Tidings of Comfort and Joy?

Monday, 24th December 1888 – O Christmas Tree?

Awoken yet again ridiculously early, because a fellow with a barrel organ had taken up residence under my window. After hearing the tinny notes of 'Silent Night' wafting up to my window for the twentieth time, I opened my window and shouted down to him that a change of tune was in order, or failing that relocation to a new position.

Not sure he heard me – no sooner had I shut the window than he started his infernal contraption up again.

Called in at Whitehall, more out of courtesy than out of the expectation of doing any work. This being Monday, and Christmas Eve into the bargain, I had my doubts that anyone who had not the sense to cry off with sickness had turned up with the intention of getting much done. The clink of bottles was very much in evidence and from offices that should have been the bastions of sobriety, one could hear girlish giggles and manly laughter.

Took myself to Downing Street to see if there were any pressing developments that should be occupying our minds over Christmas. Turned out that the PM was quite overtaken by sentimentality and was therefore incapable of sensible conversation.

The cause of this? A host of children, including his three of his own, from the local school, who had descended on Whitehall to melt cynical hearts with their angelic warbling and collect money for the Seaman's Mission. A worthy cause no doubt, but I object to having my eardrums assaulted in the name of charity; indeed, I would have paid them not to sing.

The PM, being as susceptible to this sort of seasonal nonsense as any doting father is wont to be, bore a whimsical expression on his face that I felt was most out of keeping for the leader of the government. Should our enemies see us in such a woolly-minded state, then we would be the laughing stock of Europe. It was hardly likely to inspire confidence amongst our allies either, but I dare say we all have our strange Christmas rituals and customs – it only seems to me that ours are sillier than most.

To compound the situation, he insisted I say and listen. It was then my duty to praise his daughter's solo of 'The First Nowell', which was tolerable enough, even if it did stray from the composer's original melody for the most part. Just when I thought it was over, the little imps broke into a rousing chorus of 'The Holly and the Ivy'.

Having no children of my own – and no nieces and nephews, as I discovered to my cost yesterday – I dare say I am not the best judge of their efforts. One has to have the patience of a saint or be tone-deaf to appreciate the quavering voices of other people's children struggling through 'Once in Royal David's City'. All I can say is that seemed to me that the parents, the PM included, were getting more enjoyment out of this spectacle than the children. I could not help thinking that their hearts were not in the task, especially the young lad who appeared to be more interested in the contents of his left nostril than the words to 'God Rest You Merry, Gentleman'. When he extracted something that then went in his mouth, I took this as my cue to leave.

The Foreign Secretary had come to the same conclusion and we slipped out together. Escape was not in sight, however, for he cornered me and took the opportunity to pour out his woes. It turns out that I was right – his mother-in-law is back, and is having trouble with her back, an unhappy combination for all concerned.

Apparently, she has been making his life a misery because she thinks he lacks ambition – why only Foreign Secretary, she wants to know. According to her, by now he should have been PM. Given the state of the current incumbent, I concede that she may have a point.

As to the FS and his mother-in-law problem, he said he was thinking of getting himself arrested in the next few hours – Christmas in a police cell would be a blessing in disguise, so he thought. I have to say that he rose in my estimation – that was an excuse of which Uncle Hobart would have been proud; surely it has to rank up there with his yearly demise.

Advised him against such a rash action, however, since it would only give the mother-in-law another stick with which to beat him. Better to look happy, said I; nothing irritates those with a grudge more than the thought that they have failed to make the object of their ire miserable. This cheered him considerably – the smile that came to his face I believe he intended to keep there for the duration of the Christmas feast. I wished him luck.

Had a narrow escape when I saw the Home Secretary heading in my direction with what looked like a painful limp – someone said he had been advised to try a mustard enema over the weekend; call me selfish, but the details of that misadventure was something I was in no hurry to hear.

It was my intention to head straight for the club, except I felt my conscience pricked as I passed a toy shop and saw a gaggle of children with their noses pressed to the glass. I had tried not to take the disagreement I had had with Sherlock too much to heart, although he had struck a chord. Perhaps I was just a little broody, a condition I attributed entirely to the time of year, which lends itself to introspection of the worst kind. In my case, my thoughts always turn to family.

At my age, our father had put himself to the trouble of finding a woman who could tolerate his company for a few hours at a time and had inconvenienced two families by suggesting that they marry. From their expressions in the wedding portrait, the day had not been a success, and nor were the next nineteen years, if their unwavering frowns were anything to judge by. When they finally ran out of things to say to each other, they died within a six-week period. The doctor said it was due to pneumonia or some such ailment, although others maintained it was terminal boredom. As a recommendation for the institution of marriage, I cannot say that mine and Sherlock's parents were the best examples.

One wonders how, under different circumstances, things might have been different. As the situation currently stands, the survival of the Holmes family solely rests on the head of one small boy, who likes drawing, has appalling handwriting and cannot tell his uncles from his cousins. It is a bleak prospect to be sure.

Still, hope springs eternal. In the absence of Sherlock, myself, or – heaven help us! – any of the rest of the family wanting to do something about it, we must trust that young Gervase will one day surprise us all. Sherlock too was a late developer as I remember. He caused a great deal of worry by taking a long time to utter his first word – he says it was because he had nothing worthwhile to say. I only wish he would adopt the same strategy now from time to time – when the mood takes him, he will chatter on for hours about the dating of medieval pots or the best strings for his violin, subjects which to a man possessed of neither is liable to pall.

However, I digress. The upshot was that I decided to play the role of kindly 'Uncle Mycroft' and give the lad what support I could. I purchased a picture book and a set of colouring crayons, had the shop assistant wrap them and headed straight over to the post office where I joined a queue that stretched nearly out of the door.

Until the day I finally shrug off this mortal coil, I shall never understand the mentality that operates in these places. The general rule is that the longer the queue, the less people there are behind the counter. I have known days when the assistants behind the counter outnumber the customers. They hover, waiting to pounce the moment they sense you are about to open your mouth in a way that is most intimidating. Present them with a lengthy queue, however, and the situation is reversed.

As today, there were ten people in front of me and only one baffled lad behind the counter. The simplest question seemed to throw him into a quandary, so that he had to keep disappearing into the back room to ask the advice of some unseen sage. He would return, after what seemed an age, only to be foxed a moment later when another seemingly simple question came his way.

When my turn came, I promptly forgot myself and asked what I thought was a perfectly easy question: was my parcel likely to arrive at its destination by tomorrow? The lad stared at me, blank of expression and with his mouth hanging open in a manner that gave him the look of a particularly stupid sheep, and finally said that he would go and ask. He shuffled out, scratching at himself, and the other people in the queue behind me let out exasperated sighs.

"What did you want to go doing that for?" said a woman in a heavy brown bonnet behind me. "Asking him difficult questions like that. Why, you'll only confuse the lad."

"I would have thought it well within his scope, madam," said I. "I merely asked if my parcel would arrive by tomorrow."

"If you were wanting it there by Christmas morning, you should've posted it a couple of days ago," said a stooped gentleman with a cane and battered bowler some way back. "That's what the Postmaster says: 'post early for Christmas'. That's what you should've done."

Clearly, this fellow excelled at stating what was obvious to all and sundry, and as such he gained considerable backing from the crowd.

"It's people like you that causes all these problems wi'the post," said the woman. "Leaving it to the last minute and then expecting the poor postman to have to run about wi'your big heavy parcels. Got no consideration, you ain't. It is Christmas, you know."

I said that I was truly sorry to have to put the fellow to such inconvenience on my behalf, although it was my understanding that delivering the post was part of his job. Had I known I was putting him to such trouble, I would have taken it myself.

I fear my attempt at sardonic humour was wasted. Instead, the crowd grew to mumbling ever louder until the post boy appeared, looking even more gormless than ever, and asked me to repeat the question as he had forgotten what it was I wanted to know. I conceded defeat and told him to do the best he could at delivering my parcel.

Then I said the magic words – "it is for a child". Had I announced that the next round of drinks was on me, I could not have produced a more spontaneous effect. The crowd ceased grumbling and came over to my side.

"You make sure it gets to the little lad," said the previously hostile woman in the bonnet, waggling her finger at the bemused fellow behind the counter. "If I hear otherwise, you'll have me to contend with. What else is Christmas but for the little children?"

This was neither the time nor the place for a lengthy debate on the subject, and so I took my leave. No sooner had I emerged from the building than I was surprised to meet coming in the opposite direction Sherlock's friend, Dr Watson. I believe, from the expression that came to his face when he recognised me, that he was sincerely pleased to see me, which is a reaction that does not come the way of the Holmes family very often.

From what Sherlock tells me, and from what little I have observed of the man, he is one of those fellows that one hears about or reads about in books, but exists so rarely in everyday life that to actually meet one is on a par with encountering some strange and exotic species. By this I mean that he is a genuinely decent person.

"Mr Holmes," said he. "What a surprise bumping into you like this. A Merry Christmas to you, sir."

I believe I have also noted before that he is also one of those odd sorts that derive a great deal of pleasure from the festive season. "And to you, Doctor. Late with your posting, I see."

The collection of parcels he carried was near threatening to topple from his arms. "I'm rather behind this year, I'm afraid, what with one thing and another. I fear these won't reach their destinations in time."

"You should have posted early," I caught myself saying. "But I dare say they will make it. I have just sent off a parcel to my nephew, which I have hopes will make it by tomorrow."

His eyes widened. "Your... nephew?"

I thought I had better put him right on that issue before word got around. "Cousin would be more accurate. He's only a young chap, so he calls me uncle."

"Ah, I see."

The way he said it suggested that his thoughts had turned to other things, or rather to one person in particular. There followed an inner struggle which was plainly visible on his face, and which appeared to be giving him a great deal of difficulty. I could have helped, since it was obvious to me what it was he wanted to ask. Since I do not follow my brother's habit of breaking into another fellow's thoughts unbidden, on the grounds that it is unforgivably ill-mannered, I left him to frame his question in his own time.

"Your brother," he said at last. "Have you seen him recently? He is well, I trust?"

"Sherlock? I believe so."

"I'm glad to hear it." Again, I noted his hesitation. "Only we – that is to say, Mary and I – invited him to join us for Christmas lunch and I haven't heard from him."

This was news to me.

"There's far too much for just the two of us," he went on. "Mary hasn't any family to ask over and nor have I, so we thought, as your brother was spending Christmas alone this year – partly my fault, I admit – that he might care to join us." He paused for breath. "Do you know what his plans are, by any chance?"

I should have told him to waste not another moment worrying about my thoughtless brother, but to enjoy his Christmas with his wife and leave Sherlock to stew in his own self-induced misery. That I did not was more out of consideration for him than my brother.

It is times like this, faced with the heartfelt concern of a friend that he does not deserve, that I wish I had the energy to take Sherlock to task about his behaviour. Worst of all, he had succeeded in making this poor fellow feel that he had committed some grievous sin by following the lead of countless adult males before him and getting married.

"I sure he's around somewhere, Dr Watson," said I. "If I see him, I shall remind him of his prior obligations."

"Thank you, Mr Holmes. Tell him I'll understand if he's busy. I remember several Christmases ago, we had a case where..." He forced a smile, almost as though he had realised he was on the verge of saying too much. "Well, if he can make it, we'd be pleased to see him."

The situation was worse than I had imagined. I knew that Sherlock had taken his friend's departure from their shared lodgings badly – he has the arrogance to assume that no one, especially not a woman, could ever compete with own scintillating company – but I had not realised that the feeling was mutual.

That anyone would chose to be in a situation where they are constantly overshadowed and appear duller by comparison tells me much of the fellow's sense of awe and loyalty to my brother – but then to actively miss it makes me question either the Doctor's good sense or face the fact that the pair of them may actually enjoy this haring about after criminals that they do.

I have to accept the latter, since Dr Watson is a shining beacon of sanity amongst my acquaintances. If only we had more like him in the upper echelons of government.

As usual, I saw that I would have to assume the mantle of wiser, elder brother and bring calm to troubled waters. Since this could be safely done from the comfort of my own armchair, it was not going to call too greatly on my time or require much effort on my part. Typical of Sherlock – he wants a friend, but fails to appreciate the work involved in keeping one. Well, I did warn him.

Now he was going to have to behave like any other human being and make good on his responsibilities. I could see him do no less – family honour was at stake. We Holmeses never back down from a challenge. Take Grandfather Topham, who claimed it was possible to knock down a wall using only his forehead – and knock it down he did, even if it took him eleven years and broke his nose in the process.

I shall remind Sherlock that perseverance is a virtue – and that I will not tolerate his shabby treatment of a thoroughly decent couple. Go he will, even if I have to bundle him up and have him delivered by the postman.

With assurances that I would do what I could, we parted, he to do battle in the post office and me to make a purchase in Jermyn Street at Leadbetter and Sons, where Old Mr Leadbetter was still noticeable by his absence. From there, I sought sanctuary from the wandering troops of waits, well-wishers and holly sellers in the Diogenes Club, although even here I was not entirely free from the miasmic effects of Christmas.

My first warning was the holly wreath I saw on the door. I entered to find that in my absence my halls had been decked with boughs of holly and ivy. Evergreens were draped copiously about the interior and there was a suspicious smell of pine that I eventually found was emanating from an unfeasibly large tree that had been set up in the Strangers' Room. Evidently Princely-Hiccup had been out spending the club funds.

When I did corner him and ask for both receipts and our change, he said that all he had had left over was sixpence, which he gave to a group of boys singing carols in the street. As for receipts, the people had had purchased the decorations from were too busy to provide him with written confirmation of the amount of his expenditure. Personally, I had my suspicions, not least because I could smell strong alcohol on his breath, which led me to believe that our sixpence now languished in the pocket of the landlord of the King George.

However, I was evidently in the minority. Fellow members I had thought previously sane and as misanthropic as it was possible to be were enthusing about the size of our tree. Ponsonby Ponsonby-Jones said ours was larger than that at the Carlton. Warty Doyle expressed the opinion that it was not the height that counted but the quantity of the branches and the fullness, of which ours presented a pleasing girth. Gusty Matthews piped up that size was not the issue – the fact that we had a tree was what counted.

This year, said he, we would be able to hold our heads up with pride. No more would we be mocked by tradesmen and small children as a bunch of 'old Scrooges'. Now, said he, we had truly embraced the spirit of Christmas.

It was then that he dislodged an orange pomander from one of the branches, which knocked over a lighted candle. This then landed on Ruff-Hedges' copious beard and caused him to smolder. We doused him with the gasogene, after which he woke up and calmly inquired whether it was time for dinner.

All this, and a brother to worry about into the bargain! No wonder I'm grey before my time.

Next: Tuesday, 25th December 1888 – We Wish You a Merry Christmas?