A figure in a cerise and grey tracksuit was sitting in the
armchair. It was 1978, the Winter of Discontent, when worker strikes were common,
the three-day week was in force and electricity was more off than on in order
to conserve fuel supplies. And here we are, forty-five years later, plus ca
change…
Anyway, Mrs Miggins has stepped forward to tell the story of
her aunt - Tricia Miggins, who like her, turns out to be a bit of feisty bird.
‘It was the last Girl Guide meeting before Christmas,’ begins Mrs
Miggins. ‘And Tricia Miggins’ troop was in the middle of making Christingles for
the service at Church on Christmas Eve. They were having to be a bit careful because last year’s Christingles proved to be somewhat of a fire
hazard. This year, then, instead of real candles to represent the Light of the
World, they were making some very realistic pretend candles from red wax crayons
with a yellow crepe paper flame stuck on top. Honestly, you could barely tell
the difference!
The Guide troop had almost finished their Christingles and
the girls were looking forward to a mince pie and sing song to celebrate their
final meeting before Christmas. Suddenly, they heard a kerfuffle coming from the car
park. The girls rushed to the door, and when they opened it, a huge flurry of snow
blasted in.
‘Oooh!’ the girls shrieked, as children are wont to do when
confronted by large scale snow, and they grabbed their coats and rushed outside followed by their leader, Tricia Miggins.
And there, in the car park, was a sight Tricia Miggins never
thought she’d ever see in her life EVER. A large sleigh and eight reindeer were
stranded in the biggest downfall of snow that certainly hadn’t been there when
the Girl Guide meeting had started. Atop the sleigh sat a snowman, and the
snowman was shouting a muffled, ‘Help! Help!’
The Guides, who all had their ‘Mountain Rescue’ badges,
immediately clambered over the enormous drifts of snow and brushed away at the
snowman. As the mounds of snow fell, a dark red cloak was revealed… it was not a snowman at all, but Santa Claus!
‘Goodness me!’ said Santa Claus. ‘Thank you so much! In all
my years and all my travels, I have never known so much snow to appear in such
a short space of time. The forecast gave ‘light dusting with potential for
icicles. You just can't trust the forecasters these days.’
‘Santa Claus?’ said Tricia Miggins.
‘Of course, it’s Santa Claus!’ chorused the Guides, who had yet to turn into cynical adults. ‘Santa, do you need our help? We are always
prepared!’
(Are Girl Guides always prepared? I know Boy Scouts are
supposed to be. But I don’t know – I was in the Girls’ Brigade. I think we were
prepared most of the time.)
‘I certainly do!’ said Santa. ‘I am on my way to the
‘Retirement Home for Gentlehens’ on the other side of your village and now it
looks like I am not going to be able to visit. They will be so disappointed.’
‘That will never do!’ said the Guides en masse (they also had their choral singing badges), and they headed back
into their Guide Hut where they pulled snow shovels from the store cupboard (it was a very well-stocked guide hut) and immediately set to digging Santa and the
reindeer out of the snow drift. It took a while because snow was still
falling heavily. Santa, being very well read on Greek mythology, made a cheery
comment about Sisyphus and the Girl Guides laughed and tried to ignore their
growing feelings of cold and exhaustion.
Eventually, though, the troop triumphed, as Tricia knew they
would, and Santa was able to move forwards into the pathway the Guides had also
cleared for ease of take-off.
‘Hop aboard!’ cried Santa. ‘And I shall drop you all safely
home. But you must go to sleep quickly or ‘you-know-who’ won’t be able to
deliver your Christmas presents!’ and he winked and laughed, and the Guides
laughed, too, and clambered aboard Santa’s sleigh.
‘You, too, Tricia Miggins!’ called Santa. ‘Why not come with
me to visit the Gentlehens? I can drop you off at home afterwards.’
Yes, she thought. That’s a lovely idea. For her own Aunt
Violet was a resident and it was a while since Tricia last saw her. Therefore, she
hopped aboard and up, up, AWAY they flew into the snowy sky.
It was such a thrill! As they flew through the air, the bells
on the reindeer harnesses jingling cheerfully, the Girl Guides laughing with
delight, Tricia thought what a shame it was that as we grow from child to adult,
we forget about the magic in our lives that makes this time of year so special.
And she made a promise to herself there and then to seek out that old magic and
grow it once more.
One by one, Santa dropped the Girl Guides back to the warmth
and safety of their homes until finally the sledge landed in the snowbound car
park of the Retirement Home for Gentlehens. Peering anxiously from the front
door was the proprietor, Mrs GooseMcGoggins.
‘Oh there you are!’ she cried. ‘I thought you’d never make
it!’
‘I almost didn’t,’ said Santa Claus. ‘But thanks to your
local Girl Guide troop and their excellent leader here,’ and he nudged Tricia, who
blushed a little, ‘I made it through the snow!’
Into the Home they went and whilst Santa paraded around
spreading Christmas cheer and talcum powder sets to the retired gentlehens
(hens chafe a lot as they age) Tricia Miggins went off in search of her Auntie
Violet.
And there, by the Christmas tree in the communal living
room, she found her. Auntie Violet was snuggled into a chair, looking older and
smaller than Tricia remembered. Spectacles as thick as bottle bottoms were perched
on her beak and her feathers, once a glossy purple -black, had paled to a
slate grey and we all know that grey is never a good look for anyone.
‘Hello Auntie Violet,’ said Tricia, perching herself on the
small stool next to the chair. Auntie Violet peered at Tricia and, even though Tricia
knew the last marble has long left the building of Auntie Violet’s once
quick-witted mind, she thought she could see a glint of recognition in the old
bird’s eye.
‘Is that you?’ said Auntie Violet, her voice small and
creaky.
‘Yes, Auntie Violet, it’s me,’ said Tricia, and gently patted her wing.
Auntie Violet sat bolt upright. ‘Take your wing off me, you
harlot!’ she shrieked, her voice surging with unexpected power. ‘Nurse! Nurse!’
she shouted. ‘Nurse! It’s Princess Maragaret! She has returned to taunt me for
stealing away my beloved Cedric! Nurse! Nurse!’
And then Auntie Violet lunged at Tricia Miggins in a most non-festive
manner and gave her a jolly hard peck
on the leg!
Well! The nurses came running. ‘It’s not Princess Margaret!’
they cried, throwing jellied fruits at Auntie Violet because they knew if
anything would calm her down it would be a squidgy sweet covered in sugar. ‘It’s your niece,
Tricia. She’s come to visit you for Christmas!’
‘Harlot! Jezebel!’ Auntie Violet continued to shout, until
the eating of the jellied fruits (some laced with brandy) began to
take effect and she suddenly fell back in her armchair and began to snore.
The nurses cleaned and dressed the wound on Tricia’s leg, apologising for Auntie Violet's outburst. But Tricia knew ageing takes many forms and tolls on
a body and mind, and she tried to remember the fun and kindly Auntie Violet of old. And by
the time Santa had dropped her at her home and wished her season’s greetings,
the incident was all but forgotten and Tricia spent the rest of the evening
sipping a nice Harvey’s Bristol Cream sherry by the fire and planning her Girl
Guiding activities for the following year, the focus very much being on live
for the day because you don’t know what the future will bring.
‘Oh, that story turned out alright in the end,’ says
Bambino, who has actually rather enjoyed the fracas and drama of it all. ‘The
Girl Guides had a good leader in Tricia Miggins.’
The ghost of Tricia Miggins begins to fade. Mrs Miggins
looks up at the audience.
‘Sadly,’ she says, ‘my brave and pragmatic aunt never got to
implement her New Year plans. Within three weeks, she was dead from the leg
wound inflicted by her own Aunt Violet.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ says Bambino. ‘You can’t die from being
hen-pecked.’
‘You can if it turns out your Auntie Violet had rabies,’
says Mrs Miggins.
‘Oh,’ says Bambino.
Mrs Miggins looks at him. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘No time for
the dilly-dally malarkey. You’re next,’ and she gives him a shove onto the
stage and into the storytelling chair.
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