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Fiction Short Story

by John Tyson

Mother Agnes's Christmas Break

It was Miss Lovejoy who came up with the idea at the monthly meeting of the St. Saviour's Church parish entertainments committee.

"Me? Dress up as Father Christmas?"

"Why not, Henry?"

"For one thing, I don't have any whiskers."

"You can always put on false whiskers."

"It's not the same. Some little tyke is sure to give them a tug."

"That's always a risk in these ventures."

"Anyway, what about old George Marshall, he's got plenty of whiskers."

"Henry! You know how George -- well -- smells."

"Well, that's only because of his prize Suffolk saddlebacks. They like a lot of fussing."

"That's what I mean. We can't have the fairy grotto at the Christmas fete smelling of pigs, can we?"

"He can have a bath, can't he?"

"You know it's ingrained in him, Henry. It would take a month of bathing to get that smell out of him. Any way he's too thin." She looked at Henry's tummy, "... and you're so, well, cuddly. Why you'd be a natural for the part with those twinkly eyes and rosy cheeks ... and the children do so like you."

Which was why Henry was sitting on a golden coloured armchair surrounded by young ladies in green tights, red tunics and Robin Hood hats all arranged on a trailer pulled by Farmer Dodd's pair of shire horses, Hansel and Gretel, who each had papiér maché antlers fixed to their noble heads.

They paraded along the high street towards the church hall to the sound of the Prestwick Colliery Silver Prize Brass Band. Resplendent in their royal blue and gold marching uniforms, they played "Entry of the Gladiators" as they preceded Henry and his entourage. Along the side of the road stood the families from the town waving flags, youths catcalling and throwing pennies, and the local cubs and guides who rattled boxes under the noses of everyone as they ran alongside Henry's cortége.

Once at the St. Saviour's church hall the whole procession stopped and the verger, who stood there in the guise of a medieval merchant, pushed a set of steps to the side of the cart. Gold paper and a red carpet covered the steps.

Henry felt quite important as he sat and waited while his elves preceded him down the steps. Then he stood up to go down the steps himself.

At that moment a small excitable Staffordshire bull terrier on the opposite side of the road spotted the Vicar's cat, Magdalen, preening herself on the low red brick wall that fronted the church hall. With a snarl he slipped his owner's grasp and with lead flying behind him, he shot across the road right between the legs of Hansel and Gretel, all the time making a noise like a demented diesel engine. This caused both Hansel and Gretel to abandon their accustomed calm, rear up, then head pell-mell along the road dragging Henry and his cart behind them. Their sudden departure scattered the members of the Prestwick Colliery Silver Prize Brass Band to all points of the compass.

As the cart jolted, Henry sat back down in his armchair with a bump. He hung on for dear life to the chair arms as Hansel and Gretel, completely out of control, careered along the high street, through the suburbs and out of the small town in to the green countryside that surrounded it.

Henry was vaguely aware of sirens going off behind him as they took up the pursuit. Eventually he got hold of the reins and gained control of the two horses. They came to a stop and began chewing the grass at the side of the road outside a large house. Miraculously their antlers had remained intact on their heads. Henry slipped off the cart and walked to the main gate of the house. It was shut firmly. A notice board was inside, partially covered in foliage but he could just make out the name "Saint Ursula's".

A small face poked through the gates and said accusingly, "Yore early!"

Henry looked at the face. It had determination written all over it. "What do you mean, "early"?"

"You isn't s'posed ter be 'ere till Christmus day!"

Henry, not wishing to dash the little fellow's faith in Father Christmas, decided that he had to stay in role. "Do you know, I thought my calendar was a wee bit fast! Never mind I'm here and that's the main thing. Er, can I have a word with your Mummy or Daddy?"

"I'm a norphin."

"A norphin?"

"Yeah. Ain't got no parints."

"No parents? Who looks after you then?"

"You want Mother Agnes. We calls her Maggie. She's in charge around here."

"Do you know, I thought you were in charge!"

"Garn! Yore 'avin me on."

"I suppose I must be," said Henry with a laugh.

"Shall I get 'er then?"

"I suppose you'd better."

Mother Agnes turned out to be a jolly little nun with a face like a cherub and a permanent smile on her face. "Why bless my soul Saint Nick, you are indeed early."

"I did try to explain to your charge that my calendar was a little fast."

Her laughter rang out as she unlocked the door set in the large gate. "Do come in Father Christmas."

"I wondered, could I have a word in private?"

"Why of course. You'd better come into my office."

Mother Agnes led Father Henry Christmas up the driveway to a large gaunt Victorian house, through an imposing oak door, evidently of great age and came into a vestibule that smelt of paraffin wax polish.

"In here please." They entered a sparsely furnished room that contained two hardback chairs, an oak desk, a grey filing cabinet and an old Underwood typewriter. Henry then explained to her what had happened.

"Do you have a telephone here?"

"Of course we do." She opened a drawer and took out a modern cordless phone. It appeared quite incongruous in this otherwise spartan study.

Henry punched in the number of his friend, Archie.

"Where are you Henry? The whole town's looking for you. They found your cart down a country lane with the two horses quite happily grazing on the grass verges, but no sign of you."

"Where am I? I'm in a big house." Henry looked at Mother Agnes for enlightenment.

"Why, you are in Saint Ursula's Orphanage."

Henry relayed the message to Archie.

"I'll send someone up there for you."

Henry put down the phone and turned to Mother Agnes. "An orphanage? In this day and age?"

"Very much so I'm afraid. With the materialistic society we now have I'm afraid Almighty God has been put on the back burner and his little children out of sight and out of mind. I fear that in the worst cases, children today are now at the most, chattels and at the least, an inconvenience."

"That is so very sad Mother. How many kiddies do you have here?"

"We have thirty two."

"Who pays for them?"

"We get money from various charities, but we cannot replace the family, I'm afraid, especially at Christmastide. It is a very busy time for me and my staff. We haven't had a Christmas break for many years."

Just then they heard a loud knock on the office door. It was the "norphin."

"There's a geezer out 'ere wot's cum fer Farver Christmus."

"Show him in, Percy."

Archie Fergus's ruddy features peered around the door. "There you are." He looked at Percy... "er, Father Christmas."

***

Henry entered the St. Saviour's church hall to a fanfare from the cornets. They applauded him all the way to the stage. He took his place in front of the microphone.

"A small boy in the front spoke to his father in a loud stage whisper. "Is that really Father Christmas?"

"Yes son, it is," said his father.

"Ladies and Gentlemen. As you may have heard, I've had a somewhat unexpected experience."

"Yeah, that was Ted Sprogg's little dog, Gnasher, that started it all too," said a voice from the back of the hall."

The crowd murmured in agreement.

"Be that as it may," said Henry, " I have discovered that just a few miles from this town we have an orphanage run by Mother Agnes, full of children who have no families to go to this Christmas. Why don't all you families with children give the good Mother Agnes a Christmas holiday, by each adopting an orphan over Christmas and the New Year? After all, a small child was born two thousand years ago in a stable because his family had nowhere to stay. In a sense, these kids are just like that infant, they have nowhere to stay -- except the orphanage."

Henry sat and smiled, as he heard a murmur of approval. Mother Agnes got her Christmas break.


(c) Copyright October 31, 2002 John Tyson