A Christmas Wish

A sort of seasonal romance. 

As the reader will have seen, we get many unusual customers, but this one………..

It was Christmas Eve. Mr Whybrow hid in his workshop, trying to do the work of six men with his own two hands, which left the shop and everything to do with it squarely down to me. In between dealing with customers, there was also a fair amount of seasonal paperwork. It was inevitable that people scattered invitations like confetti, and being Mr Whybrow, it was equally inevitable that he delegated responding to them to me. Fortunately, I knew what his reply would be and equally fortunately, he had one of those new-fangled roller-copier doodahs in the cellar, which made life much easier for me.

“Dear Madam,

“Thank you for your kind invitation, which unfortunately I’m unable to accept as I’m already otherwise engaged. Please accept my sincerest wishes for a successful event along with my heartiest compliments of the season.”

I don’t know how many times I churned that out, but the Post Office did very well out of Sparkle of Sound. Well, some just prefer to spend Christmas quietly. I do. Yes, we’d made the best of things in the workhouse; they rustled up a few turkeys from somewhere, work itself was forgotten, and after the inevitable religious observances (which I was excused anyway, lest my notorious singing bring the house down – quite literally), we made our own entertainments.

But this year, I had a different life to consider, and was looking forward to spending the day improving my mind by my own little fireside with the aid of Mr Prout, and in the company of some buttered muffins, and some smuggled brandy and cigars that Mr Whybrow wouldn’t miss. I seemed to have grasped the basic principles of harmony, but Mr Whybrow was still returning many of my exercises with, “Consecutive octaves between outer parts/doubled leading note in bar seven,”  and other such encouragements all annotated in the margins.

But what of Mr Whybrow himself, you might be wondering? Come on, now. We know him that well. In all probability, he would be doing exactly the same as me, but with more advanced harmony and counterpoint. Probably a walloping great triple fugue, as his idea of fun.

The afternoon was well-advanced when a message came down the Lamson, along with a little box. “Please deliver to Mrs Perigord in Kittiwick.. Be sure she pays balance outstanding.”

Well, it would get me out of the shop for a while. The winter sun was nearing the horizon as I chugged out of Southend on the Dreadnought, grateful for the warmth of the engine on my unskirted legs. As I traversed Downs, I had to admit to myself how silly it was, that two people should spend Christmas alone when they lived so closely together, and had cultivated a deep, binding bond between them. Exactly what sort of bond that was, I was not entirely certain – Jane Austen never did this to her characters, and Dickens always provided a suitable cadence to the situation, even if he did have to give the plot a sharp kick in the fundament to bring that about. My own situation was more like one of those minimalist compositions that starts with a great little idea and then spends all its time taking it precisely nowhere.

All right. I’ll own up. I was hoping that Mr Whybrow would stop by, and follow a playful flick of my eye to the mistletoe hanging from the ceiling, and –

Well, I wasn’t going to risk ruining Christmas with the cold wind of change racketing through my house, in the form of his irate exit followed by an icy silence for several weeks. For that reason, I hadn’t even bothered getting any mistletoe.

It was a crisp, chilly day, but curiously uplifting – you know how there’s always that extra magical zing in the air on Christmas Eve? The cold stung my cheeks like emery cloth, but it was invigorating – all right, it was cold enough to freeze the dangly bits off a brass monkey, but at least the forest of Tanglewood kept the worst of the wind from me.  And YES I DID remember to put my skirts back on when I dismounted at Miss Perigord’s! Dear oh dear……

Mrs Perigord didn’t invite me in, but as she checked over her snowflake ear pendants on the doorstep, examining them against the light, I noticed that she’d hung mistletoe on the lintel. A trifle open of her to do so, I thought, but that’s Caledonians for you. Full of surprises. I was tempted to ask if she had any to spare, or whether she could at least tell me where she’d got it, but I forebore. Let the world keep guessing.

Mrs Perigord paid up and wished me a happy new year, and I headed back to the shop. I’d just entered Tanglewood when I noticed a couple of twig-like items waving above the headlamp. Past experience had taught me what to suspect, and when the two became four, and were followed by eight beady little eyes, I knew I was right.

HARRY!

I was sufficiently used to Harry not to want to flee the district every time I saw him, although I still wouldn’t pick him up. At any rate, I didn’t panic and lose control over the bike. I was more concerned with why, out of all the places, he’d decided to settle on my headlamp lens! All right, so what should I do?  Thought I. Just keep going and hope he doesn’t get too friendly? Or should I stop and let him off? No, wait – how very singular! He was pointing off into the forest, agitating his arm – or was it a leg – most urgently.

I’d had my attention too much on the road to notice anything more than two yards from it. Otherwise, I could hardly have missed the grotesque vehicle fetched up hard against a tree. Not when it was in that loud a red! Neither could I have missed its driver, clearly dressed for an Arctic winter, and as discreetly-coloured as his vehicle. However, to get back to the point, he appeared to be in trouble.

“Well done, Harry,”  I murmured as I slowed down, dropped to the lowest gear, and bumped over the few yards of rough ground. The gentleman cast me a suspicious squint as I approached; I’d guessed who he was and from his demeanour, further deduced that he did not want to be recognised. All right, I’d play it his way.

“Are you in trouble, sir?” I asked.

He gave a beery harrumph and pondered his reply. Of course he was in trouble, but he did not want attention drawn to his presence. And under the circumstances, he had no alternative.

“It vould seem that I em, Miss,”  he confessed in a slight sing-song lilt, which Mr Whybrow would later tell me was particular to parts of Scandinavia.  “My swingletree exploded and all my reindeer ren off.”

“Exploded?”  I blurted. A swingletree, which connects draught animals to the shaft, was just a swivelly bit of wood and iron. They might break, but they don’t explode.

“Aye. Just like thet. Luckily, I vas at strit level – you can’t see the houses t’rough the treetops, here, so I vas staying down low. There vas a gret big beng, and I hit the ground before I could do any demmage.”

“But – exploded?”  I found that hard to believe, although the evidence was right there before my eyes.

“See for yourself, Miss.”  Impatiently, Santa held up the offending item. It was not the straightforward linkage which I’d expected; his was hollow and full of gears and springs and gubbins.

I couldn’t begin to fathom the workings of this contrivance, but I did have a good idea what had caused the ‘demmage.’  “You were rounding the curve a few yards further back, I suspect. This was one of our turkeys, sir.”

It was his turn to look amazed. “Torkeys, Miss? A torkey did this?”

I gave him a sheepish look of apology, although it was hardly my fault. “Turkeys, sir. We have a breed, particular to this district, which homes in on passers-by and explodes. I can see how it’d make a mess of a delicate apparatus like this.”

Santa rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “It’s made a mess of moer than thet. This isn’t just a linkidge, it’s a guidance system. I have to get around so qvickly that merely tugging on the reins is no good. So I hev this to tell the reindeer vhere to go; it’s ectivated vhen I pick up the reins to Rudolf. I depend on it to get me over the vorld in vun night. Vithout it, I’d be lucky to cover half Caledon.”

A slight tremor to his voice betrayed his desperation. I carried a few tools in the Dreadnought, but he wasn’t going to mend this lunacy with a set of AF spanners. All those delicate innards looked like one of Mr Whybrow’s clocks had turned itself inside-out. I felt a big lump of pity for him. He was well and truly up a gum tree, as our Postmistress would have said. Or was he?

“My master could mend that,”  I suggested.

Santa gave a thin chuckle. “This is beyond a blecksmith,”  he told me. “Very intricate.”

His patronising timbre infuriated me, but I was careful to allow only a hint of indignation into my reply. “He’s a jeweller, sir. And he’s used to working with moving parts that you couldn’t even see.”

“Ahh, a jooweller. Thet’s different. Is it far?”

“I could have him here in half an hour.”

Santa shook his head. “I’ve some rope; it’s better if you tow me to him. I don’t vant to be seen here. Upset all the liddle kiddies, you know, seeing Senta up a gum tree.”

I could not help letting slip a momentary gape. His use of that expression couldn’t be a coincidence. Could he read minds? Of course, you silly tart. How do you think he knows what kids want for Christmas, when they can’t read and write?

“Uh – very well, sir, although I’m not sure the bike could handle towing such a – “

He anticipated me with a reassuring shake of his hoary head. “The sleigh floats, Miss. Best Vellsian cevorite. If my team can pull it all night long, I’m sure yure vehicle can menage it for a short journey.”

“In that case, sir, I can’t offer you six reindeer, but please consider twenty horses at your disposal!”

As I curtsied, feeling self-conscious without my skirts on, I couldn’t help noticing a tiny movement on Santa’s shoulder. I blinked and it had gone. It must have been my imagination. It couldn’t have been Harry, who himself had disappeared; it was the wrong colour.

I left Santa the responsibility of tying the knots. The good old Dreadnought might have been towing no more than a well-balanced horseless carriage as I lugged him Southendwards at a modest speed, although I did feel acutely conspicuous at having, in addition to my lack of skirts, the embarrassment of Santa in tow. At least in Tanglewood, he stood a chance of preserving his anonymity if we’d managed to manhandle the sleigh into the undergrowth, yet here I was, parading Santa through most of Caledon!

I don’t know how he managed to brake the sleigh on that big downward incline into SouthEnd, but he did. I’d have to ask him his secret if time allowed. We put the sleigh into the firm’s stable and I told him to wait there while I fetched the master. And that would need a little explaining on my part.

As ever, the solution was to keep it cryptic. My scribbled note read, simply, “Sir – sorry to disturb, we have a gentleman in need of a favour as a matter of DIREST urgency.”  I just hoped Mr Whybrow would have enough Christmas spirit not to be angry; I knew how he hated to be disturbed at work.

Fwoomf!  Up went my message in the Lamson, and two minutes later, Mr Whybrow appeared, straightening his coat. “What’s all this about, Miss Bluebird? Why the drama and mystery?”

“We have someone who needs a very special favour, sir.”

Mr Whybrow was unimpressed. “I’d gathered that much! Miss Bluebird, everyone needs favours at Christmas. And they rarely pay them back!”

“I’ll show you. Sir, I want you to promise not to tell a soul about this.”

“About what, for the love of God!”

“He’s in the stable, sir.”  Rather than stand there fumbling around more awkward questions, I denied Mr Whybrow the chance to ask any by leading him out at a near-run. I flung the stable door open to reveal Santa’s sorry sleigh, and Santa himself looking very sheepish. As for Mr Whybrow, he just stood and gaped.

“Bloody – hell!”

“Thet place is last on the list,”  replied Santa, with a  weak smile.  “They just get lumps of coal.”

Mr Whybrow looked from me to Santa, and back to me again, clearly suspecting that he was the victim of a practical joke.

“He’s the genuine article, sir.”  I explained how I’d come to find him.

Reluctantly accepting the situation, Mr Whybrow looked over the swingletree for a long moment, taking in the proof with his own eyes. No practical joker could have put together that intricate engine. Finally he straightened up, scratching his head. “The gears don’t look to have suffered much, but the shafts are shot. Too much endfloat, your gyroscopes are slewing all over the place. You need a new set of regulator springs, too. I could certainly mend that, but not in time for Christmas. Not with a lot of Christmas orders of my own to be getting on with.”

Gravely, Santa studied his boots. I had to speak for him. “Then what it comes down to, sir, is that rather than you disappoint half a dozen customers, you’d suffer the world to be disappointed on Christmas morning?”

The look that Mr Whybrow gave me could have perforated Harvey armour. He said nothing, but Dickens himself had put any words almost legibly across his face. Bah! Humbug!

Santa reassured him, “Don’t vorry, sir. You’ll finish all, and in good time. I’ll mek it possible.”

Mr Whybrow gave him a distrustful squint, but nodded acquiescence. We both knew that Santa had powers beyond human ken – how else would the old duffer fit down all those narrow chimneys?

“All right,” said Mr Whybrow at last, the gleam of a challenge in his eye. “I’ll give it my best. You can use my own sleigh while I get on with it.”

“YOU hev a flying sleigh?”  Santa blurted in astonishment.

“It isn’t like yours.” Mr Whybrow gave him a dry grin. “It’s steampowered; I use it for local deliveries at Christmas. Miss Bluebird can drive it while you drop off the presents. Meanwhile, I’ll get on with re-centring your gyroscopes.”

“Me?”  it was my turn to blurt.

“It’s little different to handling an airship,”  Mr Whybrow reassured me. “Just faster. You’ll manage it. Give me a moment.”  He went to fetch his sleigh, leaving me alone with Santa.

Uncertainly, I muttered, “But can it go fast enough to make all your deliveries in one night?”

Quietly confidently, Santa told me, “Ve’ll menage it. Time goes faster for me. As your master vill discover for himself.”  He chortled, savouring a private joke.

A chuffing, whirring noise entered our hearing, like an angry locomotive, but it was coming from Up There where locomotives shouldn’t be. It grew louder; I took Santa out to the quayside where Mr McKew almost dropped his chip-server when he saw us.  High above the quay, a blocky object was descending; it resembled an airship gondola minus gasbag. As it waxed large enough to be recognisable, Santa clapped his hands in glee.

“Steam-driven reindeer! How splendid!”

All the hundreds of years fell away from his face as he took in Mr Whybrow’s sleigh like a kid opening his presents on Christmas morning, and broke into a happy dance. When the sleigh grounded, he pranced around it, stroking it and making ecstatic little cooing noises while Mr Whybrow seated me at the business end, and took me through the controls.

“It handles just like an airship, but it’s more sensitive. Be careful not to oversteer. Santa’ll have to stoke it, tell him to keep the pressure between three and four hundred psi. It’s turbine-driven, so it needs a higher pressure than a locomotive. Watch to the sides as well as in front; those reindeer occlude most of your view. Take it away, Shopgirl!”

Santa dumped his sack in the back – I wondered how he managed to get the world’s presents in the one finitely-sized bag, but knew better than to ask. “Ready vhen you are, Miss Bloobord.”

I was uneasy about taking it up for the first time, but Mr Whybrow did the decent thing and headed back to his workshop. He knew I’d make a mess of it if he looked on. I drew back the control column slightly, and the sleigh rose as gracefully as any airship.

The throttle took a little getting used to; there was an inevitable lag between the turbines’ instant obedience, and their biting the air. I wondered how the sleigh would react to the constant stop-starting, but turbines were informative things – they needed to be in perfect balance and at the least discrepancy, would warn me with a groan or whine or, if I was particularly unlucky, an explosion like a fragmentation bomb. But Santa seemed unafraid as he slipped down one chimney after another, dumped his weighty carcass back onto the sleigh again, and rummaged through his sack for his next delivery.

As the driver, I was kept busy constantly. I barely had time to notice that the night air was bracing, without being uncomfortably cold, although I was grateful for my skirts. The Dreadnought had left my knees feeling like ice cubes. The moon spotlit Caledon as clearly as day, making navigation a joy. We traversed Tamrannoch, Caledon and Caledon 2, Port Caledon, with Santa merrily scattering his largesse as we went, and then crossed the Firth to Kittiwickshire.

From my vantage point, I spotted a couple walking arm in arm,  silhouetted against the street. It was Mrs Perigord, returning home from whatever revelry she’d been attending, and I presumed that was Mr Perigord’s arm to which she was clinging. Even at that distance, I could see from the slight cant of their heads towards each other an almost tangible bond of devotion between the couple. A tragic harp chord planged in my chest –  you know, the sort with a minor ninth that cuts through you like a dagger. Mrs Perigord had no need of misteltoe for her affection; it was just an excuse to express that sentiment openly - a whole encyclopedia of life that had been denied me. But then, as I knew so well, shopgirls don’t do that sort of thing, and this shopgirl had more than just about any other. Too much to worry about the one element that was missing, although sometimes, when I saw couples happy together, I felt that I was deluding myself on that point.

We were heading eastwards out of Kittiwick when I appreciated Santa’s original problem. Slowing, I turned and told him, “I’ll have to continue at street level, sir. I won’t see a thing through those trees.”

“Very vise, Miss. You’re the pilot. Just vatch out for torkeys.”

“I have experienced them myself, sir,”  I tersely informed him.

Enough of the moonlight filtered through the treetops for me to follow the railway line at a cautious plod. I wished Mr Whybrow had thought to fit this thing with headlamps, although it was unlikely that they would make any difference with two mechanical reindeer fundaments occluding my view.

I knew exactly where the demon poultry appeared, and was debating whether to speed up or try to cut across country, as the exploding turkey was notoriously difficult to outrun. Then there came a solid brassy bomp!  that startled us both. I had a suspicion what had happened, and was wondering whether I should get out and check for damage, or whether it’d be too dangerous.

Santa decided for me.  “You’ve hit somet’ing, Miss.”

“I couldn’t see anything, sir,”  I protested.

“You vouldn’t see anyt’ing vith the reindeer in the vay. Ve both hord it, though. Bedder stop and see vhat it vas. Tinytown isn’t far from here.”

Oh, Lord. He had a point. If I’d clobbered a tiny, I’d never hear the last of it. I stopped, dismounted, and peered at the railway line in the near-darkness. I hadn’t hit a tiny, but  -

“It’s a torkey!”  exclaimed Santa.

“So it is,” I concurred. “One of the exploding ones. I did say they moved fast.”

“Then vhy didn’t it blow us to bits?”

“I don’t know, sir. This one must be a dud.”

Santa straightened up with a majestic harrumph.  “Vell, I’ve no sympat’y for it. Vun of them nearly ruined Christmas for a whole vorld. I don’t t’ink it’ll go off now, Miss; it vould have already done so. I suggest you t’row it in the beck of the sleigh and claim it as your Christmas dinner.”

Well, it was a bit more seasonal than muffins, although I hadn’t expected to be eating turkey for a month. That bird was no lightweight, as I discovered when I heaved it into the sleigh.

What I did know, was that exploding turkeys did not appear again for several hours after an encounter. I was able to proceed without worry. Caledon was a curious mixture of tranquil silence, with occasional hot spots of revelry shown by lights blazing from houses, and laughter and music carrying easily through the still night air. I could not help being infected by a tinge of seasonal thrill, although my own part in it would, of course, have to remain a secret from the world. I then thought back to Mr Whybrow, spending Christmas day in his own comfy isolation – no. I’d made my own plans and would be happy to stick to them. As for Mr Whybrow, I’d live and let live.

I was almost disappointed when I gave the control column that final gentle tug to ease us over the rooftops, and relaxed it to descend to the harbour, putting a gentle cadence to my Christmas peregrination. I was surprised to find Mr Whybrow waiting for us, with the swingletree in his arms. Astonishment shone from his face as he rushed forwards to greet us.

“I can’t believe it. I’ve tested your gyros, and they’re all running true now, and I’ve finished my own Christmas orders.”

Santa smirked back, in humourous reproof. “Isn’t thet how it should be?”

“Yes, but it’s still only one o’clock in the morning.”

“I did say that time passes et a different speed for me. And as you vere helping me, it might have stretched a liddle bit for you as vell.”

“Aye.”  Mr Whybrow scratched his head, coming to terms with it. “Well, here’s your swingletree. Your elves rounded up the reindeer, they’re waiting in the stable. It looks like the rest’s up to you now.”  He handed over the swingletree, which Santa examined cursorily under the light of the Sparkle’s lanterns before pumping Mr Whybrow’s hand enthusiastically.

“Splendid vork, sir. Should be good for another five hundred years now.”

“Or until you hit another exploding turkey,”  I murmured.

“Is there anyt’ing I can do for you in retorn?”  Santa asked.

Mr Whybrow hesitated, mulling it over, and shook his head with a chuckle. “There’s nothing I need that I can’t do for myself; it wouldn’t be right to ask you. Just regard it as a compliment of the season. I rather think it’s Miss Bluebird who deserves the thanks; at least I was warm in the workshop while she was flying about on a winter night.”

Santa turned to me, paralysing me on the spot. “Ah, yes, Miss Bloobord. You’ve been extremely helpful! Is there anyt’ing I can do for you?”

Only one thing came to mind, and it was time to seize the moment. Beckoning Santa forwards, I whispered in his ear.

He smiled and winked at me and to my surprise, a voice rang soundlessly, directly in my mind.

I knew you’d ask for that. But I can’t make someone else’s decisions for them.

Ignoring my dumb expression, Santa told me quietly, using his normal voice, “I can’t give you thet, but I’ll make it easier for you to get for yourself. Just be patient. And please accept this liddle compliment of the season.”

He reached inside his greatcoat, and produced something small and spindly which he gave to me. I examined it in the lanternlight; it was a sprig of a certain wild parasitical plant.

“Isn’t this – “

Santa nodded. “It is, although thet vun is slightly stronger than most.”  He leaned closer and whispered, “Make sure that only he sees it.”

I whispered back, “How do I know he’ll agree to try it? He doesn’t really follow customs and traditions.”

Santa winked again. “Trust your judgment and he vill.”

I looked uncertainly to Mr Whybrow, who was hovering patiently at a discreet distance. Again, that sonorous voice suffused my mind. And trust me. Patience is everything.

“Uh – thank you, sir,”  was all I could think of to say.

“I should be on my vay,”  Santa announced to all. “I still hev Steelhead and Bebbidge to do. If you’ll allow me a moment to hitch up my team?”

Mr Whybrow waved a careless hand. “By all means, sir. There’s no rush. In fact, we’ve all the time in the world.”

Santa gave the great bellylaugh I’d been hoping to hear; the whole harbour rang with his mirth. “How right you are, sir.”  He turned to go, but hesitated. “And Miss Bloobord? You’ve perallel fift’s betveen the tenor and soprano parts over bars five and six. I t’ought you ought to know.”

I gave him a weak smile by way of thanks. Was there anything he did not  know?

Mr Whybrow smothered his mouth in his hands, chortling. He waited until Santa was lost to sight before giving rein to his own mirth.  “Dear me, Miss Bluebird; never learn, will you? Now, what have we here?”  He reached into the passenger side of the sleigh and held the turkey out triumphantly. “Miss Bluebird, the cross-eyed expression on the face of this bird suggests that you didn’t stop off at a poulterer’s on the way back.”

“No, sir.” I had to bite my lip to cork up an incipient laugh of my own. “One of the Tanglewood birds jumped out at us and didn’t go off. Is it still dangerous? Santa seemed to think not.”

“I’m inclined to agree with him. Just a moment.”  He took the turkey to the edge of the quay and made a peculiar wrenching motion, which was followed by a light splashing of water.  “I’ve drawn the charge just to make sure; I wouldn’t recommend popping him into the oven with that still in place. But it’s quite safe for whatever you intend to do with it.”

He handed me the turkey, whose sudden weight made me sag. “Me do with it, sir?”

“You brought it back. The usual practice is to eat it, and it’d be a shame to let it go to waste.”

“But this bird must weigh fifteen pounds, sir. I can’t eat that on my own. Unless – you’d care to join me, sir?”  I suggested, pointedly hopeful.

“I’d have said nearer eighteen. And I can imagine no more delightful way to spend Christmas day. Thank you, Miss Bluebird.”

I was struck by the happiness beaming from his face. He meant it! But still I was not sure. “I’ve no oven, sir, only an open fire. I’m not sure – “

Mr Whybrow had the answer. “If I can find an oven, would you do me the honour of joining me?”

Was this Santa at work, or had I just got lucky?  Unashamedly, I tingled with delight as I told him, “There’s nothing I’d like more, sir!”

“Then – let me see. Twenty minutes a pound for the first seven, then fifteen minutes per pound for any weight above that. Your impact plucked it, so we’re saved that bother. It’s late now, or rather early. Why don’t you and I catch some sleep, and I’ll call for you at about eight?”

“Very good, sir! Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas, Miss Bluebird.”

With that, he was gone. It had occurred to me to use that moment to try Santa’s little gift, but with both my arms full of turkey, I’d have to wait. It would be better this way, and I was free to marvel at how my hopes were falling into place by themselves like tumblers in a well-oiled Yale lock. Well, with some help from Santa.

I really hadn’t intended to be up so late; that and the clean air sent me to sleep like an opiate. In the morning, I selected a different dress – one of the smartest of my wardrobe, as I wanted him to see that I was regarding the occasion as very special indeed. I retrieved the turkey from the yard, where I’d hung it to keep cool overnight, and was ready waiting for his knock when it came, as punctual as ever.

I felt a little guilty at my anasthetic-slumber. Mr Whybrow could not have got much sleep of his own. Even after going home, he had been busy. I suppose I should have expected him to rise to the occasion by producing an oven, which gleamed like radiant gold in the glow from the blazing log fire. Although I was truly impressed, I confined my compliments to, “Oh, how splendid, sir!”  I could tell that the oven had just been scrubbed surgically clean after sitting unused for years, and now was not the time to mention his bachelor slovenliness.

He spent twenty minutes kindling the fire and getting it to an even glow, during which time I drew the rest of the bird and stuffed it with sage, onion, oregano and some crushed-up roasting chestnuts which I’d found lurking in Mr Whybrow’s cupboard. As for all the yucky bits I’d pulled out, they went into giblet gravy.

Finally the turkey went into the oven with a ceremonial slam of the door, and Mr Whybrow straightened up triumphantly.  “Now – if you’d be so good as to get a pot of water boiling, let’s run up a Christmas pud.”

Being Mr Whybrow, he had all the ingredients sitting neglected in a cupboard. I remarked that much of the fruit came from ships’ suppliers; properly treated, those last a very long time. I was surprised to see fresh oranges and vegetables amongst them; I suspected that he must have been out to the greengrocer’s before he’d knocked for me.

Under his direction, I tipped the requisite amounts into a bowl, with some stale breadcrumbs (which one would expect Mr Whybrow to have in abundance) and mixed together. I did marvel at his trust in me, at letting me cook for him, although I was only doing what he told me, so it should be safe enough. But it was a gruelling labour! A Christmas Pudding mix, you see, should resemble what workmen pour to form dockyards. The more I stirred it, the thicker it became; I tried adding more brandy, and took a nip myself for fortitude, and then another, but nothing worked. It took a couple of emphatic grunts before Mr Whybrow offered to help.

“I hope you’ve made a wish,”  he said, taking the spoon and leaning his weight into the mix..

“I didn’t know you had to do that, sir. I never got to mix them before.”

“Oh, yes. Always make a wish. But don’t tell me, mind; keep it to yourself.”

I put my hand onto the spoon, just above his, and wished. In the moment that my concentration lapsed, my hand slipped to press against his. He tensed momentarily, but then relaxed and carried on stirring.  I let my grip linger, my face rapt as I tried to pretend that I was thinking about my wish while all the time, I was revelling in the warmth, the gentle leatheriness of his grip, and committing it to memory lest I should never have the experience again.

I waited for him to draw breath to speak that I pulled back. “Done! Have you made yours, sir?”

Mr Whybrow nodded. “I did that as soon as I started stirring.”

The slight twitch of his smile suggested that his wish had already been granted. So there was hope for Santa’s present!

When the mixture was pronounced ready, he suggested, “By my calculation, we now have about four hours to kill. Might I suggest some toast and coffee, before we progress to the sherry?”

With a larger gathering, we’d have embarked on the usual Christmas party games, such as “Pin the tail on the noob” and “Hide and seek”  (although in Mr Whybrow’s house, the latter would have been a very short game indeed).  No, it was enough that we had the chance to rejoice in each others’ company. We talked shop, we discussed music, but naturally, our surprise visitor of the previous night was foremost in our conversation. We laughed, and the toast stopped the sherry working too much mischief on our minds.

I would not say that Mr Whybrow was an experienced cook, but he applied the same calculated discipline to that as he did to anything else he attempted, and when the turkey came out of the oven, it was done to a turn. Crispy skin, and lots of juicy breast meat, with the stuffing light and fluffy, bursting with a gorgeous savoury overtone. We delighted in our repast, but I could not help noticing that our eyes remained, as far as possible, settled on each other.

Finally, we pushed our empty plates away and smiled our approval at each other.

I suppressed a burp. “There’s a lot left, sir,”  I pointed out.

“Mmmm.”  Mr Whybrow’s groan sounded almost soporific. “That’ll serve up as well cold as hot, and if there’s any left after that – I have some ham lurking about somewhere. Ever had turkey and ham pie?”

I giggled. “No, sir. My experience with pies is not something I prefer to dwell on.”

Mr Whybrow bit his lip, trying not to smirk at what my last pie had done to the pavement of Southend. And the subsequent trouble it had caused.

“Never mind. I’ll take care of it. I think we could save some for Mr McKew; he’s served us well. What say we let the main course gurgle down a little before we start on the pudding? It won’t overboil.”

We sat on the sofa, staring into the fire, listening to the pudding bowl clinking as it bounced against the sides of the boiling pot. As I shifted a little, Santa’s gift stuck a sharp edge into my chest, but now was not the time. Not just yet.

I was grateful for my corset. It was tortuously constricting, but at least I kept my figure. Mr Whybrow’s newly-acquired bulge suggested that he’d stuffed the whole turkey up his waistcoat; it was probably this which prompted him to remove his coat – no mean feat of immodesty for Mr Whybrow, although I’d seen him in less.

Our conversation was somewhat sparser than it had been, since we were both replete (a state which we prolonged by dipping into a bowl of chestnuts which Mr Whybrow roasted by the fire) . We chattered lightly about anything, the way people do when they’re anxious to say anything for the sake of keeping a special moment alive. This was not exactly the Christmases I remembered from the workhouse, with jollity and conviviality a-burst like a seasonal geysir, but in a more personal way, I had never had a more fulfilling one. From time to time, our eyes met, and I began to become optimistic that Santa’s gift would be received in the way I was hoping.

All that time, the pudding had been hanging over the room like a voluptuous cloak. Finally, Mr Whybrow suggested serving it up. Removing its cloth, he wrapped his hands in a clean towel and turned the pudding out onto a plate like a big volcanic sand-pie. The aroma burst from its linen prison to smother us both in a fruity cloud.

“Sir, it looks – “

“Say what you will, me dear. This one, you made.”

Under your direction,  I was about to add, but accepted both compliment and endearment with a simpering blush.

“Now, if you’d care to add the final ingredient?”  He hinted.

I gave him a blank look. We’d no cream, and hadn’t made any custard.

“The brandy,” he supplied. “You can’t serve a Christmas pud without lighting it.”

This sounded fun!  I’d heard of the custom, but never done it myself. Hold on, though. “We’re out of brandy, sir; there wasn’t much in the bottle and I put it all into the mix.”

“There’s some more in the cupboard; I’ll look out some matches.”

I looked in the cupboard and found several interesting-looking bottles, but the brandy was empty. “There isn’t any brandy,”  I called across.

“Oh, blast. I meant to refill that from the barrel. Rum’ll do. Should be next to the brandy, on its right.”

The bottle next to the brandy was labelled, “Stroh.”  I peered a little closer, and it was indeed rum. Mr Whybrow appeared to have mislaid the matches, too, as he was rummaging around near the fire for them, muttering to himself. While he did so, I took the bottle over to the pudding and paused.

“How much do I add, sir?”

“Douse it and let it cover the bottom of the plate. Ah, here we go.”

I did as he suggested while Mr Whybrow occupied himself with shaking out a match.  He hesitated, holding the Vesta over the box. “Stand back – “  he instructed, humourously.

He struck the match, applied it to the base of the pudding, and the next thing I knew, a dazzling flame blinded me and little hard bits stung my face like buckshot.  It took me a moment to realise that I was deaf.

My vision cleared in a slowly-expanding circle. Mr Whybrow was standing statue-still, locked in the position he had been in immediately prior to the explosion, the spent match still in his fingers. A torus of smoke was swirling slowly to the ceiling. My inner sense returned with a great glaring alarm bell. What the hell have I done?

Mr Whybrow spoke first. Calmly, as though exercising a mere mild curiosity. His voice sounded like it was coming from a long way away.  “Miss Bluebird – what did you put on that pudding?”

“Rum, sir. The bottle next to the brandy.”

“On its left side or its right?”

“Its right, sir, like you said.”

He scratched his head; little lumps of pudding fell from his hair. “That’s curious; the one you picked up should have been on the other side. How closely did you read the label?”

“It said ‘Rum’, sir. Well, it said it’s called ‘Stroh’ but it did say it’s a type of rum. I did look to make sure.”

“It also said that it’s eighty proof. You could run the Dreadnought  on it. How on earth did that happen, then?”

Oh, God. It always has to happen doesn’t it? I have to go and ruin the perfect occasion.

Mr Whybrow crooked a smile and stood before me, with no reproof in his eyes. “It’s my own silly fault, the bottles must have got switched around somehow. I should have been more careful.”

“I should have read the label,” I countered in a murmur.

Mr Whybrow shook his head and placed his hands on my shoulders, transfixing me with his eyes. “It was my fault. You do look a sight, know that?”

Torn between laughing and bursting into tears, I bit my lip and looked at the ground. “So do you, sir. Sorry,”  I glumly added.

A fingertip settled under my chin and tilted my head back. There was no anger in his countenance; I suspected that he too was trying not to laugh. “Valerie – don’t be.” And for emphasis, he stooped slightly to peck my brow.

I caught my breath as the soft pressure of his lips sent a great tingle shooting up inside me. Still I hesitated; I had to be entirely sure of my judgment or I’d ruin everything. But I only hesitated for a hairsbreadth of time. Santa’s gift, nestling under my blouse, scraped at my skin insistently.

“Wait,”  I told him. “Let’s do this properly.”

Mr Whybrow tilted his head in a curious squint; he studied the shivering anticipation on my face as I retrieved the mistletoe from inside my blouse.

“Santa gave me this, and I think I’ve earned the right to use it.”

I held it up between us like a talisman. Mr Whybrow studied it with great consideration.

“You have,” he agreed. “I can’t deny that. Which of us is supposed to hold it?”

I looked at him as though we were a pair of conspirators planning a raid on the workhouse superintendent’s cigar stock. “I’ll take care of it; I should be able to reach.”  Which would give him free rein with both hands, while absolving me of the worry about what to do with one of mine.

I stretched my arm upwrds and calmly, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, pecked him close to the corner of his mouth. “Merry Christmas, sir.”

I then lowered my voice and looked at him earnestly, trusting on my eyes to tell him all that was bubbling and seething inside me, that I dared not put into words. “And this is all you’ve done for me.”  I kissed him again, on his lips, and let it linger. He did not pull away; I did in fact detect a slight counter pressure from his own lips. Had I been right about his having harboured desires of his own, which he had kept dammed up, and which I was only now starting to tap into?

But I was anxious not to press my luck too hard and pulled back, awaiting his decision.

He read me perfectly. “If I can’t trust you by now – this is for a happy Christmas, and thanking you for the one you’ve given me.”  His lips met mine squarely, pressing as carefully as a sticking plaster to an infant. The buzz inside me intensified, but before I could worry about either of us losing control, he pulled back and took me completely by surprise.

“And this is for all the things that you are.”

He shaped his hand to my waist, firmly but gently guiding as he did when dancing, and replaced his kiss with one that only hinted at its insistence. So many long-intriguing mysteries were answered at once as he cushioned my spine and head in sprawling hands that could span an eleventh on a keyboard. I leaned into his lips with undisguised joy, melting away into vapours that floated like angels drifting euphorically about the room. His whole body relaxed with a shudder, and inside, I soared. He was squeezing every dram of ecstasy from our meeting, just as I was.

He remained as he was just long enough to reassure me that he had no fear of me, before judging that it was time for decency to intervene. When he pulled back, our eyes remained locked on each other. I wanted to say so many things, but left them unsaid. One day, one of us would say or do something that broke the dam, and lead us to let the full truth pour out, but for now, it was enough that we both Knew.  We stayed as we were for a long moment, neither of us wanting to be the first to speak.

It was my nerve that broke first.  “I should have brought you a present. I feel terrible.”

With a twitch of his finger, he reminded me that his hand was still settled on my hip, and grinned back. “You’ve been my present all year round. And I couldn’t have wished for any better. Now; shall we tidy up a little, and see what remains of our pudding?”

With my attention set on him, I had only been distantly aware of how ridiculous we must have looked, standing lost in admiration while covered in pudding debris. Most of it brushed off, or combed out of our hair, and a damp towel took care of our faces. Then we sat down to a pudding that was not quite as “polished”  as it had been, giggling at the prospect of devouring the ruins.

Actually, the inside of the pudding had survived remarkably well. It was firm, moist, and didn’t crumble more than a pudding should as Mr Whybrow sliced into it with a spoon.  “You know – I’d been hoping for a Christmas I’d never forget, but I didn’t imagine I’d spend it looking like I’ve been eaten by my own dinner. How is it?”

Oh, how very thoughtful, making me take the first spoonful. But I was in for a surprise. Rich fruity goodness detonated fireworks of delight in my mouth. It was delicious!

“MMMMmmm!”  I mumbled, wolfing down a second spoonful. I think that answered him. Then I bit onto something hard that almost broke a tooth. “Oww! Bovver! Wotshat?”

I should have been suspicious at Mr Whybrow’s smirk as I cleaned the foreign object with my tongue. It was round, definitely too hard to belong in anything edible, and I thought I could detect a milled edge. Finally, I fished it out of my mouth.

“It’s a shilling!”

“But of course.”  Mr Whybrow continued eating without interruption. “I’m glad you got it. You deserve a crown, of course, but even your mouth isn’t big enough to get one of those into.”

I almost choked as I laughed. “You – wotter! I fink I just boke one,” I added as I felt around my molars.

He almost fell off his chair laughing.  “Don’t forget to make a wish, now.”

At other times, I could have hit him for that remark. But with my mouth full, and my spirit brimming over with joy at the occasion, I could only beam and purr back.  I have, thank you.

Afterwards, he coaxed some coffee out of his samovar, and to go with it, he produced a bottle of something orangey which he held up to the light. “It’s called ‘Southern Comfort;’  a recent import from the US. And it goes perfectly to wind up a Christmas dinner.”

He poured me three quarters of an inch into a tumbler and even before I’d taken my first sip, I could tell it was strong, but absolutely abounding with oranges! Perfect, indeed! I dissolved into the sofa, embalmed in a benign laudanum. I suspected, however, that the real magic was being worked by Santa’s little gift, which would be lodged irremovably in our minds.

I noticed that we were still sitting at a sober distance from each other, and thought that we’d definitely earned a more intimate posture. One of us should move closer – it would have to be me, of course. Should I just do it and move, or should I announce some excuse for doing so? For the thousandth time, our eyes met as if by accident; I perceived that he was taking in every detail of my face with private fascination. However could I have once believed that he’d considered me ugly? His attention threw my train of thought, which was in any case still distracted by his carelessness with the rum. That wasn’t like him at all.

Then he startled me by sitting up sharply. “I know what’s missing here! Music!”

“Oh?”

I thought at first that he was going to fire up his harmonium. But I was wrong. He retrieved a phonograph from his cupboard and wound up the spring before returning to rummage about for a suitable cylinder. “Ahh – no, not the Manfred symphony. Hardly! Ah! Got it!”

Sliding the cylinder onto the mandrel, he set the needle into its groove and a crackly waltz filled the room. “A more recent composition by Gospodin Glazunov! Care to join me?”

He cut a comical bow, which I could hardly resist. “I’d be delighted, sir.”

His hand, guiding me by the waist, no longer felt foreign and something-to-be-got-used-to. It belonged there. I was tempted to sneak another kiss, but the waltz made that awkward. Instead, I showed my appreciation by resting my head on his chest, soothed by the subtle heartbeat thudding into my ear. I felt a little self-conscious with bits of currant and sultana still lodged in my hair, but I did not care. It was entirely thanks to that mischance that my Christmas wish had come to be fulfilled, and I was where I belonged. And it was clear that Mr Whybrow felt exactly the same.

I chanced to look up, and the answer to the mystery of how the rum bottles had come to be transposed stared right back at me from the chandelier with eight eyes. Make that sixteen eyes, since he now had a companion of his own.

HARRY! 

So I hadn’t been imagining what I saw on Santa’s shoulder!  Well, well, our Harry was certainly a fast mover.  “Sir?”  I murmured.

“Mmhm?”

“Without turning your head, look up.”

Mr Whybrow subtly guided us in a half-turn and sniggered into my hair. “How on earth did he get up there?”

I flicked a discreet look upwards and gave Harry a wink, and I could have sworn that he winked back at me!  “I don’t know, sir, but he would appear to be having a merry Christmas of his own.” And a wish fulfilled.

Pulling back a little, Mr Whybrow smiled at me, happy that I’d accepted our uninvited audience without fear. “Then good luck to him! If it’s anything like mine, he shan’t have anything to complain about.”

Neither would I. Once Christmas was over, I’d go back to being The Shopgirl, but things could never be the same again. The moment would be with us forever, pervading our souls like ink into a sponge. I knew that when we spoke – in private, at least – we would radiate, unafraid, a devotion from our eyes which would say more than words ever could, which we would never again have to hide from each other. For the present, though, we didn’t say much, but then there was no longer any need to babble like overexcited teenagers, even if I was grinning like one. It was undoubtedly the best Christmas I could have wished for.

And it would put Mr Whybrow in a better mind for when he eventually learned what had happened when I’d snuck out of the shop to join the carol singers at the town hall.

Well, I’d tried to warn them, but they wouldn’t take no for an answer……….

Thank you, Santa. And Merry Christmas, World!