Christmas Tales - Seasonal stories, poems and greetings from the Coventry Writers' Group Page 2

Brother of Hogworth’s single-parent mother, who had walked out on him at the age of two, or so Hogworth had always been told. He didn't remember her at all. Except – he had a memory of long dark eyelashes, accompanied by a warm glow, a sense of being held. But they could have belonged to almost anyone. A number of women had helped care for Hogworth as a child. He preferred not to think of his life before the age of twenty-two, when he’d graduated with a II.1 in economics, ready to take on the world.

  “Stafford?” Hogworth hadn’t seen his uncle for years, but decided he was old enough to drop his title now. “Is that you?”

  “My identity is of no concern.”

  “Really? Then would you kindly tell me what you’re doing here? Are you some kind of ghost?”

  “Not a ghost.”

  “Then why – or how...?” Those bloody pills. “Look, I don't know why I'm trying to talk to a hallucination. Please go away.”

  “I’m here to warn you.”

  Hogworth couldn't restrain the little shudder that crept over him. He’d heard too many ghost stories in the past. “Warn me of what?”

  “It’s time. You've lived without one for many years. But this really can't go on. It’s time you got yourself one. Man cannot live by money alone.”

  Hogworth knew that the quotation was wrong – but he couldn't think what the correct word was. It wasn’t ‘money’, that was all he knew.

  “I’m doing pretty well,” he said.

  “Not for much longer,” said Uncle Stafford – if that’s who he was. “You've not got long. Find the woman in the eye and give her the money.”

  “The woman in the eye?”

  “The Eye, stupid. Private Eye.”

  “Oh.” Hogworth felt himself blush, in a way he hadn't done for years. Uncle Stafford always used to call him ‘stupid’, he remembered now. That was one reason Hogworth had been so proud of his degree.

  “Man can’t live without a conscience,” Stafford said, a note of solemn coldness in his voice. “Or it’s very dangerous to try.”

  Hogworth woke to late-morning Saturday sunshine streaming between his curtains. He allowed himself a small chuckle at the idiocies of his dream last night. Uncle Stafford indeed, come to warn him of the perils of not having a conscience...

  As far as he knew, Uncle Stafford wasn't even dead.

  Hogworth fried himself a hearty breakfast involving bacon, eggs, sausages and other unhealthy things. He was overweight and knew he should have his cholesterol levels checked. But food was such a comfort, such wonderful companionship, such a delightful way to spend the first part of his weekend.

  Radio 4 was brimming with news about the credit crunch, the European economy falling apart, the benefits cuts – all the people who wouldn't be able to afford a good Christmas. “It’s their own stupid fault,” Hogworth said aloud, between mouthfuls of bacon rasher. “If people would only learn to save. If they weren’t afraid of hard work. If they didn't overspend on their credit cards and get into ridiculous amounts of debt...”

  But the sentiments didn't comfort him quite as much as usual, and his next mouthful had an unpleasant taste. Maybe the egg was off?

  He got up, scraped the remains of his breakfast into the bin and pressed the button of his radio. He’d been thinking about other people’s money all week – why should he have to do it at weekends, too?

  Carol Gentle spent the morning on the internet, trying to buy the toys her nephews wanted at a price she could afford.

  It simply wasn't possible, she soon discovered. Not since the loan she’d taken out on behalf of her sister and was now struggling each month to pay back.

  If only, she thought, sipping her cuppa soup, she could just let go of Stevie. Not let go in the sense of no longer being her sister; just let go of feeling she had to rescue her from every single mess.

  It was all the fault of that blasted conscience of hers, which wouldn't allow her a moment’s peace.

  Carol wondered what day Private Eye came out and whether her advertisement would appear this week.

  Hogworth Shreddie found himself dreading bedtime. He watched BBC4 until very late, but couldn't remember anything he’d seen. In his pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers, he helped himself to a glass of whisky before going upstairs. He caught sight of himself in the mirror in the hall. He was turning into Uncle Stafford, no doubt about that. Another five years and he’d be the spit of him. Except that he was a couple of million pounds richer, of course, and could afford a better cut of dressing gown.

  4am, as always, the sheen appeared, except that this time it wasn't a sheen at all but Uncle Stafford with his red face and tobacco smell.

  “You done anything about it yet?” Stafford asked him.

  “About what?”

  “You know perfectly well. The woman in the Eye. She’s not asking much – not in your reckoning, anyway. A well-functioning, carefully-maintained conscience – bargain at the price.”

  “How do you know it's been well-maintained?”

  “Course it has. Single lady owner and all that. It’ll be in fine working order, mark my words.”

  “This is a conscience we’re talking about, Uncle Staffy, not a car.”

  Oh crikey. He’d reverted to his childhood name for his uncle. Things were getting bad.

  Stafford smiled. “Just get on with it. Tomorrow – you’ve got all day. Not got any other commitments, let’s face it, have you?”

  How did Uncle Stafford know his business? “Can’t remember. Possibly not.”

  “Get on with it then. Transfer the dosh to the lady’s bank account. Or better still, get in touch with her.”

  “How can I do that?”

  “Twitterbook or whatever it’s called. One of these idiotic social wotsit sites. I’m sure you’ve played around on them – you must know how they work. See if you can find her. She might even be a looker.”

  “Uncle Staffy, I don't want a looker. I don't want a woman at all. And I certainly don't want a consc...”

  He was not sure why he stopped. Something was getting in the way. He had a feeling he wasn't telling the truth... not that that would normally have held him back. What the hell was going on?

  “Can’t do any harm,” Stafford went on. “See if you can track her down. Offer to meet up.”

  “She might live anywhere. The Shetland Isles. Overseas...”

  “A trip abroad would do you good.”

  “I’ll think about it, Uncle Staff, if you’ll promise to leave me alone. I need to sleep.”

  “OK. I’ll go. For now...”

  This time, Hogworth didn't close his eyes. He watched, while his uncle’s outline became blurry – became, once again, the vague, glimmering silver sheen he’d seen at the end of his bed on that first night.

  “Goodbye, Uncle,” he said, but the sheen did not reply.

  Hogworth didn't have a Facebook account – not any more. He’d started one, but then, as time went on and he still had only two friends, began to feel embarrassed about his lack of popularity. He knew that having lots of friends on Facebook didn't necessarily mean you had them in real life, but still... He couldn't help remembering the way he used to feel at school, when he was always last to be picked for the basketball team.

  He did tweet, however – under an assumed name. For some reason, he pretended to be a young woman; he even had her picture as his icon. Other young women began to follow her. She developed a voice of her own – a good line in self-deprecating humour and chocolate fetishes. Hogworth rather liked Romolina Puddleton, as he called her. He could almost imagine the two of them being in love.

  It was all pathetically sad, of course, and he’d have died of shame if anyone found out.

  Discovering the identity of the person selling the conscience in Private Eye took Hogworth a fair bit of time and required the exploitation of some of his banking connections. Had he had any moral scruples, he would have been obliged to discard them, but seeing as he didn't, this did not trouble him.

  Onc
e he had discovered Carol Gentle’s name, it didn't take him long to find her on Twitter – where she used something close to her real identity. A tweet in her direction – and within a couple of hours she was following him. A few direct messages later, and they were discussing the possibility of meeting up.

  Carol confirmed that she was the person who had placed the advert in Private Eye. He assured her he wasn't a murderer or about to cheat her out of anything, but she sensibly refused to believe him and insisted they meet up in a public place. That suited him fine, especially when he discovered he would only have to travel 100 miles on the train up to Coventry. Not his favourite city, but still...

  Carol’s icon showed a youngish woman with long dark hair and lovely curling eyelashes – not so different from the memory he had of that person who’d just possibly been his mother.

  Of course, the eyelashes weren’t the reason he wanted to meet her, he told himself. It was mainly a way of getting the phantom who looked like Uncle Stafford to shut up and disappear. If it cost him £750, then so be it. He’d paid more than that in the past for a good night’s sleep.

  They agreed to meet the following Saturday, in a café five minutes’ walk from the railway station. Hogworth’s train arrived on time and he found himself twenty minutes early, in a shoddy little place with dim lighting, sticky tabletops and coffee that tasted of nothing but the cardboard cup.

  The place was busy, though, and Hogworth found himself looking up every time someone opened the door, to see if Carol Gentle had arrived.

  The clock moved on to half past three. Carol was half an hour late now – it was beginning to look as though she’d chickened out. He could hardly blame her. He had her bank details, of course, and made up his mind to transfer the money anyway. Perhaps her conscience would be magically transmitted to him as the money became hers.

  Idiot, he told himself.

  Then the door swung open again and a beautiful young woman with untidy dark brown hair and the longest, curliest eyelashes he’d ever seen (except on a model) came in.

  “Carol?”

  She smiled and made for his table. Her face had a mischievous grin.

  It was a long time since anyone had smiled at him like that.

  “Is your name really Hogworth?” she asked.

  He felt himself smirk. “I’m afraid so. Can I get you a coffee or tea?”

  “Yes please. Coffee, black, half a sugar.”

  As he stood up, he said: “I think my mother was trying for Hogarth and fell slightly short.”

  “Not Hogwarts?” She smiled again. That smile was magical.

  “No, no. Long before the time of Harry what’s-his-name.”

  He put her coffee on the table, together with a triple chocolate muffin he’d ordered on impulse, perhaps thinking of his alter ego, Romolina.

  “Thanks. That’s lovely, though I shouldn't really be eating this.”

  “Of course you should.”

  “OK.” She took a bite. “Look, this is really generous of you.”

  “Is it? I thought it was a business transaction. Are you saying now that you’re charging me too much?”

  Her cheeks flushed, just a little. “No. Well – I don't know. How much is a conscience worth?”

  He took a sip of his own coffee, now almost cold. “Don’t ask me. I've never had one, so I've no idea.”

  She frowned. “Are you sure you’ve never had a conscience? It sounds... a bit weird.”

  “I don't think I have,” He felt he could open up to this young woman with the broad smile. “I’ve never felt any sign of having one. A conscience makes you do good things for other people – is that right?”

  “Of course it is. Stop teasing me. Everyone knows what a conscience does. Makes you feel bad if you don't do good things. So you do them, to stop yourself feeling bad. Like me with my sister and her kids.”

  “Tell me about your sister and her kids.”

  She told him.

  He heard about Stevie’s descent into poverty. Her promising