‘Hmph!’ Falconer cleared his throat and pointed at his watch.
‘Good Lord! Look at the time!’ Carmichael was up off the sofa in one bound, grabbing coats, hats, and scarves for the boys and for himself. ‘If we don’t get going, we’re going to miss the start of the service, and that would never do.’
He rushed to open the door, and stopped dead, exclaiming with utter surprise, ‘Good grief! Crikey! While we’ve been in here talking, it’s been snowing like mad out here. Come and look,’ this last request unnecessary, as the boys had rushed to his side, and Falconer was trying to peer beneath his armpit, as he was far too short to look over his humungous sergeant’s shoulder.
There was a good six inches of snow on the ground, and it was still falling fast, not showing any signs of abating. ‘I’ll never get home in this,’ wailed Falconer, now haunted by the thought that he would have to spend the night here, chez Carmichael, in Castle Farthing.
‘No problem, sir. We’ve got a guest room ready made up, and you’re very welcome,’ Carmichael reassured him.
‘But what about my cats? Who’s going to feed and water them?’
‘Have you got your next-door neighbour’s contact numbers?’ asked his sergeant. ‘Just give him a ring, then, after the service, and ask him if he would be so good as to feed and care for your pets while you’re here. Let’s get going, though: time’s getting on, and the service will be starting in five minutes.’
Chapter Five
Christmas Eve – late afternoon and evening
The trek down the High Street from the row of cottages to St Cuthbert’s in Church Lane was much more difficult than anyone had expected. The snow was blizzard-like, and the keen wind was strong and tried to tip them over sideways. Collars were pulled up, hats pulled down, and hands shoved as deeply into pockets as they would go. The boys very sensibly pulled their scarves right across their faces, so that only their eyes showed.
And the going was slow. With the prolonged duration of low temperatures, the ground underneath the snowfall was slippery and treacherous, and the two adults and the children linked arms in an attempt to achieve a greater amount of balance than they would have had as four individuals. Their progress was also slowed by Carmichael, who kept stopping and putting out his tongue in an attempt to catch snowflakes on it, when all he got for his efforts was a good buffeting by the wind, and so much snow in his face that it made him cough.
‘Come along, Carmichael, and act your age. You’re supposed to be the father figure here,’ Falconer chided him, and he did as he was bid. As they got closer to the church, they could just discern other figures, likewise struggling, so it looked like they weren’t the only ones who were going to be a little late.
As they reached the left-hand turn into Church Street, they could discern a trio of figures through the blinding curtain of blustering, swirling snow, and they identified themselves, as George Covington’s voice roared through the efforts of the wind to carry away his words.
‘Ahoy there! We’ve got the vicar between us,’ he bellowed. ‘Poor chap couldn’t stand up when ’ e went outdoors, so we’re givin’ ’im a hand: two, in fact. Paula’s on ’is other side. If we get much more of this, we’ll have to dig our way to Midnight Mass, won’t we?’
As he finished this explanation, three shapes materialised out of the gloom, and proved, indeed, to be Paula and George Covington, with Rev. Searle between them, the feet of the shrunken little cleric barely touching the ground, more dragging through the top surface of the snow.
The vicar was making fussy little protests about how late he was, and giving a fair impression of the white rabbit from ‘Alice in Wonderland’. Unable to consult his watch by reason of the hold his two minders had on him, and the prevailing weather conditions, he continued to mutter away, speculating about people waiting outside the church in this dreadful weather, and then wondering if anyone would turn up at all in such inclement conditions.
‘There’re four of us here, Vicar, and the Covingtons make six, so at least the church won’t be completely empty,’ Carmichael reassured him in his loudest bawl, as they became aware of other dark shapes fighting the snowstorm and heading in the direction of St Cuthbert’s. ‘And by the looks of things,’ he added, ‘Castle Farthing’s not going to let you down. I can see other people headed in the same direction.’
Rev. Searle finally looked up from his muttered monologue, observed that what the young man had said was correct, and immediately cheered up. It would have been tragic if he had been given this opportunity to conduct Christmas services, only to have it snatched away from him by appalling weather and a consequently empty church.
As the bedraggled inhabitants of Castle Farthing entered St. Cuthbert’s, they were greeted by the sight of Digby ‘Father Christmas’ Jeffries in full regalia at the front of the church, wire-rimmed spectacles replacing his usual horn-rimmed ones and ‘ho ho ho’-ing away in the hammiest manner possible. As they took their seats, this apparition raised a red-mittened hand in greeting, then put his hands below his cushioned belly to begin another round of ‘ho, ho, ho’.
The children arriving giggled, their parents turned away in embarrassment and disgust. Old Albert Carpenter had played the part with such dignity in the past, only appearing at the end of the service at the vicar’s behest, and quietly handing out little gifts to the children with the minimum of fuss. It was evident, from their first entry into the church, that Albert’s Santa was to be sorely missed this year. Digby Jeffries seemed to be intent on taking over the major role in the crib service, playing it with all the gusto and bad taste of a department store Santa in an American movie.
Although the starting time was long past, people continued to arrive and soon the church was almost full. Warren Stupple sat at the aisle of one row, his twin sons and all his Cubs in uniform ranged along the pew beside him, their parents who were not still at work in the pew behind. Across the aisle sat his wife, their twin daughters beside her, followed by the Brownie pack, all in their uniforms, again, with parents behind them.
The Carmichael group sat near the rear of the church, just in case Kerry’s waters broke and she sent a message to the church. They were thus the first to hear the noise from outside. Through the howling wind came the sound of a human voice, raised in anger. ‘’E’ll not take your place, Uncle Albert. We’ll soon rout ’im!’
Those further forward were not aware of whatever was approaching the building, but Falconer left his seat and strolled to the still open door to see exactly what was about to descend on this happy little Christmas Eve group.
As the vicar opened the service, his elderly voice struggling to fill the building, Falconer closed the door, putting himself in the porch, and able to see what was just arriving out of the whirling white snow. It had been the voice that alerted him to the arrival of someone not in the best of moods. What actually emerged through the storm was a man built like a brick out-house, pulling strenuously on a rope which was looped around his middle. So swathed in outdoor garments was he that he was unrecognisable, but the little figure behind him on the sledge that he pulled through the knee-high depth of snow was evidently a second Father Christmas, and a very angry one at that.
The big man halted at the huge wooden door and laid down his rope, puffing as if steam were about to issue from his body. The little man behind in the red suit leapt from the sledge and promptly toppled over in the depth of snow. ‘You ’old your ’orses, Uncle Albert, and I’ll get you inside. Just stay where you are.’
Stepping out to join them and make his presence known, Falconer arrived just in time for the little man in red, who was now being borne the last few snowy feet in an undignified fireman’s lift by his relative, to enquire in a querulous, high-pitched voice, ‘’Ave they got yon fake Father Christmas in yon church?’
‘Indeed they have,’ replied Falconer, going along with the fantasy. ‘And you, I take it, are the real one?’
‘Damned right I am. Put me down! Put me
down, yer great lumpen fool! I gotta git inside to do me dooty!’
The larger man set him gently upon his feet and pushed the church door open for the older man to enter, and Rev. Searle’s carefully planned and scripted crib service suddenly went to hell in a handcart.
‘You git outta my church, you old imposter, you!’ screeched the old man, hobbling as fast as he could down the aisle towards Digby Jeffries. ‘You bain’t Father Christmas, I am. I allus ’as been in this ’ere church, and I ain’t ’avin’ my place taken by no upstart incomer. Git out of ’ere this minnit, afore I brains you.’
‘I have sought and received permission to be here today in this capacity, and I shall not be dissuaded from the role that I have been entrusted with,’ was Digby Jeffries’ dignified, if slightly ungrammatical reply, even if it was cut off as he finished speaking by the arrival of his rival, who tugged furiously at his beard to try to unseat it. It being real facial hair, Albert then tore at Digby’s red hat, throwing it to the floor and stamping on it.
‘You git outta my church this instant, or there’ll be trouble,’ the querulous elderly voice continued, pulling at Digby’s abdominal area and exposing the pillow resting behind the front of the red jacket. ‘You ain’t no Castle Farthing Father Christmas. That’s me, that is, and always has been. Git, afore I ’as yer eyes out!’
The old man might have been small, but he was wiry and still strong for his years, and Digby retreated from this onslaught while Rev. Searle vainly called for order. It took the combined efforts of Falconer and Carmichael to pull the one man off the other, and escort both now-rumpled figures into the vestry, where they could be neither seen nor, hopefully, heard, and there Carmichael left them to return to his children to enjoy the service in peace. In the sudden silence that followed the slamming of the vestry door, the voice of the vicar could be heard, attempting to re-start his stalled service.
‘What’s all this about?’ hissed Falconer, in the vestry, trying to keep his voice from penetrating to the main body of the church.
‘I had to bring him, didn’t I?’ came the bass rumble of the man mountain who had propelled the old gentleman to the church. ‘He’s getting on a bit, and this might be his last Christmas. It would be too cruel to deprive him of what might be his last chance to play his part.’
As Digby Jeffries inflated his lungs in preparation for mounting his high horse, Albert got in before him, and complained that he had played the part of Father Christmas to the children of the village since his father had given up the role, but that this year this effing incomer had come along and snuck behind his back to a vicar who didn’t know what was what in these parts, and had consequently stolen the part from under his nose.
To the strains of ‘Away in a Manger’ Digby tried, in as dignified and pompous manner as he could muster, to explain why he was a much better choice for the role, being of a more solid build (despite the cushion) and not so well-known to the children and, therefore, more believable.
At this, Albert Carpenter flew into a mini-rage, scolding the man for putting himself in the position where a child might want to sit on his lap, but would be too frightened to do so, because he or she didn’t know him.
‘But they don’t actually know Father Christmas, do they?’ asked Jeffries, logically.
‘No, you fool, but they thinks they do, so they needs someone who they feel comfortable with. Any fool could work that one out. Have you seen how the little ones cry in the big stores in the town when they sit on some strange man’s knee and he asks them what they want Father Christmas to bring them? Well, they don’t do that here, because they knows me, and what’s more, they trusts me. Huh!’
Falconer decided that it was time he restored order, and silenced the combatants with, ‘Shut up, both of you! Now, listen to me: this year there are going to be two men in red suits giving out the presents to the children. You can stand – or sit – together, and take it in turns to hand over a present. No! No argument! What I have said is final, and if you don’t agree, I’m going to eject both of you from this church. Which of you wants to be responsible for the children not getting a present at the crib service? Nobody? Good! Now, behave yourselves.’
As the voices in the church wobbled out the final verse of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ in a mixture of piping young voices and a few booming low ones, Falconer glanced at the large man who had conveyed Albert Carpenter to the church through the storm. He had introduced himself as Albert’s great-nephew, John, and the two of them escorted their ‘prisoners’ out of the vestry and to the rear of the church, where a sack of wrapped presents stood by the door.
‘Now, share those out between you, and keep it zipped or there’ll be trouble, and you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry,’ hissed Falconer, determined that this last tradition of the service should pass in peace and harmony.
Rev. Searle blessed them all and, with the innocent faces of the children and the twinkling lights of the tree, all looked calm. Falconer and his new ally stood by their respective Father Christmases to make sure it stayed that way, both of the red-clad men still in deadly competition, the lenses of their respective wire-rimmed spectacles locked in resentment at the presence of the other.
Carmichael held his little family back until everyone else had gone before they approached the door, this being a very fortunate situation for Dean and Kyle, who each received a present from both Father Christmases, neither of whom wanted to cede the last bestowal of a gift to the other.
‘I take it your great-uncle won’t be coming to Midnight Mass?’ asked Falconer of the man who was not quite as big as Carmichael.
‘If he does, he comes as Albert Carpenter, and not in some stupid fancy costume,’ was the received answer and, after escorting the elderly man back to his seat on the toboggan, they left, the runners of the wooden vehicle leaving deep ruts in the footprints made by its puller.
The snow had ceased to fall, and for a while the sky must have been clear, but there were new clouds lowering over the village, pouring slowly across the skyscape with the promise of more snow to come. That which had fallen was already deep enough for Carmichael and Falconer each to lift a child on to his shoulders to carry them home and save them the struggle of moving forward in such difficult conditions.
‘You’d better ring your neighbour when you get in, sir. I can’t see any chance of you getting home tonight,’ advised Carmichael.
‘Neither can I. I’ll do it as soon as we get in. Golly, I’m frozen. Have you got any cocoa in the house?’
‘Cocoa, hot chocolate, whatever you want. That’s a topping idea, sir; it’ll warm us up a treat.’
‘Why were there two Father Christmases, Daddy?’ asked Kyle, his question echoed by Dean.
‘I expect it was because we haven’t had a crib service there for some time, and that was to make up for when we didn’t have one.’ answered Carmichael, diplomatically.
‘Then why was they fighting?’ asked Dean.
‘Yes, and one of them swored, Daddy. We heard him,’ expanded Kyle.
‘Who wants marshmallows in their hot chocolate?’ asked Carmichael, cleverly changing the subject so that no more awkward explanations were necessary.
Others, released from the rather chilly confines of the church, manfully (and womanfully) made their way to The Fisherman’s Flies for a drink to celebrate the arrival of Christmas, and George Covington made sure that his establishment had a roaring fire to greet them.
Customers took their usual seats, Alice Diggory, Cedric Malting, and Robin De’ath settling down while Henry Pistorius went to the bar to purchase their first drinks. By habit, he ordered one for Digby Jeffries, who had not left the church with them, though Henry had no doubt that he would turn up to smugly celebrate his triumph at being Father Christmas, even if he’d had to share the honour with that withered old man.
Returning to the table with a tray, the other three were discussing the undignified jostling for the role of the red-suited man, and Henry took
his seat with the knowing contentment that he was going to enjoy this conversation. ‘So, what’ve you been talking about?’ he asked in feigned innocence.
‘The laughing-stock that old Digby made of himself, refusing to yield his role to that poor old man who probably hasn’t got another Christmas in him,’ replied Alice, summing up succinctly their conversation since they had sat down. ‘We think it’s absolutely disgraceful, behaving in that way. What does he think it did for the kiddies, seeing two Father Christmases giving out presents? Disgraceful! He should have given up the idea immediately, and slipped out quietly through the vestry door before there was a chance for any sort of scene.’
‘Well, you know Digby,’ commented Henry. ‘He always has to be top dog, no matter what the collateral damage.’
‘Goodness knows what the parents thought. He hasn’t done himself any favours by insisting on staying,’ added Robin De’ath.
‘That’s because he’s incapable of thinking about anybody but himself,’ interjected Cedric Malting, so keen to get a censorious word in that he inadvertently dribbled his beer down his front.
At this moment, appropriate, as everyone at the table had had their say, Digby Jeffries entered the pub, a blast of freezing wind following him in. He was still in his red uniform, and his face was aglow with triumph. ‘HO-HO-HO!’ he shouted across the room and raised a hand in greeting. ‘Here comes Santa Claus!’ and then looked surprised that he was not either showered with greetings or given a rousing cheer.
‘Look at him!’ said Henry Pistorius, clearly disgusted. ‘He hasn’t even got the sensitivity to realise that all the locals know that old fellow as Father Christmas. He must have been playing the part since time immemorial. He probably gave out the presents to their older kids, and to some of them as well. He practically is Father Christmas in Castle Farthing, and a newcomer trying to usurp his role will not have gone down well.’
Christmas Mourning (The Falconer Files Book 8) Page 6
