The dining room at Much Malarkey Manor is in turmoil, even more turmoil than it witnessed at the Great Malarkey Bake Off 1999 when Mrs Pumphrey’s croquembouche was declared winner over Tango Pete’s spotted dick when everyone knew that she’d brought a load of profiteroles from M & S and got her friend, Doris the Spider, to spin the sugar decoration for her. Scandal wasn’t the word for it.
Father Christmas is standing in the doorway of the dining
room, still partially attired in the body bag whose zip has got caught in the
fur trim on his coat. He is looking very much alive, red in the face like a
shiny Christmas bauble, and verging on apoplexy.
‘WHAT IS GOING ON?’ he demands, voice a-booming and hat a-jingling.
‘Him!’ says Mrs Poo, pointing at Inspector Spectre. ‘He is
what is going on! Turned up here accusing us all of the murder of Father
Christmas!’
Father Christmas hops, in the style of a sack race, over to
Inspector Spectre.
‘You foolish oik,’ he says. ‘Father Christmas can’t be
murdered! Yes, he can be concussed by an ill-aimed garden gnome, but murdered?
NEVER!’
All the hens and pheasants here present send up a cheer, and
Father Christmas clutches together his hands in a ‘bravo victory’ salute.
‘So what now?’ says a cross Mrs Miggins, glaring at
Inspector Spectre. ‘Apparently, you have four murder suspects on your hands
and, apparently, the victim is resurrected. How are you going to worm your way
out of THIS one, eh? Are you still going to arrest us all and commit us to
custody…’
‘Oooh, I do like a bit of custardy,’ says Mrs Slocombe.
‘Especially on some puddingy.’
Inspector Spectre realises that he hasn’t actually thought
this outcome through – the outcome of a murder that isn’t. Also, he arrived at
the Manor in his Mini 850 which barely has room for himself and a bag of
shopping let alone four hens, a pheasant and a mythical Christmas figure in a
body bag. He has no idea what will happen if he actually calls the police
station to ask for a van to come and collect them all. He’d probably be
arrested for impersonating a police officer for a start. This is NOT how he
expected his script to pan out. Everything is going very wrong.
‘I just need to consult my notes,’ he says, scurrying off
towards the dumb waiter hatch, and wondering if he can squeeze himself inside
and make his escape downwards without anyone noticing.
‘Ha!’ says Mrs Miggins.
Mrs Slocombe is attending to Father Christmas’s fur-trapped
zip. She is good at fiddly conundrums like that – things caught in zips,
tangled fairy lights, peanutted ties.
‘There you go!’ she says, releasing Father Christmas from the
body bag. She leans forward. ‘Also, I’m sorry for not believing in you,’ she
whispers.
‘Me, too,’ chorus Missus Pumphrey and Poo, and Ptolemy
Pheasant.
‘I suppose we are all a bit guilty of killing Father
Christmas,’ agrees Mrs Miggins. ‘Well, the idea of him, anyway.’
Father Christmas is looking happier, now he is released, and
even though he is still a bit covered in bread sauce.
‘You can’t kill magic,’ he says. ‘It’s impossible. Even if
you stop believing for a while, the seed will always be there. That nugget of
hope and belief is indestructible. You just have hang on in there sometimes, no
matter how rough life becomes. Because even if bad things are happening, you
just have to remember that, with time, all things pass eventually….’
The conversation is distracted somewhat by some frantic
scrabbling in the corner of the room. All eyes turn to be met with the quite
unattractive sight of Inspector Spectre trying to squeeze himself into the dumb
waiter hatch. The law of physics declares this to be impossible on account of
Inspector Spectre’s expanded lockdown backside.
‘Oi!’ says Father Christmas. ‘You! Kenneth the Phantomime!
Come here this instant!’
Inspector Spectre slides out of the dumb waiter hatch and
slopes, sheepishly and head hanging, towards Father Christmas.
‘How did you know it was me?’ he says, revealing himself,
indeed, to be the one and only Kenneth the Phantomime.
‘Well!’ says Mrs Poo. ‘I didn’t see THAT one coming!’
‘Really?’ says Mrs Pumphrey.
‘No,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘Or do I mean yes? Of course I knew it
was him.’
And she tuts and rolls her eyes.
Father Christmas settles himself into the large chair at the
head of the dining table.
‘Hop up,’ he says to the Phantomime, patting his lap.
The Phantomine eyes him suspiciously. ‘Isn’t that a bit
weird?’ he says.
‘Just climb on,’ sighs Father Christmas, so the Phantomime
dutifully obliges.
Once he is settled, Father Christmas begins.
‘This is all about that Hungry Hippos game in 1978, isn’t
it?’ he says, gently.
The Phantomime sits ever so still. And then the hens notice
his eyes begin to glaze over with tears and his bottom lip begin to wobble ever
so slightly. And then the Phantomime nods.
‘Yes,’
he says, in a very tiny voice, as illustrated by the small font.
Father Christmas sighs. ‘I knew in my heart when I put it on
the bottom of your bed that year that it wasn’t really what you wanted,’ he
says. ‘I remember thinking, what does a lad like Kenneth want with a Hungry
Hippos toy? He seems more of a ‘Shaun Cassidy Phono with Sing-a-long Mike’ kind
of chap to me.’
The Phantomime nods. ‘I’d dreamed of one of those all year
long,’ he sighs.
Father Christmas nods. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘You put it in
your letter to me, didn’t you?’
‘I did,’ says the Phantomime.
There is a silence in the room as everyone understands and
feels the disappointment of a small child and their unfulfilled wish on
Christmas morning. They’ve all been there. We all have.
‘Right,’ says Father Christmas, suddenly standing and
dumping the Phantomime onto the carpet. ‘I can put this right. Where’s my
present sack?’
‘Ah,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Right. I need to explain that. It’s
gone off. In my bicycle. Steered by Lady Malarkey.’
‘Well,’ says Father Christmas,’ we need to find her and it
immediately. Come on! No time to lose!’
‘Can I get changed first?’ says the Phantomime, picking
himself up from the floor. ‘This Inspector Spectre outfit is really stifling my
creativity.’
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