Yours Truly Page 7

  ‘You should keep yourself fit, you know. It’s important to stay healthy in retirement.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Thaddaeus, unconvinced.

  ‘Well, first you want to live a long and happy life.’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘And you have to remember, we’re still marked men, you know. The authorities . . . have our names. We’re on their list.’

  ‘Ah, yes, so what you’re saying is, we need to keep in good form so we can run away from soldiers really fast.’

  ‘Well, not to put too fine a point on it.’

  ‘What did you say happened to Paul?’

  ‘Well, I heard he did his explaining to Emperor Nero thingy and then . . . apparently, he got executed.’

  ‘Damn silly fool.’

  ‘The believers in Rome went on and on about martyrdom and they were quite keen on that. A great many were fed to the lions.’

  ‘Yes, I heard. Well, I’m not really up for that kind of banquet, personally.’ Thaddaeus coughed nervously and shook his head. ‘All that dreadful business after the fire of Rome!’

  ‘Luckily, I’d retired by then.’

  ‘Got out just in time.’

  ‘But the Roman Christians were quite impressed with Paul’s execution. Apparently, he gave them an example to look up to. Boosted morale.’

  ‘Well, maybe, but encouraging your friends by rushing into martyrdom is taking things a little too far.’

  ‘Well, Paul always did.’ Bartholomew sat down in his deckchair again, nearly spilling the glass of wine in his hand, but managing to control it expertly. He had had a great deal of practice. ‘Praise the Lord,’ he said. ‘That was a close one. Anyway, what are your plans for the future?’

  ‘Well,’ said Thaddaeus, ‘the wife and I are downsizing. We’re going to sell the villa on Santorini and settle on the south coast of France. Got a smallholding in mind, grow some grapes, enjoy the sunshine, have the grandchildren to stay, but not too often!’

  ‘No need to go to extremes?’ joked Bartholomew again.

  ‘No, no,’ said Thaddaeus laughing merrily. ‘You see, the wife feels that I was away on so many missions, it’s really her time now, and you can’t argue with that.’

  ‘Not unless you are prepared to face serious persecution.’

  ‘Haha . . . yes. Well, hen-pecking can be the worst form of torture.’

  There was another slightly awkward silence, as unease filled the air. Bartholomew gazed seriously out at the horizon. ‘Of course, I am deeply aware of what many of my brothers and sisters are facing out there.’

  ‘The ones who haven’t retired, you mean?’ said Thaddaeus, unhelpfully.

  ‘Well, they should, they should, sooner or later,’ said Bartholomew, suddenly very defensive. ‘Everyone deserves a rest eventually. It’s only right. We’ve worked very hard for what we’ve got.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Thaddaeus, who downed a glass of excellent vintage wine that was being offered to him. ‘I’ll have another of those,’ he said hastily, before the waiter could move on.

  Twilight was descending slowly and it was a little cool out on deck.

  ‘I suppose we should be heading in for dinner soon,’ said Thaddaeus, hopefully.

  ‘Yes . . .’ Bartholomew sighed, without moving. ‘It would certainly be good to have another slap-up meal.’ But he didn’t sound entirely convinced.

  ‘I wonder what’s on the menu? The wife has probably got one in the cabin. She loves to collect them, you know.’

  Bartholomew was clearly lost in thought.

  ‘You seem to be drifting off a little,’ said Thaddaeus. ‘Anything on your mind?’

  ‘Oddly, I was thinking about Peter.’

  ‘What on earth happened to him?’

  ‘Well, apparently, he was offered early retirement with a very good deal and, hardly surprisingly, he left Rome in a great hurry.’

  ‘Well, things had been getting very hot in Rome, literally.’

  ‘Exactly, and Peter thought, “I’ve done my bit, I’ve run the race – well, most of it – and now is the time to make a gentle exit and say a quiet farewell. It’s time to enjoy a long and well-earned retirement.”’

  ‘Quite right too.’

  ‘Anyway, he was on his way out of Rome, walking down the Via Appia, clutching his financial package and the brochure about his pension rights, when he met a figure on the road.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The figure turned out to be Jesus Christ!’

  ‘Good Lord!’

  There was silence and Bartholomew did not exploit this opportunity for another well-worn joke.

  ‘So what happened then?’ Thaddaeus was troubled, not least by the fact that Bartholomew was clearly disturbed by this rather sobering reminiscence. ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘Apparently the Lord said, “Where are you going, Peter?” And Peter had some trouble explaining. He realized the Lord had never really talked about “retirement” – not directly anyway. In fact, if we’re being honest, not at all. So Peter just said, “There’s a lot of danger for the Christians in Rome and many of them are being imprisoned, tortured and killed, and . . .”’

  There was another desperately long silence. Thaddaeus looked down at his second glass of wine, which he had not touched.

  ‘Well, he didn’t want to say that he was running away or anything. Escaping.’

  ‘Which would be a little unfair for a man who really did – if anyone ever did – deserve to retire.’

  ‘Oh, totally and utterly, yes! The man had earned it a hundred times over but . . .’

  Bartholomew gazed at the horizon for a long time. It was scarcely visible now.

  ‘The Lord just looked deep into Peter’s eyes and then walked past him. “Where are you going, Lord?” asked Peter. The Lord kept on walking in a very resolute manner. “I’m going to Rome.”’

  ‘So what did Peter do?’ asked Thaddaeus, aware that the convivial mood of their conversation had now turned very dark. ‘Did he, er . . . ?’

  ‘Peter turned round and followed the Lord, back to Rome.’

  ‘Any idea how this turned out?’

  ‘Peter was nailed to a cross.’

  ‘That was unfortunate.’

  The lameness of Thaddaeus’ response drifted on the night air. The bell for dinner was ringing and his wife was waving from the cabin door.

  Bartholomew still gazed into the absolute blackness that had descended over the ocean. A freezing wind was blowing.

  ‘Apparently he asked to be crucified upside down.’ Bartholomew’s eyes filled with tears. ‘He felt he was unworthy to die in the same way as his Lord and Master.’

  In the morning, at the very next port, Bartholomew left the cruise ship abruptly, much to the astonishment of Thaddaeus and his wife.

  ‘Where are you going?’ shouted Thaddaeus, astonished as his friend walked down the quay, without his luggage, without a penny in his pocket. ‘Where are you going?’

  Bartholomew did not look back, but called out, ‘Rome!’

  The Lost Angel

  Every year, for more than two thousand winters, the angelic host has gathered for a Christmas reunion in the sky above Bethlehem. The angels fly silently, mysteriously, invisibly from all the dimensions of heaven and from every corner of the universe: the seraphs, dominions, powers, archangels – Raphael, the healing one, Michael, with his sword of judgement and his eyes blazing with the fire of God’s holiness, and Gabriel, the beautiful herald of God’s love. All gather, in their ranks and orders, down to the tiniest cherub and the most humble servants of this invincible and unseen power. They have congregated above the hills of Bethlehem through the ages to sing a hymn that is heard only in heaven and in the hearts of children who believe at Christmas.

  And so, at the end of the year 2019, they were flying from all directions, to the cold sky – above the lorries, the armoured cars, the barbed wire and the brutal concrete. Unobserved, unremembered by many, the angelic choir began to sing ha
llelujahs in a world that seemed to have long forgotten the simplicity of the stable; a world deafened by war and hatred, overwhelmed by Christmas greed and chaos and rushing and spending. A world no longer capable, even in Bethlehem, of hearing voices on the still night air, as poor shepherds had once done.

  Now it happened that, on the way to this secret celebration for the first time, a very junior angel got lost somewhere near Iceland and, caught on the harsh wind, was blown, tumbling through the clouds, until he found himself hovering uncertainly above a little port on the far north-eastern coast of Scotland. The tiny angel, who had dismally failed his cosmic geography exam, was convinced that he was in Bethlehem. After all, he had seen sheep in the fields and shepherds and cowherds and farmers. He had seen people rushing to and fro on the high street in Wick – for that was where he was – and he thought, These must be all the people looking for room in the inn. But what disconcerted the little herald, as he fluttered to and fro in the air, which was filling with snowflakes, was that he was singing ‘Glory to God and peace on earth’ all alone. There were no other angels, there was no reunion. No great party, which he had been promised. Soon his singing faded and he began to weep, his tears dropping as fine rain blowing over the Island of Stroma and the Pentland Firth. But then, softly, he heard a voice, so beautiful, so loving – a voice far inside. The voice of the Christ-child whispering to him:

  ‘Do not worry, little angel. You have come to a place that is full of praise ringing from the cliffs and the moorlands, a song that rises from the long white beaches and the foaming surf, a music in the rushing water of the burns swelling with melting snow. You have come to a land that is constantly singing my praises. You have also come to a place where there are so many people who are reaching out to me: some who know me, some who think they are far from me, old people who feel lost, young people who are broken-hearted, homes that are grieving, families that are celebrating, children who are laughing and in whose eyes is the hope of the future.

  You have come to the far north, which is one of my beloved realms, and the small town of Wick, which is not so unlike Bethlehem. You are in a place where I long to be born in the hearts and souls of the people of Caithness, in the midst of the rush and all the confusion of Christmas. So sing for me, little angel, in the skies. Sing softly, sing of my invitation to all people, so anyone who is seeking will hear my love calling, calling, across the wide open sea.

  So the angel sang, filled with joy and pride at being chosen for a solo performance on Christmas night above the skies of Wick. He sang there for a long time, until he was surrounded by lights, by the Northern Lights of God’s glorious creation. All the seals swam to the surface of the ocean and sang too, and the porpoises dived and the night-birds called and the fishing boats rattled their moorings in harmony.

  And the hearts of men and women and children, who of course did not see or hear the little angel, were nonetheless strangely warmed, brightened by the presence of a love that they had always longed for and sensed was so near them . . . at Christmas, in the little town of Wick.

  A Little Girl’s Letter to God

  Dear God,

  What I want for Christmas is peace on earth. I want my brother to shut up for once. I want him to stop boasting and telling lies and saying he’s the most brilliant footballer in the world. Because he isn’t. Harry Kane is, but my brother won’t admit it. He won’t admit anything. He never says he’s sorry. What I want for Christmas is for him to be sorry. Dear God, please make my brother nice and kind for Christmas. I am asking this because I know you do miracles. At the same time, can you change my sister? I don’t mean just change her. I mean into a nice person. I mean change her, like swap her completely for someone else. Please give me a completely new sister for Christmas.

  Dear God, what I want for Christmas is peace and happiness. I want my mum to have peace and happiness, but she hasn’t got enough money. Dear God, what I want for Christmas is lots of money. I’d give it to my mum. She doesn’t buy lottery tickets. She doesn’t believe in it. She says it raises her hopes too much and then she feels sad when she doesn’t win. Dear God, what I want is for my mum to win the lottery without playing it. I want my mum to be happy. I want the front door mended and a new sofa. I want someone to love my mum. She’s very lonely. She says she doesn’t like men any more. Dear God, what I want for Christmas is someone to love my mum and not hit her like the last one. She says even Father Christmas can’t find her love. Nothing can make her happy again.

  Dear God, what I want for Christmas is a clean street and no people smashing windows and no doors kicked in, and I want the old lady in the corner flat to walk outside again and smile and feel safe. Mum says she won’t. Not after the last break-in, when they took her pension money.

  Dear God, I want a safe world. What I want for Christmas is clean air, a clear sky. I want to see the stars. I can’t see them any more. It’s too cloudy. It’s always cloudy. There’s always smoke. If I were a wise man, I wouldn’t have seen the star at all. I would have had to stay at home and dream. If I were a shepherd, someone would have stolen all my sheep. I’d have been rushing around all worried, going mad. I’d never have seen the angels.

  Dear God, what I want for Christmas is to see an angel. I want an angel here. I want one in my house. Not a spiky gold one on the Christmas tree. An angel for real. I want angels in my bedroom, dear God. I want light all around me.

  Dear God, what I want for Christmas is to hold the baby Jesus myself. To rock him and sing to him. I want him with me, then it would be all right. I’d take my mum’s hand and show her the baby. I’d show her all the angels. She’d be so happy, she’d be so very happy, she’d cry. Dear God, I want my mum to know that you love her and cry because she’s so happy this Christmas.

  Dear God, I’m sorry about what I said about my brother and sister. Forget that. I do love them. I’d show them the baby Jesus too. I’d give them at least one quick look at my angels. Well, I’d keep one special one for myself they’d never see. Dear God, I will try to love everybody, I promise. But please make it all better. Please come and see me.

  Dear God, what I want for Christmas is you.

  Love Sharron

  The Ultimate Crash

  It all began as a perfectly normal day. People were going to work, shopping, checking texts on their mobile phones, driving their cars. No one would have guessed that the world, as they had known it, was about to end.

  There was nothing strange that morning, except perhaps a few alarmist stories in the newspapers and some financial experts muttering about the 2008 financial crash returning with a vengeance. There had been such warnings before, but nothing came of them. It was true that the stock markets had been jittery for several weeks and taken a terrible tumble in the last twenty-four hours, but that was simply ‘falling from a great height’. Various financial gurus had smiled to the cameras all the previous evening and reassured the public, ‘We are merely levelling out to a familiar position of stability.’ They were wrong.

  That fateful morning, people pushed their cards into ATMs, punched in their PIN numbers, ordered their cash – and nothing happened. No cards were returned, no money was dispensed and angry customers were left staring at an empty screen flashing on and off.

  The violence began with the smashing of the cash machines. People gathered in crowds, wielding crowbars, shouting and swearing, but it was all to no avail. There was no cash to dispense. The banks came next and the first casualties were hapless cashiers who tried, in vain, to explain that they did not have any money, but no one believed them. Soon banks were on fire and employees were wounded and killed. The high street shops were looted, food ran out in the supermarkets, the warehouses were ransacked and there were no more deliveries, ever.

  Hotels, hospitals, school kitchens, restaurants were ransacked. Petrol stations ran dry and the electricity died. No mobile phones, no computers, no television, no radio could function. There was a terrifying silence across the land as all law and order
broke down in a matter of weeks, for even the police and the army were desperate to feed their families and soon joined in the burglaries, the ransacking, destruction and murders.

  Months turned into years and few survived the dreadful chaos, the famine and disease and tribal violence that gripped the whole world and shook it to the core.

  But here and there, eking out a living by the sea or where meagre vegetables could be grown, there were pockets of brave survivors who sheltered in ruined villages, lit fires to keep warm and began to rediscover, in love and friendship, in the presence of nature, a new and radiant meaning to their lives. They could no longer stare at screens all day. They could no longer compare themselves to others who were more beautiful or successful or wealthy than them. They could no longer dazzle their minds with tales of superheroes and blockbusting films with brilliant special effects. All they could do was listen to the chattering birds in the dawn and watch the drama of the waves in winter, hurling themselves furiously on to the shore. They could no longer phone friends or text them or worry about blunt or tactless or confusing messages from cyberspace. They could not connect with anything so far away. They could only look their fellow human beings in the eye and commune with them directly.

  Despite the desperate harshness of their lives and the bare survival of their bodies, they found that firesides were places of revelation. Instead of downloading stories told by others, they began to tell their own. They began to discover the power of words, of gestures, improvisation and laughter. They began to create little plays beside the fires, and those who had never danced, but merely watched dance competitions on television, began to dance themselves. They began to sing, they began to make up instruments and play them and laugh as they played them.

  They began to share their lives and teach their children the art of conversation: how to listen, how to talk, how to think, how to debate, how to give a reasoned answer. And all the people – even these wretched survivors of the most advanced technological age in history that now lay in utter ruins – discovered they could write poetry, however simply, and they could perform it beside the fires, as the flames cast shadows on the rough stone walls, as the sparks leapt up into the darkness of the huge night sky.