“Clear off, you vandals! Break
into a church would you? No respect!”
The
boys did not look very old, probably nine or ten. They turned and saw him, a tall, skinny,
scruffy figure in ragged clothes waving a gnarled old walking stick at
them.
“Ha,
ha, it’s Father Christmas!” one of them yelled.
The
boys scarpered, galloping across the snow with all the energy of youthful
deer. He muttered under his breath as he
finally reached the church door. They
had broken the lock. He pushed, and the
old door creaked open. Least I’m not going to wreck the place,
he mused; perhaps the young rascals had done him a favour.
It had
been bitter cold that night, a distant radio from somewhere in the packed
hostel in town had announced “The worst winter in fifty years …” No room at the
inn, how ironic, he had thought, perhaps he would find a stable of his own somewhere.
And
here it was, not a cattle shed, but the old hilltop church. He marvelled at the silence inside, the pews
eerily empty, strewn with a sparkling decoration of spiderwebs. Wandering up to the altar, he was surprised
to find the statue of the Virgin and Child, old, with peeling paint and chipped
wood. They had been abandoned, shame, he thought, nobody cares any more, not in this modern age.
He sat
down on the front pew. It was dry, but
cold. Ah well, just you and me, My Lady, keep safe, nighty night. Soon he was lying flat out, sleep descending
like a shroud.
“Charlie!
Charlie! Sit up now, the service is about to start!” He awoke and sat bolt
upright.
“Anna?”
he asked, it had sounded exactly like his sister’s voice. He was suddenly six years old again, and the
family were gathered with the other villagers for Midnight Mass. He had been allowed to sit next to his
grandparents. They owned the big farm
which gave them the privilege of occupying the front pew.
Yes,
Anna was staring down at him, the older, but not always wiser. The church was filled with holly boughs. Candles flickered cheerily in sconces around
the walls, the shapes of the congregation dancing like happy spirits against
the stone. The vicar swept up to the
altar in his robes, followed by the choristers, intoning his favourite carol, Hark the Herald Angels Sing. Oh life was so perfect, so simple, way back
then.
“Charlie,
come on, wake up, old son!” the paramedic called. “He’s stone cold,” she turned to her
colleague, “Probably came in to shelter last night.”
“Yeah,
such a shame, on Christmas Day too, poor thing!” he commented.
“He’s got a smile on his face though, hope he passed on
with a nice dream.”
“Charlie, Charlie, come on, it’s Christmas! Let’s go home
and open the presents!” Anna’s voice was crystal clear now.
“Coming!” he called, and took his sister’s hand as they
walked up the aisle of the old hilltop church.
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