The Christmas Present – Opening Chapters

1

72 FRITH STREET

THERE ONCE WAS a young girl, only six years old and very short for her age. She was the smallest girl in her school, and her name was Sally Murphy. She was an only child and lived with her father Martin Murphy. On the very day she was born, her mother died. Sally always asked, “Was it my fault, Daddy?” But he would always reply, “No, of course not, Sally. The angels decided they needed a Queen on that day, and that was that. They chose your mummy because she could sing more beautifully than any of them. But they made sure I’d be happy again, because they sent you just before they took her.”

Sally’s father was a very clever man, but after Sally’s mother died, he became too upset to do his job and had to resign his position. He was the Member of Parliament for the Cities of London and Westminster UK Parliament constituency. His fair and pragmatic methods increased the wealth of the ninety thousand inhabitants—particularly the poorest. How ironic that he was now one of the poorest people among those he previously represented. At least he still lived in the constituency he once represented so brilliantly.

It was a shame Mr Murphy had lost his nerve to lead, because many people had thought he was a safe bet to become the next Prime Minister and end the plight of the poor, because he had the plans and abilities to do so. Alas, so affected was he by his wife’s death, that he never even managed to get a proper job again, and had to make do with whatever odd jobs he could find. Not being able to come to terms with reality, he turned to fantasy, and would spend most of his time typing away stories on the old laptop computer that Sally’s Uncle Patrick, his brother, had given him.

Sally and her father lived in a single room because they were so poor. It was one of many rooms in a house shared by many people. In case you didn’t know, these living places are called bedsitter rooms; or bedsits, for short. The house’s address was 72 Frith Street, Soho, London, City of Westminster W1D, a house tucked away deep in the heart of the busy City of London. Of course, they weren’t the only single-parent families to live in a bedsit room.

Such rooms have some furniture, beds, and usually a small cooking area. If you were lucky, you might even have a bathroom attached to the room called an en-suite—in this regard, Sally and her father were not so lucky. However, the room was quite spacious as far as London bedsit rooms go, and they did have a large cooking area for cooking and washing, where there was a portable gas cylinder cooker and a good-sized stainless steel sink. Their bedsit had two tatty, non-matching armchairs. Also, a sturdy metal-framed bunk-bed by the window that faced the one-way Frith Street. Sally slept in the top bunk, where she couldn’t fall out because her father had improvised some safety bars. There was also a tall dressing table, a desk and chair, two bookshelves, and a large wardrobe that had a huge mirror on its door, a door that had a crack running almost across its entire midriff. Despite her young age and tiny size, Sally had even helped her father lug one of the bookshelves from the charity shop, where all the furniture and their clothes came from. Believe it or not, they were improved replacements for the mouldy wood-wormed furniture the bedsit had when they moved in just over four years ago.

At least everything in the bedsit, despite its shabbiness, was clean and located on the ground floor, which her father insisted on for safety reasons. You see, fires are more common in bedsits than ordinary homes because … well, what I will say is that bedsits are crammed with people like so many sardines in their tins, and many of these people do not care enough about their rooms because they don’t own them. Cigarettes are often left unattended, and so are frying pans. Living on the ground floor meant that Sally and her father could in an emergency escape through the window onto the pavement, which is also why Sally’s father had placed the bunk-bed by the window. The window could be opened from the bottom bunk as fast as you could shout, “FIRE!” You don’t have much time to escape in some of these fires. Sometimes a few seconds can be the difference between life and death.

Because the bedsit had no en suite, the toilet Sally and her father had to use was in the corridor outside of their room. They were lucky in this regard because it was free to use and they only shared it with one other tenant; and he was rarely in residence, because he only used the bedsit as a cheap base to have a room in London.

The bathroom was a more complicated affair because it was shared by the entire ground floor of six rooms. To avoid conflicts with its use, the user would have to book it. There was a book on a little shelf just outside the bathroom, the sort of shelf that spiders love to run along, where you would write your name and the intended hour of your bath. Not that people stuck to this system, which caused many a row in the corridor. And it wasn’t free. A one-pound coin had to be fed into a meter to heat the bath water. You had to be only in the bathroom for exactly an hour on the hour, and as the water took forty-five minutes to get hot and poured, you had only fifteen minutes to bathe and clean after you.

Sally managed to get by with only one proper bathroom-bath a week, as she was just small enough to get into the bedsit sink. She often had a bath in the sink, with her little legs dangling over the side. Many times, she would cry out, “Daddy! I’ve dropped the soap again. Sorry!” Her father would have to walk over to the kitchen area and pick up the soap for her. She often told her father she didn’t mind using the kitchen sink as a bath, even if she knew she was too old to be doing so. She said she’d use it all the time and that her not having a bathroom-bath could save a lot of money. Nevertheless, her father insisted on her having a bathroom-bath, reminding her the authorities would take her away from him if people complained they had never seen her have a bath.

Sally’s father didn’t need to have a bathroom-bath because he used a free shower at the University in their Sports Centre, where people thought he was a university professor because he looked like one. He also used the University library in the day to write his stories while Sally was at school, saving on the bedsit’s electricity metre. There were plenty of free electricity sockets in the library, which he would plug his laptop into.

Using the University was a great bonus for Mr Murphy, because not only did it save on the bedsit heating bills but also, he could recharge the batteries on his laptop computer—allowing him to use it without electricity in the bedsit. He even managed to recharge a spare laptop-battery that was also given to him by Uncle Patrick, which he used to power a light on the desk where he often sat reading or writing on his laptop computer.

All in all, in their humble abode, a lot of money was saved. As Sally’s father would often say, “Every penny helps!”

And right now, Sally had just finished drying herself from her weekly bath and getting ready to go out for the school’s end of autumn term Christmas disco …

 

2

ANGELS IN MY DREAMS

“SO ANOTHER SCHOOL term over,” said her father, as he finished helping Sally get ready for her school disco and lowered himself serenely into one of the bedsit’s two armchairs. “Just the school disco to go. And Mrs Gabriel will be able to keep a good eye on you and quickly put a stop to anyone calling you names. We’re so lucky that Mrs Gabriel’s son goes to your school, and she lives on our street. She fetches you to school and back without fail, allowing me to get more writing done. At least someone believes in me. Mrs Gabriel should be here soon.”

Sally sat down at her father’s feet, on one of the odd collection of rugs that made a carpet of the floor.

“Yes, Mrs Gabriel is a very nice lady. She’s even bringing me to the disco, even though Jason’s disco isn’t until tomorrow night. He’s in the Upper School two years above mine, see. It will be great not to be called ‘Stupid Sally’ or ‘Micro Murphy’, for once.”

“Never forget that all bullies are cowards and they always get their comeuppance. The Arrow of Time catches up with them in the end.”

“Daddy? Why am I so small? I’m the smallest pupil in the school, and there’s a whole year below me.”

“I honestly don’t know. I’m tall and so was your mother. So, according to a thing called genetics, you should be tall. But don’t worry because as soon as we move out of this bedsit, you’ll grow—like a goldfish grows if you take it out of its tiny bowl and put it in a huge lake.”

“You always say that,” said Sally gleefully. “But we’ll never be moving out, that’s for sure. Unless we win the lottery, but we can’t even afford a ticket.”

Her father leaned down in his armchair and pinched the bridge of Sally’s nose between the insides of two of his curled fingers, and tugged gently. Sally giggled before saying, “I’ll make us a mug of tea. I’m old enough to do that.”

Sally scampered over to the kitchen area and, standing on a small stool to allow her to reach the kitchen sink and counter, she set about making the tea.

Minutes later, Sally and her father were back in their usual sitting positions with the addition of a mug of hot milky tea …

“Daddy? Why am I so stupid and you’re so clever?” said Sally.

“Well, I’m not that clever or we wouldn’t be living in a bedsit.”

“But that’s only because you are still upset over Mummy,” said Sally before taking a noisy sip of her tea.

“Well, Sally, I think you’ll one day find you’re good at something. You must be patient and keep trying. I might be still upset because I loved Mummy so much, but I’ve never stopped trying to get and hold down a job… and I have been writing many books over the years. You must remember you are the youngest in your year. And at your age, that can make a big difference with your schoolwork.”

“I do try my best at school, but I come last in every subject. I get my sums wrong, I struggle with reading, and my handwriting looks like the work of a drunken spider. That’s what Mrs Trenchant says.”

“Mrs Trenchant should be more encouraging and less critical.”

“But she’s just my English teacher. What about my geography and history? I get them mixed up with each other. Did you know, Daddy, last week, I thought the Battle of Hastings was a mountain in Scotland.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. There are many people who make that mistake.”

“Really?”

“I would have thought so. Especially at the age of six and a bit.”

“But what about school sports day? I came last in the sack race. Remember?”

“Yes …” said Sally’s father, before taking a quiet sip of his tea, “… but that was because you were so small. You charged off into the lead for the first five yards, but then your sack seemed to swallow you up, and you tumbled forwards. Mr Simpson had to pluck you out of the sack before you suffocated yourself.”

“But I’m even worse at music. I find it impossible to learn any instruments. Even on the piano, when I did manage to play all the right notes, I got them in the wrong order. And when I tried to learn to play the triangle for the school band, it was too hard and I had to give up.”

“I have a sneaking suspicion that when you decide to sing, that will be what you’re good at. You look exactly like your mother. Same dark, smooth skin. Same curly jet-black hair. Same deep-blue eyes. And perhaps more importantly, you have the same shaped neck. Because you seem to take physically after your mummy, there’s a good chance you have inherited her vocal chords. And vocal chords are the things inside your throat that are used to sing with.”

“I’m too scared to even try to sing,” said Sally sadly. “I won’t be able to bear it if I turn out to be useless at singing, along with everything else. What would mummy think? I’m sure she would somehow hear me.”

“Well, when you decide to sing, if you ever do, it will be your decision, and your decision alone. I’ve already been to your school, as you know, and told the headmistress to make sure none of the teachers ever mention who your mother is, so that nobody attempts to pressurise you into singing.”

“Well, at least that worked, Daddy. No one has ever mentioned Mummy to me. It’s a shame really, because I’m so proud of who Mummy was, even if I’ve never met her.”

“You have met her, Sally. She lived long enough to hold you lovingly in her arms. She looked into your eyes, and she cried with a love. According to science, you shouldn’t be able to remember anything from when you were a newborn baby—but I would be surprised if you couldn’t recognise her if you ever saw her again.”

“So if I’m good and go to Heaven, I will be able to find her, won’t I?”

“Erm, yes, I suppose so.”

“Daddy, there’s one thing I’ve always wondered about …”

“And what is that?”

“You always tell me that the angels took Mummy because they needed a Queen to lead their choir, because she could sing more beautifully than them, and that they left me in her place. So how do you know that, Daddy? Did they tell you?”

“Ah, you never asked me that question before. You’re obviously growing older. I think that is a very clever question.”

“But, Daddy, can you answer it, please?”

“Of course. Even though it sounds impossible, and no sensible adult would believe me, I have actually spoken with them. At least I believe I have. And to be precise. I have never mentioned that the angels had anything to do with Heaven. They never told me where they lived.”

“But how can they not be in Heaven?”

“They could be. I just have no direct evidence of that.”

“But wouldn’t other people have seen these angels? That sort of thing would get on the news, wouldn’t it?”

“Okay, this is where things get a bit hazy. They met me in my dreams. Not just one dream, but many. And these were special dreams, because although they seemed as real as real can be, I knew I was asleep and they really were just dreams. These sort of dreams are called lucid dreams, and they are very rare. I suppose I could have invented the angels in my brain. But at least it seemed real—even if just a dream.”

“Oh,” said a surprised Sally, looking up at her father with knotted eyebrows. “Does that mean it isn’t really true, and that it was just a nice thing to say?”

“Not necessarily. The main thing is that I’ve told you the truth. Whether my dream acted as a meeting place between myself and the angels, is open to question.”

“Did you ever see Mummy in your dreams?”

“Not in the way I saw the angels. I do see her a lot, but in normal dreams.”

“Oh. Well, none of these angels have visited me in any of my dreams.”

“You’ve reminded me of something that I’ve never told you. These angels, real or imaginary, told me that they will be visiting you and me on a Christmas Day. Which is interesting, because that would mean they will be visiting us on the Earth, somehow. They can’t be visiting you in your dream, because I don’t think that would count as Christmas Day. Of course, they might visit you in one of your dreams before they visit us on Christmas Day.”

“Ooh, maybe they’ll visit us this Christmas.”

“Maybe. And oh yes, they did tell me a secret about themselves.”

“What secret?” Sally’s deep-blue eyes burned with curiosity.

“They said that their feathers glowed with a golden hue when they were touched by humans. Just for a short time. They told me to tell you that.”

“Oh. I wonder why they told you to tell me that.”

“I don’t know. But they definitely did.”

Sally considered the conversation she had just had … She realised her father knew that she was under pressure for being small, being called names, struggling at school, and for living in the invisible shadow of her mother. But Sally realised that her father was also under pressure, because he was ashamed that he had never been able to give her a decent life. She thought it was a pity that he seemed to have forgotten that he deserved a decent life himself. Anyway, the thing that made her happy was knowing there was little doubt that they cared for and loved each other deeply.

“Well, have you finished your tea, Daddy?”

Mr Murphy took a quick gulp of tea …

“I have now.”

Sally lifted herself off her rug, took her father’s empty tea mug, and brought it along with her own to the sink. Standing on her stool, she washed the two mugs and put them on the draining board.

Just then, there was a rat-a-tat-tat on the bedsit window …

“That must be Mrs Gabriel,” said Sally excitedly, stepping off her kitchen area stool.

“Nope,” said Sally’s father, looking at the window.

“Who is it, then?”

“My writing agent, Mr Brownlow.”

“Mr Cauliflower Head.”

“I suppose you could call him that, if you were six years old. But please don’t call him that to his face.”

“I won’t. But his puffed out blond hair is silly.”

“I agree. But please behave yourself. I’ll just go and fetch him.”

 

3

THE SMOOTH OPERATOR

SITTING ON THE spare wooden chair, Sally could hear the approaching voices of her father and Mr Brownlow. As usual, the pompous Mr Brownlow was doing most of the talking, and at a far higher volume.

Mr Brownlow bounded through the opened door into the bedsit with Mr Murphy close behind …

“Good evening, young Sally. You’re looking quite smart. I hear you’re going to the school disco this evening with Mrs Gabriel.”

“That’s right, Mr Cauli—erm, Mr Brownlow.”

“Ah, you nearly got my name wrong. But you got it right in the end.”

Sally said nothing.

Mr Brownlow dumped himself down on one of the two armchairs. Fortunately, not Mr Murphy’s favourite armchair.

“Would you like a mug of tea?” asked Sally.

“No thank you. I’ll only be here for a few minutes.”

Mr Murphy closed the bedsit door and took his usual seat on his armchair.

Sally looked at Mr Brownlow. She thought him a striking figure dripping with confidence and wealth. He had a navy-blue jacket with gold buttons. A white immaculately steam-pressed shirt and red silk tie. The shirt had gold cufflinks; and the tie, a silver tie pin in encrusted with jewels. She didn’t know whether the jewels were real, but they sparkled as if they were. Mr Brownlow had cream trousers and brown loafer shoes, and his socks were navy-blue, matching his jacket. And the last and almost overpowering thing that Sally noticed about Mr Brownlow was his cologne aftershave. It would linger in the bedsit for at least an hour after he had left.

“So how is your work-in-progress going, Mr Murphy?” asked Mr Brownlow enthusiastically.

“I’m getting through it. But Mr Brownlow, to be perfectly honest, I’m not so sure I’m up to the mark as a writer. I’ve already written twelve books over the last six years, and none of them have got published, despite your every effort.”

“It’s a matter of breaking the dam that publishers surround themselves with,” said Mr Brownlow with a cheesy smile. “Your current book will be your thirteenth. Maybe it will be a case of thirteen lucky for some.”

“I have to be honest, I doubt that. It’s more likely to be the traditional thirteen unlucky for some. Honestly. Mr Brownlow, you are obviously a wealthy man, and hence must be a highly successful agent. I don’t understand why you wasted your time acting as an agent for me. You’ve done everything you can to encourage me—even offering me loans. What is it I owe you now…? About six thousand …?” Mr Murphy did not want to say the word “pounds” in front of Sally.

“There is no need to worry on that front,” said Mr Brownlow as he dusted off one of the arms of his armchair with a swiping hand. “I’ve made it clear that the loan is conditional on me succeeding in getting one of your books published. If you don’t sell a book, you never have to pay me back, not a single penny. I’ve made that quite clear on the receipts for any payments I have given to you.”

“Yes. That is very kind of you, Mr Brownlow.” Mr Murphy shifted uncomfortably in his armchair. “Nevertheless, recently I’ve been feeling a lot better in my mind. I feel as if I am learning to live with the tragic death of my wife. Sally and I talk more and more of Diana, which I believe is a sign I’m finally coming to terms with matters.”

“I’m glad to see you’re coming to terms with your loss. And of course, I wish you and Sally great happiness. But perhaps your improved feelings will inspire your writing. I’m sure you will be in a good state of mind to be more productive—not that you haven’t been quite productive. I would say two books a year, with full editing, is far more productive than the average bestseller thriller writer.”

“Except that I’m not a bestseller thriller writer. I’m just a wannabe bestseller thriller writer.”

“True. Nevertheless, two books a year is nothing to be sniffed at.”

“But, Mr Brownlow, I have to be pragmatic and admit to the unlikelihood of ever being successful. And I can’t allow Sally to live like this any longer.”

“Nor yourself, Daddy.” quickly put in Sally.

Mr Brownlow went unusually quiet and stroked his chin.

“It’s all for the best, Mr Brownlow,” said Mr Murphy, straightening up in his chair and placing his hands on his knees determinedly. “You won’t have to waste any more money on me, giving me conditional loans and providing me a free editing service.”

“Oh well, I suppose nothing lasts forever,” said Mr Brownlow, looking somewhat disappointed.

“You don’t seem very happy to hear of my decision,” said Mr Murphy. “Surely this will come as a relief to you. You can concentrate on your successful writers. I’ve always wondered who they are. But I’m sure they must have asked you to protect their privacy, or I’m sure you would have told me.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what I would like to do, Mr Murphy. It is quite possible that you are suffering from some sort of writer’s burnout. So what I propose is giving you an extra incentive to ensure that you can at least get through your thirteenth book. And after you have finished that, then you can make your decision. I will promise to do everything in my power to seek publication of this thirteenth book. Then you could start on a fourteenth book while I am seeking a publisher for your thirteenth book, as well as your twelve other books. So my incentive for you is that I will try harder at my end to get you published. But of course, since we are so close to Christmas, and given your latest state of mind, I will give you some extra incentive—money! Not a loan, but a gift for all the effort you have made. Yes, perhaps it did not make me any money, but it kept me on my toes, and may well have helped me with other authors. So who knows, perhaps you have made me money without either of us realising it?”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly take any of your money, Mr Brownlow,” said Mr Murphy.

“No no no, I insist. I have more money than I know what to do with. And that is because of my profession and my business relationships with my clients, both writers and publishers. And you, Mr Murphy, are one of my clients. So I insist. We will call it a Christmas present. Now please accept my gift on behalf of myself, yourself and dear Sally.”

Mr Murphy said nothing. And Sally bit her lower lip, hoping her father would accept the gift, because she thought he deserved it—and they needed the money!”

Mr Brownlow took out his cheque book from his inside jacket pocket …

“There, one thousand five hundred pounds!” he said, lifting himself off his armchair and handing the cheque to Mr Murphy. “Enough for two months’ rent and for some good food over the Christmas period—and maybe a Christmas present or two for Sally.”

“Are you sure …?”

“Certain. And even if you do not wish to finish the thirteenth book and call our literary liaison to an end, you will owe me not a penny, and will obviously be free to live your life as you see fit. I bid you farewell for now, and shall call again at the beginning of February to see how you have got on. I’ll show myself out.”

Mr Brownlow gave Sally a friendly tussle of her curly jet-black hair, before making his way out of the bedsit and 72 Frith Street.

“Just in the nick of time, Sally,” said Sally’s father, looking at the cheque and letting out a sigh of relief. “I’ll pay the landlord the rent for this month and January. That should keep the landlord off our back for a few months. And we’ll get some good food in on Monday. It will probably be busy with late Christmas shoppers being just two days before Christmas.”

“Daddy, I don’t like Mr Brownlow.”

“But he’s so kind.”

“He reminds me of a boy in my class. Stephen Marana. He’s always asking for things and promising he’ll pay back later. But he don’t ever pay back. No one gives him anything now. Not even a sweet.”

“But Mr Brownlow has never asked me for anything. And he gives me money. And he doesn’t know if I’ll ever be able to pay him back.”

“But he does ask you for something, Daddy.”

“What?”

“Your books.”

“Yes, but that’s different. They’re not worth anything unless he can find a publisher to publish them. And if he does, he will get me a good, fair deal. That’s what agents do. They act as a go-between for both the publisher and the writer.”

“Oh. Well, I’m not sure I understand all that. But he still reminds me of Stephen Marana.”

Just then, another rat-a-tat-tat sounded on the bedsit window.

“It’s Mrs Gabriel this time,” said Sally excitedly, with a playful jump.

“Right, let’s get your coat and scarf on, and get you off on your way with Mrs Gabriel.”

Moments later …

Mr Murphy opened the front door to reveal himself and Sally to Mrs Gabriel …

“Is everything all right, Mr Murphy? You look lost in thought.” Mrs Gabriel looked at Mr Murphy with concern.

“Er, yes. I was just thinking of something that Sally just told me. She was telling me about a boy in her class. He would borrow money and never pay it back. It just got me to thinking about human nature.”

“I suppose you need to consider the good and bad in people to write your books, Mr Murphy. And I know the boy to whom Sally is referring. I know his mother. She thinks his behaviour has been affected by the loss of his father last year.”

“Stephen’s daddy died?” questioned Sally, pulling at Mrs Gabriel’s sleeve and looking up at her imploringly.

“Yes. Didn’t you know?”

“No. But now I will try to be friendly with him, because I know how he must feel.”

“Oh well, Mr Murphy. Time for Sally and me to go to the school disco.”

Mrs Gabriel gave Mr Murphy a friendly smile, then took Sally’s hand.

“Come on, young lady,” she said. “Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to school we go!”