Here's a story. It's not sci-fi and it's not fantasy, just a Christmas story. Hope you enjoy it.
Theodore Grimaldi Lights Up
by Mjke Wood
“Sophie, what’s Grimaldi up to?” said Gwen.
Sophie looked up from her computer and smiled. She beckoned her friend inside. Gwen slipped through the doorway of the legal secretary’s office and leaned against a cabinet. Gwen had noticed Grimaldi’s odd behaviour, days ago: smiling, being pleasant, and she had to know what it was all about.
Sophie held a finger to her lips and whispered. “Keep it down. He’s in his office.” She nodded towards the closed door. “I don’t know what’s happening, Gwen. He’s been like this all week.”
“Come on, Sophe, you must know something. Everyone’s talking about it downstairs. Rob says he even heard him humming Jingle Bells in the corridor. Like he was cheerful or something.”
“All I know is, he’s been coming and going for days. He hasn’t given me any work to do since Thursday. And he’s been moving boxes. He comes in with a box, then a few minutes later he takes one down to his car. And another thing,” she added, “he’s signed the Christmas Holiday rota.”
“What? He’s agreed it?”
“Hardly looked at it. Didn’t seem to care. Just signed it.”
“But he never agrees the holidays. He always has to knock someone back. It’s tradition. He hates Christmas.” Gwen’s voice had climbed an octave. Sophie flapped her hands and shushed her, nodding towards Grimaldi’s office door.
Which opened. There was Theodore Grimaldi himself, carrying a large cardboard box. He was the ultimate grey man. Grey suit, grey hair, grey pallor… The other partners called him the Old Grey Litigator.
“Ah, Miss Quinn. No work today? That filing cabinet struggling to stay upright without your assistance?”
This is more like it, thought Gwen. Here comes the bollocking. Normal service is resumed.
“Well, if you have a minute, Miss Quinn… er, Gwen, would you and Sophie mind terribly helping me down to the carpark with two more boxes? They’re on my desk. They’re not heavy. It would be kind of you. Thank you, ladies.”
Grimaldi turned and disappeared down the stairs.
Gwen and Sophie stared at each other. Had Grimaldi just been nice to them? Theodore Grimaldi was not a Christmas person. He usually celebrated the season of goodwill by sacking at least one of his legal team. Before last Christmas, Grimaldi, Buttersmith and Dean, solicitors at law, had been Grimaldi, Buttersmith, Price and Dean. But Price had been caught aiding one of his clients in a thoughtless act of compassion. Rumour had it he was now clerking at the branch offices out in Mold, above the fish and chip shop.
Gwen picked up one of the boxes. It was even lighter than Grimaldi had suggested. The lid was sealed with tape. She shook it. It felt like... She didn’t know what it felt like.
Sophie went out with her box leaving Gwen in Grimaldi’s office. Gwen looked around, just a glance. She felt guilty enough even being alone in here.
Standing on the floor, in the corner, another box. Same as the others, except…
The lid was unsealed.
Gwen looked over her shoulder towards the door. She listened. She calculated. Grimaldi had been gone... What? Thirty seconds? One minute to the car park, half a minute to unlock the car and put the box in the boot, another minute to return. Okay.
Gwen crept over to the box. She looked over her shoulder once more, her ears attuned for any sound. She reached out with her foot and, all careful and casual, she lifted one of the flaps – just an inch or two. She took a peek inside.
What she saw amazed her.
#
“So, why are we here, Gwen? What’s this thing you have to show us?” Sophie spoke from the back of the car. She was squashed-in between Connie and Tom. Rob sat in the front with Gwen.
“Wait,” said Gwen, rubbing condensation from the windscreen with her sleeve. Her de-misters hadn’t worked for weeks. “I promised you a spectacle. Be patient. I am about to deliver.”
“That’s Grimaldi’s house isn’t it?” Rob pointed to the grey building that brooded over on the other side of the busy traffic roundabout. They were parked in a tree-lined side road, concealed by shadows, but they had a good view of the main road. Darkness gathered. Rush hour was cranking up. A twinkling line of headlamps stretched back towards town. The air was foggy with exhaust from many cold engines on this muffled December evening.
“Just wait,” said Gwen. “Not long, now.”
Each of the five watched. They hardly dared breathe. The minutes on the dashboard clock moved like syrup.
“I’m starting to get cold, Gwen.” Connie blew on her hands and rubbed them together.
“Wait.”
And then it happened.
There was an audible woosh. There was light. Lots of light. Colour. Strobe effects. Elves. Reindeer. A giant, pulsating Christmas Tree.
The grey Grimaldi mansion had become Vegas, or Blackpool, and with a bigger carbon footprint than East Coast USA.
A shimmering red sleigh came swooping down over the road, suspended on wires. It bore an illuminated automaton Santa, ho-ho-ho-ing at a thousand decibels, a unearthly noise that drowned out the traffic, a noise that would leave everyone with rock-concert-ears for a week.
And then, there was Grimaldi himself, barely recognisable. Where was the fabled, Old Grey Litigator? This Grimaldi was wearing two things never before seen on his person: a Santa hat... and a smile.
“Merry Christmas,” he shouted, to the passing, bug-eyed motorists. Me-rry Christmas.”
Five legal execs sat in the car and goggled.
“He’s gone and done a Scrooge on us,” said Rob.
“He’s lost his marbles,” said Connie.
“Well, I think it’s wonderful,” said Sophie. “It’s a miracle, that’s what this is. A Christmas miracle.”
And then came the first accident. A three car shunt. Then another. And another. Carnage. Broken headlamps. Steaming radiators.
Grimaldi was there before the first wheel rims had even stopped rolling. His face was suffused with joy.
“Grimaldi, Buttersmith and Dean,” he shouted, handing out business cards.
“No win; no fee. Me-rry Christmas.”
