17. Christmas Dinner

THROUGH THE GATES OF TIME, Part 17

There never had been a Christmas dinner like it.

Rogers decided that it seemed unkind to omit feeding Brother Bumptious, it being Christmas day when one should show kindness to others even if one didn’t do it for the rest of the year, like politicians. But the little monk didn’t seem to understand what they meant when Roger led him into the dining room, which had been built as a conservatory but which the family kept well heated in winter and used as a dining space so that the dining room proper could have a billiard table in it He then, smiling, led him to a seat at the end of the table.

The truth was, back in the monastery he was used to Father Lovely sitting at the head of the table. Father Lovely was the holiest of men and in order to show his superiority over the brothers he wore a special hat and was served with a considerably more nutritious dish than were the minions. Whereas the normal run of monks had a thin and rather tasteless broth, he had a roasted turnip floating in his, and that turnip probably contained more nourishment than the broth in the dishes of the rest of the brethren put together.

But here, in this much smaller refectory, he was offered a plate piled with all manner of steaming goodness, as was everyone else, and he was at a loss to know what it was. After all, back in his humble monastery food was known to slop about in a shallow wooden bowl rather than be piled in nutritious and various piles on a plate.

But he was hungry, and so he set about eating it, morsel by morsel, chewing as well as he could bearing in mind the state of his teeth, and making quite sure he savoured every bite, which he found to be, without exception, delicious.

He was aware that his stomach was rebelling almost at the word “go”. He could feel it churning and preparing to empty itself of the rich and sumptuous provender being forced fork by fork into it.

It was at this point that he had a piece of good luck, because as the rebellion in his stomach reached a terrible climax he noticed that the room they were in had walls which consisted almost entirely of glass, and he perceived that one portion, a French Window, had been very slightly ajar in order that the room didn’t get too stuffy, what with five people sitting in it and breathing and eating steaming piles of Christmas dinner.

Slightly ajar was quite enough for him to work out that it was in actual fact a miraculous glass door, and he stood up, belched, and frantically exited the conservatory via it, whereupon he vomited onto the grass lawn until the rebellion in his stomach was quashed.

The family watched, appalled.

“I don’t think he likes it,” commented Frodo.

“He’s ill,” decided Apple, “I hope it isn’t catching.”

“At a guess he isn’t used to such nice food,” suggested May.

“My teacher says they only had broth, which is a kind of watery soup, in the olden days,” said Apple, “and I’m pretty sure he’s from then by the look of him.”

“Then your teacher’s probably quite right,” May told her.

“Why’s he kneeling on the grass?” asked an inquisitive Frodo.

“It looks like he’s saying his prayers,” muttered Roger, “of all the daft things to do! Kneel on grass that is surely damp, it being December and it having rained yesterday. I mean, if it’s prayers, what is he praying for?”

“Come on. He’s a grown man and best knows his own mind and what he’s doing,” said May, “let’s get on with our dinners before they’re all cold.”

Brother Bumptious was indeed saying his prayers. It had crossed his mind that the five of them had started eating what was more than a sumptuous meal, and no thanks had been said to the Lord, and back in the monastery’s refectory, before spoon was dipped into broth a very lengthy series of prayers were partly sung and partly chanted by the brethren, led by Father Lovely’s tuneless baritone. It was clear, to him, that he was at fault for not having prayed his gratitude, hence the sudden bout of sickness that had assaulted him, and he set about rectifying that omission without delay, keeping his knees out of the vomit he had expelled from his body.

Even prayers must eventually come to an end, and his did.

Grateful that he had, he hoped, put things right, he made his way back through the glass door (a miracle in itself: whoever heard of such huge and no doubt expensive sheets of glass?) He then, without looking at the four family members who themselves were trying to look as if they weren’t staring at him, retook his place at the table and delicately started eating what looked as if it might be the least offensive of the selection of goodness on his plate.

“Time to pull the crackers!” announced Roger in an attempt to normalise the proceedings, and with the exception of Brother Bumptious they picked up paper crackers and pulled them with each other.

And each one burst asunder with a loud cracking sound. And each loud cracking sound alarmed Brother Bumptious, making him almost leap out of his chair.

And then the four family members unfurled a piece of paper, turned it into a coloured crown, and placed it on their heads.

That was almost too much for Brother Bumptious. Here they were, at a refectory table, and besides not joining in long and monotonous prayers of thanks, mocked the very idea of the holy position of Father Lovely by wearing false ornate crowns!

He couldn’t help it. He burst into tears, and that was that. His conscience decided that he would take no further part in this meal, which, though the most delicious thing he had ever eaten, was most surely the comestibles of Satan himself.

“I’m fed up with this!” snarled Roger when Brother Bumptious turned his nose up at the Christmas puddling even though it smelled of brandy, “he’s got to go!”

“Hear hear,” murmured Frodo.

“My teacher says that someone from a long time ago who found himself in our modern age would probably go mad because of all the things he wouldn’t be able to understand,” Apple told them seriously.

“Then I guess he’s gone mad,” decided Roger, “and there’s a special place for him at Swanspottle. I’m taking him there right now!”

Getting the small monk to follow him to the garage where he kept his car was one thing, but getting him to actually climb into the vehicle was another. What Brother Bumptious thought the car might be will probably be unknown, but what is known is that it bore no resemblance to anything he had seen or experienced in his life, and distasteful as it was touching his habit Roger managed to shovel him into a back seat.

“There’s no room unless you want to catch his fleas!” grated Roger when the two children clamoured to go with them, but that didn’t stop them sliding next to the little monk and keeping as far from him as they could.

Roger started the car and moved slowly back, out of the garage and onto the street, and set off in the direction of Swanspottle and its monastery.

And Brother Bumptious wept.

© Peter Rogerson 07.12.20