to her husbands grave;
clutching a single flower, trying to visualize his face.
Now
the only thing she took with her, were her memories. Memories of the strong
handsome man she had buried so long ago. Soon she would see his familiar face
staring so passionately at her, from the sepia photograph attached to his
grave; the same one she had on the wall of her little room.
It
had been a difficult walk for her, age making even the simplest task an ordeal.
But having stopped and rested a number of times, she finally came to the gates
of the municipal cemetery. The man was sitting in his hut, hoping that the gas
bottle would last another week. She tapped gently on the window and watched as
he turned and smiled at her, his plastic cap pressed firmly on his head, a
scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, the double breasted greatcoat buttoned up
to the collar.
‘Ah!
It’s you madam, I wondered if you would come again this year. May I extend the season’s
greetings to you, and say how pleased I am to see you.’
She
smiled at him, an old friend – ‘Thank you Vassil, and the same to you and your
family.’
‘There
is only me now Madam, I buried my wife last year; I am now on my own comrade
Petricova. I am on my own.’
‘I am
sorry to hear that Vassil, but we are all getting so old, you know,’ she
offered by way of consolation.
‘I
buried her over there under the linden tree, so I could be near her; so I could
talk to her when I was not busy.’ He paused, ‘but, I expect you would like to
visit the great man, comrade - your husband the comrade professor. I’ll open the gates for you Madam. I do hope
we meet again next year. Goodbye comrade Petricova.’
The
trip home was cold and wretched, the tram crowded, and full of rude and angry
people who pushed, shoved and blew sour breath into her face. Were these the
perfect citizens who she had once so fervourantly and profoundly believed in?
Could these people possibly be the result of her much loved ideal; a socialist
democratic state. The self doubt only served to make her feel more useless, and
her old body shook with fatigue, in years spent in the service of others.
The
biting wind blew through a broken window, and the tram returned once more to
the square from where she had come. With great care, she slowly extracted
herself from the tram, the closing doors only missing her by centimeters. The
driver smiled to herself and thought ‘Who does she think she is? She is
nothing now.’
The
children were playing in the street, and a little girl playfully threatened to
throw a snowball at her, but kissed her instead. ‘Where have you been Maitche,
you have been gone such a long time. There is a Christmas card for you; I think
it is from America.’
Home
once more, the proud and passionate face of her husband stared impassively once
more from the otherwise bare wall, as she lay on her iron bed, watching the
dead screen of her old Russian TV set; exhausted by her mornings travels.
Picking up the envelope, she carefully inspected the stamp, and saw that it had
come from her daughter in San Francisco.
She
slowly opened the envelope, savoring the suspense and enjoying the moment. She
looked at the silver bell on the front of the card, and words which said Happy
Christmas from the USA. She remembered the words of the old man at the
cemetery, and smiled to herself. Feeling the warmth creeping back into her hands
and feet, at last she opened up the card.
Now this, I do believe - Happy Christmas!
What I will do is to
clear all the things off my mantelpiece to make a bit of space. Right, I have
done that, and now I am going to put two photographs - that I just happen to
have - one of Hilary Mantel and the other of Kate Middleton next to one another on the mantelpiece and have a good look at them both.
No! I am sorry
Hilary, but you will have to go. Call me old fashioned if you like, but if
I had wanted to be surrounded by gargoyles, I would have bought a gothic castle
in Scotland - with the proceeds of my two books Herodotus – The Gnome of Sofia, and Judas Goat - The Kennet Narrow Boat Mystery,
which I am desperately trying to sell.
Now what shall I do with the photo of this woman
with a rather physically challenged ‘boat race?’ I know, I will put it together
with another rather revealing photograph I just happen to have, of Nigel Farage. They seem
to have quite a lot in common one way or another, so I suspect they will probably get
on quite well together.
What I will do is keep Hilary and Nigel together in a cardboard
box I have just found at the local supermarket. It is an empty box of Cadbury’s
Chocolate Fingers so I had better write something on the side with my felt
tipped pen. Now what shall I call it? I know. I will call it 'Patrick Brigham’s
Box of Horrors!” Perfect!
