‘Hullo, grandson,’ she said. ‘Be quiet or you’ll wake the baby.’
‘I thought you were being torn to pieces!’ gasped Albert.
‘Nonsense!’ said Granny. ‘We get on like a house on fire. I’ve just given her a few hints on baby care. While there’s still snow all over Europe, she’s off tomorrow to travel to India, to join her husband on Mount Everest.’
Then Albert and his granny quietly slipped away from the cave and back to snowy Blackbury.
‘He was a nice little pet,’ said Granny thoughtfully.
Albert smiled.
Once upon a time – that’s always a good start – there was a young prince who was ruler of the Land of the Sun. It was a pleasant country of long days and blue skies, and most things in it were either yellow or gold.
The cottages were built of sandstone with golden tiles; daffodils and buttercups grew in fields of ripe corn, and gold was so plentiful under the land that the streets were actually paved with it.
Now, to the west of this land was a high range of mountains, where the prince – did I say his name was Alfred? Well, it was – had a hunting lodge.
One day when he was out hunting deer with his knights his horse bolted, and carried him away through the thick pine forests. The sounds of the hunt disappeared in the distance, while the prince leaned on the reins and tried to calm his mount.
By the time he had done this he was in an unknown part of the mountains, on the edge of a wide clearing. He found what was wrong with his horse – a sharp thorn had got under the saddle girth – and while he stood adjusting it a deer burst into the centre of the glade.
It was the one he had been hunting – but before he could reach for his bow a silver arrow hissed out of the trees and killed the creature.
Oi, oi, he thought. Poachers in my mountains!
Out of the trees rode a host of knights in silver armour, riding white horses. At their head rode a princess clad in silver cloth.
She had white hair, and I daresay I hardly have to tell you that Alfred thought she was the dearest, prettiest, fairest, etc., princess he’d ever clapped eyes on, even though her long hair was whiter than his granny’s.
Her knights took the deer and rode away, and of course Alfred followed. He soon realized that he was going down the other side of the mountain.
The sun was setting, and this is what he saw.
Over the land on the other side of the mountains a big silver moon was rising. The whole land shone like silver, silver flowers grew in the grass, and in the distance his princess was riding.
‘Where is this place?’ the prince wondered out loud.
In the tree above, someone coughed.
‘It’s the Land of the Moon, of course.’
The prince looked up and saw that he was under an old wild pear tree, with gnarled boughs and wizened fruit, and hardly any leaves to speak of. On the lowest branch sat a large, fat, ugly brown bird with big eyebrows.
‘What sort of bird is it that speaks?’ said Alfred.
‘Me. I’m the partridge. The Partridge, I should say, In A Pear Tree. And you’re Prince Alfred.
‘The girl is Princess Selena, but if you want to marry her you’ll have to woo her. Chocolates and flowers and so on.’
‘She looks as though she can have anything she wants,’ pointed out Alfred.
‘Please yourself,’ said the partridge. ‘I’m only here to help, I’m sure. All I’ll say is she has promised to marry the first man that gives her a Christmas present that dances, leaps, plays tunes, makes a beat, carries pails, hisses, swims, lays eggs, can be worn on one hand, sings, cackles, coos, waggles its eyebrows and is good to eat. All at once, let me add.’
‘What for?’ asked Prince Alfred.
‘Her father, King of the Land of the Moon, decided that only the man who could think up the right kind of present was worthy to marry his daughter. He’s got no son, you see, so whoever is her husband will become king of that land in time,’ added the partridge.
‘A parrot,’ said the prince thoughtfully. ‘That might be all right.’
‘The Emperor of the Rainbow Land tried that,’ said the partridge. ‘It didn’t work.’
So the prince said goodbye to the wise old partridge in his pear tree, and went back home deep in thought.
He called all the palace wizards, wise men and deep thinkers together, and he asked them, ‘What dances, leaps, plays tunes, makes a beat, carries pails, hisses, swims, lays eggs, can be worn on one hand, sings, cackles, coos, waggles its eyebrows and is good to eat? Come on, work it out, or you’ll get no Christmas bonus!’ He paused. ‘The person who can answer this will also win a big golden cup!’
‘It’s a riddle,’ said one of the wizards. But think as they might, they couldn’t find the answer. And so the competition was open to everyone in the Land of the Sun.
Now, although the hall of the castle was soon filled to overflowing with postmen sorting out the replies, and people queuing up in the hope of winning the cup, no one thought up anything like the right answer. The prince sat on his gold throne and sighed.
Right at the end of the queue one day was the partridge, walking since he was far too fat to fly.
‘What are you doing here!’ gasped Prince Alfred.
‘I’ve come for the prize,’ said the partridge.
‘You mean you knew all the time?’
‘You didn’t ask me, did you? But I don’t want the cup. What I want costs nothing, is as light as air, and I shan’t tell you what it is. Not yet, anyway.’
‘What is the present I’m to give the princess, then?’ asked Prince Alfred.
‘Patience, patience,’ said the partridge. ‘I want to have a meeting with some of your subjects first. Kindly call for the Royal Swankeeper, the Guardian of the Crown Jewels, the Master of the Royal Music, the highest Lord in the land, the chief Lady-in-Waiting, and about four farmers. I’ll need them all to make the present.
‘Then I want you to go and visit the princess, and her father, and bring them to my pear tree in the mountains.’
This the prince did, though he wondered what the partridge had in store.
He went to the Land of the Moon, and brought the king and the princess and a host of their knights up to the pear tree.
‘What sort of present is this?’ said the king. ‘The pears are good to eat, maybe, but nothing else. They don’t sing.’
‘Wait just a moment,’ said the prince, gazing anxiously down the road.
‘I’m not waiting here all day,’ said the king angrily. ‘Show me the present you’ve got for my daughter or be off.’
‘Wait a minute, Father,’ said Princess Selena. ‘There’s something coming!’
Prince Alfred looked down the road at the approaching cloud of dust and then let out a whoop of joy.
A very odd crowd could now be seen.
In the lead was a small boy called Bert, the son of the Royal Swankeeper, carrying three enormous cages. One contained two sulky turtle doves, the next three French hens, and the biggest, which kept bumping against his knees, held four little green birds.
On Bert’s head sat the partridge, holding on tightly to his hair and shouting instructions to the others. His voice was rather muffled since he was also trying to hold five large gold rings in his beak.
After Bert came the Royal Swankeeper himself, herding seven hissing swans and six waddling geese, who kept getting under the feet of the eight milkmaids who were puffing along behind.
After them came a big drum, bowling along with its drummer galloping after it, and the other eight drummers hotly in pursuit, closely followed by ten pipers who played as they ran.
Eleven lords came leaping after them, robes flying, and bringing up the rear was a carriage holding twelve ladies-in-waiting.
‘Now you all know what you’ve got to do,’ said the partridge, when they reached the old pear tree. And pears rained down as everyone scrambled up into the branches, treading on fingers and cracking branches.
‘Quick, quick!’ said the partridge. ‘Are we all ready? Now tell the princess what her present is.’
‘Twelve ladies dancing,’ said the ladies on the lowest branch.
‘Eleven lords a-leaping,’ sang the lords, rocketing up and down through the tree.
‘Ten pipers piping – one, two, one two three four,’ sang the pipers, and went into a spirited rendering of the tune.
‘Nine drummers drumming!’
‘Eight maids a-milking.’
‘Hiss! Hiss!’ went the seven swans, who couldn’t a-swim on their branch and were angry about it.
went the six geese a-laying.
‘Ring! Ting!’ sang the five gold rings in the wind.
‘Call! Chirrup!’ sang the four calling birds.
‘Le Cackle!’ cackled the three French hens.
‘Coo! Coo!’ sang the two turtle doves.
There was a breathless pause, and everyone stared up at the partridge. He made sure they were all watching, then ruffled his feathers, stretched out his wings, and with a voice like sandpaper sang:
‘And a partridge in a pearrrrrrrr’ – his neck stretched and his face went red as he took a deep breath –
The silence that followed was broken by the laughter of the king, who sat on his horse with tears running down his face.
‘It’s the funniest thing I’ve seen in years,’ he said. ‘And it does everything it should do! Marry my daughter by all means!’
‘I think it’s a lovely present,’ said the princess.
‘Cough, cough,’ said the partridge tactfully, from his position on the topmost branch. ‘My reward is that I want to sing a song that I’ve invented about all this at your wedding.’
‘Yes,’ said the prince. ‘You must all come!’
So – on the Twelfth Day of Christmas, as it happened – they held a great wedding party in a large tent erected over the old pear tree in the mountains, and the partridge sang his song and was made Prime Minister on the spot by the prince.
Several of the smaller pipers ate too much, and had to be sent home in wheelbarrows, but the prince gave everyone medals and they were all very happy.
Father Christmas lay fast asleep on the sofa with a newspaper over his face, and occasionally he snored a little. Mrs Christmas was sitting on the other side of the roaring fire, darning his socks and talking.
‘… And I’m getting fed up! You only work one evening a year these days, and even if you do get paid overtime there’s the reindeer to feed. It’s about time you got a new job, my lad.’
‘Eh? What?’ said Father Christmas, sitting up.
‘A new job,’ said Mrs Christmas, starting another sock. ‘Something that’ll bring in a little extra cash and keep you out from under my feet all day. You might even enjoy it.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ said Father Christmas, stroking his beard. ‘A man in my position, you know, has certain responsibilities …’
Then he thought: She’s got a point. I always wanted to be an engine driver when I was a little lad. I wonder what else I could do?
So next morning he dusted off his old grey suit (he usually wore a red one with white fur here and there) and Mrs Christmas made sandwiches for him, and then off he went to look for a job.
‘Are you really Father Christmas?’ said the man at the Job Centre in amazement. ‘Well, well! I remember you brought me a train set when I was nine.’fn1
‘Ah, yes, I recall it well,’ said Father Christmas, sitting down. The job man started to fill in a form.
‘You say you can fly, but you haven’t got a pilot’s licence. You go into people’s houses by climbing down chimneys, but frankly that sounds a bit burglarous. You give things away. Hmm. Oh dear, I don’t know. Very difficult. I suppose you don’t have much experience in looking after animals?’
Father Christmas, who had been looking very glum, brightened up. ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘Reindeer and polar bears and so forth.’
‘Ah,’ said the job man. ‘Then there’s just the job for you at the zoo.’
‘What’s a zoo?’
‘They keep animals there, to help to understand them and save those in danger of dying out. I imagine it’s great fun: just go and say I sent you and they’ll probably even give you a uniform!’
Next day Father Christmas went to start work at Blackbury Zoo.
About two hours later the man at the job agency got a phone call which went on for a very long time (just as if the person on the other end was very, very angry).
Just as he put the telephone down Father Christmas shuffled in sheepishly, still wearing his zoo uniform.
‘Well,’ said the job man severely, ‘it’s a fine mess you’ve made of that.’
‘I know,’ said Father Christmas in a small voice.
‘You let the monkeys out—’
‘I know.’
‘You gave everyone free elephant rides.’
‘I felt so sorry for them, you see. And the elephants enjoyed it …’
‘And you taught the hippos to fly. Very dangerous things, flying hippos.’fn2
‘They didn’t have any reindeer, you see,’ said Father Christmas miserably.
‘I don’t know, I’m sure. Can’t you think of any other job you could do?’ said the job man.
‘I’d like to be an astronaut or a cowboy,’ said Father Christmas.
‘Um,’ said the job man. ‘Not much call for those. How about selling ice cream? There’s a job here for an ice-cream man …’
Two hours later Father Christmas gingerly drove out of the Blackbury ice-cream factory in a bright yellow and pink van with Mr Brrr written on the side. He stopped at a likely-looking spot and soon lots of children were queuing up for ice cream.
‘A small ice-cream cornet, please,’ said the first one.
Father Christmas filled it and looked at it in dismay. ‘That’s not very much ice cream,’ he said, so he scooped two more big dollops onto the cone, and added a wafer, two chocolate thingummyjigs and half a dozen cherries. ‘There,’ he said, beaming. ‘You can have this for twenty pence.’
The little boy looked at it in amazement – and soon there was a big crowd around the van. Father Christmas was having the time of his life, building huge great creamy cones covered with all sorts of twirls, swirls, cherriesfn3 and wafers. And selling them for next to nothing or even less.
This is just the job for me, he thought happily.
‘Well,’ said the job man, ‘this is another fine mess you’ve got me into.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Father Christmas mournfully.
‘According to the manager of the ice-cream company, you got rid of one hundred pounds’ worth of ice cream for seven pounds. They’re very, very angry,’ said the job man sternly, looking at his notes. ‘Isn’t there anything you can do without making a mess of it?’
Father Christmas, who was really very sorry and quite sad, blew his nose loudly. ‘It seemed such a shame to take the kiddies’ money,’ he explained.
‘Look, the only other job we’ve got that would suit you is one as a gardener,’ said the job man more kindly. ‘A healthy, outdoor life in Blackbury Parks and Gardens Department. That’d suit you, I expect, and I don’t think there’s any trouble you could possibly get into.’
So next day Father Christmas started work in one of the municipal greenhouses, and for a while it looked as though he was doing very well. Being a sort of old-fashioned wizard, you see, he was very good at getting things to grow, and he quite enjoyed pottering about pruning and planting.
‘You’re doing very well, Mr Christmas,’ said the head gardener a few days later. ‘In fact, I think you can plant out the big flower bed down by the town hall tomorrow. The ornamental one, you know.’
Father Christmas knew it. Every month or so they used to change the flowers so the colours spelled out names, or made the borough coat of arms, or something interesting like that.
‘We’ll leave the choice of design up to you,
’ said the head gardener. ‘Something tasteful in primroses, perhaps?’
Father Christmas had a bit of a think, and later he set off with his gardening tools and a big wheelbarrow. He put a canvas screen round the flower bed and set to work. It was getting on for tea time when he stopped.
A few minutes later the head gardener came along to see how he had got on. When she saw the flower bed she stopped and her mouth dropped open in amazement.
‘Don’t you like it?’ said Father Christmas nervously.
‘You’ve spelled out “Merry Christmas” in flowers!’ blurted out the head gardener. ‘But Christmas is eleven months away! We can’t have this sort of thing, you know.’
‘I thought it might cheer people up,’ said Father Christmas. ‘I suppose I’m sacked?’
‘I’m afraid the mayor will insist on it after he sees that,’ said the gardener.
So Father Christmas trooped off to see the job man, who looked up from his files and said, ‘What, you again?’
‘There was a bit of a disagreement over a flower bed, you see.’
‘I don’t really see, but anyway, all the jobs that are going now are for steamroller drivers and bakers, and I dread to think of you doing either of them.’
He gave Father Christmas a form to fill in in case any jobs cropped up, and then the old man went home. Mrs Christmas was washing his red suit ready for December.
‘I don’t seem to be any good at anything,’ said Father Christmas, taking his boots off.
Father Christmas’s Fake Beard Page 4