Les Chroniques de St Mary (7.7/8.1/8.6/9.5/9.6/9.7/10.5)

Christmas Past:

It was Christmas Eve and all through the house

St Mary's was heaving like Markham's pet louse.

Sorry, I don't know what came over me then. I've never actually had the urge to rhyme things before. Either old age or too much eggnog, I suspect. Afterwards, when all the dust had settled, I did say to Peterson, 'When you drink eggnog, do you get the urge to write poetry?' To which he replied, `I'm pleased and proud to announce I've never had the urge either to drink eggnog or write poetry.' So not a great deal of help there. Anyway, it was Christmas Eve and St Mary's was getting ready for the Big Day. We were busy decorating everything that didn't move, including Vortigern, Mrs Mack's kitchen cat, the most inanimate object on the planet, now sporting a large red tinsel bow. He was currently slumbering heavily on her desk and completely unaware of this new personal adornment, but someone would suffer when he did wake up. Just so long as it wasn't me. St Mary's looked beautiful. Our admittedly exuberant Christmas decorations covered a multitude of damp patches, peeling plaster, chipped paintwork and mysterious R&D-generated scorch marks. Our special Christmas tree stood to one side of the stairs, leaning slightly as it always did and smothered with tinsel, decorations, and six or seven sets of Christmas lights — which would normally be a cause for concern but fortunately Mr Dieter had supervised the electrics which increased our chances of getting through the Big Day without any major conflagrations. Giant sprigs of holly and ivy had been woven into bizarre three-dimensional shapes we were calling seasonal garlands, and about twenty-five miles of paper chains were festooned across the hall like a giant spider's web from which I, at least, expected Shelob to emerge at any moment, clacking her mandibles and looking for fresh meat. Succulent smells were already emanating from the kitchen, giving promise of an even better tomorrow. The giant fireplace stood empty, awaiting the arrival of the Yule log which would be lit in the morning. The Yule log is supposed to burn for the twelve days of Christmas but that would involve something the size of a Canadian redwood, so we were making do with one of the victims of Professor Rapson's log-rolling experiment. The one back in the autumn, when it had become sadly apparent there wasn't a lumberjack among us and Bashford had nearly drowned. We do this every year — the Yule log, I mean, not the lumberjack thing. Dr Bairstow has the chimney swept ready and we have the Yule log ceremony. Which basically is not a lot different from the May Day Ceremony or the St George's Day Ceremony or Halloween or Bonfire Night in that it involves lots of alcohol and someone usually gets hurt. Anyway, the whole place was a hive of activity into which I would be roped if I wasn't careful, so I made my way back to the one place I knew no work would be happening — my office. Rosie Lee was clearing her desk and preparing to depart for the day. Seeing me, she said, 'Well, I'm off,' and waited for me to say I'd wondered what the smell was, but it was Christmas and I was filled with good will for all mankind. Even this specific specimen of womankind. `Oh, before I forget.' She pulled out a small present, wrapped in red paper. `Oh,' I said, touched. 'Thank you so much. You shouldn't have.' 'I didn't,' she said, heading for the door. 'It's for Matthew.' Honour compelled me at least to try for the last word. 'Where's the 1536 file?' 'In your in tray.' `And Doggerland?' 'On your desk.' `And the professor's report on . . `Top drawer.' She smirked briefly and slammed the door behind her. Two books fell off my book shelf. I sighed again and yanked open the top drawer to find a small package, wrapped in gold foil and bearing the label, To Max. Merry Christmas. David, Rosie and Benjamin. I would have felt extremely guilty except that when she opened her bag for her bus fare home she'd find a similar small package labelled To Rosie, Merry Christmas. Leon, Max and Matthew. Revenge is sweet. Now that the reason for having to set a good example had left for the holidays, there was no need for me even to pretend to continue working. With the exception of Dr Bairstow and Mrs Partridge, I was probably the only person still at her desk anyway and that was bad for my image, so I gave it up and trotted off to wait for Leon and Matthew instead.