“Are you awake yet?” asked the piping voice.
Barnaby slithered and coiled. His sheathed knife had lodged under his stomach, out of reach and useless. His nose bent painfully against the hard earth, the smell of rich loam diluted by the hard frost.
The boy wore bright blue wellington boots, decorated with zigzag patterns of green lightning.
Adrenalin pumped through Barnaby’s body. Surprise was the hardest emotion to temper. It dislodged reason and made rational actions impossible. He forced his half-remembered infantry training to remind him of the responses vital to these situations.
Thinking wasted time, but he was stuck, and vulnerable. He relaxed and forced his mind into neutral, and with the immediacy of a bat hitting a ball, his training cut in. He rolled right, then left, and positioned first one arm, and then the other, under his upper body. He straightened his legs, rose up on his elbows, and wriggled his way out of the sleeping bag. His feet cleared the snagging folds. He curled into a foetal position, rolled to his left and pushed himself upright; all in the blink of an eye, or so he hoped.
It must have been be two years, at least, since he had attempted that manoeuvre. His head span. His hand clawed out, grasping for support, and made contact with the scratchy bark of the nearest tree. He leant against its solid trunk, puffing for breath. He fumbled for his knife, but the hilt jammed under his belt and he couldn’t prise it free. He gave up. He was a dead man.
“That was funny.”
The red boy hadn’t moved. Why didn’t he run away? A dirty old tramp wheezing like a walrus was enough to frighten anyone.
Barnaby squeezed his eyes shut, opened them wide, and then squeezed them shut. After four gasps of ragged panting, he opened them again very slowly.
The world stopped spinning. The cold air burned his cheeks. A flock of sparrows chirruped, and the red boy smiled.
“Can you do another trick?” he asked.
Why was a boy outside in this freezing weather so early in the morning? And why wasn’t he scared? And why was he so red?
Barnaby squinted. If only he hadn’t sat on his glasses six months before. He wiped his eyes, the cold didn’t help. Then, in a moment of crystal clarity, which happened sometimes if he stared really hard, he saw the red boy in perfect vision.
He wasn’t red, as such, but covered from head to toe in a red mac. From the hood right down to the tops of his wellingtons, he was encased in shiny red plastic; a miniature tent. Even his cheeks were red, though not so vivid. Only his dark brown eyes and the blue wellingtons broke the uniformity.
Barnaby coughed and spat. “What do you want?”
“I came to say hello.” His high voice cut the air as keenly as the cold.
“Oh-, but it’s only just light.”
“Are you angry?”
Barnaby considered the question and frowned. He was surprised, taken off guard, wary of confrontation. That made him jumpy; and he might lash out if he was cornered. But a curious little boy wasn’t a threat, unless he ran off and raised the alarm, and he would have done that already if he was frightened.
He shook his head. “No. But, what are you doing here?”
“I came to say hello, and to wish you a Merry Christmas.”
“Oh -.” His eyes blurred, throwing everything back into soft focus. He opened his mouth, and then shut it again. He didn’t know what to say. The last time anyone had wished him a “Merry Xmas” was so long ago he couldn’t even remember. True, the volunteers who manned the soup kitchens at this time of year always said it, but with the same mechanical reflex as spooning Brussels sprouts onto his plate.
He hadn’t heard it said with love for many years. His tired mind hunted for the right response, but when he opened his mouth all he could say was: “Thanks.”
“I’ve brought you a present.” The red boy reached into a pocket and held out his hand.
Gold foil glinted in the early morning light. Green ribbon trailed over his tiny fingers. Resting on his palm was a decorated box.
“For-for me?”
“You can open it now if you like.”
Barnaby gazed at the shimmering paper. It was like gold fire. He was scared to take it and hesitated, aware of his dirt-stained fingers and the filthy mittens that stank of sweat and damp. His touch would soil this gift that was so very bright and clean.
The red boy waited, his face beaming, his outstretched hand willing him to take the offered gift.
It was impossible to resist such heartfelt innocence.
Barnaby shuffled forwards and took the box between his finger and thumb. His hand shook and he tightened his grip.
“I hope you like it,” beamed the little boy. “I chose it especially when I saw you.”
Barnaby rotated the present backwards and forwards in his fingers. The gold paper flashed as it reflected the light.
“When-when did you see me?”
“Three days ago. I saw you through my telescope.” The boy pointed behind him. “From my bedroom; I can see everything through my telescope.”
Barnaby nodded. He remembered the big house on the hill beyond the coppice. He had skirted round it, keeping to the edge of the field, shielding himself behind the hedgerows. But he was clearly no match for this eagle-eyed boy and his telescope.
“I told daddy, and he said you were going to Battle for your Christmas dinner.”
The green ribbon entwined itself between Barnaby’s fingers. “Yes, that’s right. I am.”
The boy thrust his hands into his pockets and stamped the hard ground with his boots. “You can open it now,” he suggested hopefully. “You don’t have to wait till Christmas Day.”
Barnaby cupped the bright box in his hands. He wanted to tell the boy that this was the kindest act he had experienced for a very long time. But the words didn’t come. He had never been good at emotions, and now the warmth in his heart tightened into silence, as securely locked as a safe.
He could show his gratitude by opening the present. The little boy hoped that he might, and he didn’t want to disappoint.
He pulled at a strand of green ribbon. The round bow shrank until it disappeared into itself and the loosened knot slipped off the gold paper. This unfurled, and followed the ribbon, fluttering to the ground.
He was left holding a brown cardboard box. One flap was slightly raised, inviting him to lift it. He eased the lid up with his fingertip.
“Oh -.”
“Do you like it?” queried the little boy.
A silver star glittered on a bed of white tissue paper and, underneath it, a shiny silver chain looped in diminishing circles. Halfway along each of the stars’ five points twinkled a large jewel; red, blue, green, yellow and purple.
“It lights up. Like a real star. Shall I show you?”
Barnaby lowered the box so that the boy could reach inside.
“It’s off our Christmas tree. We’ve got a big one like it on top. Daddy said we didn’t need two, and I asked if you could have it. Look.”
The boy turned the star over. “There’s a switch on the back and when you push it,” he flicked a tiny black button embedded in the star’s flat back; “It goes!”
The jewels lit up, sparkling in a bewildering display of flashing lights; first, one after another, then all at once, then two at a time, each sequence different from the one before.
Barnaby blinked at the bright colours. They moved so fast.
“You wear it round your neck.” Simon slid the silver chain through his fingers and opened it into a loop. “Can I put it on you?”
“Well -,” Barnaby recoiled. The star might break if it touched him. It was so bright, so vibrant, and his dirty clothes were so old and torn. The two didn’t go together. But Simon wanted him to put it on, so perhaps it wouldn’t break.
He bent forward, and let the boy slip the chain over his head.
The star twinkled in the middle of his chest. He stared, mesmerised by its frenetic display. Stars like this always appeared at Chris
tmas. He saw them on his wanderings through towns and cities, on lamp posts, in shop windows, inside houses, out of reach and, he thought, not to be enjoyed by the likes of him.
He traced the star’s points with his fingers, running them along the bumpy moulding. Now he had his own star, to keep forever. The pulsing colours vibrated with life, and they touched something deep inside him. In his heart, the star made him happy.
“You can wear it when you’re eating your Christmas dinner,” hinted the boy.
Barnaby nodded. “I will-I promise. This is -.” What were the right words? What phrase explained happiness? He did his best. “This is-the best present.”
The boy grinned; “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry-Merry Christmas.” And he meant it.
“I’ve got to go home now. Before mummy and daddy wake up. Will I see you next year?”
Barnaby shrugged. A whole year, anything might happen. Then again, next Christmas might find him here. He followed a rhythm, like the seasons. “Yes. You will.”
“I’ll look out for you with my telescope.”
“Yes-you do that.”
“Bye then.”
“Bye.”
The little boy walked back through the trees, his bright mac diminishing like a red dot. Barnaby watched until he was out of sight.
Then he folded his sleeping bag, and the clothes that kept him warm; gathered his saucepan and spoons, stacked his tins, rolled up his blanket, and thrust them all into his backpack. It took a long time because he kept stopping to watch the star’s dizzying lights. He had never seen anything so jubilant.
He checked the sky; bright blue and, seeing it through the tree’s bare branches, still an intricate puzzle; as intricate as any puzzle between man and nature and, he mused, between man and man.
He stepped out from the coppice just at the sun tipped the edge of the horizon, and made for the Battle road. The star flashed on his chest, brighter than the morning light.
Gifts Page 3