by Martin Bryce
changes. Was winter ever really like the scenes that Breughel painted?
I yawned and obscured the scene with my warm breath on the ice-cold window. I took my hiking boots from the wardrobe and transferred the laces from the desert boots to them.
Shivered.
As I dressed I listened to batteries being drained up and down the street in futile repeated attempts to start cars. There is no more mournful sound except, perhaps, the Stonemason trying to deliver his lines.
I decided not to put Cloudesley out and left a bowl of milk and several pages of the Guardian on the floor for him.
H was in what was beginning to look like a kitchen again boiling the kettle.
‘I see it’s been snowing,’ he said grumpily as he fussed around with a couple of old tea bags.
‘Goodness gracious me, has it?’ I cooed as I skipped down the hallway. I threw open the front door wide and stood before it with my arms outstretched. ‘It’s a beautiful sight isn’t it, Mr Higginbottom?’
‘Shut it!’ He ordered. ‘You’ll let all t’cold air in.’
I stepped outside and closed the door behind me. I paused for a moment on the step before turning and shouting through the letterbox.
‘I expect I’ll be home late again tonight, Mr Higginbottom. You know, nation slithers to a halt, that sort of thing.’ I heard a cup smash on the tiled floor.
When winter comes can slush be far behind? The gritting lorries had carried out their necessary vandalism on the main roads and given the traditional annual boost to next year’s sales of car body rust repair kits. Vehicles of every kind moved in a low-geared slouch through the brown, oily, litter-laden mess, but rarely slowly enough to prevent their wheels sending up great gouts of the stuff onto the pavements and drenching their traffic of hapless pedestrians, one of whom was me! I was just under an hour late for work, but cheered by the prospect of spending the day in the warmth.
Made-up, changed and went to the canteen for a quick cuppa before curtain-up on the morning performance. I needn’t have rushed because Miss Grubb, along with half the working population of London, was stranded at home. As there was no replacement available for the toadstool the Grotto stayed closed. I opened some more letters.
95 Stockton Beach Road
Newcastle NSW
Australia
Dear Sati n
First I would like snow for chrissie. We are going to England to see my Nan who lives in a place called pishill (how cool is that) and all my other rellies who I’ve never seen and I havent ever seen snow at chrissie too so that would be good. I havent been to a proper groto to. Daddy says they don’t have proper grotos here. He says he wants to stay in england when we get there as he’s really sick of home but mummy likes it here so they fight about it a lot. Im really excited about seeing christmas like the ones we get on the cards. I would like a pony now we’ve got rid of the sheep. Thank you
Kylie Uglow
Well, there’s one little gumnut baby who’s had her wish fulfilled, at least partially. I just hope it is living up to her expectations. I had hardly taken the second letter from its envelope when,
‘Are you Father Christmas?’ That question again; I couldn’t believe it.
I looked up and saw two men, patently Police, with the Bull. I would have been facetious but for the Bull being there.
‘Are you Father Christmas of Mafeking Avenue?’ The smaller of them asked again.
‘Well, not exactly. That is, I am, but…’
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Bolingbroke and this is DC Cade. I must ask you to accompany us to the police station.’
‘But… but… but I can’t, I’m working.’
‘Never mind that, lad,’ Bolingbroke said, ‘Mr Flowers here knows all about it.’
The Bull was nodding; he had satisfaction written all over his face.
‘Knows about what?’ I asked in a shrill voice which gave away a rising tide of paranoia.
‘Come, come, lad, let’s not play games, shall we? Are you going to come quietly, or are we going to have to drag you?’ Bolingbroke insisted.
‘No,’ I replied, ‘I mean yes. It’s the children, you see, they’ll be very… ‘
‘Alright, John, throw the cuffs on him.’
I appealed to the Bull for some sort of explanation as the burly Cade dragged me to my feet and shackled my arms behind my back, but he just stood there wearing what for him was a smile.
‘Ho, ho, ho,’ I said almost hysterically to surprised shoppers as I was bundled across the toy department towards the waiting lift. ‘What’s going on?’ I hissed to Cade as the lift driven by the diminutive crime fighter, Hicks, sped downwards. I was genuinely frightened, my legs had turned to jelly, my courage had deserted me entirely.
ACT 1
Scene – Liftcar number 1 at Harridges
[HICKS is attending to controls;
Enter SANTA violently and BOLINGBROKE and CADE]
SANTA [to other self]: What alchemy is this that would turn even a lap-dog against me?
OTHER SELF: Why, ‘tis not alchemy, my liege, but calumny.
SANTA: Then unleash the call, good groom and gather my generals near; let the tongues of honest men achieve this day and conquer that base smear!
[Exeunt SANTA violently and BOLINGBROKE and CADE]
I was shoved out of the lift and hustled across the ground floor. Mothers shepherded their children away from me.
‘I’m an actor,’ I laughed nervously. ‘It’s a joke, you know, for U Tube, or something; these are just two of my friends …’ We passed through men’s toiletries where Rowena caught sight of me. Not unnaturally she looked shocked and disappeared quickly behind a large display of Yves St Laurent products.
‘I’m innocent!’ I shouted. ‘Whatever it is, I didn’t do it!’
Oh, my love,
Whose constancy first tested
Is found wanting.
What price now
The sweet fruits of love,
Which in the spring glut e’en the poor,
But when winter comes
Pass only through the rich man’s door?
‘Rowena!’ I screamed, ‘I love you! Spurn me not, but if spurn you must, I love you still, all I ask is trust!’ With that I was hurled out of the shop, dragged across the icy pavement and bundled into a waiting police car. Despite my situation, the flashing blue lights and the wailing of the siren gave the whole thing a sense of occasion. I would have waved to the onlookers had I not been shackled.
FADE IN:
EXT. POLICE STATION – DAY
A police car screeches to a halt and SANTA is bundled out by CADE and another BURLY CONSTABLE. Led by DS BOLINGBROKE, who appears more like Robespierre leading the Bourgeoisie to Mme Guillotine, he is marched up the station steps.
INT. POLICE STATION – CONTINUOUS
Several CONSTABLES are standing around cradling mugs of tea in their hands. CRIMINAL TYPES are sitting on benches in varying degrees of sullenness. A DESK SERGEANT is sharpening a pencil as DS Bolingbroke strides in followed by Santa being pushed roughly by Cade and the burly Constable.
BOLINGBROKE
How now!
DESK SERGEANT
How now! Thou seemest well pleased, brother. What rogue is this?
SANTA
I am no rogue, sirra, but one who toils an honest day’s labour.
BOLINGBROKE
Silence cur! By another art thou condemned.
(to the Desk Sergeant)
A yeoman witness who hath seen deeds so foul as to confound Lucifer himself. This noble citizen who stands before you, quivering like candle-flame, hath robbed many an honest citizen by night and beguiled innocents by day.
SANTA
I protest these false accusations! Deception? Why ‘tis my trade; not false treachery, it is but honest trickery. I am charged to appear so.
CADE
Aye and well charged wilt thou be.
(
Cade and the burly Constable smirk in self-congratulation at each other.)
SANTA
Faith! I am no saint and have committed offence in former time, but the merest follies of youth. These deeds of which you speak are as foreign to my nature as murder to the hands of new-born.
BOLINGBROKE
What deeds, sirra? I spoke of deeds general, not deeds particular and now ‘tis murder he imparts. Where came you by this intelligence? From mouth of worm, or some other witchery?
BURLY CONSTABLE
Sooth! I’ll warrant ‘tis witchcraft a’right.
(Burly Constable and Cade smirk at each other again.)
SANTA
Pr’ythee, by my troth ‘tis but lies I hear and will hear no more! I am but a simple player who in his season plays winter’s King. Yet though King of the season of despair, I bring hope to tiny hearts; yet from the realm of darkness I bring light! And though Pomona’s vale be wrapped in winding sheet, I carry the torch of Apollo and the promise of the dewy pleasures of spring. Though poor, I bring riches - -
BOLINGBROKE
Enough! Stay this contemptuous speech, sweet wag. Thou art but a bearded fool and would take me for the same.
SANTA
Nay, the beard is wanting.
DESK SERGEANT
His words offend all our ears. What say you men?
CONSTABLES
Aye!
BOLINGBROKE
As for the riches which you so willingly transport, now by thine own mouth art thou condemned. Why they are transported to yourself in poke from other men’s estates. I’faith, ruddy priest, thou art a knave and will make fine guest for Pluto in his infernal regions. Constable! To the dungeons!
CUT TO:
With that I was roughly escorted down a flight of steps into the cellars. There I was taken into a long, white, brightly-lit room where several other Santas were gathered. The handcuffs were removed from my wrists and the other Santas told to line up against the wall. My heart began to thump uncomfortably and despite the chill in the room, I felt beads of sweat trickling down my sides. The day had turned into a surreal nightmare from which I fought to wake. I thought that perhaps I had suffered a dreadful accident on the way to work and that in reality I was lying delirious in some hospital bed with a pretty nurse watching over me and wiping my fevered brow. Maybe I had even died and was indeed in Pluto’s infernal realm. For Hell was what Christmas was becoming for me, a monstrous contorted version of all my hopes, all my memories. But I wasn’t dead, or unconscious, or even merely asleep; I was very much alive and suffering the torment.
I was told that I was to take part in an identity parade and that I could choose where in the line I wished to stand.
‘But this is ridiculous,’ I protested. ‘An identity parade with everybody dressed as Santa Claus! It is a joke, isn’t it? Please tell me it’s a joke, a jape, a jest!’ I was told to pack it in and stand in line.
Moments later the door opened and Bolingbroke ambled in, hands in pockets. He was followed by… I couldn’t believe my eyes! It was Mr H! He walked slowly along the line looking at each of us carefully in turn. Then up the line and down again until he reached me once more. He took a step closer and peered up my nostrils.
‘That’s ‘im,’ he crowed, cocking his thumb at me.
‘Thank you, Mr Higginbottom,’ Bolingbroke said. ‘Right, take him to the interview room,’ he ordered a Constable while jabbing a finger at me. ’The rest of you leave the Santa suits on the front desk on your way out.’
The interview room was as bleak as I expected it to be. I sat on an old wooden dining chair. The only other furniture was a pair of metal stacking chairs, one without a back, and a Formica-topped table with a rust speckled chrome frame and legs. A small glass-rbick window set high in the wall was covered by heavy gauge weldmesh and a single fluorescent tube provided a soul-chilling glow.
‘Do you have a stock of them?’ I asked the Constable who was guarding me.
‘What?’ he asked in reply.
‘Santa suits for Christmas ID parades.’
He said nothing.
Bolingbroke burst into the room with Cade in his wake. He turfed me out of the chair and told me to sit in one of the others. He sat down at the other side of the table and opened his
