The Ghost of Christmas by Cavan Scott

Author:Cavan Scott [Scott, Cavan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781844352708
Publisher: Big Finish
Published: 2008-11-02T00:00:00+00:00

On Christmas Eve 1943, Chas went to a dance at Bromley town hall, where he trod on several people’s feet and met a pretty girl called 153

Irene. She worked for the ATS, and drove an ambulance, badly. She had only been given half a day’s driving instruction, and the

destruction she wrought on London’s roads put the Luftwaffe to shame.

That night, Father Christmas brought Chas some nylon tights, which, not having much use for, he gave to Irene. She was impressed, and when the war was over, they married.

Chas liked Irene because, unlike some girls, she was sensible as well as pretty. And Irene liked Chas, even though he did insist on filling up their house with his silly books. Her mother had warned her that all men have pointless hobbies, and his was to read books about

spaceships and Martians. It could be worse. Her sister’s husband, Derek, liked to go fishing, and kept a bucket of worms in the fridge.

The following evening, Mrs Snuff cleared her throat too. ‘Someone has stolen my tights,’ she announced.

This didn’t have the desired reaction, so she banged the table as hard as her arthritis would permit. Matron’s ginger cat stopped licking its left thigh and looked curiously at her. One by one the other occupants turned their gaze towards Mrs Snuff, and when she was certain of their attention she declared, somewhat portentously, ‘We have a thief among us!’

Mrs Trout tutted and shook her head. Malcolm nodded concernedly, then excused himself, and followed Matron’s cat as it ambled from the room.

Irene’s driving did not improve. On Friday 5 December 1952, she was driving her Morris Oxford home from work when a dense, smoke-sodden fog descended on London. Despite being able to see barely a metre in front of her, Irene carried on regardless, in wholly the wrong direction. She drove all the way to Vauxhall, where she proceeded to drive off the bridge and into the Thames. That Christmas, Chas was given a rather nice pair of pink lady’s slippers, size five.

Lavender House Retirement Home was in uproar. Matron was forced to call a crisis meeting for residents and staff, for only the second time since the great handbag debacle of 1991.

‘We have an evildoer in our midst,’ she said, darkly. ‘When I catch the perpetrator – and make no mistake, I will catch the perpetrator – the consequences will be very – serious – indeed.’

‘It’s not nice, is it?’ observed Mrs Snuff.

‘It’s not,’ said Mrs Trout, and broke wind loudly, waking up Mr Fox, who shouted ‘Treskilling yellow!’ for no obvious reason.

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