Boracic Lint

by Martin Bryce

production.’

  ‘Oh yes, it fell down, didn’t it?’

  ‘Well, only a bit,’ I admitted, a little crestfallen by her frosty response. ‘You must have the same agent as me,’ I said. ‘Isn’t it awful when talented actors like ourselves are forced to play Father Christmas and act as tour guides for some two-bit firm intent on ripping off their staff and tourists alike?’

  ‘Actually, I own the two-bit firm,’ she said and went on to explain that she and her husband had started the business with one mini-coach as soon as she’d finished at RADA. Now, she and her boyfriend had a fleet of ten mini-coaches and a staff of eighteen. I detected a note of snootiness. ‘After all,’ she remarked, ‘there’s no future in acting, is there?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I replied, ‘look at me.’

  ‘Quite,’ she said.

  ‘Actually I know London as well as anybody. You don’t have any work, do you?’

  She looked at me for a moment, considering. ‘Actually, we do need somebody to clean the coaches,’ she said. ‘But you will need a PSV licence. Do you have one?’

  I said it wasn’t really what I had in mind. I didn’t tell her I’d failed my driving test five times. She hurried the mini-tourists away saying there were plenty of other Santas in town for them to have their photos taken with. I said it had been lovely to see her again and blew my nose loudly.

  A wise man is superior to any insults and the best reply

  to unseemly behaviour is patience and moderation.

  This applies as much to old drunks as to young parvenus.

  I didn’t realise he was drunk at first. He was clean, but unshaven. His clothes fitted and although creased, looked fairly new. He wasn’t wildly unsteady on his feet, but I did catch sight of the top of a sherry bottle sticking out of the pocket of his expensive blue overcoat. He had even paid to get into the Grotto. But the drink fumes preceded him as he fixed me with a sad eye.

  ‘Ego sum inter suspiria et lacrymas, as Augustus used to say.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I jollied along. A classicist; that much Onan’s had given me.

  ‘Ah! But, who after wine talks of wars hardships?’ He slurred. ‘That’s Horace, you know, he was the ‘lacrymas’ bit of the partnership,’ he added. ‘I can say that in the original Latin too, if you want me to. Do you know how? Ask me, go on, ask me.’

  I looked around for Brian, but he was at the far end of the store attending to a boy with a nose bleed.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ he continued, now leaning on the armrest of my throne. ‘You’re not going to believe this,’ he said conspiratorially.

  ‘Try me,’ I replied jauntily, edging as far away from him as I could.

  ‘I was Professor of Classics at… at…’

  ‘At a University?’ I offered hopefully.

  ‘Ah! Thank you, my boy,’ he belched. ‘At the University of… somewhere,’ he said, waving his hand dismissively. ‘I remember we all rode bikes a lot. Anyhow, the point is, what am I doing now?’

  I shook my head and looked around again for Brian who was still dealing with the little bleeder.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you right now, this very minute. I’m a part-time shipping clerk for… for…’

  ‘For a shipping company?’

  ‘Ah!’ He said, lurching upright and reaching into his pocket for the bottle. ‘You know, I never used to drink, in fact I don’t drink now. No, no, it’s quite true.’ He waved an unsteady finger at me and took a swig from the bottle. ‘Not until the signs of Christmas start appearing and do you know, they’re getting earlier every year. Then I remember,’ he said, gazing into the distance before taking another swig. Air glooped noisily into the bottle.

  ‘Remember what?’ I asked.

  ‘The things we remember best are those best forgotten,’ he quoted dreamily. ‘Christmas!’ He hissed. ‘I remember Christmas. How can I ever forget?’

  I shook my head sympathetically as he recapped the sherry bottle.

  ‘It was all the fault of the Dean of Medicine,’ he continued.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked against my better judgement.

  ‘He asked me to play Father Christmas for the children in the teaching hospital. Why me? I remember asking him. Because you have studied classical theatre, he replied, to which I said, but you have studied operating theatre. Operating theatre!’ He laughed briefly before becoming morose again. ‘I should never have agreed,’ he said shaking his head sadly. ‘It was the thin end of the wedge, you see. After the teaching hospital, it was the general hospital and then the primary school and do you know, I was Father Christmas from then on at every Children’s party in… wherever it was, for… for…’

  ‘A very long time?’ I ventured.

  ‘Ah!’ he said and took the cap from the sherry bottle again. ‘Every year,’ he muttered wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his coat. ‘But how rude of me, I haven’t introduced myself. Professor Peach at your service.’ He held out his hand, but somehow contrived to end up sitting at my feet where he sighed and took another swig. To my great relief Brian arrived and gently helped the fallen Professor to his feet.

  ‘Come along, sir,’ he said gently, but firmly as he led him away. The Professor went willingly, but turned back and pointed at me with the bottle.

  ‘I was just like you once,’ he shouted. ‘Young, hopeful, strong, energetic, full of ideas and ambition. And then… every year!’

  He seemed like just another drunk. But there was something horribly disturbing about our meeting. It was almost as if he had sought me out. As if he were a messenger.

  I decided to try and cheer myself up with one more letter before lunch.

  25, Concorde Crescent,

  Milton Keynes

  Dear Santa

  I would like a pink bike please. Just like sally’s next door. Our dad says he cant afford one so youll have to bring it. Also please don’t drink the whole bottle of whisky we leave out for you. Not like last year our dad was so upset he dident get up until well after the rest of us had had the turkey. Perhaps you could bring him a new one and make him feel better.

  Love

  Emily Browne.

  It was an eerie echo of sorts. Went for lunch, but avoided the battered fish as one of the portions looked hideously like an axolotl.

  SCENE 10

  Why did these things always happen when Brian wasn’t around? The afternoon shift started for me at one-thirty, for him at one-forty-five. The raiders hit at one-thirty-five, and twenty seconds later it was all over. It was precision teamwork and they must have been planning it for days. They stormed through the Grotto shooting the place to pieces. There were mangled trees and log cabins. Body parts of elves and reindeer littered the entire area.

  There were three of them, all wearing the standard SAS balaclava and black urban combat gear. They threatened me with deadly looking machine guns, one of them actually pressing the muzzle of his weapon to my head whilst keeping a lookout for the others who stuffed my supply of gifts into carrier bags. Then they were gone, just vanished, leaving the entire store in profound shock, or so I imagined.

  Not knowing what to do I ran to Miss Grubb for advice, but she hadn’t returned from lunch. I told Sandra on children’s books that I’d been the victim of an armed hold-up.

  ‘D’you need a doctor?’ She asked, giving me a funny look.

  The internal phone! I had to warn the rest of the store. Put out a general alert. It was as I was lifting the receiver that I felt his presence behind me. I turned and saw the Bull.

  ‘And just what d’you think you’re doing, lad?’ He asked rocking on the balls of his feet, hands clasped behind his back.

  ‘It’s an emergency,’ I replied.

  ‘That’s for security only.’

  ‘But this is security,’ I pleaded, suddenly feeling a little unsure of myself. ‘And anyway, I thought permanent staff…’

 
; ‘Security only,’ he repeated, ‘and you’re casual, I believe’

  ‘Well, it’s these three…’

  ‘I know. We’ve got them.’

  ‘Got them? But where? How?’

  ‘Small, tiny, diminutive, miniature, little Mr Hicks, the pensioner who operates lift number one, stopped them as they were trying to shoot their way out of the store. Trapped their heads in the revolving door. Came very quietly, they did. AND WHY DIDN’T YOU STOP THEM!’ He bellowed finally.

  ‘Well, they were armed,’ I said, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other.

  ‘Supersoakers, nicked from the toy department ten minutes earlier,’ the Bull replied coldly.

  ‘They were very realistic,’ I said defensively. ‘They looked terribly vicious. Gave me a fright,’ I added feeling a little foolish. ‘And anyway, I’m playing Father Christmas, not Robocop.’

  ‘Doesn’t take Robocop to stop three snivelling nine year olds,’ he snarled.

  ‘Nine?’

  The Bull nodded slowly. I said they were big for their age. He said I was a spineless little creep and took me to his office to identify the raiders.

  I was shaking badly after my ordeal and felt greatly in need of a cigarette even though I hadn’t smoked for several years. The Grotto had been closed while I’d been away and I figured it could stay closed while I bought a packet of fags from the canteen.

  It was bitterly cold out on the fire escape where I had gone for a smoke. I rapidly felt giddy and a little sick and couldn’t finish the cigarette. I also needed a drink. Then the Prof’s words came back to me, I was like you once… I thought back to my interview at the Job Centre. I’d been asked what I thought were my qualifications and experience for playing Santa. I spoke of my professional training as an actor, my love of children and took some time to emphasise the magic of Christmas and my sense of belonging to a worldwide community at this special time when peace, goodwill and love rules over all the Earth and the people that dwell thereon. I also remember the doubtful look on Sharon’s face as I told her this. I now know that what was really required was an ex Royal Marine Commando from the Special Boat Squadron with a shoot-first-ask-questions-later mentality and a doctorate in Psyops. Perhaps I should have stayed in the Navy, I thought, it would probably have been considerably safer.

  The maintenance staff were busy rebuilding the Grotto all afternoon. Water had damaged much of the electronics and the scenes had changed from ones of happy industry to B movie mayhem with elves madly attacking each other with axes, chainsaws, scissors, buckets of reindeer food and wrapping paper. It all looked a little sad, particularly the reindeer on its back with three legs sticking up in the air. The fourth had snapped off and was now pinning one of the elves to the back wall of the stables. As the Persians used to say, Death is a camel that lies down at every door.

  He was massive, truly massive. He looked like he might have held the World Heavyweight boxing crown at some time in the recent past and his son was a half-size replica.

  ‘Ho,ho,ho and what’s your name, er, little boy?’ I asked. It was then that I noticed he was holding a Barbie doll.

  ‘Carol,’ he replied.

  ‘Carol!’ I said, glancing at his father.

  ‘His grandfather’s Dutch,’ the behemoth informed me.

  ‘Ah, of course.’ That explained everything. ‘And what do you want to be when you grow up, er, Carol?’ I asked.

  ‘I want to be a drag-line operator down at the gravel pits, like dad,’ he replied.

  ‘That’s nice,’ I remarked not having a clue what a dragline operator was, but assuming, from the reference to the gravel pits, that it wasn’t a male transvestite song and dance spectacular. His dad smiled proudly down at him.

  ‘That’s a nice dolly,’ I commented.

  ‘You keep your hands off her, mate,’ Carol said firmly.

  I assured him that I had no intention of molesting her and asked if his mummy had bought it for him.

  ‘I did,’ his