Angus Wolfe Murray
Mr Teak hooked shiny bobbles over the Christmas-tree branches. He wore tennis shoes and tight chef's trousers. The candles were made from beautifully coloured wax; the tree wreathed with silver twine, star-spangled. Mama sang carols under it alone on Christmas Eve. Mr Teak said, I heard you, my lady, and thought it was an angel singing. They wished wach other a happy good night. At the crack of dawn Jonathan and Jane went mad in their Father Christmas cowboy kits and woke the whole house, braying and dying down the stairs. The drawing room was ankle deep in presents, all wrapped in fancy floozy paper (chosen and tied by the tidy Mr Teak). Mama watched, entranced, as the children tore their purple parcels to pieces and waded through oceans of waste to nudge her cheek. Uncle James wore red plus-fours for lunch. He carved the turkey, popped the champagne corks, poured and cut and ate and drank, snipped the tips off tiny cigars. Nanny, bubbling, had to retire upstairs. A telephone call from Aunt Caroline wished: A Happy Christmas to One and All. They threw open the doors. Sleet bounced off the drive. mama ran out shouting, HURAYYYYY! They circled the glittering tree , holding hands and singing. Mr Teak's face glistened with joy. tea was spread like a feast, warm mince pies and treacle tarts and sugar fingers and a great castle of a cake, packed tight with sixpenny pieces individually sewn into nylon bags. jonathan telephoned the Fergussons to say, Merry Christmas Peter, only to be told, Peter's got measles. Mr Teak advanced, white-aproned, to cut his cake. Voices moaned, no, no, too full, there isn't any space. He pleaded, just a nibble, sir, just a soupcon, my lady. Mama poked a thimble-full into her mouth and Jonathan sucked sixpence. Christmas rain followed Christmas sleet. Nanny had VP wine and went to sleep on the nursery floor. Mama ventured through the swing doors, found Mr Teak folding paper napkins into the shapes of galleons. Thank you for all you've done, she said. Mr Teak bowed. It's been the best Christmas of my life, he croaked.
The weather turned. Slushy snow splattered against the house and melted on the roads. new toys were broken. Jonathan, in quarantine from Peter's measles, stayed at home. The house settled. Mrs Mackenzie, the old white witch, who had been cleaning since Papa was a boy, retired. Her arthritis was so bad she couldn't hold a feather duster. Mr Teak, in the kitchen, snipped photographs from glossy magazines and stuck them into a scrap-book. I prefer the touch of a shiny page, he explained, his lips stained by a million Woodbines. Mama, in Papa's room, rested. Uncle James came to see her. They quarrelled. ('I've had enough of it!' 'You haven't had anything except our hospitality.') Uncle James returned to his cottage, confused and uncertain, to consider the extent or importance of his futility. The time was coming, he knew, when he must make a decision. But not now. Not on New Year's Eve! he gave the cat beer and the cat dived into a deep sleep. he celebrated alone. The dogs, drugged on a double dinner, snoozed in their straw. The silence troubled him. He shouted, beat the gong. The dogs woke and barked. He threw the cat out of the window. Find a vixen you mouse! He jumped into the Land-Rover, wind whining like a girl, and drove wildly through the filthy night to first-foot his friends. Two miles from the Cairntres road he ran out of petrol. He cursed and kicked, emptied the rest of the whisky into the tank. It made no difference. He waited half an hour for help and when none came he began walking. He sang songs. He waved his arms. Snow showered out of the darkness. his mouth froze. He imagined all kinds of monsters treading his footsteps. He covered his ears with his hands. It was so dark, a depth indefinable. His shoes clicked and snicketty clacked. Owls hoo-o-o-oted. The cold numbed him. Exposured death was ignominious. Like being run over by a dust cart. Eyes pierced with ice. Toes solid. Where the road bent he walked into the ditch, was tempted to lie there, sleep, but the grass scrathced him. He crawled out, feeling for the tarmac. He tried to gauge his position by the roll of his feet, fell more and more often. The whisky joy had gone. He was lost. Michael Fieldhouse, 'Fieldmouse', the insect officer, tossed in an open boat for four and a half days before dying. And the women at Belsen! He knocked into the gate. His arms over it, the same gate at Cairntres top, his knees in the snow, the feel of the gate surging through him like God's own love. He was safe. He climbed over. He knew the path by heart. Hll his childhood he had used it, he and Archie. Off the main road the wind was softer. He imagined the cold being warmer. he began to hum and hug himself, cursing the wastage of whisky in the car. He was running, through enormous darkness, running and laughing. He hit SMACK, face first, the trunk of a tree. He was hurt, head reeled. He put his chin down, coughed. His legs sprawled. He spat, holding his eye-balls. He tried to stand but the earth slipped away. He crawled, panting. He found the weight of his body intolerable, would have cut off his feet. He used knees, hands, elbows. His arms ached. He felt that he was moving through a tunnel. into a black pit. If he stopped he would die. He heard the burn. He stood up. His fingers closed and he fell. He crawled to the bridge in a fit of terror. The burn roared under him. He was so close now. There was a blown branch on the bridge and he took it and held it, used it as a crutch to heave himself up, leaning his weight there, and the branch slipped and he went down CRASH, over the top. Suddenly frantic! Unable to understand why the water was pushing him about, drowning him.
- The End Of Nice Things
The weather turned. Slushy snow splattered against the house and melted on the roads. new toys were broken. Jonathan, in quarantine from Peter's measles, stayed at home. The house settled. Mrs Mackenzie, the old white witch, who had been cleaning since Papa was a boy, retired. Her arthritis was so bad she couldn't hold a feather duster. Mr Teak, in the kitchen, snipped photographs from glossy magazines and stuck them into a scrap-book. I prefer the touch of a shiny page, he explained, his lips stained by a million Woodbines. Mama, in Papa's room, rested. Uncle James came to see her. They quarrelled. ('I've had enough of it!' 'You haven't had anything except our hospitality.') Uncle James returned to his cottage, confused and uncertain, to consider the extent or importance of his futility. The time was coming, he knew, when he must make a decision. But not now. Not on New Year's Eve! he gave the cat beer and the cat dived into a deep sleep. he celebrated alone. The dogs, drugged on a double dinner, snoozed in their straw. The silence troubled him. He shouted, beat the gong. The dogs woke and barked. He threw the cat out of the window. Find a vixen you mouse! He jumped into the Land-Rover, wind whining like a girl, and drove wildly through the filthy night to first-foot his friends. Two miles from the Cairntres road he ran out of petrol. He cursed and kicked, emptied the rest of the whisky into the tank. It made no difference. He waited half an hour for help and when none came he began walking. He sang songs. He waved his arms. Snow showered out of the darkness. his mouth froze. He imagined all kinds of monsters treading his footsteps. He covered his ears with his hands. It was so dark, a depth indefinable. His shoes clicked and snicketty clacked. Owls hoo-o-o-oted. The cold numbed him. Exposured death was ignominious. Like being run over by a dust cart. Eyes pierced with ice. Toes solid. Where the road bent he walked into the ditch, was tempted to lie there, sleep, but the grass scrathced him. He crawled out, feeling for the tarmac. He tried to gauge his position by the roll of his feet, fell more and more often. The whisky joy had gone. He was lost. Michael Fieldhouse, 'Fieldmouse', the insect officer, tossed in an open boat for four and a half days before dying. And the women at Belsen! He knocked into the gate. His arms over it, the same gate at Cairntres top, his knees in the snow, the feel of the gate surging through him like God's own love. He was safe. He climbed over. He knew the path by heart. Hll his childhood he had used it, he and Archie. Off the main road the wind was softer. He imagined the cold being warmer. he began to hum and hug himself, cursing the wastage of whisky in the car. He was running, through enormous darkness, running and laughing. He hit SMACK, face first, the trunk of a tree. He was hurt, head reeled. He put his chin down, coughed. His legs sprawled. He spat, holding his eye-balls. He tried to stand but the earth slipped away. He crawled, panting. He found the weight of his body intolerable, would have cut off his feet. He used knees, hands, elbows. His arms ached. He felt that he was moving through a tunnel. into a black pit. If he stopped he would die. He heard the burn. He stood up. His fingers closed and he fell. He crawled to the bridge in a fit of terror. The burn roared under him. He was so close now. There was a blown branch on the bridge and he took it and held it, used it as a crutch to heave himself up, leaning his weight there, and the branch slipped and he went down CRASH, over the top. Suddenly frantic! Unable to understand why the water was pushing him about, drowning him.
- The End Of Nice Things
posted by Caractacus | 3:02 pm
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