Copyright © 2016 Alby Stone
One thing Christmas is guaranteed to provide – apart from horrible socks you’ll never wear, indigestion, rubbish television and at least one crippling hangover – is disappointment. Newton’s third law does not apply to Christmas presents. In fact, it could easily be rewritten to suit the festive season: for every present given there will be an inferior and decidedly cheaper gift received. It’s a paradox, a simultaneous display of ostentatious expenditure and targeted tight-fistedness. I’m usually on the targeted end.
But sometimes totally crap presents are not what they seem. Christmas can bring the odd surprise package.
Last Christmas I gave my friend Sam – she used to be my girlfriend but a few years ago unilaterally decided that the ‘girl’ prefix was inappropriate, though we remained on good terms and usually spent Christmas Day together, largely to avoid the seasonal family get-together horror – a boxed set of DVDs and a big box of Thornton’s chocolates. We exchanged gifts in the café round the corner from where she works, a long-standing ritual dating from before we became first a serious item, then not an item at all. Sam was delighted with her haul. In return I received a package the size of a matchbox, which turned out to be rather smaller than that after the layers of wrapping paper were removed. Quite a bit smaller.
Taking the object between the tips of my thumb and index finger, I held it up to the light, squinting as I tried to work out what the hell it was.
‘Do you like it?’ said Sam, seemingly pleased with herself.
‘It looks like a dried bean,’ I replied. ‘A pinto bean, to be precise.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s a Mexican jumping bean.’
Now I know a bit about Mexican jumping beans. For a start, they are not beans at all. They don’t even look like beans. They move when heated because they are inhabited by moth larvae that kick up a bit of a fuss as they dehydrate. The thing I held was too big, a different shape, and the wrong colour.
‘A pinto bean,’ I repeated. ‘Look, it has the right pinky-brown colour, the speckles. It’s a pinto bean.’
‘You’re wrong,’ she pouted. That was Sam’s default response to not being right – sulky face and blanket denial, usually quickly followed by a bare-faced, extravagant lie. ‘It is a Mexican jumping bean. And it’s magic.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Right. A magic bean. What do I do with it? Grow a giant beanstalk then climb up it, kill a giant and steal a goose that lays golden eggs?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. This is a real magic bean. It will grant you three wishes. I got it in that New Age place on the quays. The woman in the shop said all you need to do is express your wish in a rhyme but you actually have to address the bean just like you would talk to a person. And you have to mean it. When it jumps you’ll know you’ve done it right.’ Her lower lip trembled. She was getting upset.
The last thing I wanted to do was upset Sam. I still carried a mildly incandescent torch for her, and I didn’t want her making a scene and getting either of us barred from what had become, over the years, my favourite café. The toasted sandwiches were terrific. ‘Right,’ I sighed. ‘Speak the rhyme, wait for it to jump. Okay, I’ll give it a spin.’
‘Not here,’ she said hastily. ‘Anyway, I have to go now. Henry’s taking me to Rome for Christmas. Got to get back to the office for my suitcases. Have to be at the airport in two hours.’
‘But it’s your turn to make Christmas dinner,’ I protested. ‘And who’s Henry?’
‘He’s the new managing director. Really good-looking and absolutely loaded, all the girls fancy him. It’s a business trip.’ Of course it was. ‘I know we usually spend Christmas Day together but you’ll have to manage on your own this year.’
Not even a ‘sorry’. The green-eyed monster hidden within me uncoiled and hissed. I told it to leave it out. ‘That’s nice. Is he treating all the staff to Christmas in Rome?’
‘No, only me. Don’t give me that look. He’s just a colleague, a friend.’
With the word ‘boy’ soon to be in front of it, I thought but did not say. Sam stood, gave me a quick peck on the cheek and a hurried ‘Merry Christmas,’ and practically flew out of the door, leaving me with half a cup of cold coffee and a sour disposition. And a sorry-looking dried pinto bean.
*
Back at my flat, I poured myself a large drink – neat vodka with a twist of lime – and took stock. It was the day before Christmas Eve; everyone I knew was either away or lumbered with entertaining and providing for visiting family, and I was too broke to go anywhere. There was nothing to look forward to except festive game shows and Christmas editions of television soap operas, and microwaved meals. I didn’t even have a turkey. Meanwhile, the woman who had captured my heart and rejected it as comprehensively as any aggressively healthy immune system was heading off to the Eternal City for what was certain to be a very dirty weekend with the office Romeo. Bloody Henry.
I took the bean from my pocket, stared at it gloomily for a while, and poured myself another, larger drink. I’d been to Rome myself so I had an idea of how long the flight took. I estimated that Sam and Henry would be on their way from Rome airport to their hotel about now. I looked at the bean again. It didn’t even make five.
Now I don’t think of myself as a jealous or vindictive man. In fact, I’m generally stoical and easy-going, even where matters of the heart are concerned. Sam had been out with other men since we broke up and it hadn’t bothered me one bit. Well, it had bothered me, but I was pretty much resigned to accepting that my romance with Sam was a thing of the past. I was grown up, adult, realistic, sensible and so on. But at that moment I was very bothered by the fact that I’d been fobbed off with an utterly shite excuse for a Christmas present and left on my own while she swanned off to Rome with that contemptible bastard Henry. Okay, for all I knew Henry was a nice, decent guy with a genuine affection for her and honourable intentions. But I was buggered if I was going to admit that, not even to myself. I poured another large vodka, not bothering with the twist of lime this time, and downed it. I glared at the bean and gave it an experimental rub, then I held it out on the palm of my right hand.
‘O bean, jumping bean, my magical implement; for the next ten days make Henry sexually impotent.’
I held my breath and waited, expecting nothing but a minimal lessening of my spite levels. After thirty seconds, I laughed self-consciously and relaxed. Of course nothing had happened. Three wishes? Yeah, right.
Then the bean jumped, flipping an inch into the air above my palm before falling back and remaining still.
‘Bloody hell,’ I whispered as I reached for the vodka bottle.
I was rattled because, somehow, I knew it had worked. I didn’t believe in magic – and certainly not in supernaturally-endowed legumes or any other kind of spooky vegetable produce. I didn’t believe in anything, really. I was neither superstitious nor credulous in matters of mysticism or religion. There was no mystical tingle, theremin soundtrack or portentous dimming of lights, no reverberating thunderclap. Yet I knew beyond any shadow of a doubt. Henry would be spending his hoped-for Roman shagfest looking helplessly down at a non-functioning and hopelessly flaccid piece of reproductive equipment that no amount of titillation, aphrodisiac or Viagra could kick-start into usefulness; Sam would be staring at him with pursed lips and a look of barely-restrained fury. She didn’t respond well to disappointment.
For a moment I was tempted to wish to be a fly on the wall in a certain Roman hotel room, but I couldn’t even work out how to turn that into a rhyme, let alone build in any safeguards against flypaper, spiders or rolled-up copies of la Repubblica. By that point I was a bit drunk, but had yet to succumb to stupidity. Besides, even if I’d ruined Sam’s Yuletide sex life, I had to do something positive for myself. I needed another drink and a good think. No hurry.
Outside, a bunch of carol singers launched into an uneven but enthusiastic rendition of ‘Good King Wenceslaus’. My response was to put a White Stripes CD in the stereo and crank up the volume, with the cordless headphones on so I couldn’t hear either the excruciating singing or the doorbell. Then I got another bottle of Smirnoff from the freezer. As an afterthought, and a nod to the necessity of a balanced diet, I rooted around in the cupboards until I found a bag of cheesy nachos. Alternately munching and sipping, I wondered what I should wish for next. And it was obvious, really. I removed the headphones.
‘O bean, magic bean, this Christmas I would like female company; to love and nourish and in every way look after me.’
I held my breath. The bean jumped. The doorbell rang. I rubbed my hands together.
*
When I opened the door, my mother was standing there. ‘Surprise!’ she cried, as she thrust a package into my hands. It felt like a bottle.
‘Mum, what are you doing here?’ This was not what I’d been hoping for. Obviously.
‘Well, you never come to see us at Christmas. I don’t blame you – I know how difficult your father can be at this time of year. So I thought, if the molehill won’t come to the mountain…?’ That was Mum, always mixing up her proverbs. Resigned to her presence, I invited her in. Just as I was getting her settled – she’d also brought a box of mince pies, and had put the kettle on – the doorbell rang again.
Outside it had started to rain, a freezing December downpour. A middle-aged woman stood on my doorstep, soaked and shivering. ‘I’ve come about the cleaning job,’ she said.
‘Cleaning job? I don’t need a cleaner.’ Well, thinking about it, I probably did. The likes of Kim and Aggie have never set foot in my home. There were cobwebbed corners I would never dare set foot in.
‘Is this number 9? Are you Mr Johnson?’
‘No, this is number 36 and I’m Mr Redwood.’
‘Oh, bugger. I must have got turned around in the rain.’ She shivered some more.
‘Look,’ I said, taking pity, ‘why don’t you come in out of the rain for a bit? My mum’s just put the kettle on.’
Mum took it in her stride. ‘Plenty of fish in the tap,’ she said. The cleaner sat down by a radiator and gratefully accepted a mug of tea. The doorbell rang.
The rain had eased off a bit but it was colder. Two women in police uniform were looking me up and down. ‘Mr Wallace?’ said one.
‘No, I’m Mr Redwood. This is number 36.’
The other police woman nodded. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Not Mr Douglas Wallace at number 7?’
‘Definitely Mr Redwoood at number 36.’
They exchanged glances. ‘We’ve had reports of a man acting suspiciously in this street,’ said the first policewoman. ‘Have you seen anything unusual going on?’
Apart from a magic Mexican jumping bean, the unheard-of appearance of my mother and the sudden inability of people to find the right house number, I hadn’t, and I told them so. They didn’t seem convinced.
‘Would you mind if we came in to have a look around? Just to make sure everything’s alright.’
‘No problem,’ I replied. ‘My mum’s just made some tea. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind a nice hot drink on a night like this.’
I’d only just introduced them to my mother when the doorbell sounded once again.
It all went swimmingly for a while. My mum, the cleaner and the policewomen were soon joined by the lady vicar from the church at the end of the road, who was under the impression that I was a housebound pensioner called Mrs Perkins; two female paramedics who’d come to the right number but the wrong street; two enterprising young caterers with a consignment of food for an address in a road that appeared not to exist in the A-Z or on Google Maps; a MacMillan nurse visiting a man several doors away who I knew for a fact had died the week before; a young woman in a parka delivering pizza, whose scooter broke down the moment she arrived by mistake at my place; a very attractive woman who simply refused to believe that I wasn’t Mr Rice from number 45, who’d called the escort service and paid by credit card up front; and seven women of varying age who turned out to be the local Women’s Institute carol singers on a spur-of-the-moment second trip round the neighbourhood that evening.
It was all there, everything a man could ever wish for or need: maternal love, nurture, nourishment, care, entertainment, protection – even sex, should opportunity arise and the pre-paid escort was up for it, and if the others would bugger off and give us some privacy, not that anyone showed any sign of wanting to leave. Everything, all at once. But I made the most of it. The WI singers performed a capella versions of classic rock songs – with the policewomen disconcertingly adept at air guitar. We tucked into the pizzas, and the sandwiches and savoury snacks the caterers had provided. We drank vodka from my freezer, whisky from the bottle my mother had given me, the caterers’ wine boxes, brandy from the vicar’s hip flask. Phones and pagers chirruped, buzzed and honked, but none of the ladies gave a toss. A few spliffs appeared. We danced, sang along with the carollers and generally loosened up.
Then another policewoman arrived. Except she wasn’t. Fuddled by drink, I was half-naked and in pink, fluffy handcuffs before I realised she was a strip-o-gram. And, alarmingly, the voice shouting the loudest encouragement to the striptease artiste belonged to my mother.
*
I awoke in my bed, the great-grandfather of all hangovers performing an over-amplified drum solo in my skull, feeling like something a dog had just thrown up. A quick glance at the muted dawn glow visible through the curtains was like staring into an arc light. I was naked, as were the female bodies piled on top of me. My poor bed creaked alarmingly as I painfully extricated myself from the tangle of limbs.
I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t help myself. How we’d all fitted into my bed was beyond me. There was the escort, the stripper, the cleaning lady, one of the genuine policewomen, and – well, if I was the God-bothering type I would never be able to show my face in church again, that was for sure. Mind you, she was quite something under that cassock.
What on earth had happened? I had a vague memory of the escort handing round some little blue pills she said would make the party go with a bang. I suppose we’d all just gone along with it. By then everyone was pretty drunk, me most of all, and it was the very last thing I recalled prior to waking. Go with a bang? It had been like Hiroshima. It was astonishing that my bed was still in one piece.
I slipped into my dressing gown and stumbled to the living room, which was scattered with empty bottles, paper plates, scraps of tinsel, plastic cutlery and abandoned sandwiches with curling edges, and littered with snoring bodies in various states of undress, including several couples in intimate embraces. My view of the WI was forever changed. The poinsettia on the sideboard looked in a bad way – I doubted it would recover from the paramedics’ attempt to smoke it. Someone had attempted to put up Christmas decorations, seemingly aided by a concept of geometry not normally associated with this universe. My mother was asleep in an armchair, mumbling incoherent messages to herself. Thankfully, she was alone and fully clothed, though she was wearing my boxer shorts on her head.
As quietly as I could, I performed my ablutions, took a couple of painkillers, dressed and slipped out before anyone else emerged from slumber. I had a hunch quite a few of my guests would have regrets, and recrimination would undoubtedly follow, with accusation swimming shark-like in its wake. There would be music I really didn’t want to face.
In the café I ordered a full English breakfast with extra toast, a large coffee and a glass of orange juice. The seasonal baubles and sparkles hurt my eyes. The waitress was quietly singing along with Noddy Holder, who right then I could cheerfully have throttled with his own kipper tie. The magic bean, rescued from under the sofa after a hasty search, was in my jacket pocket. I took it out and examined it under the merciless strip lighting.
On closer examination, the speckles weren’t as haphazardly located on the bean’s surface as I’d thought. I slowly rotated the bean, trying to discern a pattern. The speckles, I realised, were clusters of tiny words in an ornate script of some kind, possibly runes, arranged to form interlocking hexagons. Whichever way the bean was turned, one hexagon was always visible; yet each one was subtly different.
‘Like snowflakes,’ I said to myself.
‘Sorry?’ said the passing waitress.
‘I’d like cornflakes,’ I replied. ‘Do you have cornflakes?’
‘We don’t do cereals.’
‘In that case, could I have another coffee, please?’
‘Coming right up.’ She smiled and walked back behind the counter.
The bean was covered in snowflake-like designs made up of what were surely occult symbols, a powerful spell of some kind. Well, it must be if it could grant wishes with such spectacular success, right?
Why endlessly-repeating snowflakes? Did the pattern represent infinite possibility? Or did it signify an eternal winter of the soul, unending remorse at the selfish, hurtful and ultimately self-destructives wishes of the bean’s user? Maybe its creator merely thought the design was pretty. An experimental press with a fingernail indicated that the speckles were not paint or ink. They had grown there, just like the markings on an ordinary pinto bean. The major difference was that this particular bean made wishes come true.
With a sudden flash, I remembered that Henry was still unable to raise anything more than a desperate hope in the groin department. And I knew that none of the women currently occupying various parts of my flat had any intention of leaving the place before Twelfth Night. Christmas meant all of it. Strangely, that thought only made me feel obscurely sorry for Henry. I mean, it wasn’t his fault, was it?
‘Bugger me,’ I said.
‘Sorry?’ said the waitress as she placed the coffee on the table.
‘Mug of tea,’ I replied, ‘when you get a minute, thanks. I’m pretty thirsty this morning.’
I tried to think of stories in which wishes were granted. Aladdin’s genie of the lamp had granted them in a fairly straightforward way, but then Aladdin hadn’t really asked for anything more complicated than wealth and power. Meanwhile, The Monkey’s Paw was a stark reminder to be careful what you wished for in case you got it. As indeed I had. And it made me think.
I had no claim on Sam. Her choice had been made six years earlier, and we’d both had relationships with other people since then. We hadn’t been on such good terms as I liked to pretend, either. Normally we only called each other or met up when one of us needed someone to talk to – someone who would listen while we unloaded and moaned about work, other people or life in general. It was a habit, that was all. The previous Christmas I’d missed half of the seasonal episode of Doctor Who wondering why we still bothered. My spiteful reaction to her telling me about Henry was simple envy – not of Henry, but the fact of Sam having a good time while I languished on my own. I’d been mean-spirited and petty. As for what I’d inadvertently put those women through…
‘What a bastard,’ I muttered.
‘Sorry?’ said the waitress as she delivered my tea.
‘Got any mustard?’ I asked.
She looked puzzled. ‘Are you sure? Doesn’t really go with tea, does it? And you haven’t even finished your coffee yet.’
‘Forget it,’ I told her. ‘Sorry.’
When she’d gone back to the counter, I held the bean on the flat of my palm.
‘O bean, magic bean, I’ve made wishes that were bad; and now I wish that I never had.’
The bean jumped.
*
Sam was pleased with her presents. She’d been dropping broad hints about that Downton Abbey box set for weeks. It felt good to see her eyes light up at the prospect of consuming chocolates while curled up on the sofa watching her favourite costume soap opera. In return I received a package the size of a matchbox, which turned out to be rather smaller than that after the wrapping paper was removed. Quite a bit smaller.
Taking the object between the tips of my thumb and index finger, I held it up to the light, squinting as I tried to work out what the hell it was.
‘Do you like it?’ said Sam, seemingly pleased with herself.
‘I don’t believe it,’ I said, pretending to be excited. ‘It looks like an authentic magic Mexican jumping bean. They will grant you three wishes, or so I’ve heard. I’ve always wanted one of these. Thank you so much. Wherever did you find it?’
‘I got it in that New Age place on the quays. The woman in the shop said all you need to do is express your wish in a rhyme but you actually have to address the bean just like you would talk to a person. And you have to mean it. When it jumps you’ll know you’ve done it right.’ Her lips curved into a smile.
I drank some coffee, gazed around the café, taking in the decorations, trying not to hear John Lennon’s doomed seasonal appeal to global sanity playing in the background. ‘I fancy doing something else this Christmas,’ I told her. ‘Would you mind if I went to stay with my folks this year?’
Her eyes widened. ‘Of course not.’ She was clearly relieved. ‘Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that. I won’t be around anyway. Henry’s taking me to Rome for Christmas. Got to get back to the office for my suitcases. Have to be at the airport in two hours.’
‘Then you won’t have to make Christmas dinner,’ I said. ‘And who’s Henry?’
‘He’s the new managing director. Really good-looking and absolutely loaded, all the girls fancy him. I know we usually spend Christmas Day together but I couldn’t really turn down the offer to go to Rome.’ She looked away. ‘It’s a business trip.’
Of course it was. ‘That’s nice. Is he treating all the staff to Christmas in Rome?’
‘No, only me. Don’t give me that look. He’s just a colleague, a friend.’
With the word ‘boy’ soon to be in front of it, I thought but did not say. Well, good luck to them both. ‘You have a lovely time in Rome,’ I said. ‘Make the most of it. Merry Christmas, Sam.’
Sam stood, gave me a quick peck on the cheek and a hurried ‘Merry Christmas,’ and practically flew out of the door, leaving me with half a cup of cold coffee and an odd feeling of satisfaction. And a magic Mexican jumping bean.
I drank up, paid up and left. Outside the café I took the bean from my pocket, smiled and dropped it onto the frosty pavement, then ground it to pulp beneath my heel. I didn’t pause to wonder how or why I could remember things that hadn’t yet happened. All I knew was that it wouldn’t be right to wish for a repeat performance. I’d manage Christmas without magic beans, thank you very much.
For some reason I was whistling ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ all the way to the supermarket, in every aisle – even at the interminable checkout queue. I whistled all the way home, carrying my Christmas supplies – including a fistful of DVDs and a couple of paperback novels – as if they were bags of feathers. While I stood on the doorstep fumbling for my keys with hands as frozen as the turkey I’d just purchased, someone spoke behind me.
‘Excuse me, do you know where Mrs Perkins lives? I think I’ve been given the wrong address.’
The husky voice was instantly recognisable, as was the cassock. And I now knew what treasures that shapeless robe of office concealed. ‘Certainly, vicar,’ I replied, turning to greet her with a smile. ‘She lives at number 32.’ I looked at the over-laden bags she had laid on the pavement to give her arms a rest. ‘If you’ll just give me a minute to get this stuff indoors, I’ll give you a hand with that lot. It looks heavy.’
‘That’s very kind of you. Are you sure it’s no trouble?’
‘None at all,’ I assured her. ‘And when we’ve seen to Mrs Perkins, perhaps you’d care to join me for a small brandy?’