A Christmas Tale: 'Happy Harold's Christmas Capers'

johnnypie

First, a question. Am I OK posting a longish Christmas story here? It is mine so it's not as if I've nicked it. I thought as we have an ongoing tale of the sci-fi waste disposal bods, then, hopefully it will be OK to load a Christmas story, as the season is nearly upon us. I won't post it yet, but if some kind soul from the back office can give it the OK, then I'll upload it in sections. Cheers.

dolly247

Oooh I do enjoy a good story johnnypie 👍 x

frenchielove

johnnypie will wait to read it, 🤗

johnnypie

First a little context. Harold Spencer is a rather lively 10 year old who lives in a Hampshire village during the (original) austerity years – the late 1940s. This Christmas story is from a compendium of tales, so there are references to other adventures but the story’s still fine as a standalone.

A little extra info for you all, suggested by one of the moderators who has kindly shown great enthusiasm re this upload. 'Happy Harold's Christmas Capers' is just one of the tales from an 8 story compendium called 'The Happy Harold Stories'. This is a self-published book which has been available for some years now. I wrote and published it under my pen name, Josh Rogan. I do assure you all this isn't a sales pitch, but simply something befitting the season, and which I hope those who read it will enjoy. -- Johnnypie.

HAPPY HAROLD’S
CHRISTMAS CAPERS

SECTION 1

CHRISTMAS 1948 was approaching rapidly.

Mr Peregrine Bellard was seated behind his desk, facing class 3B of Plumley Junior School. He was deep in thought.

No, I won’t have it, thought Mr Bellard. No. It will not do at all.

The thing that Mr Bellard would not have and which would not do at all was continuing yuletide frivolity. The school’s annual Christmas party was one thing; however, the abandonment of the betterment of young minds in favour of fun and games to see the term out – was quite another.

No, it will not do at all, thought Mr Bellard – again. I don’t care what the other masters do, but in my class it is business as usual. ‘Business as usual!’ he repeated, but unfortunately out loud.

‘Sir?’ came more than one response from the sea of bemused faces.

‘Get on with your work!’ exclaimed a blushing Mr Peregrine Bellard.

It was two days later, in fact the very last day of term. Mr Bellard had been true to his word and his thoughts. He was at that moment looking at and listening to one of his young charges giving a verbal answer to a question he had put to the class for homework the day before.

‘ . . . An’, well, Tom Sawyer was sort of OK; ‘e ‘ad a nice ‘ouse, a comfy bed, good grub and his granny. But Huck Flynn had nowt or no one, apart from his drunken da—’

‘It’s Finn – and nothing, young Cobham – but do carry on. . .’ interjected Mr Bellard.

‘Oh ‘eck! I’m sorry, sir,’ said a quite befuddled Alfred Cobham. ‘ . . . but Finn Nothing had nowt—’

There came a groan from the front of the class and raucous laughter from right around it.

‘Silence! . . . That’s OK, Alfred, I get the drift and time is short, please sit down. Anyone else. . .’

Mr Bellard scanned the room, looking from left to right. Not a single arm was raised.

‘Anyone?’ came the plea from the now small defeated voice. The small defeated schoolmaster now looked from right to left. One arm was now raised and was accompanied by ‘Sir! Sir!’ It was Happy Harold Spencer. The rumbustious ten year old had been called Happy Harold Spencer, by some at least, ever since a chaotic mix-up some time previously had resulted in him winning a top class horse race on board a horse called Happy Harold.

Mr Bellard groaned again.

‘Very well, Harold, share with us your views on why the two separate books of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn seem so different. . .’

‘Sorry, sir, it ain’t that I had me arm up for. It’s snowin’ an’ me dad’s fixin’ me sledge and I was ‘opin’ you’d let us all go ‘ome early. It is Christmas, sir. . .’ cheekily implored Harold. Mr Bellard cast his mind back to his thoughts of only a few days ago. His resolve was about to be tested. There was only twenty minutes left of the last lesson of term and it was indeed snowing heavily. The holidays loomed ever nearer – for both staff and pupils.

‘Class dismissed!’

The stampede out of the door of class 3B seemed to herald an early finish for the entire school. Some teachers, longing to forget about homework checking and instead dreaming of copious sherries and eggnogs for almost an entire fortnight, had shown the same resolve as shown by their colleague Peregrine Bellard – as in none at all. The suspension of such things as the enforced repetition of two times tables or droning on about the cleverness of wattle and daub in ancient times and instead declaring that the festivities could now begin, resulted in a cacophony of clomps shouts and yippees down the school corridors.

Any worries that any of the teachers had about incurring the wrath of Mr Turloch Kenilworth, the headmaster, were to fade rather rapidly. The head’s office was halfway down the main corridor; class 3B were a little beyond it nearer to the front doors, whereas the back doors at the other end of the main corridor led out on to the car park.

Mr Bellard, rucksack slung over his shoulder in which he had crammed various text books, exercise books and test papers in a very pell-mell fashion, looked back at an angle to the headmaster’s door – it was closed and the little glass panel at the top was dark, which meant that the light was turned off. Barring a desire by the headmaster to sit in the dark on a dark winter’s day, this could only mean he was not in his office. A further glance back through the back doors confirmed this: Mr Kenilworth, Agatha Hunter (the school secretary), and Monica Gilhooley, the school nurse, were clomping through the deep snow which covered the carpark and indeed most of the cars, ready to drive off to their respective homes to begin their own domestic festivities.

As he was always one for exercising caution, Mr Bellard was still glad that his fiancée had borrowed his car and was picking him up on the lane outside school, rather than his having to be in close proximity to the headmaster, which he is at the end of most school days. The venerable Turloch Kenilworth was famed for collaring departing teaching staff with such ‘requests’ as ‘Ah, there you are, Bellard. Could you stay behind for a little while and sort this little matter out for me? I am in too much of a rush myself.’ Not today though, thought the young schoolmaster.

‘Yippee!’

‘Sir?’

‘Get off home to that sledge, Spencer – oh, and Merry Christmas!’

‘And a Merry Christmas to you, sir!’

frenchielove

johnnypie really enjoyed that, thank you so much for sharing 🤗

johnnypie

END OF SECTION 1

johnnypie

Thank you, and you're very welcome. Next bit up soon.

johnnypie

SECTION 2

Mr Bernard Spencer lowered his newspaper and peered through the car window and scanned the playground. He was waiting for for his son Harold. Seconds before the children emerged from the school building, an article on rationing had caught his eye and he returned to reading the paper.

Two things of note had happened to or at least concerning Mr Spencer in recent months. First, his good lady, Mrs Ivy Spencer, had severely chided her husband for his continuing strictness with regard to their only child. He had tried to resist, citing innumerable transgressions including Harold trying to teach the vicar’s cat to swim, and even inviting old Jim Meery, the (mostly) locally based vagrant and drunkard to Sunday dinner. This was after Harold had heard his father tell his good friend Leo Kendall over a few sherries, that the haves really should do more for the have-nots.

But Ivy Spencer’s faith in her son was unwavering, well, a little waver now and again, the last waver coming around the same time as finding a notorious member of the great unwashed at her dinner table; she did feel sorry for him and regularly dropped coppers in his tin – but, Sunday dinner? As for her son; all in all she was more understanding of the young mind, even the rather singular young mind that was Harold’s. Mrs Spencer was and would continue to be very vocal indeed in support of Harold and in the airing of her views when it came to her husband’s draconian ideas of what he expected from their son in his behaviour, and his equally draconian ideas of the punishments meted out to Harold when he fell short of his father’s expectations.

It had all come to a head the previous month after Mr Bernard Spencer had grounded Harold for a week. This was for using all of his pocket money to purchase a pet monkey.

Harold hadn’t paid for it all by himself of course, there was no way he could ever have afforded to, but he had set up a ‘Buy a Chimp Subscription Fund’. This was such a roaring success in school and around the village, that Marvin the Chimpanzee found himself with eighty-one different owners of which the oldest was eleven. Luckily for Marvin (let alone the rest of the village), Mr Spencer put the chimpanzee on a lead and took him straight back to the pet shop and then marched straight home again to have a quiet word with Harold. Once back in the house he found his wife having a fit of the giggles over the episode, but Mr Spencer did not join in and proceeded to let both Harold and his wife know that, just like the revered monarch of yesteryear, he was not amused. He was even less amused at having to pay back out of his own pocket a goodly chunk of the subscriptions to eighty of the eighty-one subscribers; this was due to getting far less for the monkey than the subscribers had paid. ‘You must be joking, son,’ said Mr Spencer to Harold after he had asked for his share.

It was shortly after the chimp’ episode that Bernard Spencer had begun noticing that his good lady was serving an awful lot of mashed potato for dinner each evening; but it wasn’t just the regularity which had become glaringly obvious. He found that the mashed potato was being served in somewhat of a more spirited fashion than usual, so spirited that quite often it left the ladle at high-speed, thus landing on the plate with an audible and visible shcwlupp! He could just about bear this, but when he had still refused to yield with regard to little Hal he noticed that on at least three occasions out of five from then on, some of the mashed potato was ending up anywhere but his plate. A few nights later a very hungry Mr Spencer realised there was more mashed potato on the table, all over the chairs and even on the kitchen floor than on his plate. The very hungry Mr Spencer couldn’t take any more.

‘You win! You win, my dear! I can see now I am too inflexible when it comes to the rearing of Harold. Please, dear, let me make amends. . .’ pleaded Mr Bernard Spencer, hastily mopping up the mess. But Mrs Ivy Spencer’s resolve was such that she would not weaken in the slightest: a definite case of change first, non-flying potatoes later.

This was not the only thing of note: Mr Bernard Spencer had recently passed his driving test and had bought himself a car, the car he was currently sitting in while waiting to give Harold his first ever lift home.

Harold emerged from the throng, all smiles, as did his trusty lieutenants, twins Tim and Larry Tucker. However, despite particularly foul weather (the cause of said smiles), they did not seem to be in too much of a rush to leave the playground and make their way home, nor were a number of other pupils from other classes in the school. It was fortunate that their parents had listened intently to the weather forecast and had ensured their children had had hot breakfasts and were adorned in their heaviest coats and winter woollies.

END OF SECTION 2

frenchielove

johnnypie ha ha, really good, could just see those potatoes whacking onto the plate 😂

johnnypie

Thanks. Glad you're enjoying it. More very soon.

johnnypie

Section 3
It had been snowing all day. The teachers had groaned, the children were ecstatic. It hadn’t been too heavy in the morning, but as Mr Bellard and most of his colleagues as well as the head and administrative staff had looked out of their respective windows hoping for an immediate thaw, it had soon become clear that the snow wasn’t going away but getting heavier and heavier, and the temperature was getting colder and colder.

It was also soon to become obvious why several families would see their teas delayed, as would be the annual tradition of putting up the Christmas tree and decorations.

‘Come on!’ yelled Harold. ‘Let’s make a slide!’ Although this was mainly to his two best friends, it was also for anyone else within earshot who cared to help, and who would of course, also reap the benefits.

Within seconds, Harold Spencer, Tim and Larry Tucker, and many other pupils from not only Mr Bellard’s class but from the rest of the school, had set to on flattening and compacting the heavy snow. With a great deal of encouragement and advice from their self-proclaimed leader, the children soon managed to rapidly and efficiently fashion a very long and reasonably broad ice slide; it was so long it stretched across most of the playground. And it was now so cold that even though the compacted mush would have still been passable as a slide, it was actually already forming solid ice, which was what the children were really hoping for.

‘Brill!’ enthused Harold. ‘Best slide ever that! An’ I bagsy first go!’

Harold had said this as if there was a possibility that this was not automatically going to be the case. He dashed over to the fence running along the side of the school; this would give him a 10 foot or so run-up to the start of the slide. Harold readied himself.

‘Gerroff there, Clarke’, an’ you, Poulter! Happy Harold Spencer’s comin’ through!’

Harold was now ready. He was actually stooping with his legs splayed as if he was about to do the 100 metres.

With the chastened Clarke and Poulter removed from the field of battle, Harold shot off and had soon reached the icy pathway. He seemed OK at first, with his arms stretched out sideways like wings and his feet planted at a slight distance from each other, but this was not to last long at all.

‘Comin’ through!’ again yelled Harold as he slid along, but this quickly became ‘Whoaa!’ and even ‘Whoaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!’ as his feet began to slide in every direction bar the one he wanted them to, and with his arms now flailing and flapping everywhere. What came next was inevitable, not only to Harold but to all of the highly amused spectators.

‘’E’s goin! E’s GOIN’! yelled Larry.

‘’E’s gone!’ exclaimed Tim.

After only a few seconds Harold had found himself on his backside, and on his very first go! He had felt his feet and legs suddenly edging in front of the rest of his body, and he knew that a split-second later he would be on the floor, continuing his run on his rump with his legs leading the way, but seeing as this was all part of the fun he just yelled again, smiled, and let it happen. The truth was, the children, even those who didn’t fall over, found they could only keep sliding for a few feet at most. It also allowed the pupils not in with Harold and his gang to use the slide from the other end, as the chances of meeting in the middle were very remote. No matter who stayed on their feet or who fell over, all that really mattered to the children was that they were having fun.

However, things were not to remain so care-free – as we shall eventually see. . .

No one else got a look-in until Harold, Tim, Larry, and of course the fairer member of their gang, Betty Unsworth, had all taken their turn.

Tim fell over as soon as he stepped onto the slide. Larry, with better balance and thus the better slider, knew he wouldn’t so did so deliberately. Betty, the trainee ballerina, even stuck one leg out as she glided along smoothly, coming to a standstill with the grace and balance of Margot Fontayne on a rather icy busman’s holiday from the stage. She didn’t manage any real distance at all, but she nevertheless did very well indeed and to great cheers and applause from her friends.

After begrudgingly allowing the rest of the pupils their goes, it was Harold’s turn to go again.

He knew he could always outdo Tim; he knew that Larry had fallen deliberately so as not to miss out on the most fun; he certainly could not match Betty but nor did he want to.

Although Harold was chivalrous he certainly didn’t go in for that poncy stuff, but what could he do to banish his first disappointing attempt to history and outdo them all, impressing not only his gang but everyone still in the playground?

Speed! thought Harold. I don’t wanna do that ballet or ice-skatin’ stuff, but I am going to be the fastest slider this school’s ever seen!

‘Where’s he goin’?!’ loudly enquired Tim as they all watched Harold disappear behind the side of the building.

What his friends, classmates and other pupils did not know at that moment was that for Harold to not only build up enough speed and momentum and yet at the same time utilise as much as possible of the icy slide at a tremendous rate of knots, he would not only have to make his run at an angle, but turn fully to his right once he had reached the slide. This was to ensure making a straight and of course hair-raisingly fast run.

‘E’s gonna do a belter!’ proclaimed Tim, suddenly putting two and two together. With Harold still out of sight he began a very familiar chant — ‘HA-ROLD! HA-ROLD! HA-ROLD!’

Soon Larry and Betty had joined in and these were quickly joined by most of the other would-be ice-sliders who formed up either side of Harold’s particular friends.

The only exceptions to Harold’s fanclub were his dire enemies, namely, Lionel ‘Ripper’ Bullstock and his own little gang. The only time they would shout words of encouragement for ‘Happy’ Harold Spencer would be if he was going to jump off a very high building without the aid of a safety net. Ripper and his mob just lolled against the school wall, sneering, and hoping that things would go disastrously wrong. They had witnessed his first attempt, from a distance, and were confident it would be no better this time around.

It was a bold, ambitious plan, as all of Harold’s plans are. And in keeping with this (most of the time), it was also useless.

‘HA-ROLD! HA-ROLD! HAR– here he comes!’

Harold re-appeared, tearing along at great speed, but as he reached the slide he quickly realised he was not as dextrous as he had believed himself to be.

As the roar of the spectators reached an ear-splitting crescendo, Harold was going so fast he was simply not able to turn at all.

‘Wooaahhh!’ yelled Harold. Again.

With his arms flailing even more erratically than before, Harold simply shot straight across the slide and careered into a bank of thick snow which had been piled up right around the perimeter of the school by the caretaker, and which was getting thicker and higher by the second as it was still snowing. Harold’s feet and legs quickly gave way on the still icy surface, but this time behind him rather than in front, and Harold fell headlong down onto the cold, snowy ground. But there was more, as nothing is ever simple when it comes to Harold Spencer. As he had fallen forward his wooly hat had slipped off and his head had gone straight through a narrow gap between two upright metal bars, or railings.

These made up the fence which ran right around the perimeter of the school. It was only the snow on the ground in the gaps between the bars which had prevented Harold from giving his chin a good hard smack on the ground.

Loud groans emanated from his (usually) adoring audience, which in turn attracted the attention of Ripper Bullstock, who up to that moment had been deep in conversation with his cronies. Their conversation had centred on what they would do to ‘that Spencer and his rotten little gang’, which would show ‘Happy’ Harold Spencer – once and for all – exactly who was boss.

As his close friends dashed across to help and with most of the spectators following to get a closer look, Harold found himself unexpectedly staring out at the lane bordering the school, and at low-level to boot.
‘Flippin’ ‘eck!’ exclaimed Harold.

Unfortunately for Harold, Ripper and his gang had also dashed across to see what all the excitement was about.

‘What the ‘eck d’ya call that, Spencer?! My ole granny could ha’ done better!’ from Ripper.

‘Ha ha ha! Who’s the best at slidin’ on the ice now, Spencer?! Pathetic!’ added Aiden Lynch, one of his minions.

‘Yeah, Spencer! My ole granny could a’ done better!’ chimed in Teddy ‘Gormless’ Gorton, the least imaginative member of Ripper’s mob.

‘’ERE! I’ve just said that!’ protested Ripper.

‘So! I can say it too!’ retorted Gormless.

‘No you can’t! Not if I’ve said it first you can’t, idiot!’

‘Don’t call me an idiot, idiot!’

Luckily for Harold, Ripper and his friends argued even more than his two trusty lieutenants. Harold’s predicament was soon forgotten by Ripper and all of his cronies as a fight broke out between them; a fight which saw them rapidly move away down the lane and out of sight.

END OF SECTION 3

dolly247

Really enjoying this johnnypie
Brilliant 👍 x

johnnypie

dolly247 And thank you very kindly.

johnnypie

SECTION 4

At times like these it is more often than not Betty Unsworth, the final member of Harold’s gang, who is the voice of reason. First, though, she had to get rid of a fit of the giggles which had set in upon seeing her rumbustious friend lying deep in snow with his head through the school railings. Betty soon rallied, fought down the laughter and walked up to Harold, or at least the side of his head.

‘You’d best get yourself out of there, Harold, you’ll freeze to death if you stay in there much longer.’

‘Do you think—!’ went to retort Harold, his body almost obscured by snow, but two things stopped him from going on a rant: first it was Betty, and he never shouts at Betty, and secondly, although not much time had passed since he had found his head in between the railings, nor had he tried to get his head out again.

‘Yeah, yer right. ‘Ang on . . . OUCH! Oh, ‘eck!’ exclaimed Harold, ‘I’m stuck!’

Unfortunately for Harold, he was soon to find that in some instances at least, moving one’s head forward into a restricted space does not automatically mean one can easily perform the motion in reverse. It was his ears: they’d flattened easily enough on the way in but were a problem when trying to get out. Not only were they a little on the large side, they also stuck out more than ears do on average, not a great deal really, but just enough for them to simply jam up against the bars of the railings as he tried to force his head back out.

‘Come on, ‘Arold, you can still get out – force ‘em through. Use yer ‘ands to flatten ‘yer ears – they’ll be squeezed up for a second but that’s all. A bit o’ pain and then ye’ll be free.’

‘Yeah, free,’ added Larry Tucker who didn’t want to be left out.

Unfortunately for Harold, he believed his good friend Tim Tucker. But. . .

‘OUCH! OW! OW! OW! That’s no good at all! You and yer stupid ideas, Tucker! Can’ you see I’m stuck!’

‘Sorry, Harold,’ said the much chastened Tim.

‘Well don’ just stand there, get help! Get someone! Anyone!’

‘Like ‘oo?’ said the clueless Tim.

‘Ole Pickle-pot! He can cut me out!’

However, a middle aged man with a bald head and a gimpy leg who had arrived unnoticed at the scene seconds earlier, begged to differ.

‘Ole Pickle-pot can do no such thing, you cheeky little monkey! Ole Pickle-pot does not have such a thing as a pair of cutters which can get through these bars, and ole Pickle-pot has nowt to bend them with! You stupid, stupid boy! You! (turning to Betty) Run to me ‘ouse and get some blankets off the Mrs!’

‘Y-Ye-Yes-Mr Peckle-pit!’ stammered Betty, ‘Ooer,’ she added but then did as she was told and dashed off to the caretaker’s house at the far side of the school.

Frank Pickle, or old Pickle-pot to all of the village children and even some of the adults too, had been school caretaker for twenty-three years. It seemed to all who knew him that for approximately twenty-three of those years he had hated his job, had hated the staff, and rather oddly for a school caretaker had hated the children, and seemingly, still did.

His nick-name, which he of course also hated, had come about because of his hobby – making all sorts of different jams, pickles and preserves. The rather apt surname of Pickle had been rudely corrupted to Pickle-pot by none other than – no, not Harold, but his father, Mr Bernard Spencer. This was after a gardening and allotment club meeting which had seen Mr Spencer and his ‘allies’ outvoted by Frank Pickle and his friends. The result of this particular ballot had determined that the allotment rose garden would be dug up and a pickling and preserving shed put up in its place. As Harold and his friends had been spying on the meeting, they had heard every word, including his father’s somewhat angry reaction.

‘You’re – you’re – you’re nothing but a – a – a Pickle-pot!’

As Mr Spencer rarely used bad language it was the best he could do, but Harold and his partners in hiding were to see to it that the name stuck.

Although Harold never usually felt lucky or relieved in Pickle-pot’s presence, it was nevertheless a good thing that the caretaker had come across to clear the school of pupils wanting to make nasty little dangerous slides and chuck snow all over the place. He had just been about to shout his usual salutation of ‘Clear off out of it, the lot of yer!’, when he had noticed some sort of kerfuffle over by the school fence.

‘ . . . BECAUSE OF YOU!’ continued old Frank, ‘I’ll have to call the flippin’ fire-brigade; and you know what they’ll do, sonny?’

‘Get me out?’ hopefully offered Harold.

‘I’ll tell you what they’ll flippin’ well do, me young bucko: they’ll call Mr Kenilworth, who’ll have to come straight back ‘ere, and he’ll keep me out on a night like this until you are all snug and toasty in your kip after a nice supper an’ ‘avin’ a good laugh about it all! That’s what’s gonna ‘appen! Now, you (turning to Tim and Larry), make sure he’s covered properly when that useless girl gets back ‘ere! I’m gonna phone the fire-station!’

Frank Pickle was not a nice man in the usual sense, but he knew, whether he hated them or not, he had to do right by the children if they got themselves into serious scrapes.

Mr Bernard Spencer had been so engrossed in his newspaper, tutting to himself upon reading that rationing was to remain for some time yet, that he hadn’t even noticed the children burst through the main doors and into the playground. He had not witnessed Harold’s magnificent yet doomed attempt at ice-sliding at speed and had not seen the catastrophic result. If he had looked across at that moment he would have witnessed a somewhat comical yet very tender moment in the form of Betty Unsworth covering his son in large rough grey ex-army blankets, leaving just his mouth and his nose showing. Little Betty then ran out of the gates and along to where Harold’s head was jutting out, and proceeded to feed her friend little slabs of chocolate through the bars. To Harold it was almost worth the discomfort, although, ever the one to opt for more drama over less, he didn’t let Betty know he could easily use his hands.

When Mr Spencer did look across, but unfortunately not to the right of the school gates, he noticed that the school itself, the main building, the annexe and the bike sheds, its roofs and its walls – and of course the entire surface of the playground, were all covered entirely in snow. The children, purely through the caretaker’s attention being elsewhere, although of course Mr Spencer was not to know this – yet – had made and were continuing to use an ice-slide. A number of the more ambitious children had taken further advantage of Pickle-pot having a minor crisis on his hands by stamping down the rest of the snow right across the playground and had made themselves a skating rink. It was so cold and getting colder that the compacted snow had quickly become icy and slippy. Just like the slide, it had very quickly become sheet ice.

While the daredevils remained defiantly loyal to the slide, many of the other pupils gracefully glided across the impromptu rink. Some of the girls, like Betty had done earlier, did ice-skating style movements with a leg sticking out as they traversed smoothly from one side of the rink to the other. Just like the slide, though, the children only travelled a few feet before stopping, those that didn’t come to a graceful stop tended to fall over.

To Mr Spencer it was a delightful scene: the snow reflecting the moonlight and keeping the pitch dark at bay, gently illuminating the children all in their winter woollies – some putting on a mesmerising display while their friends on the side-lines cheered, clapped and laughed. To complete this delightful picture-postcard of a village school in yuletide, the lights came on. Not only the usual municipal street lights, but Christmas lights. The whole village, as had been the case for many years during the yuletode period, was decorated and illuminated from end to end in Christmas lights. These were stretched across the most central streets and some of the nearby lanes; they were wrapped around trees, fences, lamp-posts and fences, in fact anywhere where they could be safely placed to help bring a special Christmassy atmosphere to the small Wiltshire village of Plumley.

Several adults added to the scene too. As with the children they were all rigged out in their heaviest winter apparel, and as they walked along the lane in opposite directions they enjoyed momentary pleasantries with each other in passing. As they reached the school some stopped to enjoy the impromptu winter sports on view; some were laughing and pointing, maybe at a child they knew, maybe even their own child. Others didn’t stop, but nevertheless the scenes they witnessed as they passed filled them with a warm, glowing feeling; the very feelings that all should have at this time of the year.

Finally, Mr Spencer’s attention was now taken from the far left-side of the school playground to the right-side of the main gate. He noticed that some of the adults had stopped to talk to a small group of children by the school railings. Rather oddly some of them had bent down to talk; or maybe it was to see something belonging to one of the children. Perhaps, thought Mr Spencer, one of the girls had their pet dog with them; maybe a Scottie dog with one of those extra-warm tartan coats that their owners love to mollycoddle them with in winter. One of the ladies was so delighted, or seemed to be, that she exclaimed, very loudly indeed, ‘Oh my, oh my, oh my! Is that Harold Spencer? – It IS Harold Spencer! What on earth has happened here, my lad?!’

Mr Spencer had seen and heard enough. No longer taking in scenes of a rural idyll at Christmastime, he shot out of his car and dashed across the lane.

Just as Mr Spencer crossed the road, a large, heavy vehicle came speeding up to the school. It was a fire-engine. With two loud blasts of the horn (it did not have a siren), it groaned to a slow-skidding halt and a large, somewhat angry looking man jumped out of the cab and dashed over to the railings. He was carrying a large tool or implement of some sort. This was an especially large pair of cutters the fire-brigade is known to use when needing to cut metal.

‘You stupid idiotic boy! Don’t you know we’ve got better things to do than —’ roared Ted Bovis, leading fireman from Plumley fire station. But Ted had been stopped in mid-rant.

‘Excuse me, my good man. Can I be of assistance in this matter?’

Upon seeing his son in distress as well as seeing him getting shouted at by a man he (Mr Spencer) had taken an instant dislike to, Mr Spencer had decided to quickly intervene.

‘Eh?’ said a distracted Ted, turning to Mr Spencer. ‘’Oo are you?!’

‘As a matter of fact, I am this boy’s father,’ said Mr Spencer. Upon seeing Harold’s dilemma he had decided he did not want to get side-tracked in an argument. ‘Well now, I see you have your cutters with—’

It was Ted Bovis’s turn to interject.

‘Let’s ‘ave a little chat, me and you. Let me edjercate yer. We may not be as big and flashy as the Andover main station, we may not ‘ave a nice shiny new tender with radios like they ‘ave, or proper comfy beds or decent grub – or even a pole to slide down, but we still get called out several times a week, week in – week out, all year round, ‘olidays included!’

‘And that’s very commendable I’m sure, but—’ But Ted wasn’t finished.

‘An’ yer know wha’, Mr
—’
‘Spencer.’

‘An’ yer know wha’, Mr Spencer,’ Ted annoyingly repeated, ‘you know wha’? Around a fifth of the calls are non-urgent: cats in trees, overweight grannies stuck in the bath; an’ most of all — flippin’ kids with their flamin’ ‘eads stuck in railin’s!’

‘I am very sorry if my son has—’

But it was to no avail. Ted still hadn’t finished.

As for Harold, he was enjoying every second of the exchange. Although a tad uncomfortable still, he was actually now nice and warm, with Betty feeding him a bowl of lovely hot onion soup through the railings; this was courtesy of Mrs Pickle. And by this time a large crowd had gathered around, fascinated by the scene they had stumbled upon during their bracing constitutional. This now also included a much torn and ragged Ripper and his pals who had come back to chuck the other kids off the rink and have it to themselves, but on reflection, this was better fun.

Ted roared on.

‘ . . . An’ yer know wha! YER KNOW WHA’, MR SPENCER! Most of the time they could ‘a’ just go’ their ‘eads straight back out again! Some of the little – imps (Ted corrected his choice of words on the hoof due to present company) even pretend they’re stuck, just fer a lark!’

‘’Ere!’ shouted Harold, almost choking on his soup. ‘I’ve tried that! Can’ yer see I’m really flippin’ well stuck!’

‘Don’ you go givin’ me any lip, you young rascal. When I’ve got you out of there, I’ll flamin’ well—’

Mr Spencer had heard enough.

‘You jolly well won’t, Mr—’

‘Bovis.’

‘—Hovis,’ said Mr Spencer, whose ears were actually in perfect working order. ‘Now – if you please – please do whatever is needed to be done to free my son from these railings and quick about it! We don’t pay our rates just so we can be insulted by the likes of you!’

Ted Bovis was going to react angrily, but a huge cheer went up from the now even larger crowd gathered around the railings.

To shouts of encouragement (or perhaps just plain egging on) from the crowd, such as ‘You tell him, Bernie!’ and ‘That’s done for you, Bovis, yer ole windbag!’ a latently wise Ted just humphed and walked up to inspect the railings and work out which bars needed to be cut to free this insufferable little whippersnapper. Before he could set to at his task he was disturbed by someone riding a bicycle and shouting to him from a little way down the lane.

‘Ted! Ted, you’ll have to hurry!’

‘Eh? What’s this?’ said Ted, turning round to see young Terry Burton, junior fireman, cycling as fast as he could to reach his supervisor.

‘It’s Lewis’s farm, Ted, it’s gone up good an’ proper! You’ll have to ‘urry if we’re to save the livestock!’

‘Oh blimey!’ exclaimed Ted. ‘OK, well, I’ll just quickly get this lad ou—’

‘You can’t, Ted, there ain’t no time! We only got the message just now – the blaze ‘as really took hold! An’ the snow ain’t ‘elpin – the fire’s that bad it’s just turnin’ to water and evaporatin’! We’ll have to leave right now!’

The now business-like Ted Bovis quickly weighed up the situation. It only took him a second to realise the boy would have to wait.

‘I’m sorry, lad, I’m sorry, Mr Spencer. He’ll be OK though – he’s young, tough, and he certainly looks nice and toasty there. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

‘Nice and toasty?! NICE AND TOASTY?! Can’t you at least leave the cutters?!’

‘Daresn’t. This is a real emergency, may need ‘em,’ came the staccato reply. ‘We did have another pair, but they’ve recently been stolen.’

‘For Pete’s sake, man! It’s still snowing heavily and the temperature is expected to drop to minus seven before the night’s out!’

A sweating, perplexed Ted Bovis looked across to the junior fire officer whose face was radiating a silent plea to move, then back to Harold, who was rather oddly smiling, and back to Mr Spencer.

‘Burton! Fire up the engine and turn ‘er round! You, my lad, have precisely the amount of time it takes for that engine to be facing back down the lane. Now, quiet and still!’

Young Terry dashed off.

Ted Bovis applied the cutters to a bar to the left of Harold’s head, just below the joint with the cross-railing. With as much strength as he could muster he cut the iron bar in far less time than he would usually take in situations like these. He closed and withdrew the cutters in one single action. He then applied the blade to a bar on Harold’s right. Again, with a huge grunt, the blade was through in double-quick time.

‘There you go, lad, an’ don’ ever do such a stupid thing again, d’ya hear?!

‘TED! COME ON!’

To shouts of relief all round, loudest of all from Mr Bernard Spencer, Ted Bovis dashed off, jumped in the cab, shoved young Burton over to the passenger seat and roared off.

‘Well, Harold, that’s enough excitement for the day; let’s go home for— oh, no! The damned fool!’ roared Mr Spencer, rather uncharacteristically in the presence of children and the fairer members of the community.

It soon became clear to all what the residual problem was. Ted Bovis, most probably through panic and not thinking things through properly, had simply made one cut to the bars either side of Harold’s head before dashing off to the real emergency. He had not stayed to either cut lower down on each bar and nor had he tried to bend them. Harold’s head was still stuck in the railings.

‘Oh, Harold! The things you put me and your poor mother through,’ said Mr Spencer with an outwardly friendly sigh. However, inside he was angry, but then visions of flying potatoes came into his mind. ‘Don’t worry, son, we’ll call them again, or if we have to, the main station in Andover. Someone will have to come and sort this mess out.’

‘It’ll be all right, Dad, I’m only a bit wet around me bu-legs, and these blankets are nice and warm. I’ll be all right until they come back. Still a bit hungry though. . . ’ Harold finished this sentence in a louder voice than was really necessary.

‘Sorry, Harold,’ said the loyal Betty, who was still by the side of her rumbustious pal, as were his trusty lieutenants Tim and Larry Tucker. ‘It’s all gone and the Pickles have gone out for the night.’

As the crowd dispersed, certain that they’d seen the best of the drama on offer and knowing that no real harm would come to Harold, Tim spoke with great affection to Mr Spencer.

‘We’re stayin’ too, Mr Spencer.’

‘An-nnn-nd m-me,’ said Betty, although now chattering badly with the cold.

‘Thank you, children, that shows great loyalty to a friend and I thank you for that, but get on home now, your parents will be wondering where you’ve got to.’

‘If – if you’re sure, Mr Spencer?’ said Larry, torn between going home for his tea and a warm by the fire, and of course – ‘never leaving a man behind’.

Mr Spencer could have cried. Instead, he smiled and patted Larry’s head and then gently insisted they all three get themselves off home.

‘Bye, Harold!’ shouted the twins in unison, while all Betty could do was sob, unable to speak as she left her pal – ‘all cold an’ ‘ungry an’ dyin’ in the snow’, (as she would tell friends later on).

‘Well, just me and you now, son, but I am sure it won’t be long,’ said Mr Spencer, in the most reassuring voice he could muster as he leaned forward and placed his hands on the railings, almost as a gesture of defeat.
*
END OF SECTION 4

frenchielove

johnnypie this is great! Have you actually written a book? I remember the ice slides, I was never any good on them, terrified me and I always fell over 😂

johnnypie

frenchielove Yes, this is one story from a compendium of tales all featuring Harold and his pals. I don't think I am allowed to promote such on here though, this is just a seasonal tale for all to (hopefully) enjoy in the run up to the big day.

dolly247

johnnypie I'm enjoying it, friend x

johnnypie

SECTION 5

‘Ha! Still ‘ere, eh?!’

It was Pickle-pot.

‘Nowt like a set-to with these kids to put me off me tea. An’ the Mrs is so worried about you (looking down at Harold), she’s made us stay in. ‘Ere, ‘ere’s some more soup, my soup, I may add, but I can’t stomach it now.’

Mr Spencer thanked his son’s benefactor and passed Harold the cup of soup through the railings. He knew full well that Harold could manage this by himself.

‘After the lad’s finished, Mr Spencer,’ said Pickle-pot, ‘I’d like to try something. Old Mr Snoutbridge just told me what empty–’ead Bovis did. Now – these in ‘ere (pointing to the dirty canvas bag he was carrying), won’t cut these bars, I know that for a fact, but they might, just might bend a bar that’s already been cut.’
Mr Spencer unceremoniously snatched the cup away from Harold. He again thanked his usual nemesis and asked him to try what he was going to try without further ado.

Pickle-pot took a huge wrench-<censored>-cutter out of his tool-bag. After asking Harold to move his head as far over to the right as he could and then keep it still, he clamped the serrated section rather than the cutter itself onto the lower section of the iron bar; this was to ensure a strong grip on enough of the bar so it could be bent over to hopefully create a generous gap. With a tremendous groan and with sweat pouring down his temples, the bar eventually moved ever so gently, over to the left.

‘One down, one to go, eh?’ offered Pickle-pot, but in rather a wheezy manner followed by a short coughing bout. ‘Right. Here we goes again. . .’

But there was no need to continue as there was now a wider space than there was before; more importantly, it was wide enough. Seconds later and Harold’s head was free.

A confused Mr Spencer turned to Frank Pickle and held his hand out in appreciation of his coming back to help out.

Frank hesitated, then with his own gesture of resignation, or perhaps a consigning of long-standing bad feeling to the emotional dustbin, he reciprocated and both men shook hands.

‘Before I go, Mr Spencer, I’se been a-thinkin’. I can do me pickles and jams and whatnot almost anywhere. I’ll help you restore the rose garden after Christmas. Well, must be off, must tell the Mrs your lad’s OK.’

Mr Spencer was speechless and he was gulping. He watched Frank Pickle return to his home and a night in, and then turned back towards the railings but with his face away from Harold, but only for a second.

‘Ready, son?’ said Mr Bernard Spencer, wiping his eyes and putting his arm around Harold’s shoulders.

‘Yeah, I want me tea now . . . and Dad?’

‘Yes, son?’

‘Thanks.’

Mr Spencer wasn’t too sure what he was being thanked for, but he accepted it anyway.

‘No problem, Harold, it was my pleasure.’

An hour later Harold had had a bath and was in his pyjamas. He was seated on an armchair in front of a roaring fire in the lounge, eating a very late tea from a tray on his lap.

The lounge was still not decorated for Christmas. Mr and Mrs Spencer had decided one more day won’t make any difference, even though there were only four days to go before the big day itself.

No sooner had Harold wolfed down a rather large slice of fruitcake than he found his father looking over at him with rather an odd grin on his face.

‘Now then, Harold,’ said the unusually jaunty Mr Spencer.

‘Yes, Dad?’ replied Harold, more than a little bemused.

‘You wanted to see a film didn’t you? Pierre Le Bon or some such chap?’

‘Yeah, that’s right, Dad! Pierre Le Bon: Christmas in Alaska! Me and the twins want to go, an’ Betty if she can get the money. Can I go then?’

‘Not only that, son, I am taking you all. Let Betty know as early as possible tomorrow I am paying for her (Betty was from as good as a single-parent family, seeing as her father was constantly in and out of prison for a never-ending cycle of petty offences). And we’re having tea afterwards at McSwannage Tea Rooms – if you want to of course?’

The noise emanating from the Spencer household let not only Mr and Mrs Spencer but the rest of the street if not the whole village know, that Harold very definitely wanted to go to the pictures the very next day, and he very definitely wanted ‘a crackin’ good grub-up’ at McSwannage’s.

MRS BRYONY BAIMBRIDGE, a stout lady with a stout heart, was the matron of Saint Malachi’s Orphanage.
The orphanage was the most northerly dwelling in Plumley, right on the village perimeter. Beyond it was nothing but fields as far as the eye could see. It was housed in a purpose-built austere building constructed of dark red bricks and not too many windows; a veritable blot on the landscape from the Victorian era. To those who did not know better, the place was no doubt full of unhappy children: dirty, ragged, starved and beaten several times a day. This couldn’t be more wrong. The orphanage, or at least this orphanage, was a haven of love, security and hope for all the unfortunate children who had had the misfortune to be without parents at the most vulnerable time of their lives.

At this moment in time Mrs Bryony Baimbridge was a very worried lady indeed. Most frustratingly, such worries were all down to a problem which cropped up most years, but despite this was a problem which was usually solved well before Christmas. Sadly, not this year. Mrs Baimbridge cast her mind back just a few weeks to when she had announced to the younger children that it was time to write to Father Christmas to let him know what they would like for a Christmas present. As time went by, various messages from Father Christmas, sent intermittently from the North Pole, let Miss Baimbridge know if any or hopefully all of the children’s wishes could be granted. Sadly, for the first time in many years, Father Christmas had had to admit that he would not be able to supply one child with his dream present – a robot, in fact – a magic robot.

*
Morning time, the Saturday before Christmas. Mr and Mrs Spencer were hoping for a lie-in but the racket from Harold as he played golf in the hallway with his father’s umbrella and some old headless tin soldiers was so bad that there was nothing for it but to get up.

‘Ivy, what’s this box?’ said Mr Spencer from the hallway as they reached the bottom of the stairs. This was upon espying an old tatty cardboard box on the phone table to the left of the front door.

‘Oh, sorry, that’s (and she said this very quietly), Harold’s old stuff, you know. . .’

‘Oh! I see! But it can’t be left here, what if Harold sees it?’

‘Sorry, Bernard, I just haven’t had a minute. I was going to make different parcels up, but it doesn’t matter now. They can either sort it out themselves or just give the lot as one present. Just tape it up so Harold can’t see inside it and put it in the stair-cupboard for now, Gerry the driver should be here soon.’

Mrs Spencer went off to make breakfast while Mr Spencer taped down the lid of the box and went to put it in the stair cupboard. The trouble was, this was only a small cubby-hole really, with an angled ceiling, and there was already a box in there. He was going to just shove this box further along by pushing the box for the orphanage against it, but that didn’t work – the box already in the cupboard was too big to go right along to the end of the cubby-hole where the angled ceiling was much lower. However, he noticed the box for the orphanage was a little smaller, and so – very, very quickly – swapped the boxes around. This worked. Mr Spencer shut the stair-cupboard door and went out to the shop for a newspaper.

As Mr Spencer rounded the corner, Mrs Spencer dashed out into the hall hoping to catch him, but she was too late. She had decided that a Christmas gift for the orphanage should really be properly wrapped. With several pans almost coming to the boil and a hot oven to keep an eye on, she stood in the hallway holding Christmas wrapping paper and a little envelope. After biting her lip in thought for a few seconds she sighed and came to a decision. Mrs Spencer walked into the lounge where Harold was now playing chip and putt. He had cleared the sofa every time, but each shot, stronger than the last, was getting nearer and nearer to the lounge windows.

‘Harold, do me a favour if you would, please. As quick as you can wrap up that box in the cubby-hole and stick this on top. The orphanage could call any minute. Oh, and don’t disturb what’s in it as it’s very fragile,’ said Mrs Spencer – with her right hand behind her back and her fingers crossed.

Mrs Spencer dashed back in to the kitchen and closed the door.

No sooner had Harold made an exceedingly poor job of wrapping up the box, a small badly beaten-up van pulled up outside Rosewood Cottage. Seconds later the doorbell rang. Harold, knowing his mum was busy and as he had just put a tiny crack in the large bay window, abandoned his game of chip and putt and answered the door.

‘Hello, young fella, you must be Harold! I’ve heard a lot about you!’ said a cheeky but not so young man standing on the doorstep. Before Harold could fluster and bluster any sort of reply, the man went on. ‘Is your mum or dad in? I’ve come for the donation for the orphanage.’

‘Dad’s out and Mum’s busy, but I’ll get you the stuff – hold on a sec’.’

Harold was back in no time and handed the man the box.

‘Thank your mum and dad for me, won’t you? Mrs Baimbridge will be delighted too, of course. Well, young fella, must be off.’

Harold shut the door and tried to resume his impromptu game of golf. However, one little tinkle, the type of tinkle which suggests a projectile of some sort has come into contact with some kind of earthenware on the vestibule window-sill, soon put paid to that.

‘Harold!’

At the same time as Gerry the driver was getting back in his van, Mr Spencer came back round the corner. He hadn’t expected him to call so soon.

‘Hello there, Gerry. Did you get the stuff we’ve got for you?’

‘All sorted, Mr Spencer, much thanks.’

Gerry, behind in his calls, jumped in the van and roared off down the lane.

END OF SECTION 5

johnnypie

SECTION 6

LUNCHTIME. The Saturday before Christmas.

An apprehensive Mr Bernard Spencer ate his scambled eggs on toast, almost regretting offering to take Harold and his friends to the Majestic cinema in Andover as a pre-Christmas treat. An unkind thought popped up in his mind – maybe the roads will be that bad we won’t be able to go, but he soon tutted at himself and banished such thoughts.

‘Oh well,’ he said with a resignatory sigh, while actually intending to just think it.

‘Pardon, dear?’ asked his wife.

‘Oh, nothing.’

As for Harold, he was wishing the fingers of the clock in the kitchen would move round a lot faster than they usually did – he was raring to go. Despite such excitement welling up within him, he did notice that his lunch was a lot smaller than it usually is on Saturdays.

‘Any more egg, Mum?’ he asked, after finishing the last forkful.

‘Indeed there is not, Harold,’ replied his mother. ‘You’ll be having a big meal at McSwannage’s after you’ve been to the pictures. If you have a big lunch you’ll spoil your appetite.

‘OK, Mum,’ said Harold, while actually thinking that two large meals within a few hours would have been no problem at all.

‘Oh, Ivy, I meant to mention this earlier. The Brigadier has asked me if I can pick old Doris up on Christmas Eve and take her to the service, the Bullstocks are away from tomorrow night and she’s too infirm to walk there. I almost said no, but I just couldn’t,’ said Mr Spencer.

‘Oh Bernard! You said you wouldn’t be using the car at all once you’ve finished work for Christmas! Oh, that family!’ replied an uncharacteristically critical Mrs Spencer, both of her husband for agreeing, and of the Brigadier and his wife for deserting their elderly relative at Christmastime.

‘I know, I know, but no-one else will take her, and it is her last year. . .’

‘Her last year. . . ?’ repeated Mrs Spencer. ‘You don’t mean. . .’

‘No no, silly! She’s going to live with her niece in Bath. She’s had a few falls over the last year or so, and she can’t really manage living by herself any more. You’re right of course, I am sorry to say – the Brigadier and his wife don’t help out as much as they should. Plus, Reverend Johnson has organised a surprise presentation for her, so someone has to get her there.’

‘If it’s so important she goes, then why can’t Jolly Johnson pick her up himself, then?’ suddenly chipped in Harold, while curling his last half piece of toast round and round then eating it as if it was a sausage roll.
Harold was immediately told off for talking about things which were nothing to do with him, and was told not to refer to the vicar in that manner – that was from his father. While at the same time his mother quite simply told him not to be nosy and to watch his table manners. Harold got the message, asked to be excused from the table and took himself off to wash his hands and mouth and to get ready for the off. Mrs Spencer also left the table to fill the sink with hot water.

‘Good question, Harold, a very good question indeed. . .’ said Bernard Spencer as he sipped his tea, but only to himself.

Soon Harold and his friends were gathered around Mr Spencer’s Austin Sixteen Saloon, two years old and in reasonable condition considering the mileage. Mr Spencer had bought it from none other than the Mayor of Andover, who worked (allegedly) in the next office to Mr Spencer’s, who had bought himself a brand new Bristol 400.

‘I bagsy the front!’ declared Harold. Although none of his friends were in the slightest bit bothered, his father was not so quick to abandon due decorum.

‘Manners, Harold, manners!’ he said, while making odd eye gestures from Harold to Betty, but this did not escape the fairer member of Harold’s gang.

‘Oh, no, Mr Spencer, I’ll be fine in the back, ‘onest.’

Mr Spencer just gave in and told the children to get in and get settled.

No sooner had the car left the driveway than Harold turned round so he could see his friends while they talked. He knelt and pushed his head through the gaps between the two front seats.

‘What shall we play then?’ he enquired of his friends. Mr Spencer groaned inwardly.

Luckily for Mr Spencer, Tim, Larry and Betty were far more reserved in the presence of an adult than Harold was.

‘Dunno,’ said Tim.

‘I just wanna look out the window as we go along, not been in a car for ages,’ said Larry.

‘I’ve got some apples for the journey,’ said Betty.

Harold’s face lit up.

‘Apples? Hey, I know a great game we can play, just right for car journeys!’

Mr Spencer didn’t want – or wait – to hear any more. Upon hearing the word apples, Mr Spencer brought the car to a screeching halt and as politely as he could, suggested to Betty it would be for the best if he looked after any foodstuffs the children had brought with them. Betty was not in the least bit bothered and passed Mr Spencer the small bag of cox pippins which her mother had given her for the trip, and which she had got from Farmer Glumm the day before.

‘Fine,’ humphed Harold. He turned back around and folded his arms, but as ever it was only pretend and he too began to look out of the window and was soon enjoying the views of the rolling countryside in the snow as the car made its way, slowly and carefully to Andover.

Fortunately for Mr Spencer, the rest of the afternoon went very well indeed.

The children were enthralled watching Pierre Le Bon: Christmas in Alaska. In this special yuletide adventure, the matinee idol plays a trapper who witnesses an attack on an old, frail gold prospector. The old man was badly bruised and badly shaken but was otherwise not too badly hurt, but the villains had stolen all his gold he had panned for and which was going to be used to pay for his grandson to have a badly needed knee operation. The incensed adventurer vowed to catch the villains and return every ounce of gold to the old man. Within the hour Pierre Le Bon had borrowed a sledge and a team of huskies from a tribe of eskimos he had helped on a previous occasion, and was soon on the trail of the baddies. Within a day the old man was on his way back home, with the cash value of his gold, and bursting to give the good news to his grandson.

The film ended. One down one to go thought Mr Spencer. Now for the restaurant. Lord help us all, he thought; but Mr Spencer’s worries were groundless. Despite Harold and his friends chattering rather too excitedly for a posh restaurant mainly patronised by well off elderly folks, they were nevertheless careful to eat properly and not to make any mess.

He did make one error though, through thinking too far ahead he had automatically handed back to Betty the bag of apples – before making the journey home.

It was about ten minutes in on the journey home. ‘Ow!’ said Mr Bernard Spencer as an apple hit him on the back of the head. This was the result of a mis-hit return by Larry during the children’s game of apple-tennis, a brand new game for ‘borin’ car journeys’ invented by Harold about two minutes before. Mr Spencer was about to yell but quickly realised it had not been his son who had fired the fatal shot. Instead, he opted for groaning quietly and rubbing his head – but he did ask for the bag of apples to be given back to him for safekeeping. Again.

A highly relieved Mr Spencer pulled up back outside his house at six o’clock. With cheerios and waves and of course a special thank you to Mr Spencer, Tim, Larry and Betty made their way home.

Harold was about to go in, saw his father manoeuvring the car up the drive and so decided to be a batman (of the car marshalling variety), waving his arms in hopefully the right direction to enable his dad to park his car perfectly in the garage.

‘Left a bit, Dad – left, left, left – er – sorry, right, right, left . . . ooer.’

With one look at his father’s face, Harold dashed into the house.

‘Hiya, Mum! We’re back!’ announced Harold, in a jaunty voice.

END OF SECTION 6

johnnypie

SECTION 7

IT WAS CHRISTMAS EVE MORNING.

Two days after the trip to the cinema and still the Spencer household could not boast of being decorated and illuminated in keeping with the spirit of Christmas. This would soon be put right, promised Mr Bernard Spencer to his wife; unfortunately for Mr Spencer, so did Harold.

‘OK, Harold, let’s start with the streamers.’

Mr Spencer had placed a tatty old cardboard box with a torn lid on the floor in which were the family’s greatly aged and much used Christmas decorations. He took out the first streamer he could find. The coloured crepe paper twists and spirals were far more twisted than they had been designed to be, and were even a little torn in some places.

‘Right, son, you get that end, I’ll put this up in this corner.’

Without looking back at Harold, Mr Spencer went to the corner of the room where he had placed a small step-ladder and climbed to the top rung. He laid out his end of the streamer on the very top of the ladder, a small flat platform which could be used for standing on but is more often used for placing tools, or in this case, decorations.

Mr Spencer cautiously lifted the end of the streamer up to as near the corner of the ceiling he could safely reach, and then forced a drawing pin through the little cardboard tag so as to secure it to the ceiling.

‘Right, Harold, I’ll come across to you now, hold on.’

At exactly the same time as Mr Spencer began to climb down, Harold said ‘It’s OK, Dad, I’m only here.’

‘Whooaahhh!’ came the cry.

Mr Spencer, now realising that assumption can bring confusion, realised that Harold had not been overly quick on the uptake, in fact, not at all. Harold had not gone over to the other corner to await his father with the step-ladder, but had simply followed him with streamer in tow. As the stepladder was squeezed in between the settee and the wall, Harold was right up against the bottom of the step-ladder.

In his efforts to avoid a collision with Harold, or worse still standing on his head, Mr Spencer began to lose his balance and the step-ladder almost tottered backwards. It was only Mr Spencer using his bulk to push back which saw the stepladder once more still and snug against the lounge wall.

‘For Pete’s sake, son! I can’t even ask you to– (‘Do you want flying spuds all over the place?’ said a little voice in Mr Spencer’s mind). Never mind, my mistake, I should have been clearer. . .’

‘Sorry, Dad,’ said Harold.

To be fair to his father, Harold had been miles away, wondering whether his letter to Father Christmas had done any good. In the letter he had not, rather surprisingly, asked for anything new, but had simply put to the jolly gift-giver that he could save him the time and effort of getting him anything big, new and expensive, if he could just arrange with his dad to get his bow and arrow back, and maybe his catapult, and maybe some 'other stuf''. This assortment of child’s playthings – deadly in the wrong hands (which of course often included Harold’s hands), had been confiscated in the summer after Harold had used antique earthenware as targets. ‘But Mum, that stuff’s ancient, you’ve got perfectly good new stuff from Woolies in the cupboard!’ It was to be a long time before Harold understood why this was of no comfort whatsoever to Mrs Ivy Spencer.

With Mr Spencer taking much longer than he would normally have done due to making sure Harold understood perfectly what he was to do and more importantly what he was not to do, the decorations, the Christmas cards, the tree and lights and other yuletide adornments were soon up, or on, or in their rightful place. However, five newly broken baubles and two now very badly torn (but new) streamers were thrown out, along with the four broken baubles and two badly torn streamers and a headless angel which had been nestling in the box for several years.

‘That — car,’ suddenly exclaimed Mr Bernard Spencer. He had spotted Harold just sitting down for lunch as soon as he had begun his rant and had duly amended, well, omitted really, the odd word here and there.

‘What is it, Daberndard?’ Or at least this is what it sounded like to Mr Spencer. Both his wife and Harold had given a very similar same reply at exactly the same time.

‘I was just about to go out for petrol to make sure I had enough for later. The stupid scrapheap won’t— start! I’ve phoned Mintcake – he can’t come over, and the mechanic at the garage is away in Reading! No one else round here knows much about cars, including me!’

‘I am sorry, Bernard, but maybe it’s a blessing in disguise, there’s reports of collisions on the icy roads all over the place.’

Mr Spencer groaned inwardly.

‘I suppose so, but poor Mrs Hesslethwaite. There’s not many car owners in the village, and those that are, are unwilling to risk it themselves. I’ve just spent the last hour calling on them all.’

‘Maybe Harold’s right after all. What about Joll – er – Reverend Johnson?’

‘I called on him, too. He was very apologetic, but he says he’s just too busy. He did say he’d ask round for her though. After all, the service is really for her. I even had the mad idea of asking Farmer Glumm.’

‘And did you?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Don’t ask.’

‘Hmmm, yes, well, I am sorry for the old lady but you’ve done all you can. Right, coat off, sit down. Lunch is in a few minutes,’ said the secretly glad Mrs Ivy Spencer.

Although Christmas Eve lunch was just as sparing as the one before departing for the cinema a couple of days previously, a diplomatic Harold made no comment. With the decorations all around and with the crisp new Christmas tablecloth on the table, the otherwise ordinary meal of beans on toast was made to seem very special indeed. Harold also knew Christmas Eve teas were almost as sumptuous as Christmas dinner. Besides, he had his mind on other things – sledging!

With a mumbled and rushed explanation of where he was going, Harold dashed out of the house, picked up his sledge from down the side of the house and went looking for the brothers Tucker.

Although each snowy winter brought about the same urgent need to take up the sport, it never took long before the downside for not only Harold but all of the village children soon became obvious: there wasn’t any sort of hill or even a modest but serviceable mound or even a slight incline to any of the country lanes thereabout for sledges to slide down. Snow, yes, tons of the stuff, especially this year, but the village and indeed the surrounding areas as far as the eye could see, were as flat as a fluke. However, it takes more than the lack of an incline to slide or sledge down to beat Harold.

Despite near blizzard conditions, the ten year old mastermind marshalled his crew out and beyond the village half a mile or so until they had reached one of Farmer Glumm’s fields. The local farmer, Neddy Glumm, was Harold’s second worst enemy.

The field was currently lying fallow and was at least a foot deep in snow. The three boys climbed through a gap in the hedging, dragging the sledge through with them.

‘Right! Tim, Larry, get pullin’! I’m Pierre Le Bon and we’re on the trail of that villain ‘oo stole the ole man’s gold!’ shouted Harold through the snow and howling wind while climbing into the sledge. When playing such games based on films starring their hero, the boys never bothered with character names – the actor’s own name oozed adventure aplenty.

‘An ‘oo says we shud pull firs’?! Why can’t one of us ‘ave a go firs’ for a change!’ demanded Tim.

‘Yeah!’ added Larry.

‘Coz it’s my sledge, ain’ it?! An’ ye’ll both get yer goes after me, won’t ya?!’

Tim and Larry sighed and resigned themselves to being human huskies for the next few minutes. Until. . .

‘’Ang on, ‘ang on!’ suddenly shouted Tim. ‘What’s the point o’ pullin’ you?! ‘Oo’s gonna be the baddie?’

‘OK, OK! I forgot, a’right?! Larry, get runnin’, we’ll come after you in a minute. When we’ve caught ya and go’ the stolen gold back, then you can ‘ave a go in the sledge!’

But the usual parrot-like Larry now had something to say himself.

‘Oh, yeah?! An’ ‘ow the ‘eck does jus’ one of us pull you in that thing?! We tried it last year, ‘member? It didn’ work then and it won’ work now!’

‘Well let’s jus’ pretend there’s a baddie then?!’ said a desperate Harold.

‘Pretend there’s a baddie! PRETEND THERE’S A BADDIE! What’s the point in doin’ that? Jus’ ‘ow the ‘eck would we know we’ve caught him?!’ protested Tim.

As Harold pondered, struggled in fact, on this very fair question, help was soon to come from a very unlikely source.

The three boys heard shouting and a slushing sound made by wood on a mixture of muddy snow and snowy mud. Out of the curtain of swirling thick snow came someone Harold and his lieutenants definitely did not wish to see.

‘Still got that pathetic old sledge then, Spencer?’ came a shout from none other than his arch-enemy, Lionel ‘Ripper’ Bullstock.

Ripper was in the field with his own brand new sledge, so big some would call it a sleigh, and which even had a name painted on its side in bright orange, Orson. And of course there is no wagon without its trailer, or in this instance two trailers. They didn’t look too happy either as Ripper was nice and toasty in his sledge. He looked as if he’d had the luxury of being pulled along by his two henchmen for quite some time as the two were covered in snow and mud up to their knees, and despite the cold were sweating profusely. The sweat seemed to emerge from their balaclavas and drip rapidly down their reddened necks.

‘This sledge can beat your useless pile o’ shiny firewood any ole day, Ripper! Bes’ sledge in the village this sledge is, probably in the ‘ole county!’

Ripper just snorted, and because their leader snorted so did his two cronies. Ripper stopped, smiled, and suddenly shouted, ‘Prove it then! Go on, prove it!’

‘Prove it?! What do you mean, prove it?!’ yelled back Larry, excelling himself today, leaving both Tim and Harold with mouths agape unable to utter their own retorts.

‘I know wha’ ‘e means!’ finally piped up Harold. ‘Yer on. Winner gets – er – winner ‘as to give ole Jim Meery a bar of chocolate for Christmas!’

‘Yer on!’ immediately agreed Ripper.

Although neither Harold nor Ripper had actually said what the plan was to prove one way or another who had the best sledge, Harold’s trusty lieutenants and Ripper’s two cronies immediately cottoned on to what was going to happen next – a race.

‘To where?’ asked Harold.

‘Just from one side of the field to the other,’ replied Ripper.

With both teams now further back against the hedging, there then followed an argument about who would give the signal to start the race. Harold, so sure that he had the best team of ‘huskies and driver’ allowed Ripper that privilege, although with the concession on the exact wording. This was to be ‘Three, two, one, GO!’ which would hopefully prevent Ripper from just yelling ‘GO!’ a split second after his sledge was on the move.

Tim and Larry, stretching the one piece of rope out as wide as possible to avoid being squashed up against each other, strained in readiness for the signal. They had to bend their heads to shield themselves from the worst of the snow and the wind, but they knew they would have to try to keep this to a minimum. Vision and direction were important if they were to have any chance of beating Ripper and his mob.

Ripper’s cronies also readied themselves, although they had the luxury of a rope each, and a lot of it too which meant they could tie the excess around their middles. This was so their bodies would take all of the strain rather than just their hands and arms.

Just like Harold and his lieutenants, Ripper and his minions had also opted to pull rather than push, but not just because they were aping Alaskan trappers or matinee movie stars. It was because, and this had happened to both gangs in the past, when pushing instead, the ones doing so had had the odd painful collision with the back of the sledge. This tended to happen when they came up against a sudden yet hidden rise in the ground, or protruding rocks, or thick mud instead of traversible snow or ice, causing the sledge to come to a sudden halt. Bang! One quickly swelling forehead – and maybe blood. There were occasional problems with pulling too, but experience had taught the young sledgers that on balance, pulling was safer.

Harold glanced at Ripper’s sledge, he duly noted the two separate ropes. He was worried but he was never going to show it.

‘’Ope you ain’t eaten all your choccy already, Ripper, you’re gonna need it for ole Jim!’ came the hopeful taunt.

Ripper didn’t respond, just smiled, and then—

‘Three, two, one, GO!’

END OF SECTION 7

frenchielove

johnnypie this is absolutely great, and so nostalgic 🤗