house the day after my parents’ funeral. He told me to get out, that he had to fumigate it, after them dying from consumption, there. That’s what he said. He told me that I could return a week later, after the fumes had dispersed. But when I returned, there was a new family in our house, and they ran me, threatening me with the police, so they did.”
“Have you any brothers or sisters?” Mr Hartwell enquired.
“No, sir, not any,” Tommy answered despairingly.
“Have you any relatives?” Mr Fosdyke asked.
“Apart from an uncle and aunt, living somewhere in Pimlico, that I was unable to find, I have none at all,” Tommy glumly told him. “That’s why I was on the street.” A note: remember that they, the uncle and aunt, are there, somewhere.
“And why the street urchins picked on you,” said Mr Hartwell.
“Yes,” Tommy answered. Taking off one of his shoes, he reached into it. The gentlemen supposed it was to fish out a stray stone. Withdrawing his hand, Tommy said, “But they didn’t get this.” He showed them a shiny bright sixpence. Seeing it, the gentleman laughed, so amused that they were by his antics. Perturbed by their reaction, Tommy said, “Why are you laughing at me? This is my life savings!”
“We are laughing with you,” Mr Fosdyke kindly explained, “not at you.”
“Mind your money well,” Mr Hartwell told Tommy. Seeing the funny side of it Tommy chuckled quietly to himself.
Later, after the gentlemen had shown Tommy upstairs, where the housekeeper, Mrs Mapplethorpe, put him to bed, Mr Hartwell and Mr Fosdyke relaxed. Later, seated in front of a roaring log fire, drinking port, they discussed their find. “The child fell asleep the instant his head hit the pillow,” Mr Hartwell said to his colleague.
“Indeed,” Mr Fosdyke concurred, “he was so tired, from roaming the streets for almost a year, he was unable to keep his eyes open long enough to bid us goodnight.”
“We must search for the child’s uncle and aunt, this very evening,” Mr Hartwell insisted.
“Indubitably,” Mr Fosdyke replied. “And we shall not rest until we have found them. Mrs Mapplethorpe, the housekeeper, will take care of Tommy while we are gone.”
Lighting a taper from the fire, Mr Hartwell offered it to his pipe. Sucking, breathing in the sweet smoke, he relaxed, enjoying the moment. “You know something, Mr Fosdyke,” he said, blowing out smoke. “I have been thinking.”
“Thinking?” Mr Fosdyke replied. “About what?”
Chewing thoughtfully on his pipe, Mr Hartwell said, “About Christmas.”
“Christmas?”
“Yes, Christmas,” he answered. “I have been thinking about it for a while, now. Tommy has focused my thoughts. Let me explain...”
By the time Mr Hartwell had finished explaining, telling Mr Fosdyke his thoughts about Christmas, his colleague was somewhat confused. “Let me get this straight,” he said, “you want to make Christmas better by making it easier?”
“Yes, in a nutshell, that’s it,” Mr Hartwell replied.
“But how is that possible?” Mr Fosdyke asked. “There are so many poor and destitute in England, let alone the rest of the world, it would take a miracle to achieve such a noble ambition.”
Placing his glass of port onto the mantelpiece, Mr Hartwell looked hard in his friend’s eyes, and then said, “A miracle is exactly what I am hoping for.”
Thinking his colleague had drank one port too many, Mr Fosdyke reached up to the mantelpiece and pushed his colleague’s glass gently away from him. Laughing good naturedly, Mr Hartwell said, “That was my first glass of port, and well you know it.” Reclaiming his glass, he sipped the delicious liquid. “I can see that you are confused, old chap,” he said, “so I will put it another way.” Returning his glass to the mantelpiece, he continued, “Can you recall what Mr Scrooge said about Christmas?”
“He said many things about Christmas,” Mr Fosdyke answered, “and all of them unfavourable.”
“He most certainly did,” Mr Hartwell admitted. Gazing into the fire, he watched some sparks escaping the logs. When they had disappeared from sight up the chimney, he said, “He also told us that his partner, Mr Marley, died seven years ago, this very night.”
“He did,” Mr Fosdyke answered. “I thought it most peculiar that such a terrible thing happening – and so close to Christmas – had not softened his temperament, not even a bit.”
Inspecting his pipe, Mr Hartwell noticed that it had gone out. Tapping it against the fireplace, he emptied it of spent tobacco. Refilling his pipe, he said, “If I was Mr Marley, alive and well, not dead as a doornail in a cold and damp grave, I would use my money to make this Christmas, indeed every Christmas, better than the one before it.”
“I am sorry, old chap,” said Mr Fosdyke, “but I cannot see how talking about Marley can make Christmas any better or easier.”
“After we have visited his grave, you will,” Mr Hartwell solemnly whispered in reply. “After we have visited his grave, you most certainly will...”
CONTD
Hot Tin Roof
The cat sat on the hot tin roof,
Enjoying the wonderful day,
His felt so good,
(And so he should),
He'd just eaten a little mouse, hooray!
Sam Spam
There was a young man named Sam,
Who thought everything was made out of Spam,
Then one day, far from home,
With no money, and hungry, he phoned,
Asking if he could eat his Spam elbow with jam.
Harry Rotter.
No, Our Best China’s in There!
Mr and Mrs Privet, of number five Dorsley Drive, were anything but normal. They had been normal only a few weeks earlier, but they were now as crazy as everyone incarcerated in the local loony bin was.
On the outside, Mr Privet, a tall, bald and incredibly thin man, appeared quite normal, but just beneath the surface, barely hidden, he was a seething mass of nervous ticks, idiosyncratic behaviour, peptic ulcers and, above all, just plain looniness. As well as suffering from the same mad ways as her loopy husband, the extraordinarily fat Mrs Privet was also suffering from the dreadful infliction of hearing voices in her head. She might hear them at any time of the day or night, and would oftentimes jump up in her bed, screaming in a most alarming way, giving her husband such a fright he would begin shaking uncontrollably. It was a most dreadful state of affairs altogether. Despite suffering from these awful conditions, Mr and Mrs Privet tried to continue living as normal a life as was possible, but hardly a day went by without one of them experiencing a mad interlude that would make most normal people simply roll over and die.
Before I continue with my story, I must also tell you about their son Box, Box Privet. This child (the veritable apple of their eyes) was, like his father, of a tall and incredibly thin physique. At times, this trait would cause him to be the butt of jokes and jibes by his classmates and acquaintances. However, he paid little or no attention to them, because his mind was always set firmly on the love, the passion of his life – electronics. Upstairs, in his small bedroom, Box would work for hours on end with his soldering iron, long nose pliers and tweezers, creating, crafting bringing his new ideas to life. It was a lonely existence, but he loved it.
I have already told you how Mr and Mrs Privet had been quite normal only a few weeks earlier. In all truthfulness, the Privet’s had been one of the happiest families in their entire estate of mock Elizabethan detached houses. But
now they were mad, living in fear for their lives, the happy and contented existence they had so enjoyed, in tatters, a shambles, a mere shadow of what it had once been.
You see, the Privet’s had been hiding a secret, a big secret. And while it had been contained and suppressed, as they felt is should still be, they had been enjoying that happy and contented life, but from the moment, the very instant this secret, this terrible secret had escaped from its place of incarceration, a private boarding school going b
y the name of Hagswords, their happy and carefree life had come to an abrupt end.
This secret, this big dark secret was in reality a young girl, an orphan, the Privet’s only niece, going by the of Harry Rotter. She had actually been baptised Harriet, but from an early age had insisted that everyone call her Harry.
Let me tell you about Harriet – Harry... She was the boldest, cruellest, nastiest child you could ever be unfortunate enough to meet. To look as her, with her flowing locks of golden hair and a face that appeared so innocent, so angelic, one might easily be fooled into believing that butter could last forever in her mouth without melting. But she wasn’t an angel, no, the unfortunate truth, the terrible truth was she was an out and out scoundrel, a bully who had no respect for anyone but herself. Bullies can and so very often do make the lives of those living around them as miserable as hell – Harry proved to be no exception to this rule.
While Harriet – Harry – had been safely ensconced in her school everything had been just fine, and the Privet’s had been able to forgot about their troublesome niece, but from the moment she broke out, escaped from that high security ‘special’ boarding school, and found her way to the home of her only living relations, the Privets, their lives changed forever.
“Excuse me, please,” said Harry, ever so mannerly when Mrs Privet opened the front door, “I am your only niece. Will you please put me up for a few days?”
“Its young Harriet, isn’t it?” said Mrs Privet, patting her nervously upon the head. “Are