Dear Chroniclers,despite the tinsel, glitter and general holly-bedecked merriment, for many of us the Christmas season can be a reflective, even a sad time.
With this in mind, may I present the shortest of short stories entitled, "Captain Fantastic and the dirt-kneed schoolboy".
Cast a pebble ...
By way of preamble, may I point you toward the photograph above. Fetlock the Butler rescued it just this morning from the electrofried photographic archives. I wonder if you may recognise the callow youth pictured deep in thought and about to launch yet another ill-timed skimmy pebble in the general direction of a stormy sea. If you look close you may see a small scar on his left knee.
So, without more ado - would you like a story? Then settle down and make yourself at home as I tell you something of my very own Captain Fantastic.
The Captain under enemy fire
My father was a Captain in the Second World War. He served in the Royal Engineers, building bridges with enemy fire all around. He always took great pride in his work.
I used to have a picture of him in uniform, a thick, dark moustache and hair slicked back - his eyes forever twinkling. It stood on the escritoire in my study. A picture of a young man frozen in time, off to war and leaving behind a fresh-faced Christmas Eve bride, the beautiful young woman destined to become the Black Dowager.
But for now, let's leave this couple happy in silent embrace as the snow falls on their Wedding Day. It covers them with a soft white coat as they fade from view.
The Black Dowager
Captain Fantastic used to have the most tremendous hugs. By the time I arrived on the scene he was a bear of a man, portly in stature and with a huge, hairy chest - all the better to embrace his young offspring. He used to hug me; often under enemy fire.
You see, Mother dear was forever nursing a string of the dead, the last of whom was my sister. She had ridden her bicycle behind a bus and out into the path of a passing car. Not a good thing to do.
I first discovered of my sister's existence aged three, exploring the immense walnut cupboard in my parents' bedroom. I levered opened the door and a small doll fell from the top shelf into my arms to be duly carried down to Mother. There were tears, but no hugs.
One day I hope, the Black Dowager will be re-united with the laughing girl in a white dress who still dances somewhere in an attic room, her short life captured in a few precious black and white photographs. One day I hope, she will learn to hug again.
A dirt-kneed boy
We lived close by the sea when we were young. Captain Fantastic took me out one day with my younger brother and the three of us walked the length of the beach to a causeway at the far end. It was here that we used to skip and jump across the man-hole bolted covers drilled at regular intervals into a sewage-pipe beneath.
Only this time I didn't jump quite far enough. I slipped on the thick, green sea-weed and fell headlong to the barnacle-encrusted concrete beneath. It took off most of the skin from my left knee and, if you look close, you can still see the scar to this day.
Captain Fantastic knew exactly what to do. He swept me up in his arms, a dirt-kneed schoolboy, and carried me off to the local sweet shop where he bought three bars of cinder toffee. We wolfed them down, brother, father and me!
The screen falls silent
My last few minutes with the Captain were shared sitting on the sofa watching a Sunday cricket match together. I was ten years old, mesmerised by swinging bats and the tick of the clock on the lounge wall. If I had known I might have hugged him some more before he disappeared.
The Captain had taken a new job in the south and was living in temporary accomodation with my elder brother, the rest of the family waiting to join him once the house had been sold. He left us in a car.
Captain Fantastic died alone in a Hertfordshire lay-by - a massive coronary. He never did get to see the end of the match.
Many things to say
There were so many things left unsaid and often at this time of year I dwell too deeply on them. This is not how the story should end, for life is just too short not to enjoy the hugs.
So I'll finish by typing the shortest letter to the Captain, wherever he may be, then enjoy the true embrace of my own family this Christmas. Should you feel the need, just click on the comments link below and post your own letter.
best regards
electrofried (mr)
Dear Dad,
Notts lost. Hope you're well and miss you loads,
love from the dirt-kneed schoolboy
