Hellooo. I’ve not blogged much for a while (sounds painful), but rest assured, I have been hard at work typing up my first novel ‘A Fifth Visitor’. It’s a sequel to Charles Dickens’ classic ‘A Christmas Carol’ and the first two chapters were last seen at the back of my short sci-fi story ‘Bright Future’ which is available on Amazon as either an ebook or paperback. For those of you who have already bought and read that, thanks very much, and here for you is a partially edited version of chapter three. This chapter introduces two new characters to the story. There’s more work to do on it, so try not to judge. Enjoy!
3
He stared at her from around the bedroom door, making sure not to let too much light in from the landing – it was still early, after all. The one thing Carl had done right in his entire life was lying there, sleeping, as peaceful as a lazy Sunday afternoon; his perfect little slice of heaven: his daughter. If nothing else he did from now on worked out, he knew that he’d always have Sara to be proud of. He was feeling sentimental, he couldn’t help it. It was Christmas time, so why shouldn’t he?
A slight beam of light was creeping across her face, through a gap in the curtains from the waking sun, threatening to disturb her. He thought about going in there to adjust them, but he didn’t want to wake her. She looked so happy and peaceful, like an angel. How could he tell her? How could he tell Kate? How could he tell the two most important people in his life, that just days before Christmas, he had been made redundant?
He was having a hard time processing the information himself, and the managing director Dennis Longmire’s speech was playing over and over in his head, like a song stuck there in the background all the time, infecting every moment. Sometimes, he thought that it had finally stopped, but then the very act of realising that, made him remember it all over again, and the song started up, again:
‘We’re very sorry to have to announce this, particularly at this time of year… We considered leaving it until the new year, but we can’t put it off any longer, and there’s never a good time for bad news, is there…’
One by one, he watched his colleagues being called into the manager’s office, and one by one they came out, their feelings written all over their faces. He had hoped against hope that he wouldn’t get called in there; that fate had saved him, somehow, from the axe; that all his years of thankless, loyal service had been for something. This very thought made him feel guilty: Why should he be saved? He wasn’t the only one there with a wife and child to support.
‘We want to take this opportunity to thank all of you, whether you’re relatively new to the company or you’ve been with us for years…’
Carl couldn’t face that miserable canteen, with its watered-down coffee and stale, past-their-sell-by-date cakes, and since it had happened he’d taken to making his own sandwiches and having his lunch in the park with the ducks. They always cheered him up. Ducks didn’t judge, they just took your bread and quacked their gratitude. Some evenings after work, he would go back there and consult with them. It had been quite a mild winter so far, so he would park himself on one of the least bird muck covered benches and rehearse how he was going to tell ‘his girls’. The moonlight reflecting on the water almost took him out of himself, to a different, less complex time; away from his worries. Cold, hard reality always managed to reel him back in though, and when he remembered to switch his phone back on, there would always be several voicemails and texts from Kate, asking ‘where the hell are you?’ and telling him she was worried.
‘Well,’ he’d said to the duck that had been pecking away decisively at his reduced loaf, ‘if she’s worried now, what’s she going to be when I tell her?’ He remembered looking at the duck, hoping for an answer, but of course it never came.
He suddenly noticed that Sara had opened her eyes and was looking straight at him.
‘Hey, Dad, what’s wrong?’ Carl put his hand to his cheek and realised that he’d been crying. He came up with a quick lie. He’d become too good at that.
‘Oh, it’s these cold mornings, Poppet, they always make my sinuses leak,’ he laughed, then, he realised something and went over to the bed. ‘What’s all this ‘Dad’ business? When did you stop calling me ‘Daddy’?’ Sara’s face lit up, as if she’d been awake for hours.
‘When I was six and three quarters,’ she said.
‘Ha ha, very funny,’ he said, dryly. ‘When did you become so sarcastic?’
‘Oh, that didn’t happen ‘til I turned seven and a half.’
‘But you still believe in Santa, right? Because if not, I can give him a call and_’
‘Of course I do, Dad. Depending on what he brings me.’
An ice cloud suddenly stopped Carl in his tracks. Had he bought all her presents? She was a good girl and never asked for much. This had the opposite effect on him of wanting to spoil her a little bit more, especially at Christmas. His face went blank, as he tried to picture the presents in his mind.
‘Dad, are you alright?’ Sara asked. This snapped him out of his trance.
‘Yeah, yeah, of course, Honey, I’m fine,’ he said, stroking her curly ginger locks. ‘Just trying to straighten everything out in my mind. You shouldn’t worry so much. You’re just like Mummy, I mean ‘Mum’’. Sara suddenly put on a mock serious expression and deepened her voice.
‘Well, someone has to worry.’
‘Woah, where did Sara go?’
‘Ha ha, very funny, Dad,’ she said, lying back down. ‘You should be getting to work, anyway. Look at the time.’
‘Yeah, you’re right. What would I do without my very own human alarm clock, eh?’ he said, getting up.
‘They’d sack you and you could stay at home with Mum all day and you’d drive her crazy.’ He thought about saying something then, or at least giving a preview of the bad news to come, but he couldn’t do it, so he just said:
‘Well, it’s a good job we’ve got you then.’
Coming soonish: A preview of Chapter 4, in which we witness Scrooge’s journey through time.
JOHN D. PAYNE IS WRITING 