Billy Christmas

by Mark A. Pritchard

  The last pouch held a tiny candle. He didn’t hold it for long, fearing that the heat from his fingers might melt it. He got up, took a step back and looked at the tree, adorned in lights, with the twelve decorations below it, almost as though they were presents. Not the spread of last year, but of course everything had changed since then.

  Torn between weariness and hunger, he switched off the lights to the living room, leaving just those on the tree alight. Giving up on the kitchen and into tiredness, he checked the locks on the front door before heading up to bed. Following his routine, he checked on his mother before going to his own room. The spare room, which she now used, was at the end of the landing near the front of the house. He didn’t think the sofa bed helped her back, but without breaking their unspoken agreement on unnecessary speech, what could he do? Often she would be turning in her sleep, calling out his father’s name. For this reason, he shut both her door and his own. He had enough trouble sleeping with his own thoughts, theories and questions.

  As he brushed his teeth, the strewn packets of pills reminded him of the doctor’s last visit. He suspected she had prescribed his mother with some pretty substantial sleeping pills. He’d ploughed through the medicine cabinet trying to learn what they were, but the labels were never that helpful. He wasn’t sure what Nitrazepam did, but was all too aware of what Prozac was: an antidepressant. On bad nights, when sleep wouldn’t come, he had thought about trying the nitro stuff, but concluded that it wasn’t a good time to experiment with these things, when you’re the only one who can get to the supermarket. Buying the food, the loo roll, things for his mother that a son isn’t often seen buying; it had been a tough year.

  In his own room, he lay back and thought about the tree sitting downstairs. Well lit, and with the ornaments spread like presents underneath, it could have been part of a scene from any house in his street tonight. Against all odds, he had managed to bring a piece of Christmas back home.

  December 14th

  A NOISE FROM DOWNSTAIRS WOKE Billy in the middle of the night. He sat up, at once awake and alert and, from the foot of his bed, reached for his father’s cricket bat. He had moved the bat into his room after he answered the door one night to Robert’s gang. He had narrowly dodged a small brick intended for the front door window. They had egged the entire house and Billy spent the whole weekend cleaning off the drying yolks before the smell started attracting rats—or worse, attention from the council. With his mother withdrawing to some place deep down, away from her pain, he suspected bad things might happen if officials found out the extent of his efforts at home.

  Billy ran the bat along the banisters as he walked down the hallway. He’d read that making noise was the best way to make burglars panic and run. With his increasing height and the help of a few shadows, he hoped he could at least appear to make an imposing deterrent. The sounds didn’t cease, and as he started down the stairs he swore he could hear a voice.

  “Confound it…century…tied up!”

  The voice wasn’t quiet, but was twisted by sharp angles and baffled by soft carpets and furniture. Not for the first time, Billy wished that he’d worked out how to pay the telephone bill before it had been disconnected. His heart pounding, he hoped his mother was well dosed up and continued down the stairs. Perhaps someone had come for the tree? Mr. Shaw had said he hadn’t ordered it. Perhaps the person who had imported it had now tracked it down and wanted it back? His stomach lurched as it always did when he felt he’d been foolish or slapdash.

  Well, Mr. Shaw had given him the tree and the decorations, and his father had helped Mr. Shaw start his tree stand. So in a way, whoever this was was stealing from his father. This last thought arrived at the last stair and was all Billy needed to throw on the lights and burst into the living room wielding the bat above his head.

  Yelling, he ran past the tree to the far side of the room, deciding that would give any potential burglar a path of escape and him a better angle to remind them why they should retreat.

  “Where do you imagine you’re going?” said a deep voice from thin air.

  Billy whirled about the long room in terror, looking for the owner of the voice, bat extended but hitting nothing.

  “And why on earth have you tied me to the wall?” said the voice, which was old and somehow familiar. It sounded like his late grandfather, who had died when he was eight years old.

  Billy slowed and turned to face the tree. The Tree was glaring at him through eyes formed by branches curling both together and away. He could make out a mouth, and the mouth didn’t look pleased. In the bustle and distraction, he had forgotten the quality of the Tree’s movements earlier that evening. Right now, it appeared to be tugging at the electrical cord which ran from the fairy lights to the plug in the wall.

  “In over three thousand years, not once has anyone tied me to a wall. Outrageous! Explain yourself,” said the Tree, giving up tugging for glowering at Billy through furrowed branches.

  “It’s the lights,” said Billy, astonished not to be screaming in fright. “If I take out the plug, the lights will go out.”

  “Pull the plug, Billy. Or mine won’t be the only lights going out,” said the Tree with impressive sincerity.

  Billy reached down beside the bucket and pulled the plug. The lights went out, but before he could move, the Tree had whipped the plug from his hand with a grasp of branches and shoved it into the earth around its roots. The lights blinked back on.

  “Well they do look rather good, don’t they?” said the Tree.

  The Tree leant forward and picked up the large velvet sack which had held the decorations, and hopped into it, leaving the bucket behind. The Tree tied the cord tightly before looking up and taking two further hops towards him. “We have things to discuss.”

  “Why do you sound like my grandad?” said Billy.

  “You have a talking Tree in your family room and you wish to enquire why I sound like a grandad?”

  “My grandad,” said Billy, fighting the urge to back away.

  “I sound like him because you find his voice inspiring.”

  “Does that mean that this is…”

  “…a dream, Billy Christmas? Oh no, I wouldn’t call it a dream,” the Tree leant in closer. “Though in time you may wish it was.”

  “Oh.”

  “I am old in a way humans cannot understand and old, very old, even for my kind. I outdate your religions…”

  “My family…we’re not really religious,” said Billy.

  “Really? My goodness, yes, the world was starting to change quite rapidly on my last visit. Has religion disappeared altogether then?”

  “Not so as you’d notice, no. Were you here last year?”

  “Ha! Last year indeed. I last appeared one hundred years ago as I have each hundred years before,” the Tree drew breath through its thick branches. “But there is time enough for us to talk, Billy, talk of many things. I’m sure you’ll explain to me how the world has turned. I’m starting to forget things now; even for my kind I really am very old. I thought my last visit might be my last, but here we are. What is the date?”

  “It’s the thirteenth of December, no the fourteenth,” said Billy checking the time in the long clock beside the Tree. It was past midnight.

  “Plenty of time then. It is rare that I appear before the twelve days start, which is always either Christmas Day or Boxing Day. Though I’m forgetting the rules, of course, the rules. But you will forgive me I hope and put it down to my age.”

  Billy looked down at the Tree. “You look so young.”

  “That will change when we begin what we begin,” said the Tree. “Now, to business. The usual way of things is that I find out what we need to do. Perhaps you can start by telling me what has gone so wrong that I have come to be here, talking to you?”

  Billy faltered. Tears prickled at his eyelids, and he slammed them shut, as he always did, to avoid a bout of crying that he did not know how to stop. In the last twelve months, no one had a
sked him what was wrong, because no one had needed to. Everyone already knew what had happened. He began to explain, and as he did, he gave up trying to cover his tears.

  He’d been sitting in front of last year’s Christmas tree waiting impatiently for his parents to return from the kitchen. There was an indecent spread of presents and most of them were in a separate pile, awaiting his attention. A twelve-year-old Billy, still in his dressing gown, was doing a kind of breakdance jig to alleviate the tension, television being banned on Christmas Day in the Christmas household. His father had appeared at the door, towering over him.

  “I’m in trouble, buster,” said Tom Christmas. “Big trouble with the big boss.”

  “Aren’t you done in the kitchen yet?”

  “You’re not hearing me, my boy. I’ve only gone and forgotten the milk! No milk, no tea. And it’s Christmas Day.”

  “I’m bored, Dad!”

  “Well why don’t you sling on some clothes and come down with me to the twenty-four-hour garage? See if we can get back in your mum’s good books.”

  “I’m not out of them.”

  “Come on Billy, by the time we’re back your mum will be done in the kitchen, and we can crack on with the presents.”

  “I’ve already been waiting for hours, I don’t want to go out.”

  “Not for me?”

  “No.”

  “Suit yourself. Try finding me the next time you need a hand,” his father threw him a sad and exasperated smile before grabbing his coat and hat and disappearing out the door.

  Billy stood and watched his father depart through the branches of the Tree. Shortly afterwards a lorry had pulled up sharply. It could have been a dustbin lorry, but for it being Christmas Day. He had felt a stab of regret that he had not gone with his father. It was the same wretched lurch in his stomach he now knew all too well. He had decided to make sure the rest of the house looked neat and tidy, just perfect for his return.

  “But he never came back,” said Billy.

  “I see,” said the Tree. “He disappeared on Christmas Day, you say?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And your deepest wish?”

  “Is to have him back.”

  “So that is why I am here.”

  The Tree began to stalk around the living room, branching up a hand to scratch its chin. Eventually, it turned back to him. “Yes, I think it can be done, there should still be time, but what you’re asking me to do involves deep magic. In order for me to draw on the magic to grant this wish, you will have to achieve certain tasks. Each task is represented by the decorations you have opened. It is a matter of faith, Billy. I’m talking about acting out the required tasks with utter conviction, not questioning them once. Do you understand?”

  “I think so,” said Billy, regaining some composure and, for the first time in almost a year, a small spark of hope.

  “I doubt you do, yet. But understand this: I have been thrown on fires by children who couldn’t find enough faith in themselves. I mention this because the fate of another person—that of your father—is woven into your wish. Good or bad, you alone will bear the consequences of your actions.”

  “But you can bring my dad back home?” said Billy, finding his feet and trying to keep his hands from shaking.

  “I can,” replied the Tree, “but time is now against us. Traditionally I would be revealed on Christmas Day and the tasks completed by the fifth of January. The twelve days. However, if your father disappeared on Christmas Day, to stand any chance we must begin tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “I have your commitment?”

  “If I have your word,” said Billy, speaking much more firmly than he had planned. He dropped his eyes.

  “Never question the tasks, complete them on time, accept no fear, no tiredness, no obstacle which may come your way and try to prevent you succeeding.”

  “You have my word,” said Billy, taking a step towards the Tree.

  “And you mine,” said the Tree. “Now tell me what decorations came in the sack. Tell me quickly, and hang the decorations on my branches as you do.”

  Billy described the twelve decorations and hung the items as the Tree turned slowly before him: the candle, the dog, the lipstick, the iron bar, the pie, the sheet of music, the five rings, the four rings (which made the Tree smile in not an entirely nice way), the axe, the sprig of mistletoe (which made the Tree hoot), the ice skates and the replica of his bike.

  “Iron bar and ice skates you say?” said the Tree, sending a branch up to scratch its brow.

  “Do you know what they mean?”

  The Tree turned and looked at Billy at eye level. Billy hadn’t noticed, but the Tree must have grown. “You’re going to find that I’m not a great one for questions. Partly because I’m not allowed, and partly because I’m old and I get to choose not to.”

  The Tree started hopping up and down the length of the room, muttering back the list of decorations. Billy stood back. He wasn’t sure that he and the Tree had established a relationship he could trust, but what choice did he have?

  He looked at the Tree and found it staring at him.

  “Not having doubts already, Billy?” said the Tree quietly.

  Billy decided to bite his tongue.

  “Take the candle and put it on my highest branch, where people think angels like to land.”

  Billy did as he was told, wrapping the hanging wire as tightly as he dared below the wax guard of the silver candleholder.

  “Next take the dog, and hold him over your shoulder, as you did me this evening.”

  Billy slung the small dog over his shoulder with some vigour and faced the Tree. “Good lad,” said the Tree. “Now take a match from the striking box, and make your wish whilst lighting the candle. You must call out the piece of your soul which misses him the most and bring it here, right into the room.”

  Billy scratched around in his mind, trying to find a link to the person he had to keep at the very back of his thoughts. Several painful seconds passed with the Tree bowed and waiting. Billy took a breath as he dug deeply for memories he had kept locked away. At last a recollection rose up, of being disappointed to find only a card at breakfast for his twelfth birthday. He’d opened it to find a magazine picture of his dream bike, his Trek drop-handled road bike, and had suddenly felt very foolish and very loved, and had looked up into his father’s eyes.

  Billy ignored the box of matches and took the lighting wand that had been left on the mantelpiece. He struck a bright blue flame with a click of his thumb, making the Tree jump slightly. Billy barely reacted; he wasn’t seeing the Tree at all, he was seeing his father, and every fibre of his being longed for his return. In the room, light and sound imploded for the barest instant. Green light began to pulse deep within the branches of the Tree, and then faded gently away.

  The Tree breathed out, and seemed a little stunned. “It is done.”

  “Are you OK?”

  “You must miss him very much.”

  Billy’s emotions threatened to overwhelm him again, but he was distracted by a significant gain in weight and size over his shoulders. The dog was growing.

  “Get to bed, and take him with you. Otherwise he’ll wake up confused, and a confused deerhound is a bad thing,” said the Tree. “He might imagine I’m here for his relief.”

  “I thought he was a wolfhound?”

  “Scottish deerhound, Billy. Bigger heart. Go on, to bed.”

  “But what about the other tasks?” said Billy, trying desperately to balance the dog.

  “This is the first task, but this task will last for twelve days. Your faith must be as constant as this candle. We will speak again tomorrow night.” With that the Tree spun into the air, terrifying Billy that the candle would blow out, and landed back in the bucket. It was then as silent and still as every other Christmas tree in Great Britain. Billy had his own problems; the dog was really getting heavy now. He turned and headed up the stairs.

  Mom
ents later, he stopped climbing. The dog had shuddered, sending a wave of goosebumps across him. He felt its heart beating rapidly through the sheet. This was no dream—the Tree, the dog, the opportunity to get his father back—this was all happening to him. Billy moved quickly, afraid that the dog might wake up whilst on the staircase and struggle, causing all sorts of problems. When he got to his room, he kicked his door shut, slamming it much harder than he had intended to. He froze as the huge dog flinched in the sheet. Then, just as he was beginning to lose his struggle with the dog’s weight, he felt it return to sleep and he laid the animal gently at the foot of his bed.

  The dog was now fully grown. At least Billy hoped it was. A deerhound like this would cost a lot to feed, and they were already getting by on minimal funds. And how was he going to explain this to his mother? Of course, these days it might just go unnoticed. Tired of addressing unanswerable questions, Billy flopped onto his bed, and waited for the chill of the mattress to pass before he could drift off to sleep. School tomorrow.

  * * *

  Billy slept better than he had all year and greeted the daylight without dismay. Then, remembering he wasn’t alone in the room, he looked around. The door was open. Hadn’t he slammed it last night almost waking the dog up? Grabbing his dressing gown, he tumbled down the stairs wondering where the huge animal had got to. He stopped at the Tree. The deerhound was sitting up staring straight into the eyes of his mother. She was transfixed and very much there. He watched for a moment before turning back up the stairs.

  “Billy, where did he come from?”

  The voice shook his heart. It was his mother’s old voice.

  He turned back to her, but she was still transfixed by the huge hound.

  “He arrived last night,” said Billy, as truthfully as he could.

  “Last night,” his mother echoed.

  Billy watched for a few more moments before remembering the time. Now he was late. He dashed back upstairs to get ready for school. On his way out, he passed the living room, where his mother was still looking deeply into the wide eyes of the deerhound. He’d been worried about what would happen to the dog during the day, but perhaps everything would work out now after all.