a
cautionary moral tale for all those who don’t believe….
Timothy
Razzell was not a very nice boy. Perhaps he had been, once long ago,
at a time when most small children are sweet and good. But by the
time he had reached Year Six at Misery Lane Primary School, he was a
proper little stinker. In school he bullied younger children, cheeked
the Dinner ladies, stole things and damaged other kid’s
propertyjust for a laugh.
Because
he had somehow become a little twisted up inside, he did all this
because he wanted the other children to like him. He thought it would
make him a hero in their eyes. He was terribly wrong about that-it
just scared them. This twisted him up a little even more, and so he
spoiled their lessons, making their favourite teachers bad-tempered
and grumpy. His mates called him “Razzer.”
Except…well… he had no mates really. No-one liked him very
much. He sat alone, most of the time.
Razzer
hated Christmas, and he hated it especially badly at this exact
moment. He was stamping home from school in one of his “moods”.
Miss Goodwater had kept him behind to nag him because he’d torn up
all the paper chains and put them in the bin. And to tell him off
because he’d threatened to batter his little sister Keeley-Jo at
playtime. She was going to get it again anyway, when he got home.
For grassing him up. And then she’d get it again if she told Mum
about it afterwards.
It was
dark as Razzer got near his house ,but something seemed to be going
on outside it. He couldn’t see too clearly, because some kids had
bricked out all the street lights a few days ago. But some old bloke
was lying on the pavement there, gasping. He was breathless and
muttering to himself. Drunk, probably .
As
Razzer got close, he saw that the old man had a white beard and a
jolly picture-postcard sort of face, with plump, rosy cheeks. Razzer
wasn’t the sharpest knife in the cutlery drawer, so all this meant
nothing to him, not even at Christmas time. Neither did the red
trousers or the black boots.
-
“ Ahhhh. I think I’ve sprained me ankle!” cursed the old Man.
“ So
what? ” said Razzer. He was wary of Grown-ups. He didn’t like
them very much. Only if they gave him money.
“ Oh
come on son! Fair play! Give us a hand up here! Got to get up! Got a
job to do!”
“ No
way! ” said Razzer, carefully circling the old bloke, and opening
his own front garden gate.
“Oh.
You’ll be Timothy Razzell then!” said the Old Man, struggling to
his feet, unaided.“ The
Timothy Razzell. From
Number 12, just here. Oh yes! I’ve heard lots about you. And all of
what I’ve heard seems to be true!”
The
old geezer hobbled around, picking up some…what,exactly? Was it
shopping
he’d dropped ? Parcels and packages, anyway.
-“
So?”
“ Yes,
I know all about you,” said the Old Man, sitting on the garden wall
and rubbing his ankle.
“Big
Deal!” sneered Razzer .
(He wasn’t a clever boy , remember ,and when he was frightened, he
tended to keep conversation very basic. And for some reason he could
not quite explain, he was quite frightened now ).
“ You
don’t know who I am then? “ sighed the Old Man. “ I suppose I
shouldn’t be surprised, nowadays.”
“ No
I don’t. And I don’t care, either. But if you don't go away and
get off our wall, I’ll tell my Dad, and then he’ll come out the
house and batter your head in .”
But
how did he know him? Razzer wondered. That was worrying. Perhaps he
was a Wagman checking up on his attendance? Razzer bunked off
occasionally, so he had a passing knowledge of Education Welfare
Officers. But did they carry big sacks? Or stuff their trousers in
their wellies?
“ You’re
treading a downward path ,Razzer! “ said the old man sadly. Even in
the darkness. Razzer could see his eyes twinkling.
“ Am
I ? Whooo!
” Razzer made ghost noises. “
I’m
really
well scared! ”
But
however hard he had tried to make that sound, he was
scared, actually. Really, really scared. Of something. Had the Off
Licence complained about him again?
“ I’m
telling my dad about you now. You’ve had it! ” Razzer declared,
not very convincingly. In fact, it came out as a bit of a squeak. He
flounced angrily into his house, without looking back. His ears were
hot. Someone was talking about him. And that was a lie about his dad.
His dad didn’t live there no more. He hadn’t got a dad. Not one
that he knew of, anyway. He scuttled inside, thrilled with his own
daring at (once again) back-chatting nosey adults.
Inside
the house, Razzer crept into the darkened front room without putting the
lights on. He almost fell over the Christmas tree by the window.
Cautiously, he eased a curtain aside. Outside it had begun to snow.
He could tell that, from the white reflected glow of it on the
pavements. It was beautiful stuff, snow but it wouldn’t last . It
never did, where Razzer lived.
The
old man had now faded to become merely an energetic silhouette on the
other side of the road. There was a whistle and the clip-clop of
hooves. A horse and cart or something, with bells on, began coming up
the street. It stopped outside their house, opposite. The old man
swung up onto the driver’s seat . It was all glittery and
sparkling, like a....a..
“ Wow!
Awesome! A sleigh!”
breathed Keeley-Jo, having arrived silently at Razzer’s side , “Oh
it’s a sleigh,
Timothy!
Her
breath misted up the window as she craned forward eagerly to see it
better. Razzer cuffed clear the misted-up window, urgently. But the
street was now empty. He pushed Keeley-Jo away, roughly.
“Loser!
It was nothin’!”
he snapped at her angrily . “ Nothin’
.”
Then
it began to rain. The snow was melting already. Just as he thought it
would. Keeley-Jo got an extra slap for that.
Next
morning, Razzer had inspected the droppings piled high in the gutter
outside the house. Like nothing he’d ever seen before. Grandad said
they’d be good for the roses,but they hadn’t got any roses.
Razzer didn’t tell anyone what he thought he’d seen last night.
Because they’d just laugh at him and tell him he was stupid.
That
afternoon, they sat on the carpet in the classroom as Miss Goodwater
read them a story. Razzer eventually tired of kicking Tajvinderpal
Singh in the back and began listening. Some soppy stuff about Santa
Claus. Father Christmas. Whatever. Patron Saint of kids.The only
Santa Razzer had ever met had a cotton wool beard and smelt of beer
and fags.
But
something about the description she was reading out in the story
suddenly touched him like an electric shock. The boots ! The sack !
The red hat ! ..The reindeer?
On
the way home from school he fretted about yesterday’s encounter
outside their house. In fact, he fretted about it all the way up to
that year’s Christmas Day. In case he didn’t get the Megadroid
Death Ray Killer Gun that Grandpap had promised him. But it was all
there, as usual ,on Christmas Morning.
*
* *
Razzer had forgotten that whole incident until another cold December
night, several years later. It really had snowed then, heavily this
time and it settled. Razzer's gloveless fingers were almost blue
with cold. So cold that they were having some trouble breaking the
lock on the door of the local corner shop. Razzer had put this
coldness down to the sudden drop in temperature at first, but then
there was a scuffling noise on the roof above him. He peered upwards,
half expecting to see a black uniform there. Instead, a pattering of
fluffy fresh snow powdered gently onto his upturned face. A familiar
figure was beaming down at him.
“Ho
Ho Ho! It’s our Razzer again!” the old man chuckled. “ A bit
taller perhaps and unsuccessfully trying to grow a moustache!”
“ So?”
“ And
as talkative as ever, I see
!” The old man tutted, and shook his head with mock sadness. Razzer
could still only see him vaguely. His image was fuzzy like a busted
television set or a buffering download.
“ Breaking
into Mr. Datwana’s shop?” asked the old man. Razzer tried to
quieten his chattering teeth.
“ It’s
me uncle’s shop,” he lied, “ He’s lost his keys.”
“ Oh
ho! And still fibbing ,eh? Badly,as usual! But you can’t lie to me
,boy! Don’t you know that?”
Razzer
squinted upwards.
“I
ain’t your “boy! An’ come to that, what you
doin’ up on a roof at this time of night?” Razzer challenged,
accusingly.” Trespass, that is.”
“ Pahhh!!
You mean you still
don’t recognise me?”
“ I
seen you once before, yeah. You threatened me when I was a little
kid. You want to watch it,mate. Old blokes can get put away for
picking on kids. ”
“ So they
can, Razzer and rightly so .But good children have nothing to fear
from their Patron Saint,” answered the old man. “And you are
still a child, Razzer. In mind if not in body. Look! I’ll tell you
what! You’ll regret it if you break into there tonight. Go home! Go
home to Keeley-Jo and your Mum.”
“ What?”
Razzer squeaked, incredulously, “ You
are gonna stop me
,are you? Er....duhhh!!...How does that work then? ”
“ Goodness
me, no! I’m far too busy. I’m just offering you a warning.”
“ Well
I’m going in,” sneered Razzer.” I told you, it’s me uncle’s
shop. I gotta get some, er... stuff
for him,see? And if you’re still on his roof when I come back out
here, you’ll get a right good seeing to. I can promise you that ”
The
old man sighed.
“ We
both know I won’t be here when you come back out,” said the old
man. He sounded like when Granddad used to talk about Grandma. As if
he was going to cry. Just for a second , Razzer hesitated.
“ Look……I….I….gotta
get me uncle’s coat,” he whimpered feebly .
“ Bahhh!!”
A
large whump of snow landed at Razzer’s feet as the old man rose
and waddled back up the roof towards a chimney stack. Had he..had he
thrown a snowball at
him? Razzer half thought of chucking one back.
“ Your
Uncle,” echoed the old
man ,mockingly, stepping nimbly across the ridge tiles and clasping a
chimney stack expertly. “Your
uncle!
Another fantasy Razzer! You live in it permanently! And as you do
so, why can’t you accept who I
am then? Eh? Tell me that!
Laddie, If Mr. Sarbjeet Datwana really is
your uncle then I’m…I’m….”
Razzer’s
hand was turning the broken door handle now .
“ Yeah
, yeah! I know!,” he muttered, as the lock finally gave, allowing
him to enter the darkened shop, “ You’re Father Christmas. And
I’m Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer .”
*
* *
All
that too, had been quite a few Decembers ago now. Razzer had left home
since then. He was now sleeping rough, holed up like an outlaw, in a
shed on Grandpa's old allotment, He’d decided he wasn’t going to
spend another Christmas in the Tower Blocks. He had collected a few
bottles and some rags, and he planned on giving one or two people who
had crossed him that year, a Christmas box they would never forget.
Then
he heard…what? Sleigh bells? Nahhh! Bull Terrier with a fancy
collar on maybe. He buttoned up his jacket and reached for a fag
to calm his nerves. But then he heard…..what…hoofbeats?
Like a stampede in a cowboy film. And a whiplash. And loud, merry,
defiant laughter, but way up high, way above the bristling Mobile
phone masts on the nearest block of flats.
“ Yah!”
Razzer sneered, “ You again! Who believes in you!
What can you
do to me?”
Striking
the match in that confined space catapulted him through the flimsy
shed walls with the flying debris. Aflame, like a Christmas Pudding
soaked in Brandy. Keeley-Jo, Mrs. Goodwater, Grandpa and Mum all
seemed to flash past Razzer,as he sailed over a disused cabbage plot
and into the street.
Lying
there, on his back, in the rain, Razzer stared blearily up at the
sky. He glimpsed .pretty, winking coloured lights. A low flying jet,
appeared fleetingly through the breaks in the cloud. Bound for
Heathrow. Or Gatwick.
No...hold
up! Was it....a sleigh?
