Tetchy was his resting disposition. Bitter and cynical when something aroused his contempt. Angry and bigoted when fully ignited. He could threaten, intimidate, and sometimes worse. At odds with the changing times, he looked much older than his 66 years. Even so, it came as a shock when on the 1st of December, 1964, he declared himself unwell, took to his bed, and quickly announced that his family could relax. He’d be gone by Christmas.
As the early days of the month inched by, his condition deteriorated rapidly. The doctor visited more than once, prescribed various medications, yet couldn’t explain the sudden decline and loss of weight. The patient was refusing tests and treatments and had simply ‘turned his face to the wall’. By the middle of December, he looked weak and vulnerable. Then, exactly seven days before Christmas, his eyes slowly closed, never to re-open.
No one could bear the thought of him lying at the undertaker’s until the New Year. The funeral was quickly arranged. It took place on Christmas Eve, and passed off without drama. If he had any friends, they were certainly absent. Fortunately, there were enough pall bearers to carry his rather light coffin into the crematorium.
Afterwards, family members made their way back to the house. A meal of cold ham, cheese, bread, butter and pickle had been set out before their departure. As his wife turned the key to the front door and made her way inside, a familiar smell aroused her senses. Pausing for a moment, she dismissed it. But when she and the others entered the dining room, a troubling scene lay before them.
At the head of the table, the place-setting showed every sign of someone’s recent presence. Scraps of food lay on the plate, a glass containing dregs of beer stood next to an empty bottle. More telling was the day’s local newspaper, neatly folded at the Deaths column. Most unsettling, was the source of the smell. On the table sat a box of matches and his pouch of tobacco. Alongside was a fake-crystal ash tray, where a fine column of smoke rose from a rolled up cigarette.
Alarmed and distressed by turns, the family members searched around the house, but found no one else there. ‘What’s he done now?’ His wife demanded. ‘Well he’s not getting away with it this time. I’m having no more of his nonsense. No more at all. He’s not going to spoil anything, ever again’.
The place at the head of the table was duly cleared. His family settled in for the meal, enjoying the simple fare. It was then that a tide of relief broke over them, as they looked forward to a Christmas Day, the like of which their house had not seen for many a long year.
But as a quiet contentment began to prevail, they were suddenly disturbed. From the front garden gate came a familiar squeak, followed by slow and deliberate footsteps. Then came the key in the lock, the opening of the door, and a lengthening shadow, casting ominously across the hallway floor.
Photograph: with thanks to Stephen Hocking, see: https://unsplash.com/@shocking57
For more of my Christmas mystery stories, please look here – https://davidgrahamclark.net/christmas-mystery-stories/
Quotidian 