Carol Singing Little Hitlers

“It’s like a child’s bedroom!” Whispered Mark.
“I know,” giggled Sarah, “but keep it down.”
“They must take day trips to that ‘Forbidden Planet’ in London. I’ve heard of that place, I didn’t think that it was a place where couples with a mortgage went.”
“Shush, Mark. At least they invited us here.”
“I wonder what their son’s bedroom is like? The height of sophistication with a matching fax machine I shouldn’t wonder.” That comment was all too much for Sarah who was by then too weak to stifle her laughter. Adrian and Jane came through.

Mark and Sarah had recently moved to the little known village of Sonning Common in one of the newly built houses in Shiplake Bottom. Mark and Sarah decided to get to know the people by popping into The Butcher’s Arms as a passer by warned them that Anthony Worrall Thompson’s The Greyhound was overpriced. It was in the pub near the duck pond that was home to a large all green duck where Mark and Sarah first met Adrian and Jane. Now they were at their house about to have a dinner that Jane lovingly prepared. “What’s giggling you?” Smiled Jane.
Ever the quick thinker Sarah replied, “It was an incident at work. Someone drew a rather rude picture of the boss as Hitler with an erection.” Even though the story was false that made her collapse into a fit of giggles. Adrian said, “Oh, for a moment I thought it might have been our caricature of David Tennant clock.”
“Oh no, not at all.” Assured Mark with a lie. With that Adrian lowered down the tray of mulled wines onto the coffee table and Jane did likewise with a tray of hors d’ouevres.

It was half an hour after midnight when Jane and Adrian had the house to themselves. “Well it’s technically Christmas Eve.” Said Adrian.
“Ooh don’t tell me. My mind is still on Saturday mode. A day only begins…”
“…’when I wake up’. I love you Jane.”
“And I love you too Johnny Weissmuller.”

As they rinsed all the dishes and lined them all up in the dishwasher they heard a knock on the door. “Who could that be?” Asked Adrian.
“Be careful,” Sarah warned, “keep the door on the chain.” As Adrian walked to the door he heard the delightful sound of children singing, “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen”.
“It’s okay darling. They’re Carol singers.” Feeling secure he unhooked the chain and opened the door wide to reveal four Carol singers all children and heavily disguised in their scarves, gloves and bobble hats. Sarah walked through to the front door saying, “It’s a bit too late for Carol singing darling.”
“Perhaps they’re from the church. Midnight Mass and everything.”
“Midnight Mass is on the later midnight, Adrian, remember?” The one Carol singer lifted up a canister and sprayed the contents at Jane and Adrian knocking them unconscious.

I don’t know where I woke up. I couldn’t see where I was but it couldn’t have been at our home since my cries of help were not heard. Nor did I get a reply when I called out my wife’s name. Oh, poor Jane. Jane my love, be brave. Fight back. Oh Jane what are they doing to you? Don’t hurt Jane. Don’t let them touch you. Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! “Why aren’t you an astronaut?”
Eh?
“Why aren’t you an astronaut?”
Who said that?
“Why aren’t you an astronaut?”
What is that disembodied voice? Did that voice tie me to this chair? “Why aren’t you an astronaut? Why aren’t you an astronaut? Why aren’t you an astronaut?”

I couldn’t believe what I next saw. Out of the suffocating blackness I was face to face with a five year old boy. “I wanted to be an astronaut when I grew up so why aren’t you an astronaut?” This must be a nightmare. Was the mulled wine stronger than we thought and are myself, Jane, Mark and Sarah asleep on the three piece? “Why aren’t you an astronaut?” It was me aged five who was asking the question and I kept asking myself the question repeatedly until I went mad and screamed, “Because I fucking changed my mind you fucking shit! People fucking change their mind! Fucking grow up and stop being so fucking childish! You have to be in America to be a fucking astronaut.” Snivelling I blubbered to myself, “Well why didn’t you go to f-fucking America then?” I felt something within me, in the pit of my soul. Was it insecurity? Whatever it was I didn’t like it. Strange, I never had that aspect of my person before but I felt it had been with me all my life. “Immigration is a rather complicated process. One day you’ll find fractions in your maths lesson hard. Well that’s easy peasy pudding and pie compared to immigration.”
I broke down into tears and asked myself, “Why is the world of grown ups so complicated, horrible and disappointing?” I wept for myself. Or did myself weep for I? It’s very complicated and nigh impossible to tell. How could I tell myself that the only way to make God laugh is to make a life plan?

“Why haven’t you been published?” Another voice.
“Why haven’t you been published?”
Me again, no longer surprised am I.
“Why haven’t you been published? Why haven’t you been published? Why haven’t you been published?”
I sighed. Too tired to get angry.
“Why haven’t you been published?”
Clearly that was me at the age of fifteen. A combination of misguided maturity and naivety. Such an idiot did not deserve an answer. I looked up at him, boy! was I skinny, and shook my head in contempt. “Why haven’t you been published?” My patience wearing thin. I must give this contemptuous oik some kind of answer in the hope that he might bugger off. “Want doesn’t always get.”
I was furious with myself. “Don’t talk down to me! I’m not a child! I’m mature! I’m mature! I’m mature!” Many a true word, dear reader. Then I felt the rough feeling of my right hand being placed upon my left cheek at full speed. What an insecure little turd I was. “Listen you little piece of shit.” Goodness what is that feeling deep within me? More insecurity? “Just open your fucking ears and listen to me just like the mature person you so obviously are.”
“You had the idea for ‘The Matrix’ at primary school long before ‘The Matrix’.”
“It’s all in the fucking ether. Listen the world doesn’t revolve around you. You can’t go through life being a little Tory with a me, me, me attitude.”
“Why did you marry that overweight thick as pigshit ugly cow, Jane?”
Bastard!

I wept and wept and wept. “Because I love him. He is a good man.”
“You were unable to go to school one day because of him. A psychiatrist had to come round and visit.” Both of me reminded myself. I told them he was a different person. Despite all our memories we all end up being people different to what we once were. Some of those memories remain with us giving us the illusion that there is no difference between us at the age of five and at the age of thirty five. “That’s not true. I am me. I am me. I am me.” Myself aged five protested.
“Life is difficult and disappointing. But it’s better than never being born in the first place. Out of millions and millions of sperm you were the luckiest. Perhaps the best and with that you should have a little more self confidence.” I did and strangely enough so did I a confidence that I felt was with me all my life, “As for you young lady forgiveness is a virtue. Me and Adrian are bonded together by innocent love but also by our shared passion for science fiction. We can argue about the merits of Jonathan Nathan Turner. We can mull over whether or not Phillip K Dick is a better writer than William Gibson. You remember how lonely you felt at Chiltern Edge reading Issac Asimov whilst all your friends were reading ‘Mallory Towers’. So-called friends I might add. You couldn’t see that they were laughing behind your back.”
“Shut up bitch! You could have been so much better. Whatever happened to your dreams?”
“Yes,” Injected the five year old Jane, “Why have you become so boring?”
“I wanted to be a scientist why did I become so boring?”
Annoyed I told the two of me, “I like being married and I like being a mother. Goodness knows how hard it was to have our Jason. The many tests we had to go through and the stuff we had to sell off in order to pay for the treatment. Anyway, there’s no such thing as too late. I read books by Carl Sagan, by Stephen Hawking, by Richard Dawkins, by Steve Jones. I still have my passion for science. How do I know that I won’t apply for an Open University course sometime soon?”
“Balls!” I as a clueless teenager exclaimed, “You’re just going to be a frumpy woman picking up shitty little Jason from Sonning Common Primary with all the frumpy mums. Then you all sit down with your pop-pop-popping the cellophane microwave readymeals in front of ruddy ‘Eastenders’. Oh it’s oh so ruddy true to life. Not like the inner truths of science fiction!”
“Precisely! And that’s why I’m with Adrian. And don’t you fucking ever dare call my Jason a little shit or I’ll have your fucking guts for fucking garters!” The five year old Jane was inconsolable as she burst into floods of tears. Whereas the fifteen year old Jane calmly spoke and with immense contempt. “Look at me; I didn’t bother to lose any weight. I’ve become one of the contemptuous British. Disappointments like me don’t deserve life.”

Darkness.

My heart beat. I was beating. I was beating. I was beating.

“What have you done with him?” I screamed.

“What have you done with her?” I screamed.

Flames surrounded us as we woke up in our living room, tied to kitchen chairs. We were so frightened but what made it worse was hearing the sound of Jason screaming for us, for his mummy and daddy to come and rescue him. Oh poor Jason. Sweet Jason. Darling Jason. We are churchgoers but what if we’re wrong? What if we’re wrong? Oh God, Jason frightened and alone, his last moments in cruel agony. We can hear ourselves outside laughing, laughing, laughing. Could Justine’s sister ever be that cruel? “We love you Jason! Be brave! We love you Jason! We love you! We love you! We love you!” Wait a moment. “Call the fire brigade!”
“I can’t. I’m trapped in my bedroom.”
“Try to get out of the window.”
“The curtains and toys in front of it are on fire. Rescue me please. I’m trapped.”
The tears ran down our cheeks, “We’re trapped too.”
“Mummy, Daddy. I love you.”
“We love you too darling. Don’t be frightened. We’ll all be brave. Somebody must have phoned the fire brigade. But it’s not too late, we’ll all meet again.”

But nobody in the village dialled the three nines. Everybody assumed that somebody else did the noble citizen act. But as the saying goes, “You know what thought did? It went behind a muck cart thinking it was a wedding.” By the time someone decided to leap into action as the flames illuminated Blounts Court Road the science fiction loving family suffered the fate of Hilaire Belloc’s Matilda. Their younger counterparts were satisfied for the first time in their lives. For the rest of Sonning Common it was the worst Christmas in living memory.

“Goodnight and have a Merry Christmas.” Said Mark as he kissed Jane on the cheek.
“Goodbye Sarah, you were very funny tonight.” Adrian praised. Sarah blushed. The two of them walked down the front pathway and switched on their respective torches. “Eco-friendly. I like it.” Adrian joked.
“Well I think it’s a load of rubbish,” Contradicted Mark, “but we haven’t got far to go.”
“Goodbye and Merry Christmas.” Said Jane.
“Merry Christmas.” Said Adrian.
“Merry Christmas!” Mark and Sarah shouted back.
“Will we see you at Peppard Church the day?” Asked Adrian.
Mark wasn’t sure, “Well we are atheists. Oh what the heck. We will see you there and afterwards we’ll treat you to a drink at The Red Lion.” And with that Mark and Sarah walked home. And as they left a little voice from upstairs yelled, “Merry Christmas!” Then the voice went back to sleep. Adrian and Jane looked at each other with great seriousness as they stood in the doorframe.

We ran that night. We didn’t know where we were running to. We just ran and ran. And as we ran one could hear the Christmas carol, ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’.

© 2009 Clinton Morgan