A Christmas Cameron

by Benedict Arthur

  The Spirit dropped beneath the hat, so that the extinguisher covered its whole form; but although David pressed it down with all his force, he could not hide the light, which streamed from under it, in an unbroken flood upon the ground.

  David was conscious of being exhausted, and felt overcome by an irresistible drowsiness. Looking around he realised that he was back in his own chambers. He gave the cap a parting squeeze before climbing back into bed. Barely had his head touched the pillow, before he sank into a heavy sleep.

  STAVE THREE

  The Second of The Spirits

  David’s sleep was not a peaceful one. In his dream, he found himself sat behind his desk in his Prime Ministerial office trying very hard to concentrate on some work but being distracted by a noisy commotion coming from the other end of his room. Looking up, he saw a trail of debris across the floor leading up to the closed door of his office, in front of which a short, hairy creature, very much like a chimpanzee was jumping up and down and banging its fists in the floor. Next to the creature was the red briefcase of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, laid open and filled with long, sharp darts. As David watched, the creature stopped jumping and reached into the briefcase and picked out one of the sharp missiles. The creature flung it violently at the door of the office upon which was hung a large dartboard in the shape of the British Isles. Again and again the creature flung its darts and with every impact, a deep crimson liquid that looked very much like blood, oozed from wounds that opened up in the islands.

  “Hey, you there, stop that!” David heard himself shout.

  The creature stopped and paused for a moment. It turned, slowly, revealing its face. David recoiled in horror as he beheld not the face of a troglodyte, but of Osbo, his Chancellor. The creature reached again for another dart and this time flung it at David. He watched the projectile fly in slow motion towards his face and let out a silent scream. Just before the missile was about to impale itself between his eyes, David awoke in a cold sweat.

  --

  Breathing heavily, David pushed himself up in bed and tried to gather his thoughts. After a few moments, once he had regained his composure; David rationalised that in spite of the terrible dream, he was slightly grateful that his subconscious had at least stirred him in time so that he wouldn’t be surprised by the arrival of the second messenger that Margaret had prophesised.

  David found that his skin grew even colder when he began to wonder which of the curtains the new spectre would draw back when it appeared. So as not to be surprised, he himself pulled back each of the curtains around his bed before lying down again. In spite of being recumbent he kept a sharp look-out all round the bed, for he wished to challenge the Spirit on the moment of its appearance, and did not wish to be taken unawares and made nervous once again.

  David Cameron had always presented himself as a gentleman of the free-and-easy sort, and he often took great pride in expressing his capacity for adventure and new experiences. Accordingly, he believed that he had been inoculated by such vast quantities of life experiences as to render him relatively immune to being shocked by strange occurrences (whether or not this self-perception is an accurate one, I shall leave it up to you dear reader to decide).

  Now, considering himself prepared for almost anything, David was not by any means prepared for nothing; and, consequently, when the Bell struck one, and no shape appeared, he was taken with a violent fit of trembling. Five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour went by, yet nothing came. What he did notice however was that as the minutes passed he seemed to be bathed by a deep, yellow light that was becoming brighter and brighter. As the intensity of the light increased, so too did David’s anxiety. For a moment he did wonder if he was about to spontaneously combust. At last however, he began to think more logically and looked around to see if he could identify the source of the light. Behold! It seemed as if it was emanating from around the door of his private study. With a mind to investigating further, he got up slowly and shuffled in his slippers towards the door.

  The moment David placed his hand on the doorknob, a strange voice called him by his name, and bade him enter. He obeyed.

  It was his private study. There was no doubt about that. But it had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green that it looked like a perfect walled garden; from every part of which, bright gleaming berries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light, as if thousands of little mirrors had been scattered around. A great fire was lit in the fireplace and sent a mighty blaze roaring up the chimney. Heaped up on the floor, to form a kind of throne, were turkeys, great joints of meat, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, brandy-puddings, barrels of vegetables, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense fruit cakes, and steaming bowls of punch, that made the study dim with their delicious steam. In a relaxed state upon this throne, there sat a jolly Giant, glorious to see; who bore a glowing torch, in a shape not unlike the Olympic Flame. The giant held the torch up high so that it shed its light on David, as he came peeping round the door.

  “Come in!” exclaimed the Ghost. “Come in! and know me better, man!”

  David entered timidly, and hung his head before the Spirit. He was not the steadfast, arrogant David of immovable beliefs that he had been; and though the Spirit’s eyes were clear and kind, he still did not like to meet them.

  “I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,” said the Spirit. “Look upon me!”

  David reverently did so. It was clothed in one simple green robe, bordered with a white trim. This garment hung so loosely on the figure that its huge chest was bare, as if refusing to be concealed or constrained by any pretence of clothing. Its feet, which could be seen beneath the ample folds of the robe, were also bare; and on its head it wore no other covering than a holly wreath, set here and there with shining icicles. Its dark brown curls were long and free; free as its kindly face, its sparkling eye, its open hand, its cheery voice, its unconstrained demeanour, and its joyful air. Sat around its middle was an antique scabbard; but no sword was in it, and the ancient sheath was eaten up with rust.

  “You have never seen the like of me before!” exclaimed the Spirit.

  “Never” David replied

  The Ghost of Christmas Present rose.

  “Spirit,” said David submissively, “Take me wherever you wish. I went out last night only because I was forced, but I learnt lessons which are working in me now. To-night, if you have anything more to teach me, let me learn whatever I can.”

  “Touch my robe!”

  David did as he was told, and held it fast.

  Holly, mistletoe, red berries, ivy, turkeys, meat, sausages, pies, puddings, fruit, and punch, all vanished instantly. So did the room, the fire, the ruddy glow, the hour of night, and they stood in the centre of London Town on the morning of the day before Christmas Eve. The weather was quite severe and the people made a rough, but brisk and not unpleasant kind of music, crunching through the snow and driving through the slush.

  The sky was a gloomy grey and there was nothing very cheerful in the climate of the town, and yet there was an aura of cheerfulness in the air that even the warmest summer breeze and brightest summer sun would have been unable to dispel. David watched the undulating throngs of humanity moving around him much like someone might observe the lapping of waves on a beach. Whereas just a day before he had felt only disgust and disquiet whilst observing the frantic shoppers; he now became aware instead of an internal sense of poignancy as he wondered where and to whom each person was rushing.

  David and the spirit made their way along the busy street. They stopped eventually outside a popular coffee shop. A great snake-like queue of people eager for some internal warmth extended from the mouth of the shop and continued for some way down the street. At the shop doorway itself, there appeared to be some form of commotion. Moving closer, David observed a bottleneck of people at the entrance and an argument had erupt
ed over who was to be the first to step over the shop threshold into the warmth and light. Several people began to shove and shout and the commotion began to spread along the queue as if the snake were writhing and trying to force its way inside. The sight of these agitated revellers appeared to interest the Spirit very much. He stood with David beside him near the doorway, and began to walk along the queue wafting the fragrant smoke from his torch all about the heads of the people. It was a very uncommon kind of torch, for where there had been angry words and jostling between folks, after the Spirit coated them with a little of its fragrance, their good humour was restored immediately. For they said, it was a shame to quarrel so close to Christmas. And so it was! God love it, so it was!

  The pair went on, still invisible as they had been, before eventually coming to a halt outside a great stone building slightly away from the main street of shops. To the left of the revolving glass doors of the entrance was a large bronze plaque which read.

  THE CENTRE FOR SOCIAL JUSTICE

  FOUNDER: RT HON BRIAN DUNCAN-SMYTHE, MP

  The Ghost led David though the doors and into the building. It was a remarkable quality of the Ghost (which David had observed at the coffee shop), that notwithstanding his gigantic size, he could accommodate himself to any place with ease; and that he stood beneath a low roof quite as gracefully and like a supernatural creature, as it was possible he could have done in any lofty hall.

  They ascended to the top floor of the building which housed the office of Brian Duncan-Smythe, Secretary of State for Work and Pensions. The office was bright and spacious with light streaming in from three huge windows. But in spite of the light and space, the room had a strange air of mustiness and decay about it, as if it were full of tired old memories that wished only to be laid to rest. It was a strange thing that many who ventured inside felt themselves taken with a sudden urge to cover all the contents of the room in dust sheets and then leave quickly and lock the door. This however, had not yet happened so Brian was sat behind a large, uncovered wooden desk, finished with a verdant leather top. The desk had been strategically positioned in the shadows so as to avoid the fall of light from the windows. Without illumination, Brian’s skin was dull and of such a grey, sombre tone that it seemed to have taken offence at being forced to dwell in the realm of living flesh and blood.

  Brian’s mouth was curved downwards in a look of distaste as he squinted to read a paper that had been handed to him by one of the institute’s interns. The intern, a young man of no more than twenty one years but with a chubby face and a floppy brown mop of hair that made him appear much younger, was sat in a chair opposite Brian’s desk nervously biting the nail from his right index finger. Small particles of dust sparkled and danced in a rather festive manner in the rays of light that fell either side of the two men, but nobody really seemed to notice.

  “No, no, no” said Brian shaking his head and slamming the paper down on the desk in front of him. “Define social justice for me.”

  “Well” replied the intern nervously. “It’s about trying to construct a fair society.”

  “Very good – I agree with that. But elaborate. What do you mean by fair?” asked Brian.

  “Ok, well, providing people with what they need.”

  “Excellent – to each according to their need - and how do we decide what people need?” Brian pressed.

  “So there are basic needs – food, water, shelter and..”

  “Yes, yes, obviously!” Brian interrupted – “but what about higher needs?”

  “Well, that’s difficult because everyone is different” offered the intern.

  “Right! Good! Exactly! Everyone is different. But even with all our differences, everyone and I mean everyone fits somewhere into the natural order. That is the point.” Brian relaxed back in his chair. “Yes - God in his wisdom has constructed the world and the systems of nature in a very elegant manner. Now, our job as human beings is to discover where in that natural order we are supposed to fit and then to try and fulfill our role to the best of our ability. So social justice is about preserving the natural order and giving people the chance to fulfil their role as well as they can. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, I think so” said the intern nodding vigorously.

  “Hmmm “said Brian, fixing the intern with a suspicious look. “Think of it like this then – apply the notion to the society sous-la-mer.”

  The intern glanced from side to side then at his twitching fingers.

  “To fish boy! to fish!” Brian shouted. “There are many different types of fish aren’t there?”

  “Erm, Yes.”

  “And each has their role to play in the natural order. The role of the majestic Great White Shark is very different from the role of the Trout is it not?”

  “Yes”

  “And what will happen if a trout tries to become a shark?”

  “Well it’s not possible.”

  “Exactly, and the trout will make itself bloody miserable if it keeps trying to behave like a shark won’t it – and it will no doubt get itself eaten. Much better that it behave like a trout. It can pass its life in perfect happiness just as long as it sticks to picking insects out of the mud.” Brian stood up and walked over to the window. He stood with his hands behind his back observing the masses of Christmas shoppers milling about down below.

  “Most people are Trout you see, my boy. And it is our job to make sure that society is constructed in such a way to let them behave as such.” Brian walked back over to the desk and sat down. He picked up the intern’s report again.

  “Now look at the groups that you have tried to exclude from welfare cuts in your proposed model. You’ve labelled them as ‘vulnerable’ but I’m afraid that’s a misnomer. Their situation is simply in keeping with their nature.” He pointed to a section on the page where the intern had circled ‘vulnerable women’. “Look here, the solution to this is not to throw money at them. That’s no different from feeding caviar to a pig – it will be totally unappreciated. You presume that whatever has rendered them ‘vulnerable’ must also have made them unhappy but I daresay they actually derive some perverse pleasure from their situation.”

  “Here” Brian took out a booklet from the drawer of his desk. He opened it at its first page and using a yellow highlighter pen, drew two lines. He handed the booklet to the intern.

  The title page read “Recommendations for Welfare Reform”. The intern read the title then opened the booklet to the contents page. Two sections had been highlighted by Brian.

  3.2.1 Recommendations for changes to housing benefit allowances

  5.1.1 Recommendations for Decentralisation of Emergency Relief Loans (Social Funds)

  “This is the way to go about things” Brian said “With the stamp of officialdom. We desperately need to cut the money that the state is using to interfere with the natural order right? But we can’t just go around saying things like ‘we’re going to close the refuges for single mothers and battered wives’. With this bloody left liberal media circus that we’re in it would be politically disastrous. So I want you to read those sections in detail – they are nuggets of political genius and you can learn a lot from them my boy.”

  “How sir?”

  “Well look at the section on housing benefit.” Brian snatched the booklet back and flicked to section 3.2.1. As he turned the pages his beady eyes glistened with the lust of a hungry vampire gazing the pale exposed neck of a victim. “Here we go – ‘housing benefit caps of £500 a week are to be extended to all forms of housing’ - Genius.”

  The intern looked puzzled. Brian sighed.

  “You see” continued Brian “the rent for almost all of these women’s doss houses is more than six hundred pounds a week – not to mention the staff costs! So five hundred pounds is just not enough – most will have to close. And who do you think is going to read a report this size and then make such an association? There might be a bit of hoo-ha when someone complains to some lefty newsp
aper, but it won’t last long. People really aren’t that bothered about this stuff” He flicked the pages of the booklet with his thumb, smiling. “Lucky we live in such a lazy, selfish country!”

  “But won’t these women end up on the streets? –that will look really bad.”

  “No, no” replied Brian. Society will absorb them – they’ll find sofas or another man’s bed or one of these bleeding heart liberal charities will sort something out, they are bloody rich.”

  “Right” said the intern frowning.

  “Look ok, maybe the odd needy individual will be missed, but think of it like this. If you are a fisherman and you want to guarantee you catch your desired fish – how do you go about it?”

  “Erm, with bait?”