The Ghosts of Christmas Past by Cavan Scott

Author:Cavan Scott [Scott, Cavan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781844352708
Amazon: 1844352706
Barnesnoble: 1844352706
Publisher: Big Finish
Published: 2008-11-01T07:00:00+00:00

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Chas never remarried – it wouldn’t have been right. Instead he lived on at the suburban semi the couple had shared, unfailingly courteous to his neighbours, and well liked by his colleagues at the bank, particularly for his habit of buying each of their children a Christmas present. ‘It’s not as if I’ve got anyone else to buy for, is it?’ he argued, bringing tears to the eyes of some of the more sensitive members of staff.

Overall, he led a solitary sort of life. The highlight of his week was the Saturday-morning trip to the library in search of the latest science-fiction anthology. All he needed in life was his books, his faithful books. Well, them, and the music of the Band of the Royal Marines.

And if he wanted to march around his living room to Colonel Bogey from time to time, what was wrong with that?

Chas had, through one reason and another, spent most of his life on his own, and it was looking as though the rest would unfold the same way. But he wasn’t bitter. In fact, he didn’t really mind how little of the love he gave out was reciprocated, from week to week or month to month, because he knew that somebody cared for him, at least for one day a year. Father Christmas.

Christmas Day dawned at Lavender House. For a few moments, Chas

was seven years old again. A crisp early morning sun was breaking through the curtains, and in the half-light he looked around for his present. Usually it was at the foot of his bed, but not this year. Perhaps, he thought, it had slid underneath. With some difficulty, Chas

manoeuvred himself onto the floor, and scoured the carpet Nothing, save for his trusty old chamber pot He checked his watch. This was really very peculiar. Father Christmas should have been by now.

Chas felt a strange sense of unreality overtake him. His mouth felt dry. This couldn’t be happening.

Father Christmas had forgotten him.

The morning passed in subdued contemplation. Despite having little enthusiasm for food, Chas reluctantly hauled himself off his bed and went to Christmas dinner.

Today, more than ever, it took an effort of will to wheel himself across the communal area to his allotted place at the long dining table.

He rolled past the threadbare plastic tree, his wheels crunching over a couple of loose baubles and grinding them into the ghastly vomit-coloured carpet tiles. He tried to force a smile at the staff, arrayed in serried ranks and all wearing their regulation uniform of jaunty paper hat and mismatched tinsel scarf. Then he manoeuvred himself into

position and half-heartedly put on his own hat, reflecting that, as ever, it was far too small and would undoubtedly make his already

155

protruding ears look even more ridiculously oversized.

Malcolm leant across the table and proffered a cracker. ‘Happy

Christmas!’ he said and smiled, displaying some ginger fur stuck in his teeth. ‘And what did Father Christmas bring you, eh?’

Chas’s troubles vanished in an instant, as two important and

horrifying facts suddenly struck him.

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