A Chelsie Christmas

K – Kris Kringle

December 11th, 1926

"Who would have thought it, Charles Carson and Kris Kringle, both pleasing children at Christmas? Not too far removed really."

Elsie glared over her glasses at Beryl, "Well, they're both alliterated I guess." She put down the order book and pushed her glasses down her nose, chuckling at their joke.

"If he starts growing a white beard and wearing a lot of red, you know something's wrong."

Elsie smiled more sedately, "I feel rather bad leaving him alone today."

"He's healing well, though, isn't he?"

"Seems to be, some coughing yesterday and sneezing, but his temperature 'ud settled this morning."

"That's good," Beryl pushed up her sleeves and sank her hands into the large bowl in front of her. "Not keeping you awake at night, is he?"

Elsie's eyes widened and Beryl laughed at her expression, "I didn't mean –"

"I know what you meant." She said quickly, reaching for the tea pot and pouring.

"Although, we could discuss the new-found lightness in Mr. Carson's steps…"

"No. We couldn't. How is Mr. Mason by the way?"

Beryl raised her eyebrows, an enigmatic smile on her face, "He is very well. We are taking a walk this coming Sunday."

"That's very nice to hear," despite their mutual teasing, Elsie would wish for nothing more than for her old friend to find the contentment she herself had.

"Fancy it though, our own Mr. Carson out saving lives."

"I met them last night, the family." She dropped sugar into the tea, "Irish."

"Oh?"

She licked her lips, swallowing her tea, "Travellers."

"Ohhh. Did you tell him?"

"No. You think I should?"

Beryl shrugged, "Would it serve any purpose?"

"Not unless he meets them, which I think he might, or he should. You know the paper wants to do a cover piece on it."

"Not surprised, most exciting thing to occur here for many a year."

Sitting still did not come easy for Charles Carson, therefore, he was unaccustomed to the term 'boredom', for if he ever found himself at a loose end he would always find something to do.

Forced relaxation then, or recuperation as Elsie termed it, were as foreign to him as coffee with breakfast.

He had managed to get himself in and out of the bath tub, though as the days passed his body started to ache, inner pains surfacing as stretched muscles recovered. Lounging in the tub had lasted twenty minutes, thirty at a push, and even when ill there was little need for pyjamas in the day, he thought.

Therefore, dressed accordingly, he made his way downstairs and started to make mental plans for the day. The paper had been delivered, so there was that to read. Elsie had left boiled eggs for lunch so he could have a sandwich. Perhaps a nap then, maybe cards or the crossword in the afternoon.

To his mind, these sounded like pitiful tasks to fill a pitiful day.

Nevertheless, he made his tea, read his paper and then sliced the bread for lunch.

As predicted, he dosed off on the sofa after eating. He dreamt of icy water, swimming through it, his strong arms heavy and laboured as he tried to move. Elsie's face in the mist in front of him, a strangled cry and his chest aching aching as he tried to move.

He woke himself turning on the sofa, realised he'd been lying on his arm and blocked the blood. He let it hang over the side of the couch, pins and needles as it loosened up. He was too tired to care, and he seemed so warm yet shivering again. He pulled the blanket down from the back of the sofa and covered his legs.

It smelled of Elsie. Of them. He had made love to her on this blanket.

Oh the sweetness of his wife, that wondrous pleasure he had so longed for over a lifetime found.

This time, the ice was gone, and instead he dreamt of the sea. Warm waves that left ringlets of salt around his ankles. Her hair blowing in his face, her quick hand pushing it back into place beneath her hat. A walk on a damp beach with grey skies as winter edged into spring with little warning; like the coming of happiness into his life.

He dreamt of kissing her there on that beach, though his brain knew it to be false, he indulged himself in a false memory. Passionate kisses, unleashing something inside him he'd buried as a teenager. His hands on her back pressing her slight body against his, his tongue… tasting… loving…

And then the boy again, in Elsie's lap, feeding and nourishing. She was ethereal as she stood, handing him the child. A boy. A son. Her long hair winding down to her ankles, bare feet, and then the tendrils of weeds in the water and a boy floating away. The baby he couldn't reach to save.

A frantic breath as he woke. Disorientated and for a second simply not breathing. Then there was another knock at the door, a third, though Charles hadn't recognised this. And he gasped for breath, reached to the arm of the sofa to push himself up and he sat coughing and panting for a moment.

His back felt slick with sweat as he stood, wobbling his way to the door and his visitor.

"Thought the local hero might fancy a game or two of dominoes," Jack said, holding up a battered box. "That is, if you know how to play."

"Well, you're a sight for sore eyes." He said, opening the door further and stepping back from the sudden wash of cold air. "Come on in," he covered his mouth as he coughed again.

"Sorry to intrude," Jack said, making his way down the short hallway behind Charles and into the heart of the cottage. "I wasn't entirely sure where we stood but I thought, well, why not. Not a bad walk over here."

"Absolutely you should, I've been a little, how should I put it? Bored." He moved into the kitchen, lighting the stove and putting the kettle on to boil. He pushed the dream from his brain. "Take a seat."

"Want to tell me what happened then?" Jack said, "Are the rumours true? You're trying out for one of these 'ere moving pictures?"

Charles chuckled, and he felt his chest lighten. "I'll have you know I'm a very good domino player, used to do it all the time with my Grandad."

"Good, let's set them up then." He tipped the tiles onto the table. "You have reason to thank me."

"I do," Charles carried the teapot to the table and some of Mrs. Patmore's mince pies – freshly baked the day before and sent to him as a get-well gift. "What would that be?"

"It was either me visiting you, or Mrs. Wigan leading the ladies of your there committee."

Charles rolled his eyes, "Lucky indeed," he agreed, taking a seat across from Jack. He couldn't recall the last time he felt like he had a friend, besides Elsie, perhaps not since Charlie. He wasn't entirely certain they were friends yet, and he still had that rigid crisp outer shell that made him feel like he was standing outside looking in on events. He was determined to at least try and change that though.

"What did they want?"

"I believe it has been decided that this year our village Father Christmas will be played by no other than a former butler of the estate."

Charles dropped his dominoes, "What?"

Jack held his hands up, "I am not even the messenger so don't shoot me. I am merely sharing the information, do with it what you will."

"I cannot possibly be Kris Kringle, I am in no way…" He huffed, shaking his head. "It isn't me. For a start, I have no beard and I am poor when it comes to comforting children."

"Not what your recent actions show," he laid down double six to start proceedings. "Are we betting?"

"Should we?" Charles had never been one for gambling but when Jack slid a penny out of his jacket pocket and onto the table he felt he didn't have a choice. He sneezed, reaching for his handkerchief and shivering again.

"You're not at all well," Jack said. He took the blanket from the sofa and let Charles wrap it around his shoulders. "Tell 'em that, you can't do it, you're ill."

"Been thinking about my fundraising," he said, "nothing else to do really. How would you be fitted for a gathering in your pub?"

"For?"

"Family event, food, drink, games, music, Father Christmas for the children."

"And we'd make a profit?"

"We'd sell tickets. See. Publicise it, play it up as a big deal."

Jack nodded, "People 'ud pay to see the local hero."

Charles blustered on, "I can ask his Lordship about the hampers, if we raise enough money, if they can make them up at the house and have them delivered."

"This could be the start of something. But it still leaves us in a tricky situation."

"Which is?"

"You need somebody to play Santa Claus."

"I do indeed Jack, I do indeed."

There was a pile of coins on the table when Elsie got home, dominoes laid out, two whisky glasses and a sleeping Charles Carson on the sofa. She pressed her cold hand against his forehead but he had been lying by the fire for so long it was impossible to know his temperature.

She laid her things on the side, put the sausages she'd brought for dinner in the oven, and went upstairs to change.

He was lying on his back staring at the ceiling when she came back down.

"Well, hello, a good day?"

"Jack came to visit."

"He did, did he?" She bent to kiss him and he held up his hand.

"Best not, might catch my chill."

"I don't care," she kissed him anyway, smiling sweetly. "I have missed you, how have you been? Are you hungry?"

"Very."

He sat up slowly, dazed again from the daily sleeping, watching as she tied an apron around her waist and set to peeling potatoes.

"It's sausages, and potatoes and onions, would you like gravy?"

"If we can."

"I think there's some left over from Sunday, if it's still healthy. So, you've made a friend?"

"Perhaps," he replied, "though I'm far too old for such… pastimes, silly really."

"It isn't, not at all. Gambling at my dining table though, tut tut."

She could tease him so easily, it had always been thus.

"Did you win?"

"I think we broke even. Those sausages smell good."

"Did you take your medication at lunch?"

"Yes, yes." He got up, coming to the kitchen so he could be closer to her as she worked. "They're making me drowsy, I just keep sleeping."

"That's no bad thing."

"Jack said they want me to play Father Christmas."

She laughed, "Really? And?"

"Don't even ask, you know the answer."

She did. He would see it as demeaning, belittling, and not because he was a mean man, just because it was the opposite to who he was.

"It did give me an idea though, for raising money."

"You're meant to be resting."

"I'm doing nothing but, however, one's brain doesn't just switch off."

"Clearly not," she wiped her hands on her apron. "Is there bread left?"

"Yes. A family party, in the Grantham's Arms, we can have events like they do at the fair. Food and drink."

She grinned at his giddiness, "And sell tickets?"

"Yes."

"The irony of that after your going on about the house opening up."

"This is quite different, this is an establishment meant for celebration."

She couldn't argue that. "And what? You're going to don the red suit and bring joy to all?"

"Don't be ridiculous, as if I could. I did have an idea though, somebody to draw the crowds."

She stopped what she was doing, listening carefully.

"His Lordship."

"You think he'd do it? Very brave of you to ask, Charlie," she smiled, proud of him. In the past he would have thought it demeaning to him too. But the world changed, people did.

"I need to find the right words."

"I think presently they could grant you anything, Lady Mary will want to see you when she returns."

His eyes sparkled at that, "I shall look forward to it."

"I'm sure. Sit yourself down then, won't be much longer. Did Dr. Clarkson come to see you?"

"Yes, mid-morning, prescribed more of the same. Rest. Keep warm."

She stood behind him, a hand on either shoulder, "Well, you just make sure you do." She kissed the top of his head. "Following another's orders has never been easy for you."

"Oh, I don't know. I seem to do alright with you."