A Christmas Cameron Read online

  A Christmas Cameron

  A Ghost Story of Christmas

  Benedict J. Arthur

  Copyright © 2012 Author: Benedict J Arthur

  All rights reserved.

  For Laura

  Contents

  A note from the Author

  STAVE ONE

  Margaret’s Ghosts

  STAVE TWO

  The First of The Spirits

  STAVE THREE

  The Second of The Spirits

  STAVE FOUR

  The Last of The Spirits.

  STAVE FIVE

  The End of It.

  A note from the Author

  Dear reader,

  I would very much like to begin by stating that this is, of course, a complete work of fiction; based upon the most excellent, original story by Charles Dickens.

  All of the occurrences and conversations contained herein are completely fabricated. Any nuggets of verbatim dialogue, accurate historical detail or actual governmental policy that may have weaselled their way into these pages whilst my attention was distracted, I am sure have been taken completely out of context.

  At most, this is a work of caricature. And the function of caricature, is to exaggerate the more disagreeable characteristic(s) of a person or a thing so as to throw said characteristic(s) into sharp relief.

  Constructing caricatures is not always easy. Accordingly, I feel I must acknowledge the debt of gratitude that I owe to my teachers in this great art, namely; David Cameron and his cabinet. In addition to being wily politicians, this talented bunch have, in recent times, constructed some of the most imaginative and grotesque caricatures of the poorest and most vulnerable in our society.

  So my dear fellows, for your instruction- Many Thanks!

  And to you, dear reader -Merry Christmas!

  Sincerely,

  Benedict Joseph Arthur.

  STAVE ONE

  Margaret’s Ghosts

  Margaret was asleep: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. On this Christmas Eve a bed had been prepared in her favourite place – the white drawing room of number 10. She had climbed in of her own accord attended, at her request, by David who had sat with her until she had been overtaken by slumber. Indeed, Lady Thatcher was sleeping like a baby.

  Mind! I don’t mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly useful in comparing a supposedly peaceful slumber to that of a babe. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a baby’s sleep as brief, fitful and often disturbed by colic. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country’s done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Margaret was sleeping like a baby.

  On the night our story begins David knew Margaret was in bed. She had once again requested that he sit by her side as she slipped into her dreams. More and more in recent years as her bedtime approached Margaret displayed the night-time anxiety of the sleepy child who wishes to cling to human contact for as long as possible. David was happy to provide the service; he and she were peers now, perhaps friends even. Over recent months, during her more frequent visits to Number 10, he had become her confidant, her confessor. For only a fellow Prime Minister could truly understand those indelible, painful impressions that the highest office in the land leaves upon the spirit.

  The mention of David and Margaret’s friendship brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Margaret was asleep. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. Remember, that in the dream realm one is completely alone and the spirit is laid bare. And so, for the soul with regret; the sleep of dreams can bring nightmares; and even the strongest of minds with the sharpest of reason cannot keep the ghosts and demons at bay.

  David had always loved old Margaret’s ideas. So now, thinly veiled in a new modern guise, he had re-mounted her old chariot, years after her departure from power and once again ploughed it forward, cutting deep furrows and re-opening the old wounds in the green and pleasant land. The party had not changed. Sometimes people new to the business actually called them by their new moniker – ‘The Compassionate Conservatives’. David didn’t mind which name people used, for it was all the same to him. Indeed, he would oftentimes smile privately to himself and whisper ‘oxymoron’ under his breath when naïve initiates would recite his new slogan, mentioning ‘compassion’ and ‘conservatives’ in the very same breath. All that mattered was that people knew they were the law, the truth. And that he – he was the flash of lightning, with a crack of thunder that had scattered the scavengers who had gorged on his country in the darkness of the Labour years.

  Oh! How he could be a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, David Cameron! Hard and sharp as flint, from which steel had rarely struck out generous fire. He had to be. For in the same way the wayward child needs discipline and order, a lazy, fat and ignorant country cannot be mollycoddled. No! He had to be firm. He had to trim the fat. Only he and his choice captains could lead a healthy flock, pared of the old, sick, weak and lazy, safely back to pasture. But to be an enlightened leader, he knew was to be as the arctic roll; warm outside and cold within. The cold within him though had begun to erupt outwards – to freeze his features, to nip his fishy nose, shrivel his cheek, stiffen his gait; make his eyes red, his thin lips blue. Inevitably, he had to carry his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office during his time as Prime Minister; and didn’t thaw it one degree at Christmas.

  Children however, will shy away from frosty fathers and seek their comfort elsewhere. And so it is with the public and their politicians. But the shrewd political artiste knows that make-up and lighting can perform miracles of illusion and transformation. Warm rouge added to the cheek, the soft glow of a studio light and words filled with empty promise can sadly mimic the glow that true inner warmth would have gladly bestowed.

  With the country returning to order, those of privilege would often stop David in the street to say, with gladsome looks, “My dear Mr Cameron, how are you? When will you come to see me?” But no beggars asked him for a donation, no poor children asked him what it was o’clock, no man or woman of low standing ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Mr. Cameron. Even the dogs of the homeless and blind appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming, would tug their owners into doorways and up alleys; and then would wag their tails as though they said, “shelter me from the evil eye, master!”

  But what did David care! It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, with ample human sympathy from his favoured few to keep him content. Anyhow, in his mind, it was not fear or distaste that kept the poor away; it was quiet reverence and stifled awe. He was their Arthur; a grand King of old and his epoch marked the return to Albion.

  --

  Of all the good days in the year, late in the morning of Christmas Eve, David Cameron sat busy at his desk. It was cold, bleak, biting weather and he could hear the people in the streets nearby, go wheezing up and down, beating their hands upon their chests, and stamping their feet upon the pavement stones to keep warm. The city clocks had just gone eleven, but the city remained brooding and dark. It had barely been light all day and lights were still lit in the windows of the neighbouring buildings. The fog came pouring in at every chink and keyhole, and was so dense outside, that although Downing Street was not so wide, the buildings opposite were barely visible.

  The door of David’s office was left slightly ajar so that he might keep an eye upon his heavily pregnant wife. Samantha was stood in the drawing room, chatting to Lady Thatcher who was sat up in the bed that had been specially prepared for her stay over
the Christmas period. Margaret had recently confessed to David her admiration that the sense of tradition, authority and order had been greatly restored to number 10 during his rule. She had continued by divulging that it would be a great comfort for her to spend the Christmas period in her one true ‘home’.

  “A merry Christmas, Prime Minister! God save you!” cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Paul Burstow, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first sign David had of his approach.

  “Bah!” thought David, his face curling into an offended frown “Liberal Democrat!”

  He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost, this Minister for Care Services, that he was all in a glow; his face was ruddy and warm; his eyes sparkled, and his breath smoked.

  “Why the long face Prime Minister? A Merry Christmas is very nearly upon us!”

  “Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry? You’re utterly deluded.”

  “Come now” replied the minister. “What right have you to be moody? What reason have you to be glum? You’re so rich, you have a beautiful family and your ratings do well.”

  David having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said, “Bah!” again; and followed it up with “what do you want? It’s Christmas Eve – can’t you people leave me alone even during the holidays?”

  “Don’t be cross, Prime Minister” said the minister.

  “What else can I be,” returned David, “when I live in such a world of fools as this? Merry Christmas! Out upon merry Christmas! What’s Christmas time for in this country but a time for the slackers to buy presents without money; a time for people to find themselves a year older, but not an hour richer; a time for the lazy to indulge and plunge the nation even further into debt! If I could work my will,” said David indignantly, “every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips, would be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart.”

  “Mr. Cameron!” pleaded the Minster.

  “Minister” returned David sternly, “What in God’s name do you want?”

  The minister approached and placed a thick pile of glossy papers on David’s desk. “I’ve brought you the report paper from the Independent Review of Poverty and Life Chances. There are also some fresh responses to the amendments in the Health and Social Care bill. There’s still a lot of concern from across the board that the care for the most vulnerable is going be severely compromised even with the changes; and there is much, much anxiety about the predicted rise in child poverty. I was thinking, that as is it Christmas – the season of good will after all, we could….”

  “Good will!” said David angrily, cutting off the minster mid-sentence. “What possible benefit, what possible profit could men like you and I derive from showing these people good will? Christmas bloats your already excessive sentimentality – you’re even more oblivious to the fact that the vulnerable as you call them are the slack and lazy idlers that will bleed this country dry. Now leave me in peace – there’ll be no statement today”.

  “There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say” returned the minister. “But Christmas time is a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people who are less fortunate as if they really are fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, Prime Minister, though it has never put a scrap of money in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it! It is the perfect time to show the people of the nation that we do have their best interests at heart.”

  You’re quite a powerful speaker, sir,” said David glancing up at the minister. “I see why you entered into Parliament.”

  “Well then don’t be angry Prime Minister, just read the responses. We need to make provision for the poor and vulnerable, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in desperate want of common comforts, sir.”

  “If only we were still in possession of workhouses” David whispered under his breath.

  “Pardon?” said Mr. Burstow.

  “Are there no charities?” replied David in a louder voice.

  “There are some” replied the minister.

  “And the hospitals – including the accident and emergency departments – they are free and remain fully operational do they not?” demanded David.

  “They do and are very busy – fit to burst.” Sighed the minister.

  “Then the provision continues to be plentiful and is proportionate to both what these vulnerable need and what they deserve. You sir, are being characteristically exaggerative. I was afraid, from what you said at first, that some acute event had occurred to stop our institutions in discharging their duties.”

  Before the minister could articulate a further response, they were interrupted by a feeble knock at the door. This was followed shortly by the head of a prime ministerial aide peeping sheepishly through the doorway. “Mr. Cameron Sir, Archbishop Williams to see you” said the aide meekly, his eyes directed towards the floor of the room.

  “Ah yes, good, good – do show him in.” replied David without looking up but instead making a beckoning gesture with his left hand. He would ordinarily not have been so keen to see the archbishop. He found that their diametrically opposed views on the nature of ‘austerity’ were not conducive to enjoyable discourse and he was often left feeling strangely anxious in the wake of their conversations. On this particular morning however he was eager to bring his conversation with the Minister Burstow to an end. “Right Mr. Burstow, leave the papers with me, but as you can see I am very busy.”

  “Very well Prime Minister” replied Mr. Burstow. He leant towards David and nudged the papers slightly forward on the desk before taking his leave with a brief bow of the head. “Merry Christmas”.

  “Indeed” replied Mr. Cameron without looking up.

  --

  “David!” Archbishop Williams called out with the warmth and enthusiasm of a kindly father greeting a prodigal child. “Merry Christmas! I trust I find you well on this frosty yuletide morn!”.

  “Well enough Rowan, thank you” replied David curtly. He stood and held out a hand to the Archbishop, who instead of shaking it as David intended, bypassed the hollow gesture and proceeded to grasp David in a bear-like embrace, pinning his arms to his sides.

  “How good to see you – a very Merry Christmas!” said the Archbishop again, emphasising the Christ-mas with two hearty slaps on the back.

  “Erm, yes well, thank you Rowan” said David, somewhat ruffled. He straightened the bottom of his suit jacket before sitting down. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I trust you have not come to regale me with a Christmas sermon about the virtue of giving charity to slackers. I’ve already had to tolerate the festive oratory of the Right Honourable Paul Burstow this morning and I am not of a mind to listen to any more.”

  “Oh David, I do wish you wouldn’t use that term ‘slackers’” said the Archbishop, frowning and shaking his head whilst pulling out a chair. “It is very undignified for a man occupying the highest office in the land to use such derogatory language to describe the most needy amongst his flock.” Sitting down, the Archbishop continued “Well, no I have not come to deliver a sermon but to extend an invitation. I would like to invite you and your beautiful family to Christmas Dinner!”

  “That’s very civilised of you Rowan”, replied David “but I regret we already have prior….”

  “No, wait” interrupted the Archbishop, “let me finish, this is no ordinary Christmas dinner! We have raised a fund with which we will set a Christmas Day feast for more than a hundred of the poorest families from central London. There will be meat and drink, presents for the children and, I hope, much merriment. W
e choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. Last night, as I lay in bed, it struck me that your presence might demonstrate to the people that you sympathise with their struggles in these difficult times and that these savage cuts you have made are but a necessary evil in these times of crisis. So can I count on your attendance? It would be a wonderful example for your children too. What time can I tell the BBC you’ll be arriving?”

  “You will tell them nothing.” David replied.

  “Ah! You wish to attend away from the eyes of the press, very noble David, very gallant, although this could be an excellent PR opportunity for you.”

  “You will tell them nothing, Rowan as there is nothing to tell. I shall not be attending and I shall most certainly not be exposing my children to your misjudged efforts to make idle people merry. I spend ample time during the year trying to prop up the establishments that support these people and it is not the role of the Prime Minister to spread Christmas cheer. I will not help to mitigate the effects of people’s laziness; if they wished to make Merry at Christmas, they should have worked harder the rest of the year.”