No. 1297: The winners

Jaspistos reports: Competitors were asked for a Christmas story in a Christmassy or any other spirit.

The winner is C. Baxter, who gets £50 for a story which persuaded me by its in no way naïve simplicity. The runner-up, whose Christmas present is a bottle of Château Gruaud-Larose 1976, the gift of Bibendum, 113 Regent's Park Rd, NW I (01 586 9761), is Nell L. Wregible. The hard-luck brigade consists of A. Harraden, Laurence Fowler and T. Griffiths.

Old Nur

Old Nur had been there for as long as I could remember; she lived in a room at the top of the house, and only came down for special events like the Christmas Eve party and that sort of thing. But when she did ap- pear, she seemed to bring an air of reproach with her. My father would lose sonic of his gaiety, my mother would sink still further into her dark silences. Mr Pill, the man who used to tie the holly onto the stairs, told me it was because Old Nur 'knew things'.

Anyway, this Christmas things were dif- ferent. Old Nur was ill. She usually ate like a horse and there were continual grumb- lings about the sheer weight of food that had to be carried up to her. Now she was beyond anything but thin broth. I used to go up some evenings after tea to read to her. This time she was asleep. The room was especially chilly as she made a habit, even a fetish, of keeping the little round window wedged open. As 1 went to try to close it, I heard a distant clatter in the churchyard below, and, looking out, I could see two lanterns and the un- mistakable bulk of Mr Pill doing something in the corner by the shadow of the big old cross.

'Leave it, dearie.' She was awake and 1 went across to kiss her, 'It's awfully cold, Nur.' 'Cold bedroom, clean mind.' She was as obstinate as a mule.

I sat and read to her for a bit. When Lit- tle Grey Rabbit's adventure was over, I said goodnight. Once or twice while I had been reading, noises had reached us from the churchyard — the sound of a spade, a clat- tering and some laughter. Old Nur said

nothing, but her little red eyes seemed restless.

Halfway down the corridor, I remem- bered 1 had forgotten to ask if she was com- ing down for the Christmas Eve party the next day. I went back and was astonished to find her in the act of climbing back into bed; her face was brick-red with the effort and her huge bulk, wrapped round and round with thick yellowing flannel, was shaking.

'That's me they're burying,' she said bet- ween coughing. 'Every grave begs a body.'

I stared at her and suddenly she laughed.

'You tell your father to beg another body for that dratted hole.' She pulled up her legs, encased in what looked like an old pair of shooting stockings. 'I'll outlive him yet.'

At dinner I repeated this to my father. He looked rather embarrassed. My mother picked up part of the story.

'Has someone died?'

'No, my dear.'

'Then why are they digging a grave?' Pause.

'Oh, it's going to freeze tomorrow. The barometer is right down. I know what'll happen. She'll die on Christmas Day, and then we'll have the body on our hands until Heaven knows when.'

My mother leant towards me, while directing her most penetrating glare at my father.

'You mustn't mind if Old Nur goes on a journey, my little one.'

Her little one nodded, resigned even then to a perpetual childhood.

The next day, preparations for the party filled the house. Huge boxes of decorations were carried out from the smelly cupboard behind the stairs. The tree, a wonderful tree, was brought in and slowly raised until it touched the roof of the hall. Then the lad- ders were fetched and the real job of dress- ing it began. Outside the light had faded early, and suddenly, silently, it was snow- ing. Great thick flakes were falling; they seemed endlessly determined and, as I wat- ched, the lawn was painted over by the soft enveloping cloud. I ran upstairs, thinking of Old Nur's little window, but I found her looking rather better, She had lit her fire, which was crackling loudly, and, glancing through the still open window, I saw that the pile of earth beside the new grave had vanished under the snow and was just another dull white mound in a landscape of shapeless brilliance.

'Have a sandwich, dearie.' She was tuck- ing into anchovy paste and clearly her crisis was over.

That Boxing Day, they filled the grave in again. The house has gone now, but the church is still there and we sometimes go back for services. I like to think that my father would have been amused by the irony that placed him in another hole but in that same corner by the big old cross while Old Nur, leaving firm instructions for a cremation, now adorns some nephew's mantelpiece.

(C. Baxter)