Christmas in Colchester: “Surprising Mrs B” – the story continues

This is the conclusion to a story published in Christmas in Colchester 2025 magazine. If you would like to read the story from the beginning, click here.

otherwise, the story continues here…

     

….After tea, Cally lay on her bed digesting and scrutinising Fleabags, who  was sitting beside her cleaning himself vigorously. He was a long-haired  muddy-brown moggy with one white foot and a white ear. Generally he  favoured a dragged-through-a-hedge-backwards approach to coiffure,  but he had – in fact – only had fleas once and was perfectly clean.  ’Have you always been able to talk?’ she asked. 

Fleabags paused with his leg in the air, thoughtfully. ‘Have you?’ ‘Well, no, I had to learn I suppose,’ replied Cally.  

‘Me too – I’ve spent a long time sitting on old newspapers, copies of  your dad’s cycling mags, that sort of thing – just sort of absorbed the  words…’ 

‘Mmm.. but you’ve never spoken to me before.’ 

‘I talk to you all the time. Today was the first time you actually listened.’ Cally took a few moments to reflect on this. 

‘Right, well here’s the thing, FB. I have to write a story Inspired by  Christmas and I really want to impress Mrs B, but I’m just not feeling  inspired…I thought mum and dad would love the idea of a talking  Christmas cat, but they pointed out that talking cats are quite common  in stories. You know, Puss in Boots, the Cheshire Cat, Macavity…’ she  trailed off, gazing at the pattern on her curtains.  

Outside, a couple of tetchy magpies ratcheted from the birch tree in the  back garden. Fleabags jumped off the bed and onto the windowsill.  Mostly he wanted to check his own reflection.  

The cat shuffled around to face into the room and yawned. ‘Inspiration. It’s a tricky one,’ he mused. 

‘Yes – here I am with a talking cat and my own parents say it’s  unoriginal. The irony.’ 

Fleabags gave a whiskery snigger. ‘At least you understand what irony  is.’ 

‘Fat lot of good that is, FB. It’s Imagination Mrs B wants. I just need to  show her I’ve got one – that’ll set her earrings waggling.’ ‘I’d love to see that!’ said Fleabags, grinning.  

‘Mum says to sleep on it, maybe Inspiration will strike in my dreams.’ ‘Will it strike?’ pondered Fleabags, examining his paw, ‘it might just  creep up on you..’ 

     

        Part three  

During the long quiet of that winter’s night, snow began to fall, heavily.  Or rather, the snow came down with a certain determination, as if it had  been waiting and planning for this particular night.  

Cally’s window was ajar – mum insisted that air had to circulate even in  freezing temperatures – and one of those persistent snowflakes found  its way into the bedroom and landed on Cally’s left eyelid.  

Cally blinked as the flake melted into her eye. When the water dribbled  icily down her cheek, she surfaced, shivering, from sleep. The cat was  wide awake and staring through the window, but the manner of his  looking, ears trained forwards and quivering, made Cally get out of bed  to join him. 

Outside, in the middle of the vegetable patch was a brightly painted  sleigh, parked neatly as if people always used sleighs to get about in  these parts. The sleigh rested on the snowy ground and didn’t actually  look incongruous – the neighbours had had a sleigh and reindeers on  their front lawn since October. This sleigh, however, was much more  solid and three dimensional. 

What also looked very real was the bearded elderly man, wringing his  hands in anguish and being comforted by a very short person in a  bright green suit, who might have been a hobbit but in this context was  probably an elf… 

And then there were the reindeer, who were pawing at the snow to  expose the sprouts…  

At this point Cally sprang into action. ‘Come on FB – we can’t let them  eat ALL of mum’s sprouts..’ 

Cat and girl made their way swiftly downstairs; Cally grabbed her coat  and some wellies, opened the back door and crunched out into the  snow, FB tiptoeing delicately behind in her boot prints. 

              

          Part four 

Father Christmas, Santa Claus, St Nicholas – whatever you want to call  him – immortal, magical, fur-trimmed – this same Being had got himself  into a bit of a pickle. Never before had he forgotten his gloves. Never  before had he forgotten to feed the reindeer. Never before had he felt  so…uncertain. He had brought the sleigh down in a suburban back  garden not knowing where he was, but feeling an odd tug somewhere  down in his tummy. It might have been indigestion but something had  made him land in that garden, and he was a great believer in things  happening for a reason.  

Father C looked down at his chilly fingers and gazed about him,  bewildered. The snow had stopped and the moon, riding above ragged  clouds, cast shadows like bruises. Where was he? The world felt hostile  and unfamiliar and he just couldn’t remember what he was supposed to  be doing. He drew a hiccupy breath and rubbed his forehead.  

He was dabbing at his eyes with a spotty handkerchief when a small girl  and a scruffy cat appeared in front of him, assessing him quizzically.  Prompted by the cat pawing at her leg, the girl politely bid him good  evening and asked if there was anything she could do to help.  

The elderly man blew his nose loudly, ‘Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry!  Blitzen, Cupid – step away from those sprouts.. Good evening Miss,  er..?’ 

‘McKay’ supplied Cally, holding her hand out to the old man and  shaking his firmly, as her dad always did when he met people. ‘And this  is Fleabags,’ she added gesturing towards the cat, who looked him up  and down sceptically.  

‘Your hands are cold,’ Cally observed. ‘You can borrow my dad’s gloves  if you like. And a hat,’ she added, noting the man’s pinkly bald head.  

‘How very kind of you,’ said Father C, sniffling. 

‘It’s not Christmas Eve,’ said Cally. ‘That’s your usual time, isn’t it?’ 

Father C sighed and stared at his boots. The elf shuffled awkwardly.  ‘Things have gone a bit awry’, he admitted. ‘I’ve lost my bearings. I  don’t seem to be sure of anything anymore.’

Cally felt a wave of sympathy for the old man. ‘It’s not just your  bearings,’ she said. ‘I think you’ve lost your Inspiration.’ 

‘Hat. Gloves. Sense of direction. Inspiration. I’ve lost the lot..’  

Cally hoisted FB into her arms and bent her head a little to listen to him.  ‘Do you fancy a cup of tea? I don’t know where your Inspiration is, but  it’s not in my mum’s sprouts..’ 

            Part five 

With her index finger pressed to her lips, Cally led the way indoors. She  gestured to chairs around the kitchen table and put the kettle on to boil.  Very quietly, she got milk, teabags and cups out and very quietly, she  filled the teapot and set it to brew.  

For a largish gentleman, Father C moved silently and so did the elf, who  had slotted himself onto the shelf next to the saucepans. 

‘Biscuit?’ Cally enquired.  

‘How kind,’ said Father C. 

There was a pause while tea was slurped and biscuits dunked and  chomped. Cally scrutinised Father C, weighing her words carefully. ‘It is lovely to meet you, sir, but Christmas is still a week off. Shouldn’t  you be busy making your preparations?’ 

Father C sighed heavily and splayed his fingers like stars on the table.  

‘Miss McKay, my job has always been straightforward. I bring Good  Cheer when the year is dark and cold.’ He paused to drain his mug. 

‘The trouble is, the world is changing. Some people are forgetting  Christmas. Others are wearing it out by trying to keep it for too long.  Children are only thinking about presents and I’m.. over-stretched. After  all these years of being jolly, I don’t feel myself any more…’ 

Cally felt for Father C’s hand and squeezed it consolingly. The kitchen  clock ticked patiently and everyone in the room felt a great sadness  radiating from the old man in the red suit. 

Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way.. An oddly muffled musical  sound broke the silence. Fleabags jumped onto Father C’s lap with  something clamped between his teeth. Something red and plush with a  snowy white pom pom at one end. The cat placed his front paws on the  old man’s chest and offered the thing to him. 

‘Oh! It’s Dad’s Christmas hat – he wears it every year.’ 

Father C tried the hat on and it fitted nicely over his ears. As the music  started up again his expression changed by degrees. His eyes started  to sparkle, a smile spread over his ruddy face and a great gurgling  noise began to well up in his throat, erupting in a ‘Ho Ho Ho!’  

‘Sssshhhhh!’ Father C clamped his hand over his mouth, guiltily.  ‘Mum and Dad.’ Asleep. Upstairs. (Cally mimed the last bit.)  

‘Father C,’ said Cally, who had just had a thought so brilliant that it had  made her brain fizz. ‘I think I know how to find your Inspiration!’ 

            Part six 

That night, the reindeer pulled the sleigh into the garage and were given  the guinea pigs’ spare hay. Father C and the elf top-and-tailed on the  spare bed in the loft (although the elf only reached the old man’s knees)  and Cally warned them to stay there until she gave the all clear. Father  C nodded, tapping his finger on the side of his nose conspiratorially.  The colour was back in his face and he had lost his air of hopelessness.  Everything was set. 

‘Do you think we can pull this off, FB?’ whispered Cally, when all was  quiet again. 

‘I think you underestimate yourself, Calliope McKay,’ said Fleabags,  snuggling into the hollow of her chest. 

As girl and cat drifted off, the snow began to fall again, gently this time,  lullingly, as if it were rather pleased with itself. 

Morning came, coffee gurgled and the world outside was gleamingly  snow-bright. Mum and Dad left early for work and Cally waved them off

with some relief. The snow had hidden the sleigh’s tracks; all was quiet  in the garage and in the loft. 

Fleabags had procured himself a tiny bobble hat from somewhere and  waited, poised, by the door.  

‘Ready?’ 

‘Definitely,’ replied Cally. 

‘Indubitably?’ 

‘That too..’ 

            Part seven 

At school, Cally’s attention wandered; equations refused to balance  themselves and she forgot the difference between ‘affect’ and ‘effect,’  which wasn’t like her. Mrs B clicked her fingers at her tuttingly as she  wove between the desks. That afternoon, everyone was going to share  their Christmas stories before they went home for the holidays. 

Finally – and Mrs B made her wait till last – Cally took her place on the  story chair in the reading corner.  

Taking courage from Elaine’s cheerful thumbs up, Cally began to tell the  class about how she’d walked home from school with freezing fingers  and found her cat waiting for her under a streetlamp… 

When she got to the bit about the snowflake coming through her  window in the night, she glanced up and saw Fleabags sitting outside  on the window sill. He pointed a paw meaningfully at the sky and gave  a very obvious wink. 

‘Miss! There’s a cat at the window!’ All eyes turned to look, because –  well – cats didn’t often turn up at school. 

What every one of those pairs of eyes didn’t expect to see was what  now appeared, circling the sky above the playground in a great whoosh  of jangly harnesses and antlers and steamy breath, a bright blur of reds  and greens and the sound of laughter, a laugh so joyful, so deep and  hearty and tummy-wobbling that none of those children would ever  forget it.

‘Oh my stars!’ cried Mrs B and sat down on a desk with a bump, her  reindeer earrings waggling crazily.  

‘Are you ok, Miss?’ asked Cally. 

Mrs B was gazing out of the window, her mouth agape. 

‘I’m, er, I’m a little..’ 

‘Surprised?’ supplied Cally. 

‘Astonished?’added Elaine. 

‘Flabbergasted?’ suggested a boy called Dave. 

Mrs B stood up and went over to take a better look at what was  happening in the playground, where an extremely cheerful man in a red  suit had just landed his sleigh and was greeting the children already  appearing outside in a clamour of whoops and cheers and a scramble  of scarves. 

She collected herself and addressed the class: ‘What I was going to say  was how proud I am of my students. I gave you an almost impossible  task and you have all shown wonderful imaginations. Now grab your  coats, 6B and let Christmas commence!’ She swept her arm  dramatically in the direction of the door. 

Cally hung back in the empty classroom. ‘Mrs B, I hope you don’t mind  that I disrupted story time.’ Mrs B took both of Cally’s hands in hers  and gave her a searching look. ‘Calliope Mckay – today you inspired us  ALL and..’  

There was a pause during which Cally noticed that Fleabags had  written ‘HURRY UP’ on the window in his steamy breath… 

‘..my earrings have never waggled so much!’ 

      

                      (the end)

Written by Anna Johnson