A Christmas Cameron

by Benedict Arthur

  “Thanks Dad” said David hugging his father.

  Old David looked at the watch cupped in his young self’s hands and was reminded of the last time that he had seen it. It was around five years ago when the Conservative party was trying to rebrand themselves and had hired a firm of advertising consultants at the cost of many thousands of pounds to come up with a new party logo. David remembered his deep feelings of despondency as he had leafed through the uninspiring images of bulldogs, badgers and various union jack variants. By chance, he had come across the watch in a box of his old things and had been struck with the idea of using the tree as the new logo. To the public, the soil, the party had presented the tree as a symbol of strength, growth and concern for the environment, but David and his inner circle had reveled in their secret knowledge of its deeper meaning.

  David’s father stood up and ruffled his son’s hair. “Come on” he said “let’s get back to the house; your mother will be waiting.” Old David watched as his father and his young self disappeared back into the forest.

  “He was always so kind.” David said to the ghost.

  “He was” the ghost replied. “Ply a child with kindness, and you can write anything upon his heart –and the mark will be indelible.”

  “What?” said David looking at the ghost and raising his brow.

  “When the child becomes a man” continued the ghost “even if he is driven by poisonous ideas, which cause a great many to suffer – he will not feel the horror and anxiety that a man of sense would feel. All he will see in his mind’s eye will be the kindly face of his father; content and happy and that will be enough. For which young boy wants anything more in the world than to please his father?”

  “He taught me to be kind” David protested.

  “You are not truly kind David because he taught you the old kindness, the kindness that extends only to your tribe. Humanity’s true mission is to send out it’s kindness in ever widening ripples, so that one day it might flood the whole world.”

  David opened his mouth to speak but felt the ghost’s glance upon him and no words came.

  --

  The Ghost grasped David once again by the forearm and as he did so the snow on the ground beneath their feet melted away and great spindly fingers of metal grew up from the ground either side of them and began to interlock themselves above their heads. David found himself forced to sit down by a soft seat that jutted out into the back of his knees. For a moment, everything went dark and David had the sensation of moving forward at a moderate speed. As his eyes adjusted to the dark he could make out in front of him several rows of seats with numerous heads jutting out just above the headrests. The sensation of movement came to an end as whatever vehicle they were in came to a stop jolting David forward. Some White strip lights above David’s head flickered into life and he saw that he and the Ghost were sat at the back of a large luxury coach.

  “Dear Lord” said David as his senses adjusted to the new surroundings “What a strange place to have returned me to.”

  David’s former self, now grown a young man, stood up at the front of the coach, accompanied by a small, timid looking young man with thick-rimmed glasses and black hair cut in the shape of a bowl.

  “Osbo” said David to the Ghost. “Indeed yes. There he is. He was very much attached to me then even as now.”

  “Yo ho, Bullingdon Club!” said a grey haired man, dressed in a dark blue suit who was sat next to the coach driver – here we are “wakey, wakey!” The other boys on the coach began to stir and stand take down bags and hats and umbrellas and things from above their heads. One by one they filed off the coach.

  David and the ghost followed young David and Osbo up a wide gravel path which ended at the steps of a huge, palatial country mansion. The great entrance was flanked by huge colonnades which were wrapped in thousands of white fairy lights. Above the entrance hung a large red and white banner which read:

  “WELCOME! CONSERVATIVE PARTY CHRISTMAS DINNER DANCE, 1985”

  In the foyer stood an enormous, lavishly decorated Christmas tree around which a huge crowd of men and women dressed in tuxedos and ball gowns were assembling for the festivities. In they all came, one after another; some shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling; in they all came, anyhow and everyhow. David and Osbo however circumvented the crowd and instead proceeded straight towards the men’s toilets.

  Once inside, the pair waited for the other men to leave before eagerly ferreting around in a carrier bag that Osbo had been clutching. They were interrupted by a young man with a stolid build and floppy yellow hair who announced his presence with the exclamation “Hello boys! I see you have the gear!”

  “Yes Boris” said David glancing up briefly.

  “Right, well, let’s get ready, time to make an impression!” said Boris rubbing his hands together as he marched over to the pair.

  As David and Boris undressed, Osbo handed them each a crisp white T-shirt out of his bag. David pulled his shirt on over his head before replacing his dark blue blazer, complete with huge shoulder pads. He walked over to the mirror and surveyed himself up and down. His hair was slicked back and he completed his look by rubbing a small amount of Vaseline onto his teeth. David opened his jacket in front of the mirror to reveal his T-shirt. On his chest was a picture of Winston Churchill’s face on a British bulldog’s body smoking a cigar and wearing a bowler hat. Underneath the dog was written:

  “If you’re not a Conservative by the time you’re thirty, then you have no brain.”

  “Very nice” David said to himself nodding. Boris joined David in front of the mirror and similarly opened his jacket to reveal his T-shirt. On his chest was a picture of Margaret Thatcher grinning widely from ear to ear, under which was written:

  “Every woman for herself! There is no such thing as Society.”

  “Nice” said David looking across at Boris who was puffing out his chest. Some jerking movements caught David’s attention at the periphery of his vision and he turned his head to see Osbo struggling with his T shirt. The garment was stuck over his face and he jiggled his wobbly pale belly from side to side in a vein effort to try and free himself. David walked over to him and pulled the T-shirt down over his body.

  “Thanks” said Osbo as he patted down his ruffled hair. Boris stood in front of him and looked at his T-shirt. On the front, was the unfamiliar face of an elderly statesman, clad in a thoughtful frown, complete with lambchop sideburns.

  “Who the hell is that?” Boris asked. He grabbed the bottom of Osbo’s T-shirt with both hands and stretched it so that he could read the writing under the face.

  “Conservatism is distrust of the people, tempered by fear.”

  “Bloody hell Georgie boy, that’s a bit un-subtle don’t you think. Who is this happy chap?” Boris spun Osbo round and was about to reach into his collar to look at the label when he saw more writing on the back of the T-shirt. He stretched the material again and as he read a great smile spread across his face.

  “Liberalism is trust of the people, tempered by prudence.”

  Boris reached into Osbo’s collar and as he read the label inside he began to roar with laughter. He laughed so hard that he began to cry and had to prop up his ample frame by leaning against a hand basin.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Osbo as he fiddled with his hands behind his head to tuck his shirt label in.

  “Glad” said Boris, just managing to spit out the word before being gripped with laughter again.

  “Glad?” asked David “What’s the matter with you Boris?”

  “No, no” said Boris still trying hard to stifle his laughter “Not Glad - Gladstone. That picture is a picture of William Gladstone! He wasn’t even a Tory!” Boris placed his hand on his belly as if to hold in the laughter that was threatening to erupt out of his abdomen. “Oh Osbo, you are a cretin! God forbid that anyone ever give you any true responsibility!”

  Osbo looked at David, crestfallen. David
walked over to him and helped him into his shoulder-padded jacket. “Never mind Georgie, no one will notice” He began to fasten the large gold buttons on the front of the jacket. “We’ll just have to make sure that we keep this closed.”

  Once Boris had regained his composure the three young men made their way into a huge ballroom that was laid out lavishly with hundreds of candle-lit tables. Christmas crackers, party poppers, and sprigs of holly lay all about the place and the hall was filled with the sounds of a thousand animated conversations flowing in the current of the rivers of mulled wine, eggnog and champagne that coursed through the room. The trio took their seats at a table quite near the back of the hall.

  What seemed like an eternity of time passed as various senior and aspirant members of the Conservative party took to the stage at the opposite end of the hall to give a succession of forgettable pseudo-festive political diatribes. By the time the fifth speaker had completed their speech Osbo had fallen asleep on David’s shoulder and Boris was slumped in his chair with his head tilted back, face covered with a party hat, snoring. Only the young David remained awake and attentive.

  As the fifth speaker left the stage to a muted applause, the chairman of the party took to the pedestal and began to speak.

  “And so ladies and gentlemen, now we come to the highlight of the evening. Dear friends, I have a very, very special Christmas surprise for you. May I present, our great leader, Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher.”

  A prodigious roar of applause went up from the crowd waking the two young men.

  “What’s going on?” demanded Boris rubbing his eyes and glancing from side to side.

  “You were right” replied David. “She’s here.”

  “I knew it! I knew it!” cried Boris with gusto. “By Jove! I knew she would be here!” He crawled under the table and emerged clutching a black hold-all bag. Reaching inside, he pulled out three miners helmets. He placed one on his own head, the other two he handed to David and Osbo. Osbo straight away placed his on his head and David, after a moment’s hesitation did the same. Boris then reached into the bag again and pulled out two football rattles which he handed to his two friends before finally pulling out a miniature fog horn which he kept for himself. “Ok boys, we wait until she’s finished speaking then we go for it, right?” David and Osbo nodded in agreement.

  Margaret took to the stage to continued applause. After a moment she raised her hand bringing an instant hush to the audience.

  “My friends, what a great joy it is to be able to address you at this wonderful event. As you know, we have had a turbulent year. Our battles with the Miner’s Unions have left us burnt, but not broken. What we have seen in the end is a great victory for common sense!”

  “Here, here” went a flurry of cries and applause from all around the room.

  “At this time of year however we must be extra vigilant.” Margaret continued “As we know, Christmas is a time when our opponents will seek to superimpose over-sentimental, impractical and false messages upon the true message of Christianity. They will try to sell socialism as a spiritual discipline, suggesting that the arbitrary redistribution of wealth is a primary part of god’s plan. They label this redistribution ‘welfare’. Or if they are more subtle, they fight to keep afloat industries that have no function but to pay salaries for the sake of paying salaries without turning a profit. But I say that from a true concern for a person’s ‘welfare’ comes only the wish to kindle in that person a desire for hard work. Indeed, wealth must only ever be distributed in proportion to the effort of work. As St Paul wrote in his letter to the Thessalonians ‘If a man will not work, he shall not eat!’ Any attempt by groups or individuals to obtain wealth that is disproportionate to their effort of work must therefore be opposed and fought at all costs if we are to protect our interests and prevent economic collapse!”

  Boris stood up, cupped his hands to his mouth and screamed “THE LADY’S NOT FOR MOVING!”

  His shout was met with further flurries of “here, here” and the sound of hundreds of knuckles being rapped on tables like a sudden brief shower of heavy hail. Boris sat back down flushed and exhilarated.

  “Thank you, Thank you” said Lady Thatcher, once again raising her hand for silence. “Now there is always a lot of talk around this time of year about ‘poverty’ that is to say, material poverty. So I ask you, what is the true cause of poverty? Is it an unfair government? No! The true cause of material poverty is spiritual poverty. When people are lacking in moral strength, then the outward manifestation will of course be material poverty!”

  “What we must understand then is that Christianity is about personal spiritual redemption, not social reform. The transformation that god wishes each of us to undergo as individuals is one founded upon a realisation that poverty and lack of wealth stem from an individual’s moral failure in the realms of hard, honest work and their upholding of traditional values. Government and ‘society’ are not to blame.”

  “You can see that the policies of this government, despite the admonitions of our critics, fit perfectly with the ideals of Christianity. In our trimming of inefficient and lazy industries and rolling back of the welfare state, we are following these principles to the letter. We are saving people from a life of dependency either on hand-outs or economically unproductive labour. And we are saving the country’s economy too. You all know full well that if you produce too much of something, its value will fall. That’s elementary. It isn’t a new-fangled theory. It is as essential as the law of gravity and you can’t avoid it. Our economy is like a great old tree. For it to continue to thrive we have to make hard decisions – we have to trim the dead wood. Of course the cries will be horrible when people see the chopping but we must prey that the branches regrow with renewed vigour. And if we chop too much and the tree dies – well, such is the risk of any great political experiment and I daresay no-one here will be too much affected.”

  As Margaret spoke, the entire room was fixed in their attention but perhaps none so much as Osbo. His eyes sparkled with inspiration and he unconsciously made a chopping motion with his right hand upon the table.

  “So my basic message is this” Margaret continued, “We are doing what must be done. For those left without jobs and benefits in the wake of the efficiency cuts – they will have the choice whether or not to heed the call of the spirit and take initiative and prosper, or fall into poverty. But be under no illusions – if poverty is the outcome; they will have only themselves to blame.”

  “Thank you, and Merry Christmas!”

  The crowd erupted into a rapturous applause and you wouldn’t believe how those three fellows went at it! David and Osbo were upstanding and spun their rattles and contorted their bodies as if possessed by devils. Boris climbed onto the table and honked his horn until the gas in it was spent. After several minutes the three once again sat down, tired and panting like race-horses.

  During the whole of this time, Old David had acted like a man out of his wits. His heart and soul were in the scene, and with his former self. He corroborated everything, remembered everything, enjoyed everything, and underwent the strangest agitation. It was not until now, when the bright face of his former self appeared tired and spent, that he remembered the Ghost, and became conscious that it was looking full upon him, while the light upon its head burnt very clear.

  “Why spirit did you bring me here, to this place where my enthusiasm was so very great? You knew it would stir feelings in me, feelings which you consider unsavoury.”

  “Take note of your zeal” replied the ghost.

  --

  Before David could say any more, the ghost had grasped him by the wrist and they were suddenly flying at great speed out of the party; up into the winter’s night, over snow covered fields, out of the countryside, and into the heart of a great city. So high did they go that the streetlights below appeared as great strings of Christmas lights, draped across the land. As they flew, the houses they passed moved closer and closer together
becoming ever more tightly packed until they became rows and rows of great confluent lines. It was above one of these rows that David and the ghost stopped suddenly. David shut his eyes in anticipation of a great crash as they plummeted towards the roof of an unassuming terraced house, but they passed through silently and landed with a soft thud in a small kitchen.

  In one corner of the kitchen, a small girl, no older than four or five, was sat at a tall table. She wore pink pyjamas with her hair tied back in two small piggy tails. Her little legs were too small to reach the floor from her chair so she dangled her feet back and forth in the empty space. The little one’s round face wore an expression of great concentration with her small pink tongue jutting from one side of her mouth as she stared intently at a small piece of torn paper in front of her. Onto the piece of paper she scribed letters and words in clumsy red crayon; an outpouring of heartfelt thanks to Father Christmas for presents yet to be received.

  The girl’s mother was stood over the sink in another corner of the kitchen. The arms of her cream cardigan were rolled up beyond the elbow and she scrubbed furiously at an oven dish submerged under the water in the sink, churning up ample grey froth.