start, her success at university, her failure to get work, her pregnancy, her second pregnancy... her troubles with the DWP, her involvement with drugs (though she was clean now, Carol assured him). He heard about Stevie’s two adorable but difficult boys, and of how Carol was struggling to help them out.
He didn't say much.
When Carol had finished, she crumbled the remainder of her muffin between her fingers, looked into his eyes and said: “You’re probably thinking what an awful family we are.”
“Why would I be thinking that?”
Actually, that was exactly the kind of thing he would normally have thought. But he wasn't thinking it. He didn't really know what to think. Carol’s eyelashes made it difficult to concentrate.
“Anyway,” she concluded. “That’s why I've finally decided – I can’t do it anymore. Look after Stevie and her kids, I mean. I just can’t. I've got to start thinking of myself a bit or I'll slide down after her. I've got to start saying “no” to her – at least some of the time.”
“That sounds very sensible to me.”
She sighed. “But I can’t – my conscience won't let me – which is why I want to get rid of it. To someone who can give it a good home. And the money – it would let me pay off my debt and start again.”
“Is that all you need?”
Her eyebrows went up. He saw they were unplucked – really quite thick, the way he liked women’s eyebrows, though he hadn't realised it till now.
“What d’you mean?” she asked.
“I mean, would a bit more money be useful, on top of the £750?”
She laughed – a rather appealing snort. “Of course it would. But I could hardly expect...”
“What would you do, if you had it? Say an extra twenty thousand pounds?”
“Twenty thousand? Now we’re in fairyland. Let me think. I'd start my business, of course.”
“You have plans for a business?”
Her children’s clothing company. All her designs. The way she would involve her workforce, be kind to them, pay them a decent wage. But still make a good profit. Toys, perhaps, as well. Baby and toddler equipment. She had plenty of ideas.
He smiled. “You have plenty of ideas.”
“More ideas than sense, my sister always says.”
“And you believe her – the feckless Stevie?”
“Stevie’s not feckless.”
He looked at her. Then he pulled out his chequebook and pen and scribbled on a cheque, which he tore out and pushed across the table.
She picked it up and stared. “No!”
“Please accept. It's my pleasure.”
“I couldn't possibly...” She could hardly contain her excitement. She was like a five-year-old in front of the Christmas tree. “Are you really... really... sure?”
He nodded. “I’m sure. It’s actually... I mean, I'm not saying this to boast, but I don't want you to think...” He felt himself blush. “It’s really not such a large amount of money to me.”
“It is to me.”
“Well then. Please accept.”
It’s her turn to blush. “No strings?”
What the hell did she mean? Did she really think...? “Of course not. You need never see me again. I’ll destroy your details. And... I’m sorry. I shouldn't have dug around to find out who you were. It was unforgivable of me.”
“Don't worry.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
“I'd like to let you know how I get on.”
He passed her his business card. “Email me in a year’s time. I’ll be interested to know how the business is progressing.”
She beamed at him. “I will!” Then she gave him a hug.
He said: “Remember, you don't have a conscience now. You sold it to me. So if your sister asks for help...”
Carol smiled. “Don't worry. I know what to do.”
Carol did indeed set up her children’s clothing company. She turned out to have a practical mind and a great deal of business sense. Once Stevie realised she wasn't getting any more freebies, she started to help out – and by the end of the year, sales were taking off and they were employing three other people.
Carol had thought once or twice of contacting Hogworth during the year, but had not got round to it – there’d been so little time. But as she wrote her Christmas cards, she remembered him.
A quick email – with thanks, greetings and a balance sheet, just to show him how well they were doing.
The reply was in her mailbox next day.
Dear Ms Gentle
I’m so sorry to tell you, but Mr Hogworth Shreddie passed away just before Christmas last year. He died on December 6th 2011, crossing a road in the City of London, where he was hit by a postal delivery van. I’m very sorry to have to tell you this sad news. I thought I had informed all Hogworth’s friends and contacts, but clearly you were missed out and I can only apologise for this.
With kind regards
Hollerton Juniper
Camtropp Banking Services plc
Carol’s first thought, as she read the message and started to shake, was that Mr Juniper had got the year wrong. Hogworth must have died this December, 2012, not last...
She’d made a copy of his cheque to keep for posterity. It was clearly dated 17th December 2011, the day she’d met him in the bleak little café near Coventry station.
She stared at the cheque in its frame on the wall beside her desk – then back at the email on her screen. Then at the cheque again.
Hogworth had mentioned, she remembered, almost being knocked down by a mail van on his way home from work. An unknown arm had pulled him out of danger, just in time. He’d joked about how the experience had made him realise he was mortal – and had perhaps set off the strange nightmares about his Uncle Stafford.
He’d dismissed all that, of course, with his rather creaky laugh – the one she guessed he hadn't used for a while.
She’d joined in. He’d told her how much he liked her snorting giggle.
They’d parted friends.
Christmas Break
Margaret Mather
It was a fairytale scene, lights twinkly and bright,
Ice shining, inviting, I thought that I might
Take a spin around the rink, feel the wind in my face,
Exciting, dangerous, I accelerated my pace.
My confidence picked up, I quickened my speed,
I felt invincible, alive, in control and in the lead.
Eyes watched in envy as I flew round and round,
Disbelief that I could skate to the sixties’ sound.
I was flying now, confidence oozed from every pore.
People were clapping and shouting – more, more, more.
I skated and sang with my hands shoved in my pockets,
My skating boots felt as if they were attached to rockets.
A sweet wrapper on the ice was the ruin of me.
My skates stopped dead, I fell on one knee.
Throwing my arms out, I tried to prevent the crash,
Into the railings I went with a terrible smash.
I broke an arm, grazed a knee, hurt my pride,
Felt as if pins were sticking right into my side.
Maybe at sixty I should slow down a bit.
But where’s the fun in that? A girl’s got to keep fit.
The Beginning
Dianne Sweet
When the Son of God, just a swaddled babe,
In a straw-filled manger his virgin mother laid
No trumpet sound, no bells did ring
Just a diamond star proclaimed a king.
An angel whispered on eastern breeze
To drift o’er mountains, plains and endless seas.
Desert ships, sages aboard, rode shifting sands a journey long
Only precious gifts they brought, no choir, no song.
For they knew some who feared this power
To disarm armies, topple their tower.
Within m
idnight sky hung that blinding light
Cascading down on shepherds awed by the sight.
Their flocks they left in a greater care
For morning light their aim to be there.
Bringing no fanfare glory or crown
Their only burden a furrowed frown.
Before dawn had risen all mankind would know
The beginning of the end of the status quo.
A greater love was born that day
A single lesson of all we need this Christmas Day.
When Santa got stuck up the Chimney
Calvin Hedley
“U-u-g-h!” he said, and then tried again. “U-u-u-g-g-h-h! It’s no good, I can’t budge.”
“Oh, not again.”
“I can’t help it.”
“You can help it, Santa, you’re fat.”
“They make chimneys narrower these days.”
Silence.
“And if you must know, I’ve a medical complaint.”
“Ah, I see. What do they call it? Mince-pie-oholism? You attend meetings, I suppose. ‘My name’s Santa and I’m a pie-oholic’.”
“Rudolf, I have water retention.”
“Hmmm, it probably can’t seep through all that pastry. That great black belt of yours isn’t supposed to serve as a gastric band.”
“Ho! Ho! Ho! Very funny.”
“Too many pies, Santa, I’ve always said it.”
“Yeah, don’t I just know it?” Giving another convulsive writhe: “I could do with some help here.”
Rudolf sniffed. “I’m not putting my back out, not on Christmas Day.”
Santa mused for a while. “What’s up, Rudolf? I don’t hear the others complaining.”
“Ah, well, let’s see. Donner and Blitzen think they’re superior to everyone, Cupid’s too meek, Comet too drunk, Dasher, Dancer and Prancer neither dash, dance nor prance any longer and Vixen only ever complains to me.” Rudolf warmed to his theme. “It’s no fun for me, guiding everyone, having to find everywhere, and when was the last time we just delivered an orange and a penny whistle? Computers and bloody great plasma TVs now.” A brooding pause. “And your little helpers don’t exactly help. Pause for breath and they’re piling on more stuff. And now you’re bigger than ever and I’ve simply had enough.”
“Why didn’t you say?”
Drawing a deep breath: “I am saying.”
“But don’t nag, Rudolf; you’re not a nag, you’re a reindeer… and think of the children.”
“Huh, children! This is absolutely the last time, Santa. I’m getting bucktoothed, hauling you out.”
“Thanks, Rudolf.”
Making a Meal of It
Margaret Egrot
He laughed when I said there would be no Christmas dinner if he hadn’t finished decorating the dining room.
Laughed, and joshed me playfully on the shoulder.
So like him – cheerful and carefree – but so careless about what really matters.
I said nothing more.
Just waited.
And noted the lack of progress.
And shopped accordingly.
On Christmas Day the step ladder and buckets were still in the dining room, and the wallpaper still in its wrapper.
We had tinned ham, mash and frozen peas for lunch.
No pudding.
Nothing was said.
But I felt I’d made my point.
He left me in the New Year and I finished the decorating myself -
It took me two days.
This year I haven’t done any Christmas shopping yet.
What’s the point when there is only one of you?
Letters to Santa
Ann Evans
Dear Santa,
I’m sure you get lots of letters from kiddies aged three.
But if you could – and I have been good!
Bring a teddy bear for me.
With golden fur and shiny eyes and a growl in his tummy.
Oh yes, and please, could we have a baby boy for Mummy?
Dear Santa,
Do you like my drawing of mistletoe and holly?
Sorry – it’s me again – and I’m almost ten!
Please will you bring me a dolly?
And lots of games for us all to play so we can have some fun.
Oh yes, and my sweet little brother would like a plastic gun.
Dear Santa,
How time flies, I’m sixteen now and can you guess?
I don't want toys – more into boys!
So please bring that gorgeous red dress.
And make-up and CDs and a pair of knee-length boots.
Oh yes, my annoying brother wants a different gun, the sort that actually shoots.
Dear Santa,
I’m 22 and so in love and what I hope you'll bring
Is a solitaire stone on a band of gold –
Oh
Christmas Tales - Seasonal stories, poems and greetings from the Coventry Writers' Group Page 3
