It
is bitterly cold on the West Cliff tonight. The gardens are
deserted. The moon is obscured by thick rolling clouds. The street
lamps cast only frail pools of light on the paths. Where is Sir
Reginald? Surely it's time for him to be out and about on his
evening constitutional raging against the Communists at the Council
for the feebleness of the lighting? Or will tonight's fulmination be
for the waste of tax payers money engendered by having street
lighting at all?
Click
whirr. Click whirr. Ah here he is now in his bath chair propelled
with vigour by his one legged manservant Phillips. Sir Reginald is
wrapped warmly in his tartan blanket against the chill whilst
Phillips, his sleeves rolled up to display his tattooed arms has a
film of sweat across his brow.
“Faster, Man. Faster. Can you not
see that I am in imminent danger of dying from hypothermia here?”
A
single flake of white flutters down through the street light's rays.
“What! What was that?” demands Sir Reginald.
“It
was a snowflake, I believe Sir.” answers Phillips and, as if to
prove his belief the first is followed by a second and a third.
“Snow!
We want none of that here. This is Bournemouth not Siberia.”
“Snow
is a thing of great beauty.”
“Beauty!
Pshaw! Your idea of beauty is very much at odds with mine, Sirrah.
An idea of beauty that could only have come from the twisted hell
hole of the 'tween decks mess of that pirate ship I rescued you
from.”
The
truth is that Phillips has never ventured further on the high seas
than a Sunday cruise around Poole Harbour as a child but he lets it
pass.
“Under
the lens, each snowflake is a thing of great wonder. While no two
are exactly the same, they ll exhibit the astonishing uniformity of
having six sides.”
Sir
Reginald likes uniformity. He likes regularity and order in all
things. “Six sides, you say?”
“Yes
Sir. Every one of them. All different but, at the same time, all the
same.”
Sir
Reginald is about to begin extolling the virtues of regularity and
order when out of the whirling white comes a disturbing sight. It is
the bath chair of his nemesis Dame Amelia Vole leading member of the
Women’s International Socialist and Suffrage movement. She is, in
turn propelled by her companion Miss Pymm a tall angular female of
indeterminate years but who is surprisingly athletic beneath her
shapeless grey smock.
“Get
out of my way you... you harridan.” rages Sir Reginald. But Dame
Amelia fails to respond and as they draw level she smiles and says
“And a Merry Christmas to you.”
“What!
What did you say?”
“I wished you the season's greeting. I said 'A Merry Christmas to
you.'”
“You
dare wish me a Merry Christmas?”
“I
do. A merry Christmas. There, I've done it again.”
“Christmas
Balderdash.” He would have liked to say ' Christmas humbug' but he
has in the back of his mind that that has been used somewhere
already.
“I
suppose you do not keep Christmas, then?”
“I'll thank you to keep your impertinent suppositions to your self.”
“I'll thank you to keep your impertinent suppositions to your self.”
“Not
even a plate of good plum duff? I wager you don't keep any of The
good old British traditions.”
“Of
course we keep all the traditions. All the British ones.” Sir
Reginald has only a perfunctory knowledge of what the traditions of
Christmas are. He knows they can be dangerously subversive but this
woman has just wagered him
“We
do. Every one of them. We keep every one of them .” Then he
remembers with a lurch that one of the traditions is that of generals
feeding dinner to their troops. He cringes at the terrifying
prospect of having to wheel himself backwards and forwards through
the unholy melee in the dining room whilst Phillips sits there
gloating at him and devouring all the plum duff. He would be seen.
There would be members of the Club present sniggering through their
fingers. The thought is insufferable.“Not precisely every one.”
Then he remembers with growing horror the tradition of exchanging of
gifts and he shudders even more. “Times change.”
“I'll
wager you don't even decorate with holly.”
He
brightens. “Ah yes, holly.” He remembers that holly can be got
from holly bushes and is free. “We keep the holly tradition.”
And his demeanour is so pathetic all of a sudden that Phillips steps
forward with his clasp knife at the ready.
“If
I may venture to say,” interjects the one-legged manservant. “That
is just what we were doing out here. Collecting holly.” And he
swiftly removes a couple of low branches from an overhanging bush.
”And
mistletoe?” persists the old woman.
“Yes.
Mistletoe, of course.” But despite the certainty in his master's
voice, this time Phillips can contribute nothing.
“Mistletoe,
Miss Pymm.” barks the old woman and The angular companion produces
a bunch which she holds out over the heads of the warring pair. Dame
Amelia leans forward and kisses Sir Reginald on the cheek
“What!
What! Madam I will have you prosecuted for common assault.”
“Forward,
Miss Pymm,” chuckles the venerable dame and the angular companion
trundles her charge off into the swirling maelstrom of the snowstorm.
“And
battery” mumbles Sir Reginald. “Assault and battery. You are
my witness, Phillips”
As
the subdued pair return to Grand Marine Court he churns with the
damnable confusion that now besets him. Christmas. He hates
Christmas. Vile old women that attempt lewd acts in public.
Snowflakes, at once regular yet individual. A manservant, an
ex-pirate with a dangerous looking clasp knife who would gladly slit
his throat as cheerfully as he gathered evergreens and to whom
tomorrow he will have to bring plates of plum duff.
“Damn
Christmas,” he ejaculates. “Damn and blast it to hell.”
There
is a pause as the two men survey the scene before going in..
“I may not be having dinner tomorrow. Lost me damn appetite.”
“There
will be plum duff in the dining room. You do so enjoy that, Sir.”
“Yes
yes I do.”
There
is a long pause.
“It
will not be necessary for you to serve at table tomorrow, Sir.”
“No.
Of course not.” and with a small cough almost lost in the
blizzard. “Thank you.”
“You
will manage a small serving of plum duff, I'm sure. If I bring it to
you.”
Silently
Sir Reginald watches the snow smoothing out the imperfections of the
world and touches his cheek where it burns from the wind.
“If
I may venture to wish you A merry Christmas Sir,” says Phillips as
though from a great distance.
“Yes.
Yes. You may. And the same to you. Now get me in out of this damn
cold.”
