A Christmas Cameron

by Benedict Arthur

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  For the second time that day, David felt a wellspring of pride bubbling up within his chest. Not only had he successfully rebuffed his intellectual sparring challengers, but he had now also seen the instruments of state deployed to great effect in defence of his precious values, namely the pursuit and timely punishment of wayward slackers.

  A soft knock came at the door of David’s office. “Come in” he said, almost with a hint of cheer in his tone. A small grey haired woman dressed in a grey maid’s outfit and white apron tiptoed softly into the room, her eyes fixed always upon the floor. Her hands were cupped together across her midsection in gesture of submission and obedience. She stood in front of David’s desk; head tilted down and said nothing. “Well?” said David impatiently, “What is it?”

  In a quivering voice, barely above a whisper the woman spoke. “It’s lady Thatcher Sir, she says that she is ready for bed and is requesting your presence. I’m sorry to ask” her clasped hands began to shake “I’m just delivering the message for….”

  “Yes, yes that’s fine” said David, waving his hand. “Go away, I’ll be through presently.” With that, the woman scurried out of the room.

  David walked across the corridor to the drawing room. Ten Downing Street was uncommonly quiet with only a skeleton staff on duty over Christmas to attend to either a national emergency or any mortal threats to the life of the Prime Minister. David broke the silence with a light knock on the door. “Lady Thatcher, are you decent?”

  “Yes, yes David, do come in dear boy” came Lady Thatcher’s voice from within. Nobody except the Living Tory Saint herself would have been allowed to get away with calling David ‘boy’. He pushed open the door and entered. Margaret was sat up in the four poster bed that had been erected for her stay. She was dressed in a crisp white nightshirt and surrounded by a variety of luxuriant silken cushions in green and red. She appeared, from a distance, somewhat like a baby that had been prettified for a novelty Christmas photograph. Framing Margaret’s face, was a white handkerchief. It was looped under her jaw and tied in a bow atop of her head. Rather than an eccentric bedtime headpiece, this was an improvised treatment for Margaret’s jaw dysfunction. Oftentimes at night she would be awoken with a great ache in both her cheeks and she had found that a strategically tied kerchief could relieve some of the discomfort. Her private physician had told her that her symptoms were quite common in old age (this was a lie) – he had not the heart to say that her pains were the result of a life spent with her mouth agape and shouting at subordinates, not to mention an excessive fondness for hard, brittle foods.

  David approached the bed and as he did so thought that he noticed Margaret slide what looked like a small tin under one of the cushions. He thought nothing more of it and perched himself on the edge of the bed. Margaret opened and closed her mouth a number of times, to stretch her aching jaw – her motion was very much like a feeding fish filtering a meal of tiny creatures out of water.

  “Do I find you well my Lady?” enquired David.

  “Moderately average”, Margaret replied, offering David her outstretched hand. David kissed the back of her palm and felt that he could taste something strange and sickly sweet. He smacked his lips quietly and the taste was gone. Margaret continued, “I live with a modicum of fear that I might once again have a sleep of disturbing dreams”.

  “Something vexes thee madam?” asked David, only half interested, looking at his shoes and wondering what it was he might have just tasted.

  “No, I am sure that I do not feel vexed. But oftentimes of late my dreams have been invaded by strange imaginings” said Margaret.

  “Imaginings? Like what my Lady?”

  “Oh various things dear boy, about people I’ve known, about the beastly nature of politics.”

  “Well, I am sure a Lady of such mental fortitude pays no heed to the contents of dreams. Silly dreams affect us all – pay no heed to their contents, I consider them very much like a mental vomitus; simply cleansing the psyche of the dross of the day.”

  “Indeed” Margaret agreed, “And any little thing can affect them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. They may be due to an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. The foods of this season are after all particularly rich. Tell me, how is your Lady wife?”

  “Oh quite well” David replied. “They are keeping her for observation tonight.”

  “Good, good. Oh! But what of the children? It is Christmas Eve and they are without both mater and pater! How terrible! You really should be with them tonight, not sat up with an old lady like me!”

  “Don’t worry my lady, they are with their grand-parents and have been carolling. I daresay they are happy enough. I’ll head over in the morning for the festivities. Our house rules dictate that there is none if this rising at five am nonsense to open presents.”

  “Right, right, very good. Ah presents. You know, you should take great care what you give children as presents these days David - especially little boys. Marky was always begging me for toy guns and air rifles – every birthday and Christmas from the age of three! Dennis would never let me buy them, but you know, if a child shows a great interest in something, I truly believe that interest should be nurtured. I daresay, had we nurtured Marky’s martial interests from an early age, he would have made a much better job of that coup in Equatorial Guinea. Anyway, never mind.”

  “Madam, Is there anything I can do to be of assistance?” David offered.

  “No, no, dear sweet boy. I have a tincture from an old friend that often helps me with my dreams.” Margaret patted the cushion under which David had previously seen her slide the little box. “You could read to me awhile though, if you can spare the time. I find your oratory quite soothing”. Margaret reached over to her bedside table and handed David a hardback book with a thick leather bookmark placed somewhere near the centre. David read the cover:

  ‘Maggie’s Militant Tendency: A History of the Federation of Conservative Students’ by J Fiscal Prudence.’

  He had not himself come across the title before although he knew that certain senior members of his current party had been members of the now disbanded Federation.

  “Read to me of a time before our ideas had been diluted David, of a time when even the youth were unafraid to stand up for what is right”. Margaret said.

  “Of course” said David. He had to try very hard to sound sincere; it irritated him greatly when people actually took up the offer of assistance when the proffered gesture was an empty one. Reluctantly, he opened the book at the leather bookmark and began to read.

  “Chapter 10: ‘Hang Nelson Mandela’: The Problem of South Africa

  The great struggle of the colonial leaders in South Africa had great resonance with the FCS during the 1980s. The hardships that were being experienced by the South African Conservatives were seen as the embodiment of the entire Conservative enterprise, i.e. the struggle to bring the tried and tested ancient values of the enlightened, to the masses.

  After many years of hardship and struggle, the Conservatives in South Africa had managed to reconcile the turbulent, multi-ethnic character of the nation with a very elegant social order. This was of course no accident or experiment in radicalism. The social order was based upon the solid traditions, morals and hierarchies that had been forged over thousands of years in the great nations of Europe, especially Great Britain.

  Although the majority of the peoples of South Africa were of black African descent, it was quite clear from even a brief perusal of the historical record that left unchecked, this un-cohesive group would have plunged the country into a chaos of violence, political anarchy and economic collapse. Through great effort and sacrifice, the Conservatives had created a system whereby the hard-working, disciplined societal factions of European descent where able to enjoy living conditions that could rival those of Western Europe. The Black Africans benefited from the inheritance of a system of ethics,
and values, whilst being freed from the chaos of political ideological experimentation. And of course, there were many avenues of social mobility for those willing to work hard.

  It is however a sad characteristic of some peoples upon this earth that they are unable to appreciate the gifts that providence bestows upon them. And so it was with the groups that opposed the conservatives in South Africa. Emerging as a looming spectre over the South African idyll came Nelson Mandela and his African National Congress. They spoke of freedom without understanding that freedom alone without enlightened leadership, structure and clearly defined moral values is a terrible black hole that would suck in and destroy everything in its close proximity.

  It was therefore for the purpose of protecting South Africa from herself that we, the Federation of Conservative Students adopted the slogan ‘Hang Nelson Mandela’.

  David closed the book. He felt a slight shudder down his spine – a product of both relief and anxiety. The anxiety came from his recollection that certain, current high-ranking party members had spent their youths supporting such venomous ideology. His relief came from remembering that the party was doing an outstanding job of keeping the ideas of its more toxic elements hidden from the general public.

  David looked over at Margaret. She was fast asleep, laid happily on her sumptuous pillows with her lips curved into the slightest hint of a smile. And so dear reader, here we are back again at the point where our story began. Margaret was asleep – David knew for certain that she was; for he himself had read her the bedtime story that had eased her into slumber. Delicately placing the book back on the bedside table, he gently lifted himself up off the bed and tiptoed out of the room, closing the door silently behind him.

  --

  David crossed the corridor of Number 10 and made his way back to his chambers. You will of course remember that with it being Christmas Eve, the Prime Ministerial residence was really very empty and indeed there were no other people nearby on the floor where David was. He approached the door of his private chambers and reached out a hand to grasp the large brass door knob.

  Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particular about the knob on the door, except that it was very large. It is also a fact, that David had seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence in that place and knew it to be a plain, solid and not easily removed doorknob. So then let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened that David, having been about to turn the knob as usual, saw in the knob, without its undergoing any intermediate process of change—not a simple brass knob, but Margaret’s face.

  Margaret’s face. It was not grey and shadowy like the other objects in the dimly lit corridor but had a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a dark cellar. It was not angry or ferocious, but looked to David as if Margaret was in some kind of distress. The hair was curiously stirred, as if by breath or hot air; her eyes were scrunched up and closed and the face was contorted into a grimace of discomfort. This expression, and its livid colour, made it horrible.

  As David looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a doorknob again.

  To say that he was not startled, or that his blood was not conscious of a terrible sensation to which it had been a stranger from infancy, would be untrue. But he put his hand upon the knob, turned it sturdily, walked into his chambers, and switched on the lights.

  David did pause, with a moment’s hesitancy, before he shut the door; and he did look cautiously behind it first, as if he half expected to be terrified by the sight of Margaret’s great red bouffant. But there was nothing on the back of the door, except another plain doorknob, so he said “Pooh, pooh!” and closed it with a BANG!

  The sound resounded through the house like thunder. Every room above, and every cask in the wine cellars below, appeared to have a separate peal of echoes of its own. David was not a man to be frightened by echoes but he was somewhat surprised that the sound had not brought a cavalcade of aides and special agents hurrying to ascertain his safety. He sat down in the great leather armchair next to the fire. He still had a strange feeling of unease so got up again and decided to walk through his rooms to see that all was right. Study, sitting room, bedroom and toilet all as they should be. Nobody under the table, nobody under the sofa, nobody under the bed, nobody in the closet, nobody in his dressing-gown, which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude against the wall. Quite satisfied, he closed his door, and locked himself in; double-locked himself in, which was not his custom. Thus secured against surprise, he took off his suit; put on his dressing-gown and slippers, and his night-cap; and sat down once again with his tablet computer in his great armchair. He poured himself a large scotch and watched the computer screen flicker to life. The clock on the wall had just struck eleven.

  “A song me thinks to lighten the mood of this sombre evening” David thought to himself and pressed the Karaoke application on his computer. Flicking through his song catalogue the virtual jukebox settled on ‘Heaven knows I’m Miserable Now’ a great favourite of David’s. He pressed play and the familiar words drifted through the empty chambers.

  “I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour….but heaven knows I’m miserable now…..”

  Oh how many times that assertion of upbeat sorrow had cheered his heart in the past! For a moment David felt lighter of heart. Then came the creeping remembrance that The Smiths had quite publicly forbade him from liking their music! As if such an admonition was even feasible! “Rock-star hubris”, was how he had rationalised it at the time, whilst promising himself that he would separate artist from the art and continue to listen. But by the time the song had progressed to:

  “In my life, why do I smile? At people I’d rather kick in the eye…”

  David was almost in a rage. He pressed ‘delete’ and carried on browsing. Eventually he came to ‘Video Games’ by Lana Del Ray. “Ah yes!” he said before going over to his desk and removing from the top drawer his karaoke microphone and long lead. He plugged the lead into the computer and pressed play. He positioned himself standing with fire as his dramatic backdrop and began to sing along with Lana:

  “Swinging in the back yard, pull up in your fast car, whistling my name.…I’m in his favourite sun dress, watching me get undressed, take that body downtown…..”

  After several more songs, David sat down again, completely spent. The top of his night cap flopped over his face and he brushed it aside and looked over at his desk, still piled high with papers from the day. “Well, the affairs of state will have to wait for another day” he thought to himself as he sank further into the deep comfortable chair. He turned his head away from the desk and looked instead into the flickering flames of his open fire. His eyelids started to open and close in that slower and slower motion that is a prelude to slumber and soon his head lolled forward and David too was sound asleep.

  --

  The sleep might have lasted a minute, or ten minutes, but it seemed to David more like hours. His cheek was rested on his right shoulder and a small stream of spittle was dribbling from the side of his mouth when his dreams were first disturbed by what sounded like the scratching of metal against the wooden door to his chambers. As is common for one arising from a deep slumber, he was unable to ascertain if the noise was real or if it was one of those strange phantom sounds that live only in the realm between dreams and waking life. He wearily opened his eyes, just slightly, and could see the orange embers of the dying fire to his side. He lifted his head a little and with eyes still half shut looked over towards the door and the noise. There he beheld a blurry vision of a ghostly apparition moving near the door. The figure was clad completely in white from head to toe, except for its head which seemed to be alight with a great red flame.

  By the time that David had regained his senses and sat more upright in his chair, the figure was already upon him. He felt cold bony fingers upon his right shoulder pinning him to his chair and then similar such fingers at his lips as if trying to insert themselves into his mouth.

  “Ahhhh
!”, He screamed “A demon! A demon of the pit!!” He lunged forward pushing the creature off. The creature staggered backwards towards the armchair that was opposite David’s. It landed in there with a thud and upon its landing spoke thus:

  “DEMON? I am no demon boy! Look upon my face; do you not know me?”

  David was curled up in his chair. His knees were drawn up and his hands covered his face. With the creatures’ question, which was spoken in a strangely familiar voice, he parted his fingers slightly and opened one eye just enough to look towards the opposite chair.

  “Lady Thatcher!” he exclaimed with a mixture of shock, incredulity, embarrassment and relief. “What on earth are you doing??” He straightened himself in his chair and placed his feet back on the floor, adopting a more dignified posture. “I thought you were asleep!”