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Coach and company

A little seasonal story inspired by that well-known Christmas tale of miserly comeuppance. Be warned and don't be a yuletide Scrooge

By Raymond G. TaylorPublished about a year ago 6 min read
3

Christmas Eve, and the Coach & Horses was just starting to liven up. Only when I opened the door did I realise what day it was. Up until that point I had managed to avoid the dreaded pre-Christmas festivities. Opening the door let loose a wall of sound: excited conversation, laughter and yuletide merriment. To hell with all that! Realising my mistake, I was about to close the door again and turn away when someone bustled past me and nearly knocked me off my feet. I ended up in a fluster and was going to curse the offender when I heard a “Well look who it ain’t!” Glancing up, I caught Bob’s eye and could hardly leave now. He’d probably want me to buy him a pint.

“Evening, Neze,” he said. “Pint of the usual?” Before I could refuse and excuse myself, the beer was being pulled from the handpump and I thought I had better be sociable and accept the glass now being proffered. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here tonight,” Bob said, laughing.

“No, just been finishing off in the office. Tax man waits for no one.” That was it, I had committed myself to a conversation. I would never get away now. Pint of cool Harvey’s Sussex in hand, showing clear and bright through the straight glass, its warm-tan tone comforting to the eye, I loosened up a little. I tried a sip and found the taste inviting enough to suggest a long pull. Wiping my lips, I looked up to see several of Bob’s friends now staring at me, as if they expected me to say something profound. I left them to their expectations and glanced down at the bar before me, noting the reflections from the fairy lights in the polished wooden surface.

“Doing anything for Christmas Day, Neze?” Someone piped up. I cringed. It was an old joke and I heard it countless times every year, which was one reason I did my best to avoid the season of goodwill. Can a man not enjoy Christmas alone if he wants to? Why must everyone bully him into joining in? Christmas: all tinsel and tosh if you ask me - bah! I fired a withering look at the one asking the question, killing any further conversation. Or so I thought, but the laughter that followed the brief silence broke the strained atmosphere.

“Okay, okay, I said, patiently, after draining my glass and plonking it down on the table. “What’s everyone having?”

There was no shortage of takers and, as I totted up in my head the cost of my generosity, I wondered if there would have been anyone in that place to talk to, had I not offered to buy a round. Who cares? I thought. I didn’t want to be there anyway.

Several rounds later (two of which I had been obliged to sponsor) my mood had mellowed, and I was almost beginning to enjoy myself. Almost, but not quite. I remembered that it was Christmas Eve, the day my partner Jacob died, these seven years past. He died of a fever the night before Christmas Day. The one day in the year when everyone expects you to adopt a false cheerfulness, regardless of how low you might feel. If you didn’t laugh at the least humorous joke, the most puerile pantomime sitcom, you were branded a miserable old git or told to “cheer up.”

Oh well! I told myself. At least I only had to put up with it once a year, although each year the season seemed to get longer and longer.

With this thought, I decided it was time to go home and sink into my bed, perhaps to stay there for the whole of the dreadful day to come, awaiting the time when I could return to my little office to carry on the business that was my one true love. To hell with Christmas, money was a much more fitting god to worship than the triviality of the annual celebration of tinsel and tat.

As I approached the front door of my little apartment, I heard a rattling behind me.

“What’s that? Who’s there?” I asked.

“Ebenezer Scrooge… Ebenezer Scrooge…” came a wailing voice, announcing the full name that I detested to my bones.

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

“Ebenezer Scrooge!” repeated the voice. “Harken to my voice. I am the ghost of Christmas Present.”

“Christmas Present?” I asked, starting to cotton on.

“Yeah! Christmas Present. And you ain’t gettin’ any this year, you miserable old sod.” With this, there was a cacophony of laughter and out of the shadows stepped half a dozen degenerates from the pub, all laughing and slapping each other’s backs and generally having a great gag at my expense. One of them was holding a long length of heavy chain of a kind I imagined was used to secure factory gates. I suppose I ought to have been flattered that they bothered to follow me home, just to play a silly practical joke, but I was not in the mood. I just wanted to get to bed and sleep as late as possible tomorrow morning to shorten the detested day to a manageable degree. I told them as much, told them all where to go, and sent them on their way, still laughing and joking.

With an assertive thud, I shut the outside door, shut out the sound of laughter, shut out the Christmassy feeling, and headed up the communal stairs to my own private abode. It was with some satisfaction I noted the click of the spring lock, preventing any ingress of the drunken mob into the building. The staircase was a broad, ornate affair from the days when the building was a rich-man’s suburban getaway, mock country manor, complete with huge reception hall, hence the staircase which you could have driven a coach and six up. As I reached the top of the stairs and was about to insert the key into the lock of my door, I was startled to hear, again, the sound of rattling chains.

“What? Don’t tell me they have broken in,” I remember thinking to myself as the sound increased and appeared to have followed me up the stairs.

Scrape, chink, rattle, thump… scrape, chink, rattle, thump…

“What on earth…” I said under my breath and then, shouting down the stairwell “Cut it out you lot! It wasn’t funny the first time.”

Scrape, chink, rattle, thump… scrape, chink, rattle, thump…

“Cut it out and leave me alone you … bastards!”

Scrape, chink, rattle, thump… scrape, chink, rattle, thump…

Looking down below I thought I could see, not half a dozen reprobates from the pub but a solitary figure, shimmering ghostly in the gloom and carrying what appeared to be a huge coil of chains. The spectre had a face that was familiar to me.

“What the ….” I said out aloud, startled not so much by the spectral appearance, but by seeing the ghostly white face of someone I used to know.

“Jacob? Is that you?”

FableShort StoryClassical
3

About the Creator

Raymond G. Taylor

Author based in Kent, England. A writer of fictional short stories in a wide range of genres, he has been a non-fiction writer since the 1980s. Non-fiction subjects include art, history, technology, business, law, and the human condition.

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  • L.C. Schäfer7 months ago

    Why did you stop there!!! 😮 I like the backstory of why he doesn't like Christmas, and how that relates to the real world - how extra depressing that time of year can be for so many people. Also, solid use of "ingress" 😁

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