I know it’s long past the Xmas season, and I also know many of you did not enjoy it as much as in those halcyon pre-2020 days. But here to cheer you up is a story by the wonderful BEULAH LEE HARRIS, winner of last year’s MEGASAGA competition. I hope you enjoy it.

It was a magical time in Little Hampton,  even though snow had yet to make an appearance.  Evergreen winter shrubs bloomed and Christmas lights that adorned shop windows and hung from cottage gutter hooks added a riot of colour.
       Shop owners in their annual show of Christmas spirit, dropped their prices and the pub extended its happy hour to two hours.  There seemed to be a Father Christmas on every street handing out sweets to the children.  The church youth choir was out singing carols every day and even the grumpiest of villagers got into the spirit and sang along. Pop-up stalls sold mince pies, Christmas cakes and cellophane-wrapped biscuits and chocolates.
            The youngest of the village children were on their best behavior, not fighting or snatching sweets from each-other.  They were minding their manners and eating all their food, even yucky cabbage, and going to bed on time.  If they heard a noise outside or thought they saw a shadow at the window, they did not call out for their parents.  They went back to sleep, happy in the knowledge that it was just Wee Willie Winkie checking on them, and they were being very good.

Yes, it was a magical time – until two weeks before Christmas, the thieving started.  One man had his wallet lifted when shopping for gifts in the market, the florist had her till emptied when she nipped out the back to pick foliage, and Sister Annie, the Headmistress at the Convent School was dismayed that the nuns reported a break in.  Nothing of monetary value had been stolen, for the nuns had very little, but the intruders had taken some food from their fridge, a rosary, and a few books.  An elderly couple who often forgot to lock their doors, awoke to find their cookie jar of rainy-day coins and a leather jacket missing.
            The coffee shop was a buzz of indignant and excited chatter.  Who would be thieving in their village?  Who was new to the area?  No-one knew.  Better be extra careful about locking doors and windows!
            ‘Let’s not put our Christmas presents under the tree this year,’ Mrs Allan cautioned. ‘Thieving bastards might nick those too!’
            ‘I never do,’ Mrs Brown replied, her jolly face wobbling with laughter. ‘Our Billy would shake them all broken, scallywag that he is!’
            ‘Nobody could break into our house,’ Mrs Scott smugly said. ‘My George is a locksmith and our house is burglar proof.  You might want to get him in for a quotation, you know.  Not too expensive.

In the early hours of the next morning, the Christmas thieves were sitting on a rug, cozy and warm next to their log fire, unwrapping parcels.
            ‘Ooh, look at this!’ One thief exclaimed holding up a set of earrings. ‘I wonder if these are real diamonds?’
            ‘Here’s an envelope,’ another thief said. ‘Bound to be money in it.’   The card was tossed into the fire and the fifty pounds stashed with the rest of their cash behind a loose brick. 
            The thieves unwrapped a twelve year old bottle of Glen Fiddich, which they drank while they unwrapped the rest of their haul.  Socks, scarves, chocolates, a tin of toffees, and a soap-on-the-rope.  They then went through the canvas bag of other goods they had lifted from the same house:  Two silver candlestick holders, an old pocket watch,  a set of binoculars, a small crystal vase and a wallet containing one hundred and seventy-five pounds and some change. Not bad for one nights work!
Mrs Scott looked rather sheepish the next morning when she met her acquaintances in the coffee shop.
            ‘Know anyone who makes burglar guards for windows?’ She asked. ‘Those thieving bastards cut a hole in the window, just like you see on the telly. Right professionals!’

The already angry community were outraged when poor old Jeff Coggins got hurt one night.  He was woken by his Pomeranian barking.  He got out of bed, went through to the lounge and saw someone creeping out of the door with a bag of goods.  He shouted and gave chase but slipped, twisting his ankle and bumping his head.
            ‘Can’t identify the fellow,’ Jeff told the police. ‘All hooded up from what I could see of him.’
            The chief of police and his three constables were flummoxed – not a finger print to be found.  Scott the locksmith did a roaring trade, as did the alarm company he recommended for a fat conmmission..  

The night before Christmas eve, the thieves noticed an anonymous cottage, one they had not noticed before, on the outskirts of the village. It was half hidden by large firs. No sign of an alarm, no burglar guards.  Unless there was a little yapper inside, this little house was ripe for the picking.

Stealthily,  expertly they let themselves in through a window and the house was plucked clean.
            When they returned the thieves sat on the rug next to their log fire, anticipating unwrapping the parcels.
            ‘I think I know whose house we just robbed,’ one thief said, taking a credit card out of a wallet. ‘J.S. Jones…isn’t that the name of that weird woman, the clairvoyant?’
            ‘Clairvoyant, you say?’
            ‘Mm.’ The thief tossed the empty wallet aside. ‘Ah, great, an envelope!  A nice, fat one too…’
            ‘Stop!’
            ‘Why?’ The thief ripped open the envelope and peered inside. ‘What’s this?  Looks like -’
 Those were last words ever spoken in that little house as a massive explosion ripped through the room. The fire was intense, and by the time the fire brigade got there, the cottage had all but burnt to the ground. There were no survivors.
            Everyone was shocked to the core, even the bomber.  It was only supposed to be a small explosion, one that would hurt or maim perhaps, but not kill.  There was nothing she could or would do about it now, though.  What was done was done.
            The Christmas thieves and their robberies were forgotten as the devastating explosion was all anyone could think or talk about.  A forensic investigation took place and it soon came out that the explosion was caused by a letter bomb.  All but one in the community were utterly baffled. Who on earth would want to harm two sweet nuns?

            
END

Beulah is a master of the explosive ending, and was Roald Dahl. Her collection of Short Stories is growing… 

Illustration: Carol Morgan