We – Mrs Miggins and I - are standing outside Much Malarkey
Manor, which is beautifully bedecked in all its Christmas glory. Fairy lights,
holly boughs, garlands of flamingo, that kind of thing. The night air is laced
with frost, and woodsmoke buffets and twirls from the chimney stacks. All is
calm, all is bright.
Except for the noise up on the roof which has brought us
outside to investigate.
‘There is definitely someone up there,’ I say, peering into
the darkness overhead. ‘Someone carrying a suspicious looking sack. A burglar!’
‘Possibly. But possibly not,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘It could be
someone else,’ and she tips me a wink, suggesting the intruder could be Father
Christmas. Either that, or she has something in her eye.
‘Ha!’ I say. ‘That old myth? That’s just for children, Mrs
M. No, I bet it’s an opportunist thief using the guise of Father Christmas to
go on a robbery spree. Well, he’s picked on the wrong house here,’ and I cast
my eye around the garden for a suitable weapon with which to see off the evil
criminal. My eye lands on a hefty garden gnome.
‘Aha!’ I say, picking it up and testing its weight in my
hand. It’s light enough for me to employ my shot put skills, yet heavy enough
to make a point if my aim is true. It’s also almost torpedo shaped, which will
help with the aerodynamics of my throw.
‘Right,’ I say, taking a firm grip on my missile and setting a beady eye on my target. ‘This’ll teach the b****r to mount a burglary on Much
Malarkey Manor and spoil our Christmas….’
But as I raise my gnome-laden hand and gird my loins for a
hefty throw, Mrs Miggins places a gentle wing on my arm.
‘You might want to think again,’ she says, softly, and looks
upwards again to where the intruder is.
And as I look again, more carefully this time, through the
wise eyes of a wise hen, I notice a large, black fluffy blob of a cat waving
cheerfully at me from what looks suspiciously like a sleigh, in front of which
are eight reindeer, stamping and blowing, jingle bells jingling, and clouds of steamy breath curling from
their nostrils.
‘Bambino Bobble Wilson?’ I say. ‘But I thought he was going
to a Christmas party at ‘The Squeeze Inn.’
‘I think that might have been a smokescreen to put you off
the real reason for his absence this evening,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘I knew he’d started a new job recently, and that he would be busy working Christmas Eve on a
very important project. I think I’ve just realised what that job is.’
‘Assistant to Father Christmas?’ I say, lowering the gnome
and dropping it on the ground.
‘It seems so,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Something to do with the
invention of a new landing system operated by a red button gadget. He’s a
clever chap, is our Bambino.’
‘Well I never!’ I say.
And Miggins and I stand and watch as Father Christmas and
Bambino, heads together over a sack of presents and a small gadget with what
looks like a red button glowing in its centre, linger on the roof of Much
Malarkey Manor for exactly 3.2 seconds before jumping into the sleigh and
taking off.
‘Quick as a flash!’ says Mrs Miggins.
‘He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle. And
away they all flew like the down of a thistle,’ I whisper.
We are interrupted in our moment of wonderment by Mrs
Pumphrey who is in the middle of decorating her first gingerbread house for the
Christmas Eve party (there are parts enough for the construction of a small
village of gingerbread houses) and requires some assistance with the gable ends
of a row of terraced cottages. She’s not a natural cook, is Mrs Pumphrey. The
closest she comes to making an evening meal is microwaving baked beans in a mug
and scattering grated cheese on top. Sometimes she can make toast, but it’s a
hit and miss affair.
‘Who was that?’ she asks, pointing a dripping with icing
spoon at the small spark of light vanishing into the distance.
‘That,’ I say, ‘was a visit from a piece of Christmas
magic.’
‘Oh good!’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘Now, I don’t suppose you can
come and perform a piece of Christmas magic on my gingerbread houses can you?
I’ve reached a point of sticky saturation and I still have to go and get
dressed for the party, which is no mean feat in itself.’
And she turns and vanishes back into the Manor.
I turn to Mrs Miggins.
‘Are you feeling a sense of déjà vu?’ I say.
She nods.
‘I most certainly am,’ she says, and we head back to the
warmth of the house. ‘But I do like a bit of déjà vu, don’t you? I see it as
being able to have a second chance at putting something right that went a bit
wrong first time around.’
I think I know what she is talking about although I can’t
quite put my finger on how and why I’m feeling like I’ve been here in this
situation before. Ah well, I think to myself, as I close the door behind me.
Soon the party guests will be arriving for our traditional Much Malarkey Manor
Christmas Eve party. It feels like it will be a good party, too.
As I pass the table in the hall, the telephone rings out. I
pick up the receiver.
‘Hello?’ I say. ‘Much Malarkey Manor, the Lady of the House
speaking.’
‘Good evening, madam,’ says a familiar voice, gravelly in
pitch and sombre in tone. ‘I understand you are holding a Christmas party this evening…’
‘We certainly are,’ I say, trying to pinpoint why the voice sounds
so familiar. ‘Who is this please?’
‘I am Inspector Spectre,’ says the voice. ‘And I would like
to drop by, if I may. I have a few questions I want to ask regarding a
recent crime in the area…’
I laugh, suddenly recognising the caller.
‘Oh, Kenneth the Phantomime, you are a hoot!’ I say. ‘Inspector Spectre indeed! You
don’t need to make excuses to come to our party. You are very welcome to join
us. The more the merrier, that’s what I say.’
There is a brief silence.
‘Well, thank goodness for that!’ says Kenneth the
Phantomime, all pretence of severity lifting from his voice. ‘Someone told me
it was a murder mystery fancy dress theme and I had this old police costume
hanging around so thought I’d give it an airing.’
‘That doesn’t sound like you at all,’ I say. ‘I shall be
most disappointed if you don’t arrive wearing at least 75% sequins and a
feather boa to rival Mrs Pumphrey’s.’
‘I shall go and change immediately!’ says a very relieved
Kenneth the Phantomime. ‘Although I like the Inspector’s cloak – very swishy –
the trousers are terribly drab and not me at all.’
‘In all things, to your own self be true,’ I say. ‘Green
sequin flares are the order of the day for this party, Kenneth. See you later!’
As I replace the telephone receiver in its cradle and head
towards the kitchen where a light-hearted fracas appears to be occurring, I
smile. Despite the harshness life can sometimes put us through, with a little
bit of magic and a lot of faith, hope and love, I know everything will be all right.
Comments
KJ
Have a very Happy Christmas, both of you (of course not forgetting Bambino and Edith) and I look forward to much more wild writing in the New Year.
Take care xx
Mrs Duck