by Sylvia Waugh
“What’ll happen if we do?” asked Wimpey.
Vinetta had been born knowing the answer to that question. She smiled and said, “The cake will be spoilt. It will collapse in the middle and be good for nothing but pudding.”
When the time was up and the oven door was opened, what disappointment for Wimpey! The big cake was perfect. The little one was burnt to a crisp.
“It’s a beautiful shape,” said Vinetta. “Just slightly overdone, that’s all. My fault really. I should have known. A small cake takes much less time to cook.”
Wimpey still looked disappointed. It didn’t matter whose fault it was. It had been her cake.
“Poopie will laugh when he sees it,” she said miserably. “They’ll all laugh. Can I put it in the bin? Or don’t tell them I made it. ’Cos I didn’t really. You did.”
Outside, a robin was perched on a branch. Inspiration!
“That robin looks hungry,” said Vinetta. “I don’t think he should have to wait till Christmas. As soon as your cake cools down, why don’t you go out and feed him?”
And that seemed a very good idea.
CHAPTER 9
A Real Tree
EVERY EVENING EXCEPT Tuesday and Saturday Joshua went to work at Sydenham’s Warehouse, walking the three miles there along ill-lit, quiet back streets. Summer or winter, he always wore a hood or a hat, and hid in his collar. He knew every step of the way, every kerb and every cobblestone, and was constantly alert. There was one corner shop, for example, that opened late and displayed some of its wares on the pavement. It was a sort of general dealers, selling everything from postage stamps to potted plants. In autumn, roses ready for planting were arranged outside the open door. At other times, there would be seedlings in plastic cartons, bags of peat and boxes of bulbs. Joshua, head down and money ready, had bought one or two things for the garden at various times.
In the days leading up to Christmas, this year as every year, the shopkeeper placed real fir trees in barrels outside the window, tied loosely together with garden twine, three or four to a barrel, each individually priced. Other Christmases, Joshua had seen them and ignored them. The Mennyms had for a long time made do with an artificial tree which was brought out year after year, together with tinsel and coloured baubles that had been replaced piecemeal as they broke or became too dirty to dust off. This year, in the week before the holiday, Joshua passed the shop on Sunday night, then again on Monday, and he paused very briefly to look more closely at the trees.
I’ll buy one, he thought, on the Sunday. On the Monday his thoughts went a step further. I’ll buy the biggest one.
Tuesday was Joshua’s night off. He had come home from work as usual that morning and had slept till noon. When he got up he went out to the garden shed.
Poopie was there ahead of him, checking some hyacinth bulbs he had planted to bring into the house for the festival. Nothing unusual in that. It was something he did every year.
“What do you want, Dad?” he said, looking up from the bowls where fleshy green shoots were showing nicely.
“There’s an old tub somewhere over there,” said Joshua pointing towards the darkest corner. “I’ve never used it before, but you’ll know the one I mean.”
The shed was lit by weak winter sunlight. In the dim area beyond the window were cobwebby shadows. Poopie got down off his stool and went to the far corner where there were things stored and never touched from one year till the next. He dragged out an old wooden tub, hooped with bands of rusty metal. It looked sturdy still, but very dirty.
“This what you mean?” said Poopie.
“That’s the one,” said his father, stretching both arms around it and lifting it up onto the bench.
“It’s scruffy,” said Poopie.
“It’ll clean,” said Joshua. “It’ll be as good as new when we give it a coat of paint.”
“What d’you want it for?” asked Poopie. It was after all, the middle of winter, not a time for active gardening.
“Wait and see,” said Joshua. “We’ll get it ready today. I’ll be using it tomorrow.”
Poopie, mystified, said no more but helped his father clean the dirt from the wooden panels and shift some of the rust from the metal. And when it came to painting Poopie took over completely.
“I’ll do it better than you, Dad,” he said. “I love painting.”
“You’ll have to put an overall on, and some garden gloves,” said his father. “We can’t go upsetting your mother.”
Leaving Poopie to get on with the job, Joshua went to see Soobie.
“Going jogging tonight?” he asked.
“Probably,” said Soobie grudgingly.
“I’d like to come with you,” said Joshua.
“You don’t jog,” said Soobie. “You couldn’t jog – not in the clothes you wear.”
“True,” said Joshua, not at all insulted. “A long topcoat is not much good for running in. Let me put it another way. When you go out this evening, I’d like you to come somewhere with me.”
Soobie raised his eyebrows.
“I’ve some shopping to do,” said Joshua.
Soobie had a growing distrust of the older generation. Granpa with his premonitions was more than enough. What was Father up to?
“What are you going for?” said Soobie.
“I’m going to buy a real Christmas tree,” said Joshua. “They’re outside the shop at the corner of Fulton Street. The one I want is big enough to hide behind. I’ll take it inside. You can wait outside. But I could do with your help carrying it home. So how about it?”
“It must be nearly thirty years since we had a real tree,” said Soobie, just vaguely remembering the pine needles on the carpet and Granny Tulip grumbling about them. “Granny won’t like it.”
“This year,” said Joshua, “we are having a real tree.”
He said no more.
They went out into the dark night to the shop on Fulton Street, walking together in silence, watching the ground at their feet, but aware of everyone and everything for yards around. There was not much to see, of course, but what there was, they saw.
When they were two doors away from the shop, Joshua turned to Soobie and said, “You wait here in the shadows. Keep your wits about you and be ready to run if need be.” Then he hurried to the barrel that contained the tree he had already picked out for himself. It was still there, its price tag showing exactly what needed to be paid. Joshua had the right money ready. With a bit of a struggle, he tugged the tree from the bundle. Then he walked into the shop with it held upright in front of him.
“This one,” he said, putting one gloved hand round the side of the tree to pass over the money. The shopkeeper checked the price tag and counted the coins.
“Need any potting fibre?” he asked as he peered hopefully through the prickly branches.
“No,” said Joshua. He backed out of the shop and walked rapidly away. He and Soobie took turns in carrying the tree, one holding as the other helped to balance it and kept a careful watch on the road ahead. The street was empty. A fine drizzle and a cold breeze made the evening uninviting. The two Mennyms reached home safely and put the tree in the shed, ready to be potted next morning. Its tub had already been painted a deep holly-green.
Everyone except Granpa came to the lounge to see the tree set up in the bay window. Vinetta produced a whole string of fairylights she had bought at the Market, together with fresh golden tinsel and exciting shiny baubles. Supervised by Granny Tulip, they all helped to dress the tree. In a final, ceremonial flourish, Joshua lifted Googles high in the air and Vinetta helped her to place a twinkling star on the very top branch.
In the days that followed, before the great day itself, parcel after parcel was placed beneath the tree. It would be a real Christmas, with a real tree, and gifts galore . . .
CHAPTER 10
A Real Christmas Day
THE CHRISTMAS PRESENTS had all been opened, boxes and parcels and packages of all shapes and sizes. Their pack
aging was strewn all over the floor in the lounge. Vinetta was in the dining-room, preparing the table for Christmas dinner. Joshua, in the kitchen, was taking refuge from the noise, wearing his new slippers and ‘smoking’ his new pipe in the time-honoured way.
In the lounge there was music. Well, a sort of music. Cacophony might aptly describe it. Poopie had been given a small electronic keyboard which he had set to play Good King Wenceslas over and over and over again. Pilbeam had bought Googles a drum, a very nice little drum with nursery-rhyme characters painted round the edge and a playing surface made of a tough sort of leather. Googles, in her high chair, wielded the drumstick enthusiastically. Wimpey had yet another new doll. It didn’t talk. It was a genuine baby doll which when tilted would cry loudly and broken-heartedly as if it were starving, or at the very least had a nappy-pin sticking where a pin shouldn’t stick.
Soobie, oblivious of it all, was in his usual seat, his ears protected by the headphones of his new stereo-cassette player. He had also been given a beautiful watch that told not only the time but the date. It could be worn underwater and had a battery guaranteed to last for three years! Pilbeam’s presents were mostly wearable, and included a large box full of all sorts of make-up, most of which she would only pretend to use. The complexion of a rag doll does not benefit from the use of creams and lotions.
Granny Tulip came into the lounge carrying a big plastic bag.
“Now,” she said very firmly, “you can stop all that noise for a minute and listen to me.”
They all stopped, even Googles.
“Right,” said Tulip. “That’s better. You have more presents than ever this year and you’ve made more mess. Time to tidy up. We can’t live in a shambles. Pilbeam, you can hold the bag. Poopie, Wimpey, gather up all those boxes and wrappings and put them in. Then, and only then, we will all go and have dinner.”
At two o’clock precisely, they all sat down at the long dining table. Googles was in her highchair, between her mother and her nanny. The only member of the household not present was Sir Magnus. He had never gone down to dinner in all the years of his life. He could remember eating at the captain’s table, long, long ago, but that was fiction. He could remember dining at his club in later years. But that was not fact.
The meal was surprisingly quiet and orderly. Joshua carved imaginary slices from the cardboard turkey, large thin slices that curved off the knife and had to be guided onto each plate. Vinetta poured invisible wine from a crystal decanter. The vegetable tureens were passed around, and the gravy boat. Then knives and forks were kept busy, emptying empty plates.
After dessert, they all returned to the lounge. Vinetta was determined to keep high spirits sufficiently in check to annoy no one. She sat in the middle of the settee, Poopie and Wimpey either side of her, and under her gaze the others took their places round the hearth. In the growing dusk of a dreary winter’s afternoon, the family sat cosily singing carols. Table lamps were lit, the fairylights twinkled on the tree. Had anyone in the street cared to look, they would have seen, indistinctly through heavy net curtains, the warmth of a family Christmas, the glow of festival.
After the Manger carol, they all listened sleepily and silently as Vinetta told the tale of the very first Christmas. Poopie sat, unchecked, with his feet on the settee and his knees up to his chin. Wimpey snuggled down under the arch of Vinetta’s right arm. When the story was finished, she looked up into her mother’s eyes.
“Is it a true story?” she asked, not for the first time.
And, not for the first time, Vinetta replied, “For all we know, it might be the only one.”
They sang more carols, jolly ones full of merry gentlemen and bells ringing merrily on high. Then the curtains were drawn and the ceiling light lit.
“Now,” said Vinetta, “for my surprise.”
Wimpey smiled.
“Wimpey knows about it,” said her mother, “but we have kept it our secret for weeks.”
They all looked at her, interested.
“Just wait here for a few minutes and then we’ll go back into the dining-room.”
When they got there, they found that the table had been laid again, but with cups and saucers and tea-plates this time. They sat down.
Vinetta went to the sideboard and, with a slightly self-conscious flourish, brought her real, beautifully iced cake and placed it in the centre of the table. After the “Oos!” and “Ahs!” were over, Pilbeam noticed that Soobie was not there. She was annoyed with him. Here was their mother doing something new and wonderful and he was not even there to see it. But before her annoyance deepened into anger, the door of the dining-room was flung open.
In the doorway stood Soobie, and leaning on his shoulder was Granpa, looking magnificent. He was wearing a richly embroidered dressing-gown, deepest emerald, reaching to mid-calf. Underneath he had on not his usual nightshirt but a pair of shot-silk blue-grey pyjamas. His ensemble was completed with green velvet slippers and a silver-handled ebony walking-stick. His appearance produced as many exclamations as Vinetta’s cake.
Sir Magnus took his rightful place at the head of the table, causing everyone to move round.
“Now,” said Vinetta when they were settled again, “I shall cut the cake.”
Small rectangles of iced dark fruit cake were placed on every tea-plate. The Mennyms fingered their tea cups nervously and looked at the plates in front of them. Joshua took a sip of make-believe tea. Poopie copied. Then they looked uncomfortably at the cake again. Wimpey, of course, knew what should happen next, but she was a follower, not a leader.
“What do we do with it?” asked Poopie at last, giving his piece of cake a push with his finger. He had voiced the question they all wanted to ask.
Vinetta gave a severe look round the whole table.
“You pretend to eat it,” she said. “You put it to your mouth and pretend to eat it. What else would you expect to do?”
Nothing happened.
Vinetta looked embarrassed. She was not willing to be the first to make a move.
Then Joshua slowly crumbled a piece of his cake, raised it to his lips and set it down again.
“I don’t know when I’ve ever tasted a nicer cake,” he said, smiling across at his wife.
The others, as if they had been given a cue they’d been waiting for, followed suit. Each piece of cake was crumbled and lifted and then nonchalantly returned to its plate. It made a change to pretend that the plates were empty, which was what they eventually had to do. Usually it was the other way around.
Sir Magnus had joined in reluctantly. He made a feeble, grudging effort at pretending. He broke the icing off the cake without allowing his mittened hands to make contact with the sticky fruit. He did not risk any crumbs reaching his long white moustache. Amid all the happy faces, his was the odd one out. One by one his family became conscious of his gloom. One by one they stopped speaking and eyed him doubtfully.
“I suppose,” said Granpa, his voice cutting across the ensuing silence, “that you might as well make the most of things. This will be our last Christmas on this earth, our very last Christmas. Carpe diem. Seize the day!”
He looked so miserable that the thought of him seizing the day was incongruous. The others stared at him with varying degrees of understanding.
Poopie, leading as usual, braved his wrath.
“What do you mean, Granpa?” he said. “Christmas comes every year.”
“Not for us, Poopie,” said Magnus. “Not any more. Fate has summoned us and there will be no turning back.”
Why did he say that? Was his intent malicious? No matter what he really believed, he should have kept quiet. On this day of all days, he should have said nothing.
Tulip was furious.
“Stop that, Magnus,” she said. “You are talking rubbish. You will frighten the children. Are you trying to spoil their Christmas?”
“Not one of you is too young to know the truth,” said Granpa, glancing balefully round at all of them, even Goo
gles who was nodding to sleep in her highchair. Miss Quigley put her arm protectively round the baby’s shoulders. The old man at the head of the table, so lavishly dressed, had turned into a monster.
“Magnus! Magnus Mennym!” said Vinetta, moved to anger. “You are behaving like a foolish old man. Not one of us is old enough to accept your truth, your so-called truth. We have had a wonderful day and you seem bent upon ruining it. What’s got into you?”
Magnus turned in his chair to face Vinetta. He was filled with rage.
“Don’t you dare to talk to me like that! You all know that every word I have said is true. Think about it. Why have you made a real cake for the very first time? I’ll tell you why – because you knew that it was your last chance. As far as we are concerned, there will never be another Christmas.”
Then it was Joshua’s turn.
“And what about that tree? It must be thirty years or more since we had a real tree. You knew, oh yes, you knew that this Christmas was special. Don’t deny it.”
Joshua didn’t.
“You all know that the end is coming,” Magnus said, flinging one arm out in a gesture that embraced the room. “Why else the extra presents, the special effort?”
No one said a word. Vinetta and Tulip were at one in thinking that silence was best. If they crossed him again, goodness knows what he might say. Least said, soonest . . .
Not good enough, NOT GOOD ENOUGH AT ALL. Magnus was aware that they were waiting for him to stop speaking, to let the uncomfortable truth slip away into silence.
“You are all doing things you will never have the chance to do again,” he said insistently. “That is because you know in your heart of hearts that what I say is simple fact. Before another year is out, the spirit whereby we live will leave us, and we shall become what we really are – rag dolls, lifeless, useless rag dolls.”
He banged his fist three times upon the table so that the cups and plates rattled. Crumbs of cake bounced off onto the tablecloth.
Wimpey jumped down from her chair and flung herself into her mother’s arms, sobbing. Vinetta hugged her and said fiercely. “Your behaviour is disgraceful, Magnus. Age is your only possible excuse.”