The Returned Book by Anna Kingston

 The back door burst open and the bitter East wind blew in Uncle Harry, wrapped in umpteen layers, with only his twinkly brown eyes visible over the huge pile of books he carried. He kicked the door shut with one foot, Mum wincing at the careless treatment, and let the books tumble onto the kitchen table.

“Golly, these are heavy, in more ways than one!” Uncle Harry laughed. “I’m so glad to be shut of them!”

My cousin, Thomas, was a year behind me at uni and I’d lent him some of my text books for his dissertation project, with the proviso that I needed them back for my Masters - hence Uncle Harry’s visit today. 

He and Mum sat at the table with coffee and slices of freshly baked cake, whilst I staggered upstairs under the weight of the art history books.  Took me two trips to take them to my room - Uncle Harry was stronger than he looked!

I peeled off Thomas’ sticky notes that he’d used as bookmarks and replaced the books on my bookcase. As I picked up the last few, one seemed fatter than it should, so I flicked through it wondering if Thomas had left some of his notes inside. Instead, there was another book nestled almost deliberately in the middle of my well-thumbed copy of ‘Yorkshire Art Deco Artists’. Not recognising it, I took it downstairs intending to ask Uncle Harry to return it to Thomas, but Harry had gone whilst I was sorting out my books.

“Take it back on Sunday when we go for lunch,” Mum suggested, so I sat down to have a nosey read of Thomas’ book. We used to swap books often as children, but not in the last ten years or so, and I was curious about what he read as an adult.

The book - ‘Wormhole Vectors for Astrophysics Beginners’ - was miles away from the art world that Thomas and I inhabited. A small, black, nondescript book, crammed with scientific jargon and complicated formulae and notations, it held my interest for less than the thirty seconds it took to flick through it. I chucked it onto the table a bit too hard, and it slid off and landed on the floor with a slap.

Sighing, I heaved myself up and went to find it. The book had landed splayed out flat on the floor and, as I picked it up, a photograph fluttered to the floor. Curious, I turned it over and was struck hard by the two faces that smiled out at me.

“Gotta be Photoshopped,” I thought, feeling admiration for Thomas as I looked at the photo of him and Adelaide Jebson, Huddersfield’s answer to Charles Rennie McIntosh. As Thomas’ pranks went, this was right up there - he knew of my passion for Yorkshire artists and also of my suspicion of sci-fi novels and films.  What better prank than the suggestion of time travel and meeting one of our art heroines?!

I texted Thomas, with a photo of his book and the photo, asking him how his visit with the artist had gone - I do have a sense of humour, despite his opinion that I do not - and thought no more about it. 

Over Sunday lunch, I returned the book and photo, saying how impressed I was with his digital photography skills. With an odd little smile, he asked how closely I’d looked at the photo, at the entire thing and not just the faces, and passed it back to me.

I looked again, not getting his point. There it was, him and Adelaide, around 1930 judging by her age, alone in her studio together apart from the photographer - I was still mystified.

“You still don’t see?” Thomas queried.  “The photo is a Polaroid. Even now, with all the tech we’ve got, we can’t fake a Polaroid…” and left the table, still wearing that odd little smile…

A.M. Kingston © 2021

The Journey by Chris Lloyd

I’d like to get hold of the person who decreed that a Census was needed. Why? We know who we are and it’s not like we are trying to hide where we come from. To top it all, we have to go back to where we were born in order to be declared “citizens” of that place. It’s a three-day journey for me and the wife and she’s a bit peaky at the moment; not sure what’s wrong with her. Nightmare it is. Still, we’re all in the same boat so I suppose we’ll have to grin and bear it so we can get on with our lives. Why don’t they do these things when the weather is less cold of a night?

There’s nothing wrong with Bethlehem, (that’s where we are originally from), but we moved for a better life and so that I could be a proper carpenter, you know making nice furniture instead of house bashing all the time; anybody can do that, well not anybody per se but the reality is that they don’t have to have the skills I have. On the other hand, the shekels are good.

Anyway, we set off with our donkey and a few chattels, home comfort items if you like, and started the three-day trek from Jerusalem. It was ok at first but gradually the roads became really busy with camels, donkeys, shepherds and sheep and people shouting. There were even three posh gents looking very regal riding along on their equally posh camels each one appearing to carry a meticulously wrapped parcel. But from our point of view, it was noisy, dusty with nothing much to guide us, although there was a bright star in the east so basically, we followed that as we knew we had to head eastwards.

By this time, we had camped out two nights, the traffic was horrendous and there was dust everywhere. I was beginning to wonder if we would find a hotel in Bethlehem but there must be people going the other way so maybe it would be ok. We didn’t think we’d have to book a room but I had a sneaky feeling that would prove to be a mistake. But never say never, that’s my motto.

Eventually, we walked in to Bethlehem and started to look for some accommodation but after hearing “there’s no room at the inn” for the twentieth time, we were ready to spend yet another night sleeping under the stars. However, someone from the last hotel feeling sorry for the wife, offered us their stable for the night. What could we say, certainly not no, so we thanked them and moved in. It was ok too and with a few sheep, cattle and oxen already settled down and snoring. It was reasonably warm.

I must have dozed off for a while because the next thing I knew, Mary, my wife, was giving birth to a baby boy. To say I was shocked was an understatement and then about thirty minutes later as if on cue, the three posh gents I saw on the way to Bethlehem turned up. They bowed down to our baby and gave him the gifts I saw them carrying on the way. It turned out that they’d given him Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh which was a bit weird to be honest given they didn’t know him or us. Then they called our baby The Messiah, Lord of all. I didn’t get it as we’d called him Jesus. We laid him in one of the hay mangers and made him warm with a few layers of cloth. Then, the Word must have got out because loads of people came with gifts for him and to a man, or woman, they bowed and called him Little Lord Jesus. He wouldn’t have heard them though because he was spark out in the manger.

As I was looking down at our son, I heard some kind of choir singing, they were very good, almost angelic in fact. Mary stirred, held my hand and said, “This is like being in a dream. What on earth, or in heaven, have we started?”

The rest, as they…

On the Way to Bethlem by Judy Mitchell

‘It was about 3 o’clock when he knocked on my door. Decked out in clothes I had never seen him in before and I would not have known him if I had passed him in the street. Believe me Sir, he was all smiles and nods and made such loud exclamations of the season’s good wishes that my wife and I were quite lost for words.

He insisted on joining in all our games and when they were over, he bade us start again and there was no denying him. Each winner of our parlour games was rewarded with coins and his generosity became almost embarrassing. When someone suggested singing carols around the hearth, he joined in with such gusto. His tapping feet, tripping around the piano, and his fingers drumming on its lid, meant that our attempts at singing in harmony at which, even if I do say so myself, we have become quite accomplished, were quite drowned out by his excessive enthusiasm.

I have given him the same chance each year, Mr Cratchit. Every year I have tried to persuade him to join us on Christmas Day and, despite his rudeness and rebuffs, I have not been put off. I tried again only yesterday. You were there and may have heard me.  I would never have thought he would turn up on my doorstep today in such spirits. His last words to us were his promise to drop in to see us in the New Year. Can you believe it?  Such a change in character!  It has left me worrying that he has lost his senses. My wife suggested I should come here without delay to check if you had seen something of this sudden change in him? What could have possibly brought on this excessive frivolity in the space of only one day? Yesterday he was telling me that I should be boiled alive with my own Christmas Pudding!  Times many I have listened to his response of “Bah Humbug” to my Christmas greetings. I am quite at a loss and fear that some dreadful disease has entered his brain. I have nowhere else to go, Mr Cratchit. There are no relations I can turn to. As you know, Marley, his partner, has been dead these seven years. What am I to do?  Is it to be Bedlam for my poor, old uncle and a strait waistcoat to contain his exuberance, perhaps?’ 

The nephew shook his head in disbelief and the clerk’s eyes grew wider at each sentence describing his employer’s transformation. But it was the implications for the business and his own livelihood that made poor Cratchit share with the young man, the strange events of earlier in the day and his own suspicions about the mystery benefactor.

‘Sir, I feel it only right to acquaint you with an equally bizarre tale of receiving a gift this very morning when I was at church with my son, Tim. It seems that in my absence, the Poulterer’s man, Joe Miller, came here by cab, in which was stuffed the largest prize turkey you ever did see. Poor Mr Miller was forced to hire a cab to see it safely delivered. There was no one to help carry the monster and he had been about to close the shop to go home for his dinner when a boy came from your uncle with the instruction that the prize bird was to go immediately to Camden Town to this house.

Well, you can imagine my poor wife’s surprise! She thought it must be a practical joke knowing that making any such gift would be quite beyond the habits of my employer, your uncle. Besides Sir, we had a goose cooked and steaming in the parlour - a little on the small side, I grant you, but quite sufficient for our needs. It seemed that the Poulterer’s man was under instruction to not divulge the name of the purchaser but he let slip the name in his haste to convince my wife that she was not to be accused of theft or foul play.

There was no turning the turkey back and it has squatted in our parlour since this morning like some monstrous potentate ready to gobble up my children who are terrified that it will squash them to death. I am sure it could never have stood on its own legs and it is too plump to be cooked at our house and possibly too big to enter the ovens at the bakery without some serious butchery. 

I have never had anything from your uncle before, Sir, indeed he is loath to even grant me today as a holiday. We have been most concerned that there is some unfathomable reason for such generosity.  Now, listening to your account of his time with you, I fear we must mark him well and you may wish to secure the services of the doctor if these symptoms persist. Shall I call on you tomorrow evening, Sir, to report on how I have found him?’

The two men parted, each reassuring the other that there was no cause for alarm and that there would be some perfectly rational explanation for Ebenezer Scrooge’s change in habits.

 

The clock had already struck the hour when Bob Cratchit woke on the following morning and threw the blanket off his feet and rushed to wash in the cold water. Even by running all the way, it was quarter past the hour before he could see his workplace across the Court in the distance. He tried to dart across the road but was halted by the rapid approach of a Hackney, travelling at some speed in the direction of Southwark. As the cab drew level, he gasped as he saw ten, bony fingers gripping the cold metal bars and above them, a familiar, white, gaunt face stared out from the carriage window, its wild expression that of a lunatic.

It was more than eighteen minutes after his appointed starting time that the clerk hastily sat on his stool and picked up his pen, not daring to look up and fearing the worst. Then, as he paused to dip the pen in the ink on his desk, he turned towards the Counting House. 

On the stool where Ebenezer, the grasping, covetous, old miser had sat for decades, was Fred, the nephew. A look of smug satisfaction spread slowly across the young man’s face. With a sense of horror, the clerk realised that the ghostly features of the tormented man in the cab told a story of deceit, wickedness and incarceration, perpetrated by the nephew on his uncle who, at that very moment, was hurtling along the London streets on a journey to Bedlam from where there would be no return.

Twenty Hand-crafted Xmas Cards by Owen Townend

- This year I'm making my own Christmas cards.

- Good for you! Not fully making them though?

- Yes, fully making. I do have the materials, Angela. I'm going to give it a whirl.

- Don't take this the wrong way, Harold, but I think you might just be a little mad.

- Pish-posh! I know what I'm doing. I'm a craftsman.

- You make jewellery and sell it at market.

- Well then. Cards should be a doddle by comparison.

- All right, maybe. What sort of card will you use?

- Green. Thick. Possibly red.

- But not so thick that you can't cut it?

- Of course not. Dozy mare.

- What designs will you cut?

- Intricate. Christmas tree. Maybe mistletoe or holly.

- Really? That'll be a very prickly card. You won't get much more than 'Merry Xmas' on it.

- So? The name of the recipient will be on the envelope.

- That envelope should probably be made of some sturdy paper or else the card will cut it to ribbons.

- Oh, shush.

- And what about decoration?

- Bits of tinsel probably.

- The envelope will have to be quite wide as well then. Sorry, dear.

- How about some actual holly then? Just a sprig, mind.

- That would definitely get squished in transit.

- Fabrics then. A little red felt flap to open on the inside? Does that suit madam?

- That might work. It'd have to be a very thin piece of fabric though.

- Obviously.

- How are you for glue?

- Oh, I have plenty of adhesive. For all kinds of material.

- A glue stick should do it. My Maddy did something similar last week, in class.

- They've got her onto that sort of thing already?

- Yes. Christmas begins on the first of December at her school.

- Oh.

- I could ask her for tips if you like.

- Funny, Angela. Very funny.

- Well, it's a bit of a laugh.

- Not when I need to get twenty out in a week.

- That many?

- Give or take.

- You're not thinking of taking my name off that list, are you?

- Well, if I’m honest…

- Ooh. You are cruel, you are.

- I suppose I have my moments.

- Twenty hand-crafted Christmas cards.

- Yes.

- Twenty cards, Harold. You're definitely mad.

- Well, I do have to be something when I'm not cruel. Apparently.

- Mark won't help you?

- Can't. He's at the town hall. Rehearsals started on the weekend.

- What's he this time?

- The Angel Gabriel.

- Typical.

- Yes. He’s been tooting his own horn all bloody week.

- And you haven't?

- Right. That's you off the list.

- Whatever makes things easier...

Neglect of Instructions by Dave Rigby

 

At school, they’d give you a blue monthly report if you had credits and no debits. In other words – good behaviour and good work.

If you had any of those pesky debits, it was a white report!

But they’d sneak in the debits. Neglect of instructions was the sneakiest – and for me, the commonest. At the age of twelve I wasn’t really sure what the phrase meant, but it kept recurring.

You’d think I’d have learnt my lesson.

The satnav just told me to turn right. I didn’t. Ignore satnav, engage brain. Haven’t been in this town for years, but I still know best.

The road is completely unfamiliar. It feels like one of those dreams where you start off knowing where you are. Then the familiarity dissolves and you’re in a strange land.

I contemplate a U-turn, but as that would be admitting defeat, I press on. The rain starts again, wipers follow suit, street lights come on, twilight. The edge of town already? How can that be? Fields and trees begin to push their way forward. Thin trunks and spidery limbs silhouetted against the night sky.  

At the delimit sign, the lights are left behind. The woods encroach, a beware deer sign flashes past. The radio crackles, fades in and out and then drifts away altogether. I really should turn back, but there’s this want to know feeling. How can I have got it so wrong? Me, a geographer, with a built-in sense of direction.

The car begins to stutter. A glance at the gauge. Another instruction neglected. Don’t forget to fill up I was told just before setting off. I manage to coast onto the grass verge, brambles scratching against the bodywork. Feeling foolish, I get out, spread my arms on the roof of the car, exhale and try to calm down. Staring into the leafless trees, I wonder what to do next.

This back road is deserted. Ignoring the internal instruction to walk back to town, I begin to amble further on into the evening gloom – petrol can in one hand, torch in the other – thinking that there’s bound to be a house, a farm or maybe even a village up ahead. At least the rain has stopped.

After ten minutes of slow progress, my hunch proves right. There’s a farmhouse set back, maybe a quarter of a mile from the road, a light just visible. The track is muddy and potholed. My black lace-ups are not keen on this choice of route. An owl flits by. There’s a bare, freshly-ploughed field to my left. To my right, sheep are grazing and snuffling. In the torchlight I watch their breath curling away.

Close to, the house is bigger and more tumbledown than I’d thought. The light I’d spotted from the road is shining from an upstairs window. The front door is ajar, but I use the heavy ornate metal knocker and wait. No response. I try again. Pushing the door further open, I shout hello. Still no response. I walk inside, a large hallway, threadbare rugs on the floor, paintings on the wall hung at odd angles. One of them, of a Flemish fair, seems familiar. Climbing the stairs, I keep shouting out. At the top I hold my breath. There’s a light under the door of the second room to my left. A faint sound. When I knock, the noise stops.

The doorknob turns.

An old man, with long grey hair and a straggly beard, peers at me, seemingly unsurprised by my presence.

    “You came! I wasn’t sure that you would. How are you?”

How should I respond? He’s either mistaken me for somebody else or his memory has gone. His eyes focus on the petrol can I’m still carrying.

    “Run out, have we? Happens a lot around here. Not to worry. We can syphon some from the old Rover. That’s as soon as you’ve helped me with my little problem, Gerald.”

The can clatters as it hits the bare boards. Was that a truly inspired guess or is this someone I’m supposed to know?

Slowly, starting with the Flemish painting, small pieces of a forgotten mental jigsaw begin to fall in place. Underneath the hair and the beard, it’s Jonas. The black sheep of the family. How old was I the last time we met? Six … seven …?

    “Uncle Jonas? How are you?” is all I can manage.

    “Fair to middling, young Gerry. Fair to middling. Now come on we’ve got some sheep to sort out. Can’t do it on my own any longer. Then we’ll get some fuel into that tank of yours. Unless, that is, you want to stay the night.”

Something about the way he talks draws me in and I find myself saying yes, that would be very nice.

The questions race into my head, all jostling for pole position. But maybe it’s better not to know.

Maybe I should neglect instructions more often.