‘He’s always trying to control me. When I get up. What I say. What I eat. It’s worse than the army.’
‘He’s diabetic!’
This was why Beckett didn’t go out anywhere. Least of all with Gramps.
‘Anyway, while someone fetches a large piece of cake for Mary, and a smaller one for Marvin, I will leave you in the capable hands of our carol-concert maestros, Carolyn Dennis and Cheris Gray!’
The room suddenly erupted with the sound of Noddy Holder shouting, ‘It’s Chriiistmaaaas!’, leading straight into Slade’s enduring festive hit, ‘Merry Xmas Everybody’, as two women sprang out from behind floor-to-ceiling-length curtains at one side of the room.
‘What?’ Gramps yelled, loud enough for those nearest to him to hear over the blare of music. ‘Please no. It can’t be blummin’ Christmas already!’
‘Have they been hiding there the whole time we were eating?’ Mary asked, collapsing into giggles.
Both women were wearing garish Christmas jumpers, one composed of green and red tinsel and the other with a knitted Rudolph complete with flashing red nose. One of them balanced a foot-high Christmas-tree hat on her head, the other one a top hat decorated like a chimney, with Father Christmas’s feet sticking out of the top. They were both shaking sleighbells and lip-syncing along to the song until, at the end of the first chorus, someone dashed over to the sound system in the corner of the room and pressed stop.
‘Sorry,’ the woman said. ‘I have to be finished here in time to pick up Kasey from a birthday party. But I think we’ve got the gist.’
‘What was this meeting about again?’ Eli asked, with an impressively straight face.
‘It’s Chriiiiistmaaaas!’ both the women shouted, shaking the bells vigorously above their heads. To be fair, at least four people in the room joined in. Including Mary.
‘Have I had another stroke? Is this hell?’ Gramps looked so affronted, even Beckett had to smile. ‘Because if not, somebody kill me now.’
‘Right, let’s get down to business,’ the first woman said, beaming. ‘Or Chris-ness, as we like to call it.’
‘Doesn’t even rhyme properly,’ Eli mumbled, slumping lower in his seat.
‘Let us start by introducing ourselves.’
‘Carolyn, we all know who you are,’ Bill said, sighing.
‘Well, this very lovely man doesn’t!’ Carolyn replied, beam unwavering, as she pointed her bells at Beckett and rattled them vigorously. ‘Seasonal greetings!’
Mary snorted in her attempt to contain her laughter. This can’t be hell, Beckett thought. Seeing her fizzing with mirth felt more like heaven.
‘My name is Carolyn Dennis. I’m forty-four years old, and, like my birthday twin bezzie, Chezza, was born on Chri-istmas Daaaay.’ She sang the last phrase to the tune of the Boney M cover, ‘Mary’s Boy Child’. ‘Over to you, Chezza.’
‘Hey!’ Cheris waved as though greeting a crowd at Wembley rather than a small group of people sitting around a table. ‘Thanks, Chezza.’ She blew a round of kisses at Carolyn, who enthusiastically caught each one. ‘Cheris Gray, at your service. I’m thirty-three years old, but, miraculously, I am also born on Chri-ist-mas Daaaaaay. And, after several years of prayerful petitions, followed by a paper petition with a grand total of twenty-seven signatures, Pastor Moses has finally granted us full creative control of this year’s legendary masterpiece that is the New Life Community Church Christmas Carol Concert!’
‘NLCCCCC for short!’ Carolyn added, with another flourish of her bells.
‘They aren’t related,’ Mary whispered to Beckett, her face glowing with delight. ‘How are they not sisters?’
He had to agree; the ‘bezzies’ looked remarkably similar. They both had tufts of ginger hair sticking out from underneath their hats, round cheeks full of freckles and huge green eyes. Chezza appeared to be no more than five feet in height, her friend a few inches taller, but both had the kind of stocky physique that made Beckett think about hobbits. Their wacky energy brought a lightness to the room that he could imagine was generally well received – in limited doses, at least. He did wonder how things had gone for them at school, where tolerance of children who were a little different could be harder to come by.
‘Not quite full creative control, Cheris. We did discuss this,’ Moses said firmly. ‘Several times. You will run anything major or requiring a risk assessment past me.’
‘Yes, yes, we know. You get to decide the boring bits.’ Cheris dismissed this with a flap of her hand. ‘Shall we get on, Chezza? Ali needs to collect Kasey from a birthday party.’
‘Why, certainly, Chezza. Unleash the sheet!’
Cheris flipped over the top page of a flipchart, to reveal what Beckett thought, in less bonkers circumstances, might be classed as a mood board. The paper was covered in various images, scraps of paper and fabric. Mostly, it was covered in different pictures of Santa Claus.
Cheris gave three overexaggerated nods, as if counting them in, then the friends both shouted, ‘Everyone’s a Santa!’
‘Picture the scene…’ Carolyn said, leaning forwards and spreading her hands out dramatically. ‘It’s Christmas Eve. The year is 3024.’
‘No!’ Moses, Sofia and a few other people groaned.
