The Dead Man Diaries by Paul Cornell

Author:Paul Cornell [Cornell, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Book, Prose, Anthology, Short Story
ISBN: 1903654009
Publisher: Big Finish
Published: 2000-09-25T06:11:00+00:00

7: Christmas Spirit

By Cavan Scott and Mark Wright

‘Humbug.’

Professor Bernice Summerfield stood on the steps of the Mansionhouse, overlooking the rolling garden terraces that made up the grounds of the Collection. Her mouth hung open in an expression somewhere between complete bewilderment and abhorrent disgust.

The Braxiatel Collection had been transformed into a dirty great Christmas card!

Every inch of the lovingly created gardens had been dusted with a blanket of crisp white snow, punctuated by holly trees that had erupted overnight. The air was alive with the sweet song of robins, and, as if that wasn’t enough, a large lake, teeming with skaters whose laughter caught on the breeze, had formed at the base of the recently constructed clock tower. To cap it all, carefully hidden speakers spewed forth insidious twentieth-century Christmas music. Benny thought she recognised the singer – Val Doonican was it? ‘Brax,’ she said, ‘you’ve gone too far this time.’

‘Wasn’t Brax, Professor.’

‘Hmm?’ Benny hadn’t noticed Mister Crofton, the Collection’s head gardener, working at the bottom of the stairs.

He was clearing away a path in the snow and, even in this climate, was stripped to his shirtsleeves, his faithful wheelbarrow standing not too far away.

‘Sorry, Mister Crofton,’ Benny apologised, crunching her way down the steps to join him. ‘I didn’t see you there. What wasn’t Brax?’

‘This.’ A gnarled hand waved around at the seasonal tableau. ‘All Mr Naismith’s idea,’ he grunted, the derision in his voice barely disguised. ‘Thinks it’ll be good PR having a traditional Earth Christmas, what with so many Terrans around at the moment. Mr Braxiatel thought it was a good idea.’

‘I’ll bet he did,’ sighed Bernice grimly. ‘I hate Christmas.’

‘Not too keen meself,’ Mister Crofton agreed, resting glumly on his shovel. ‘It’ll take for ever to get the grounds back the way they were.’

The pair stood in the bright morning sun, conversation drying. Benny had a lot of time for the gardener, but sometimes conversation with him could be a little one-sided.

‘Going to the memorial service?’ Mister Crofton eventually said.

‘Better show my face, I suppose.’

‘Poor lad.’

‘Oh, I didn’t really know him. I was only on the dig to Anibus as a favour to Brax. Still, nasty way to go. That crevasse wasn’t exactly small.’ She thought for a moment.

‘I’ve never known a hover bridge to give out like that.’

Mister Crofton nodded as if he knew exactly what Bernice was talking about. ‘Well, you’d better get a shift on. It started ten minutes ago.’

‘What?’ Benny looked at her watch. ‘Goddess!’ she cursed, and broke into a run across the terrace, little snow storms kicking up as she went.

Behind her, a snowball exploded on to the wall just above Mister Crofton’s head. ‘Oi!’ shouted the gardener, striding off towards the perpetrator, shovel hefted threateningly.

The hallowed halls of the multi-faith chapel rang with the crescendo. When the final note of Glasst’s Requiem sounded, over one hundred and fifty heads turned as Irving Braxiatel walked to the podium and stopped beside the holographic profile of the late student.

Brax turned to the silent hall to begin his tribute.

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