Beware! Micro-Tales: A Story For Christmas

At last, that swarthy intruder 2019 is buggering off and we can shift the foetid stench of verbal diarrhoea. Time to un-peg our noses and relax our muscles. Light the fire, bolt the doors, curl up under some spare buttocks and absorb this little story, originally cooked up for Keshco's Christmas Gameshow in December 2012.

A STORY FOR CHRISTMAS

The chill of a North Norfolk winter wind is enough to cut through coats and gloves; sufficient to freeze bared cheeks and chapped lips; it’s enough to burst water pipes and test the limits of insurance policies; and of course, it can mangle the firmest plans.

Bobby flicked the thermostat up and then hauled the canvas bag onto his kitchen worktop, the bag stuffed with all the ingredients for a proper Christmas feast. All the trimmings – and I mean all the trimmings, when Evelyn saw the extent of his labours, there’d be no more of this bitterness, no more teasing, she’d have to agree Bobby’s not a lazy cook, not a lazy bloke. Not a waster. Not a selfish sodding waster. He’s changed, changing, he’s the changing man… on shiftin’ sands, heh. He was going to excel at this one thing – Christmas cooking. Attention to detail, the long game to win her back - this’ll beat the mush that Mark’ll be serving up for her on the day. Bobby was taking things out of the bag. Brussels, broccoli, parsnips, carrots with their tops on, onions, garlic, onto the chopping board close to the nearly-thawed bird, spuds (two types), cranberry sauce, bread sauce packet onto the side for now, gravy granules… and the stuffing… already taken that out? Oh swear. Bobby realised the one item he hadn’t brought home. Attention to detail.

Cursing and half-jogging back up the road into town, Bobby felt for his wallet, mobile, keys. Must be close to closing time, especially tonight when people want to be getting home. He checked – 5.57 – and quickened his pace against the sharp wind.

Yeah, shut. All the staff inside, still letting people out but the guard said no entry. Bobby felt a familiar hot prickly sensation up his back. Doom. Impending doom. OK supermarket shut, where now? He scanned the unhelpful rows. Electric World, Tyres R Us, Fringe Benefits… the health food shop, Eco Explosion, they’ll have some kind of stuffing.

Shut. Completely shut. Gone. Nobody home. Shop inventories were tumbling away from his grasp.

Bobby started doing that walk, fast but strangely hesitant, jerky, eyes in all directions, in danger of changing direction at any moment as the walker has no idea in which direction he’s meant to be headed. He did a circuit of the old market, he went through the covered craft bays, he rounded the church twice, and then, at the top of Wordsworth Street, when the town faded away into railings, half-parks and terraced housing, his eyes were caught by an unfamiliar building. This was new, well old-styled, but in a new place, had they taken over… well what was it before? Now it was a shop, with the light on, a shop with the look of an old general stores from pre-war days. Very fetching.

Bobby stepped inside the shop, closed the heavy door behind, and took in his surroundings. An old lady with a bun sat behind the traditional wooden counter. All around, jars of sweets, jars of pills, packets, home-baked bread… loaves of sugar?

The lady ate her bun, wiped her lips and her hands and greeted Bobby warily. “Help you, young man?”

Bobby was still scanning the shelves for stuffing. My word he thought, they’re taking the retro theme quite far. Are they allowed to do that with branded products? The Cadbury bars looked most...

“Is this stuff for show?”

“For show, what you mean? I have to put the produce out so you can see what you’re buying.”

Bobby considered for a moment. Then his eyes alighted on a box of Paxo… yes, Paxo. Old-style Paxo. He took it down from the shelf, and as he did, felt a strange judder down his arm like static electricity.

“That’s a fresh consignment in from Manchester.”

 Bobby fished in his wallet and took out a fiver. The lady wrinkled up her nose, gingerly accepted the note and gave it a thorough once-over.

“Well what have you given me here?”

“Yes sorry I don’t have exact change…”

“Whatever the Devil is this meant to be? That don’t look like a white fiver. Feels funny. Looks funny. Who’s that face on there?”

“…yes it’s a valid – “

“What’s that meant to be?”

“Yes, alright –“

“Who’s Mervyn King? Never heard of him. Are you in cahoots?”

“Look it’s a normal fiver, I need to get back now, I’ve got to cook this –“

“You’re not going anywhere with that until you’ve paid me proper English money.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake. Right! Look just keep the change.”

Bobby picked up the Paxo and made for the door.

“Young man!” she ejaculated after him.

He opened the door, and was hit by a blast of particularly icy wind that knocked him back on his heels. He suddenly realised that he didn’t recognise the street outside. Or rather, not quite. It looked familiar but somehow half the street was missing, the streetlamps had gone, and the road was more akin to a trackway.

He spun round back into the shop. The lady glowered, now out in front of the counter. “Changed your mind have you?”

Bobby’s face wore the expression reserved for the most extreme of trying circumstances. Squinting, he braved his head out of the door again… then returned it with stinging eyes.

“You going to stop playing silly beggars?”

“You tell me… Wordsworth Avenue seems to have regressed in the last 5 minutes.”

And now Bobby saw the old lady had regressed too, she looked in her prime. In fact, the contents of the shop had changed too, and the Paxo in his hand had fluttered away and was gone.

And now the wind seemed to be whipping up, even more intense than before, and as it battered the shop almost as if it could lift it up from the earth, the old lady lunged at him with a hairpin and he saw her melt into childhood then dissipate to pinpricks, as he felt himself freezing in time, going back, smaller, smaller, the shop now a blur of dim light tracings, a mess of angles, a fractal whirlpool, with his thoughts spinning further away, out of time…

After a particularly trying Christmas Eve night being dicked around by her ex who evidently thought it was funny to ask her over and then not even be there, Evelyn’s “fresh start“ Christmas was further ruined by a visit from a pair of police officers, who had the solemn duty of reporting the bizarre circumstance of a seemingly-long-decayed-skeleton found early on Christmas morning at the top of Wordsworth Avenue, its now ragged coat containing her estranged husband’s mobile phone, keys and wallet. If this was someone’s idea of a practical joke they’d pulled it off with considerable attention to detail.