A Modern Dickensian Christmas by Winthrop Murray
23 December 2022 { Comedy }
Before this story begins, if the reader would kindly indulge me, I will recount a little of the history of Coddington Hall. Such details and knowledge may clutter up an already over stuffed brain but it will help to better understand the story as it unfolds. Indeed the author is nothing if not keen to render the reader of this story a pleasant and uncomplicated diversion especially in these tricky post-lockdown days.
Old Mrs Coddington was dead. There were no two ways about it. She was dead, in so far as her heart had stopped beating and all bodily organs had ceased to function. Dead, departed, deceased or in modern parlance, Old Mrs Coddington had gone tits up.
Mrs Olivia Coddington had no living relatives and as such, her last will and testament was a relatively simple document to decipher. The Executor of the will, the Reverend Parsley Undercarriage, ensured that all her bequests and stipulations were completed in a satisfactory and timely manner. Olivia had left the bulk of her Estate to a local Charity, namely, the Coddington Old Folk's Friendship Society or COFFS as it was affectionately known. She had been the unpaid Chief Executive Officer for the charity since her husband Rincold had died in1989. She had always stipulated that after her death Coddington Hall should be used as a resource for the community; for meetings, workshops, keep fit, hot meals and so on. After less than a week the Reverend Undercarriage signed off the will, and the papers were filed away in the dusty archives of the local lawyer's offices of Messrs Grabbit, Blaggit and Swindle.
The author would like to take a minute to describe the marvellous building that is Coddington Hall. It is a half timbered medieval building with tall hexagonal chimneys, mullion windows, exposed timbers, gargoyles and gothic metalwork. It is a hotchpotch of architectural styles but all the more lovely for that.
Sadly, it was barely a month since Olivia's passing that the Hall was sold. The sale, dear reader, was considered by almost everyone to have been pushed through with undue haste. This opinion was held by all of the faithful volunteers who had worked for the COFFS charity since its inception. Many of the volunteers had joined in the 1960s and had spent numerous happy hours helping to raise funds for the cause. They busied themselves with their jam making, cake baking and monthly fundraisers at St Bartholomew's. The volunteers had been the most loyal and hard working set of lady Oompa Loompas that had ever gathered together for a good cause.
Recently however, there was some disquiet that these ladies were being sidelined or 'put out to grass' as the charity tried to modernise and expand. It began slowly at first but was more noticeable from the time Mrs Coddington first became ill and began to lose her iron grip on the day to day running of the Charity.
It was subtly suggested by the new younger members that many of the fundraisers were getting a little long in the tooth and that the health and safety guidelines were not being followed as they should. Unfortunately there had been a few incidents lately such as when a bunion pad turned up in the lower layer of a Victoria sandwich and a mix up with a batch of Festival chutney. Apparently a bottle of extra strength syrup of figs had been mistaken for one of Balsamic vinegar. Both errors had probably occurred because one of the volunteers, a Mrs Ida Cuppishly refused to wear her spectacles. Anyway, the outcome was that a large group of the elderly volunteers took collective responsibility for the incidents and were sacked on the spot.
The 'new blood' at COFFS decided that in order for their charity to grow and expand they needed to appoint a Chief Executive Officer from London. They wanted a well known celebrity to come and nominally take over the management of the charity and bring in some much needed publicity. In order to entice a successful CEO with a proven track record, they required a commensurate salary, and so, Coddington Hall was sold to raise the money for such a position. In a remarkably short time Lady Ashlea Frogmolian-Blythe was duly invited to join the committee. She was to work three days a week, she couldn't manage more as there was important work in London that required her focus. Work which the locals were aware of due to the regular photos of her in the society pages of the Times; Pictures of her tottering out of various private clubs at all times of the night looking very much the worse for wear. (see Note 1.)
Note 1. The author would like to acknowledge that this type of behaviour is just as frequently observed in men.
The Hall was put on the market and immediately snapped up by the Baxter family from nearby Grassington Fold. Mr Baxter was something very high up in finance in the city and also had a marvellous working relationship with the local triad mafia, and various drug lords.
The family consisted of Mr Bob Baxter and his wife Mrs Chantelle Baxter. Their son Jordan, who had such bad manners and showed so much disrespect to everyone that it is astonishing, dear reader, that no one had ever bashed him on the noggin with a pottery posset bowl or the handle from an antique mangle. Then there were the twins Elsbeth and Tatiana. It is not an exaggeration to say that they came out of the womb screaming and squabbling and had barely stopped these 7 years. From day one the whole family seemed intent to upset the locals. Firstly they built a ten foot breezeblock wall all around the property and a huge electric wrought iron gate. They were brash and self obsessed and the head of the family Bob, made Attila the Hunn seem more like Dame Hilda Bracket, may she rest in peace. The family as a whole seemed to have no redeeming features whatsoever and even at this time of forgiveness and love, one would find it impossible to say anything nice about them.
Christmas Eve 2021.
It was the most Christmassy, the most tinselly and starriest night of the year, as the snow began to fall on the sleepy village of Coddington. A lonely Owl hooted on the frosty air as a hungry squirrel cast its moon shadow across the frozen lawn. And yet, dear reader, inside the Hall dwelt the most sweary, the most belligerent and incendiary family that had ever stomped their filthy boots all over God's scared earth. The angels in the heavens were compelled to put down their lyres and timbrels in order to weep on hearing such goings on inside the historic walls of Coddington Hall.
On this holy night there came a screaming into the living room. The twins had counted their presents under the tree, Elsbeth had 46 and Tatiana only had 44. It was this imbalance that created such a paediatric cacophony.
"It's so unfair" cried Tatiana, throwing herself on to the chaise longue, "How come she's got two more than me?" Her plaintive wailing carried through the snow laden pine trees and could be heard echoing around the cottages in the next village. Elsbeth just giggled in the corner. Though the sound of such angry disharmony echoed around the village, waking all the excited children, the Baxter's weren't bothered. They had fallen out with the neighbours from day one. Coddington Hall was a grade two listed building so the Baxters had gone underground to get around the building regulations. In their new basement was a film room, a sauna, a Botox room and a gym with swimming pool. There had been months of disruption during the building work due to lorries, muddy roads, noise and the constant vibration. Work was meant to be between the hours of 9am and 6pm but it often went on until late in the evening. The police came around several times and Mr Baxter promised it wouldn't happen again but it did, almost every day. Eventually the police got tired of coming round so stopped. Mr Baxter had friends in high places so no action was taken. The villagers washed their hands of the Baxters before they had even moved in.
This Christmas Eve at Coddington Hall was the very antithesis of a Holy night. The fire crackled, Mrs Baxter overindulged in the Christmas sherry and Mr Baxter and Jordan matched her glass for glass with assorted Xmas ales. The two girls insisted on opening all their presents on Christmas Eve and left their new toys littered all over the house. Many were stepped upon, broken or discarded. Jordan spent the evening gaming and studiously continuing his bullying online via Facebook and Twitter. Well, his parents were just glad he had a hobby. Even the dog made a nuisance of itself gnawing the antique furniture, rendering it to kindling by the end of the day.
Whilst all this un-Godly din carried on in the house, outside a little boy dressed in a Victorian outfit, carrying a lantern on a pole slowly walked up the drive. He stopped in front of the house, opened his hymn book, took a deep breath and began to sing in the most beautiful voice "O Holy night, the stars are brightly shining"
It was a voice that would put a young Aled Jones to shame, it was pure and bell like and pierced the air like a musical icicle.
"Who's that?" shouted father looking up from his paper. Jordan looked out of the window
"It's a carol singer."
"How the hell did he get in? The gate should be locked. Get rid of him someone...just set the dog on him."
Mrs Baxter staggered to the door, déshabillé, and stood in the porch way. She opened her mouth to shout something discourteous but all at once she was struck dumb by his beautiful voice. It had a magical quality and bewitched her. Next the dog came out snarling and growling, but in seconds he was curled up on the snow at the feet of the little singer. Then came the twins pinching and pulling each other's hair refusing to let go, however they too fell silent and listened to the music, enraptured. Finally out came Mr Baxter and his son Jordan, both fell instantly under the spell of the music. The whole family stood there listening, linking arms and smiling. Such a change has never come over five people in a thousand Christmas Eves. They stood motionless as the little carol singer continued,
"Fall on your knees, Oh hear the angel voices!
O night divine! O night when Christ was born"
"Pull the door to, we don't want all the heat escaping" whispered Mrs Baxter. Jordan complied but out of habit he yanked the door with such ferocity that the roof tiles shifted and a miniature avalanche began to form at the top of the very high and steep roof. As the snow picked up speed it pulled some of the masonry with it and then one of the chimneys collapsed and slid downwards.
The reader may recount that a huge amount of money was spent on the underground rooms whereas with hindsight some of it should have gone on the crumbling exterior of the house. As the young singer neared the end of the carol the snow and masonry fell off the roof and landed on the Baxters, killing them all instantly. Even the dog was to know no life post avalanche.
In front of the Hall there was now a pile of snow, fortified with limbs and chimney pots, frozen eyes, fingers and gargoyle fragments all rolled into a gigantic and tragic human Popsicle.
The little boy finished his song and raised his eyes from his hymn book. Now although the boy was incredibly talented music-wise, he had unfortunately been short changed in the common sense department. So when he looked up and saw there was no one there, just a pile of rubble, he thought everyone must have just gone inside. He stuffed his hymn book into his pocket, turned around and trudged his way down the drive towards the road.
A mist fell that evening shrouding the Hall in a wintry negligee of frost and diamonds. The locals continued to enjoy their Christmassy activities; the carol singing, the church services and the snow ball fights. Not for one minute did anyone miss the barking dog, the revving of the sports cars, or indeed Mr Baxter's 'effing and jeffing' that made Roy Chubby Brown appear more like Julie Andrews' more timid younger sister. No one noticed the absence of the Baxters, as they lay dead behind their big black gate, not having a most 'wonderful time' at all.
***
Later that night, back at the scene of the disaster, a little robin red breast, the symbol of Christmas, landed on the snow and started to dig with its little feet. What a remarkable chap, the shear can-do spirit of one of God's daintiest animals. Could it be that this tiny animal was trying to somehow rescue the fallen Baxters?
Well dig he did. Eventually uncovering the top of Mrs Baxter's head, her grey roots glistening festively in the twilight. He dug just to the left of her ear and pecked at the object of his endeavours. It was a beautiful ripe and juicy blueberry that had adorned Mrs Baxters Mulled wine. He grabbed the luscious morsel, deftly defecated on Mrs Baxter's forehead and flew off into the night sky, happy that his avian machinations had been most fruitful.
***
It was almost three months before the bodies of the Baxters were discovered. They hadn't bothered to cultivate friendships in the village so no neighbours noticed that they were missing. Mr Baxter's history of poor timekeeping meant that even at work he wasn't missed. The gates were locked so no visitors could get in; the high walls meant nobody could see them, even after the snow melted. It was only when people complained about the smell and a court official arrived with an order for unpaid credit card bills that the gate was forced open and the horrendous accident was uncovered.
***
There was a huge funeral in the Cathedral, many grand and famous faces spoke of their grief although in reality nobody really knew the Baxters. The pews were filled with social media influencers who tweeted and Tik Tocked the ceremony, heaving and retching into monogrammed lace handkerchiefs keeping one eye on the cameras to time their sobs. None of the locals went, they'd lived in the village almost five years but nobody really knew the Baxters.
The house was eventually purchased by the local community who opened the downstairs as a community shop and a cafe. The upstairs rooms were used for meetings, therapy, Zumba and all sorts of local services, that even Mrs Coddington couldn't have dreamed of in her wildest dreams.
***
And here ends our Christmas story apart from two little details that the less observant may have missed.
On the day of the accident the snow was thick on the ground and the little boy's footsteps were preserved in the surface of the snow. The eagle eyed readers among you may have noticed that there was a trail of footprints up the drive to the house and then back down the drive to where they disappeared in to thin air. Neither set of prints went beyond the gate, it was as if the little carol singer had come down from the sky then gone straight back up there after his song. Those who may be even more observant may notice that the footprints were also accompanied by a wavy line track which swished left then right over the footsteps. At this festive time it seems almost too much to say out loud what those tracks suggested. I can hardly bring myself to say it but the evidence suggests...the little boy chorister...had a tail.
***
All that is left dear reader is for me to wish you a Joyous and a Peaceful Christmas and a Very Happy New Year. God Bless us every one!
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