A CHRISTMAS TALE IN 25 PARTS: PART EIGHTEEN

As I approached my keyboard this morning to attempt, in my own humble way, to bring you the latest instalment in this my rather strange notion of creating a kind of story-based “advent calendar” that I find myself (once again) trying to write as a “gift” (or a curse) for my various chums, I suddenly realised that I didn’t actually like this story all that much and that I ought to be telling you another one entirely.

Something full of “fun” and lightness and happiness and cheer, perhaps involving fluffy little bunnies or kittens playing with balls of wool as they wait for the joyfulness which Chrimbletide brings along with it.

Instead I have allowed myself to become embroiled with the wickedness of big business and the twin scandals of homelessness and poverty and these are not the things that we generally like to think about as we prepare ourselves for the annual festival of consumerism and cram our supermarket trolleys full of treats in anticipation of this regular seasonal excuse for excess.

Oh, we may feel rather bleak when those commercials appear upon our televisions asking us to remember those less fortunate than ourselves at this “difficult” time of the year, and we may even go as far as to actually ring the number and donate a few pounds, but generally we slightly resent their existence because they bring down the mood when we’d quite simply rather not be thinking about it really and could you pass me another mince pie, dear…?

But, in the absence of having anything else, I’m sure that we’ll simply persevere, just as I’m sure that it will all make some sort of sense eventually…

Probably…

The reason I approached the keyboard with some kind of dread this morning is, however, because our story has to, by necessity, take a bit of a “dark turn” at this point in order for it to all end up making that “some kind of sense” which I had hoped for, but I realise that this is quite possibly going to diminish your festive mood this morning, as you are munching on your Corn Flakes or whatever other breakfasting option you may choose to partake of, and may very well persuade you to give up on this little story altogether and go and find something far more “fun” to do with your time.

Meanwhile, if you are still here, Olive, one of the housekeeping staff employed by the company owned by Mr Snatch, has just emerged from the foggy dawn to find her employer sitting upon a park bench wearing little but his vest and suit trousers, and still looking after his dog, Mitsy, as per her instructions received during her humiliation at the party to which she was never really invited.

Now they are both less than half a mile (although it might as well be a million) from the grand tower in which they both work, and both of them are freezing to death in sight of it.

Olive staggered and tried to shift Mitsy who seemed to be getting heavier and heavier in her arms, and she stumbled forwards and very nearly dropped her, which brought her nothing but a disgruntled growl from the ungrateful beast.

Despite his own discomforts, Mr Snatch was almost so overjoyed to see a familiar face that he forgot their last meeting entirely and, with something almost approaching enthusiasm, leapt to his feet in order to move across and assist her, taking Mitsy into his own arms and guiding Olive towards the bench that he had previously had to himself.

Mitsy, of course, had never really taken to her nominal “owner” and immediately wriggled and wrestled herself out of his grip and jumped across to settle herself next to where Olive had been placed by a genuinely concerned Mr Snatch.

Olive, of course, after her night spent outside in the freezing cold, was very far gone indeed and barely recognised the man who was trying so very hard to be her saviour, or, at least, if she did, she was unable to express the thought as her mind was so confused, and it was all she could do but ramble on about such things as “No dogs allowed…” and “Mustn’t be late…” her voice barely managing to rise above the level of a whisper, and her breath coming out in rasping clouds.

He looked at her, trying to work out why on earth she was walking about at a time like this wearing nothing but the same party dress in which he’d seen her the night before, or whenever it had been (he had rather lost track) and some rather battered looking shoes.

Olive did not look well, and he got the impression that she was fading fast, and he held her in his arms trying to give her some of the precious heat that he himself didn’t have, whilst trying desperately to think of something that he could do, but then he remembered that his telephone was still in his office and his jacket was hanging in front of a fireplace somewhere unknown to him and perhaps a hundred years ago.

He tried talking to her, tried getting her to stand up and keep moving, but she simply could not bring herself to move any more, and seemed to just curl up and prepare herself for the inevitable. After a few minutes of this, and in a flat panic, he decided that he really needed to go and get some help, and he told her as much whilst promising faithfully that he would come back for her.

Positioning her as comfortably as he could, he stood up and, promising one more time that he would be right back just as soon as he had found someone who could help her, he vanished into the fog…

…and reappeared in another place entirely.

He didn’t have a clue where or when he was, and whoever was doing this to him had a lousy sense of timing when poor Olive was in need of help. He looked about him in bewilderment and confusion and cried out in his anger and frustration at his own powerlessness to change anything that was going on back in the park, as far as he was concerned, right now.

“No, no, no, no, NO!”