by Chrys Cymri
At 10am I headed out of the vestry and to the centre of the church, where I announced the first carol, ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem.’ I was pleased, as I walked up to my stall, to see that there were a half-dozen children as well as forty adults. Not many of our regulars. Even Holly wasn’t present, having announced to me at 1am that ‘I’m Chrismassed out’ and that she wouldn’t be coming in the morning. Peter was at the back, along with an older man and woman whom I assumed must be his parents. The fact that one parent was dark-skinned and the other white made me realise why Peter always appeared to have a permanent tan.
We proceeded through our confession, readings, another carol, and then the sermon. I led a discussion on ‘How is God described in the Bible?’ and rather gratifyingly received the answers I’d hoped, namely that he was ‘Bigger than Northampton’ (this from a young boy) to which an adult replied, ‘Bigger than London, even.’
‘Then how does this big God fit into a tiny baby?’ I asked them. ‘How can this great big God fit into Jesus, lying there in Mary’s arms?’
Only at this point did I bring out the small TARDIS, hidden until now in a canvas bag. A ripple of excitement went through the children, and even several of the adults. ‘What do we know about the TARDIS?’ I asked. One adult gave me the words behind the acronym, although I winced when he said ‘dimensions’ instead of ‘dimension’. ‘Travels in time and space,’ was another answer. Then ‘Bigger on the inside than the outside.’
So I risked asking, ‘So, how is Jesus like the TARDIS?’
‘He’s bigger on the inside than the outside,’ a girl piped up.
I managed to restrain myself from running over to give her a hug. ‘Spot on. We don’t know how the Time Lords did it, how the TARDIS can be bigger on the inside than the outside. And we don’t know how God did it, that he managed to fit himself into the tiny baby Jesus. But we know that, because of Jesus, a whole larger world is now open to us. And he invites us to be his companion in our lives, wherever we travel. Amen.’
During our prayers I had children light candles for ‘places and people in the world which need to know the light of Christ.’ Most of the families came up to the altar for a blessing during Communion. It was obvious that several of the children could hear Clyde’s protests at being left out. I felt pangs of guilt as their parents insisted that, no, they couldn’t possibly be hearing a voice which was wailing ‘Want Jesus!’
Finally we reached ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’ and I was able to give the final blessing. Clyde glared at me when I went into the vestry to take off my robes. I headed back out to clear up the altar. Peter and his parents had stayed behind, and were collecting discarded hymn books and service sheets. So, it was only when his father and I were discussing how best to remove chocolate stains from paper that I realised we’d not been introduced. To make a point of this would be breaking the British code of conduct, which declared that one must never embarrass someone for a lack in protocol. ‘Peter talks about you,’ I said to him, ‘but only calls you “Dad”, of course. You must have a name?’
The man laughed. I could see Peter in his bright eyes and long face. There were still a few traces of brown in the greying hair. ‘Alfred. Pleased to meet you, Penny. Come and say hello to Mags.’
I sent the three of them off in Peter’s car, telling them that we’d meet up at Peter’s house. Only when they were on their way did I go to collect Clyde from the vestry. If Peter had heard the snail’s protests, he’d made no mention of it. And it seemed to me the best way to avoid an argument about Clyde was to simply arrive at the house with the terrarium in my arms.
Of course, that merely postponed the argument rather than avoid it. Peter’s grin, as he opened his door, slipped as he saw what I was carrying. ‘I don’t think I ordered escargot.’
‘James and Morey are away,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t leave Clyde on his own. Not at Christmas.’
Peter sighed. ‘He’s a snail, Penny. What would he know?’
Clyde lifted his tentacles. ‘Christmas! Santa! Beer!’
‘I stand corrected,’ Peter said drily. ‘Sounds like he understands Christmas very well. Come on, put him in here.’
The front half of the lounge was decorated with lights, cards, and a tall, over-decorated tree. The back half of the room was bare, reflecting the fact that a thin place ran through the middle. I placed Clyde’s tank by the tree. ‘What story do you tell your parents? So they don’t ask awkward questions?’
‘Oh, they know all about Lloegyr.’ Peter winced. ‘Taryn accidentally landed on my father a few months ago. By the way, they both met her again yesterday, so they’ll be able to see Clyde.’
‘We’ll be back later,’ I promised the snail as we left for the kitchen.
The large room was filled with the smell of roasting turkey and the sounds of carols pumped in from a large radio. Peter’s mum handed me a glass of sparkling wine. ‘Merry Christmas. Here, I should think you deserve this.’
‘I certainly need it,’ I said without thinking. Then I flushed, hoping that Mags wouldn’t immediately think that I was a heavy drinker. ‘Um, I mean, want it. Certainly. Many thanks.’
‘Liked your sermon,’ she continued. Her round face was crinkled in a smile. ‘And I know it was right up Alf’s street.’
‘Except it’s “Time and Relative Dimension in Space”,’ said he, sipping from a glass of his own. ‘That’s what Susan said, after all.’
‘But isn’t it strange that the Time Lords started to use it?’ I asked. ‘Not to mention the Sisterhood of Karn.’
‘And the dedication plaque inside the TARDIS states “Dimension”,’ Mags added.
Peter grinned at all of us. ‘See?’ he said to me. ‘I said you’d fit right in.’
Animated discussion over the Doctor Who season finale kept us going as we consumed Prosecco, sliced vegetables, and laid out the table. Lunch became ready during a discussion of the merits of male versus female companions. We paused to dish out our portions of turkey, potatoes, and vegetables. Saying grace fell to me. Crackers were pulled, hats were donned, and we tucked into our feast. Peter had produced a nice Beaujolais-Villages to go with our dinner.
My head was gently swimming by the time Alf poured brandy over the Christmas pudding. Peter lit it, and we enjoyed the low flames for a few seconds before Mags placed a plate on top and flipped it over. I accepted my portion, poured brandy butter over the top, and tucked in.
I’d only just sat down again before a loud crash resounded through the house, followed by loud swearing in Welsh. My spoon clattered to the floor as I rushed from kitchen to living room.
The scene that met my eyes was almost unbelievable. Lights were on the floor and tangled over shredded Christmas cards. The tree was slumped against the bay window, decorations scattered in all directions. I glanced at the tank, noting that the lid was off, and then looked for Clyde. And found him, under a tree branch, a half-chewed bauble poking out of his mouth. He spat it out when he saw me. ‘Christmas,’ he said happily.
Peter and Alf were right behind me. ‘That’s it, mate,’ Peter told the snail. ‘You wait until my mum gets here. She doesn’t take to anyone misbehaving.’
‘Yup,’ said Alf with commendable aplomb. ‘You’re in for it now. I suggest you think up your apologies sharpish.’
Clyde’s eyespots swivelled between us. Then he bumped the ornament away, slid under a branch, and drew in all but his tentacles. As Mags entered the room, he shivered. And then, to my amazement, he let out a pitiful cry. ‘Tree fell.’
Mags hurried over and fell onto her knees. ‘You poor little thing,’ she said soothingly. ‘How frightening for you. Are you okay?’
Clyde slowly extended his body, trembling as he did so. ‘Scared,’ he whimpered. ‘Tree fell.’
Mags gathered the snail into her arms and glared up at us. ‘Penny, Peter, you should know better than to let him out when there’s no one to keep watch! What if he’d been hurt?’
I was torn between
amazement and annoyance at Clyde’s acting ability. Brown waves of satisfaction were pulsing along his body. ‘But--’ Peter started to protest.
‘I’m taking him through to the kitchen,’ Mags announced. ‘I’m certain something to drink will help.’
‘Beer?’ Clyde suggested. Then he let out a small groan.
‘Is beer good for him?’ Mags asked.
‘He’s had it before,’ I said. Mags headed out of the room. As the snail was carried past me, I shot him a glare. I might have lost this battle, but the war was far from over.
‘I can’t believe he’s just got away with it,’ Peter said as he straightened the tree.
‘The little chap did look mightily scared,’ Alf told him.
‘Look around, Dad.’ Peter started to clear chewed cards from the floor. ‘Does any of this look like an accident?’
Alf shrugged. ‘You know what your mum’s like around animals. I tell her the pets are better looked after than me.’
‘None of her animals has teeth like Clyde’s,’ Peter muttered.
I hurried to join her in the kitchen. A bowl of brown liquid was on the counter, and Clyde was slurping happily. A greasy smell made my nostrils twitch, and I turned my head towards the oven. The snail stopped drinking long enough to tell me happily, ‘Chips.’
‘It’s what he asked for,’ Mags told me. ‘I found some oven chips in the freezer. I’m sure it’ll cheer him up.’
Clyde was already far too cheerful for my liking. ‘I’m certain it will.’
The men joined us several minutes later. ‘Oh, chips,’ Peter said eagerly as the baking tray came out of the oven.
‘They’re for the snail,’ his mother said, batting his hand away. ‘And how can you be hungry, after all that turkey?’
‘There’s always room for chips.’
‘Hungry,’ Clyde whispered. I wondered whether I should enter him into the animal equivalent of the Oscars.
And so the entire plate was placed in front of a mollusc while the mammals were only permitted to watch. ‘My, he does have big teeth, doesn’t he?’ Mags said as Clyde tucked into the potato wedges. Then she looked over to me and cleared her throat. ‘He’s lovely, isn’t he? From Lloegyr?’
‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘He’s a snail shark.’
‘What a dreadful name for such a wonderful creature.’ She rubbed a hand along the glossy shell, and Clyde let out an approximation of a purr. ‘Do you have the time to look after him, Penny? I’d be quite happy to take him home with me.’
I saw Peter’s face pale at the idea. ‘Is that a good idea, Mum? I mean, with your guinea pigs--’
‘Guinea pigs,’ Clyde burped happily.
‘And chickens--’
‘Chickens,’ came Clyde’s pleased echo.
‘And the rabbits--’
‘Rabbits.’ And I’m certain I saw drool tremble in the snail’s jaws.
‘We do have plenty to be getting on with,’ Alf said to her. ‘And you wouldn’t want to part with him, would you, Penny?’
‘No, not really,’ I said slowly.
Clyde swallowed his chip, raised his head, and tipped his eyestalks towards Mags in a winsome manner. ‘Go home?’
‘But what if that’s what he wants to do?’ Mags continued.
‘Snail sharks can be dangerous,’ I said quickly. ‘It wouldn’t be a good idea.’
‘Really?’ Clyde had bumped his shell up under her hand so she could stroke him again. ‘He doesn’t seem that dangerous to me.’
Peter grabbed me by the elbow and dragged me into the hallway. ‘You need to stop this now,’ he whispered urgently. ‘Clyde eating all of my mum’s pets would not go down well.’
‘And I think our grandson would adore him,’ we heard Mags say to Alf.
‘Never mind what would happen,’ Peter continued grimly, ‘if he tore a limb off my three year old nephew.’
I thought quickly. ‘Can you sneak around to the back? Let out one of your rabbits without your mum noticing?’
Peter studied me for a moment, then nodded. ‘Got you. I’ll go now.’
Clyde was lapping up beer and kindness when I returned. I gave my glass of wine a longing glance, but decided that I needed to avert possible calamity before indulging myself any further.
‘So, Sarah Jane Smith,’ I said brightly as, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Peter duck past the kitchen window. ‘Which Doctor did you think worked best with her?’
‘I really liked her with the Tenth,’ said Alf. ‘Both in School Reunion and in The Wedding of Sarah Jane Smith.’
‘Jon Pertwee,’ Mags declared. ‘Although the scriptwriters changed the character between The Time Warrior and The Invasion of the Dinosaurs. Made her far less feminist. I guess the producers just weren’t ready for a strong female. Isn’t that why they got rid of Liz Shaw?’
Peter dashed back. I prepared myself for my own Academy Award winning scene. ‘Whew, it’s warm in here,’ I said. ‘We need some fresh air.’ And I cracked the back door open.
As I had hoped, the rabbit was grazing on the short grass. I returned to the couple, who had moved on to discussing UNIT and Kate Stewart. So Mags didn’t notice as Clyde, spotting the animal in the back garden, slid off the counter and across the tiled floor. Although I knew that the rabbits were raised as prey for Taryn, I still felt a pang of guilt at what I knew was to come.
A high pitched scream made me grimace. ‘What was that?’ Alf asked, glancing around.
‘What was what?’ Mags asked. ‘And where did the snail go? Clyde? Where are you? Clyde?’
‘Mmph?’ And the snail flowed in, a bloody mixture of fur and flesh gripped in his jaws. He swallowed, then said, with great satisfaction, ‘Rabbit.’
‘Sorry,’ I said ruefully. ‘Did I mention that these snails are carnivorous? He does love a bit of rabbit.’
Mags’ mouth hung open. ‘You’re not taking him home with us,’ Alf said firmly.
Clyde raised his head. His eyespots slid from Mags’ frightened face to my determined one. Then he slumped back outside to finish off his meal.
Peter scrubbed the rabbit blood off the floor and I helped to scrape cold Christmas pudding into the bin. When Clyde finally reappeared, and I’d wiped the rabbit remains from his shell, I placed him back into the tank and weighed the cover down with several heavy books. We watched the Queen on a TV in the kitchen and toasted to her health with a glass of champagne. Then we went through to the living room to open presents.
The tree sagged against the wall, and the lights which had once hung from the walls were coiled up in one corner. But the cards were off the floor, and the presents had been untouched in Clyde’s rampage. I popped out to the car to bring in my own contribution.
Alf’s gift to Mags was a toilet brush, which made her give him a fond kiss. For a moment I thought longingly of Alan and the private traditions which had built up during our fifteen years of marriage. Peter looked very happy with my present to him, a Doctor Who calendar and a mug with a picture of the Eleventh Doctor. My present from him was a prop replica of the TARDIS ‘siege mode’ cube. To my embarrassment, I actually let out a small squeal as I lifted the lid from the box and saw the blue-silver cube inside. ‘From Flatline,’ I said to him. ‘My favourite Capaldi episode.’
Peter laughed. ‘I know, I know. You’ve told me often enough. There’s a company, Rubbertoe, which makes the replicas.’ He shook his head. ‘Have you ever looked at their website? Great detailing, but the cost of the sonic screwdrivers!’
There was one last box under the tree. ‘Oh, that was brought to the church this morning,’ Alf explained, ‘while you were still inside. The chap let Peter sign for it once he’d shown him his badge.’
I recognised Fred Wiseman’s handwriting on the card. It was with a sense of trepidation that I removed the green wrapping paper and exposed the black box underneath. The Doctor Who logo leapt out at me. I removed the lid, and found a silver box nestled inside. The engraved cover told me proudly, 12
th Doctor’s Sonic Screwdriver.
Peter whistled, long and low, as I lifted the cover. The blue and silver prop rested on a silver display stand. I touched the button, and the top portion flickered blue and then green. ‘How much do the sonic screwdrivers cost?’ I asked weakly.
‘Who’s sent you that?’ Mags asked.
‘Fred Wiseman.’
‘Wiseman Agricultural.’ Peter shrugged. ‘He probably spends more on his whisky.’
‘I prefer the cube,’ I said quickly to Peter. ‘Would you like to have the screwdriver?’
Peter looked at me for a moment. Then he grinned. ‘Penny, why should I care if some multi-millionaire wants to spend his lunch money getting you a Christmas present? But you can at least let me have a play. I promise to be careful.’
‘Just don’t use it like the Eleventh Doctor,’ Alf grumbled. ‘I liked Matt Smith a lot, but I couldn’t stand the way he used the screwdriver like it was a tricorder.’
‘It’s nearly time for the Christmas special,’ Mags reminded us. ‘Time to go to the kitchen?’
Peter held me back as his parents left the room. ‘Mr Wiseman is being very grateful. Is this because you brought Susie back safely?’
‘I guess so,’ I said casually.
His eyes searched mine. ‘Susie hasn’t said anything, has she, do you think?’
Part of me longed to tell Peter everything. The visit to the headquarters, Fred’s desire to take over land in Lloegyr, the plan I’d hatched with Morey. But Susie had broken the promise I’d made to the Archdruid on our behalf, and it was up to me to put it right. ‘I hope not. But let’s not worry about it now, okay? The Doctor awaits.’
And we went back to the kitchen and settled down to cheer on the Doctor. Whilst drinking another bottle of wine, of course. Doctor Who Christmas specials are always best watched at least semi-drunk. It’s the only way they make any sense.
