Mr. Strange hummed a tune to himself while he waited for his pie to warm through. This was most unusual, he even admitted this fact to himself, yet it was almost caused by a celebration. Almost... but not quite. There would be no point in wasting money unnecessarily he reflected. Furthermore, it had nothing to do with Christmas it was all on account of that dream which he had had a fortnight ago. Dream? He shivered at the very thought of it, nightmare, was more like it! Automatically his mind recalled the events of that terrible Tuesday night. It could only have been a dream, he consoled himself for it was too late now for it come true anyway. All the same, he had lived in sheer terror for the past couple of weeks, but at long last he could relax. It had probably all stemmed from the extra portion of stilton which he had had before retiring. It had been nothing but the figment of a slumber troubled by indigestion.
Yet, his nocturnal visitor had seemed too real. Ghostly, was the word, for he swore that he was able to see the old Victorian chest of drawers through the apparition! The ghost of Christmas future! The figure was so ordinary in appearance, though, that it might well have been the butcher's assistant from the shop down the road, clad in an ill fitting suit.
‘What do you want?’ Quaking Alexander Strange, pulled up the sheets until only the top half of his face was visible. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name does not matter,’ the other’s voice seemed unreal, like the finale of a crescendo of echoes in a mountain pass. ‘I am merely a messenger. I have been sent to speak with you.’
‘What for?’
‘To tell you that you will be in your grave 'ere Christmas has passed!’
Mr. Strange could not remember whether he had fallen asleep then, or whether he’d fainted. Whichever it was, when he woke the grey light of a winter's morning was streaming through the chinks in the curtains, and of his midnight visitor there was no sign. It must have been a dream!
However, the elderly insurance clerk was taking no chances, and up until he returned home from the office on Christmas Eve he had lived a life of even greater monotony than usual. He took a roundabout route to and from the office each day, avoiding the busy main streets as far as possible, just in case a speeding vehicle happened to mount the pavement! He had his sandwiches at his desk, fearful to venture out of doors at lunchtime, and in the evenings he retired to bed early. As the yuletide season approached he became both apprehensive and relieved. Apprehensive, because if anything was going to happen it would have to be fairly soon now, and he was relieved as he survived each succeeding day. Each night he slept with his bedside light on.
He also took care to eat no more stilton cheese!
As Christmas Eve came, he had only one night left! Alexander Strange congratulated himself as he ate heartily of his evening meal. It was too late for him to be buried until after Boxing Day now. It did call for a celebration of some sort, he decided, as he finished his last mouthful of apple pie. Something not too lavish, though! Then, an idea struck him. He would attend midnight mass at the church just up the road. It wouldn't be far to go, and he need not put anything more on the collection plate than a pence piece! It would be an outing at any rate. Yes, he would go to church.
It was snowing heavily when Mr. Strange walked down the dimly lit street towards the lighted and gaily decorated church. Blizzarding would be a better word, he mused to himself, for the flakes were becoming larger and faster than ever causing him to pull up the collar of his shabby overcoat in order to protect himself from the whipping, stinging snow.
It was as he walked up the snow-covered path towards the church door, that a sudden feeling of pity, something which he had never experienced before, came over him. There, close to the track was a huge mound of soil and an oblong hole, boarded over for safety, denoted a newly dug grave. Mr. Strange shuddered. That would be for old Mr. Russell, he told himself. They're burying him the day after Boxing Day. He had had a good innings at eighty-seven. Alexander Strange shivered again. It could have been himself that grave had been dug for. He almost knew what it felt like to be dead!
The service followed much the same pattern as most midnight communions. In spite of the weather almost every pew was full, and he had to be content with a chair and a cushion beside the verger's seat. The congregation were in a joyous mood, the Christmas spirit being evident in their lusty singing of "O, come all ye faithful". Even Mr. Strange felt his melancholy thawing a little.
The vicar, a robust man with a ruddy face and a bald head, gave the final address. He almost faltered in the blessing as his eyes came to rest on the hunched, praying figure of the miser. Yet another sheep had returned to the fold!
The blizzard was heavy as the congregation filed out into the night, receiving hearty handshakes from the jolly clergyman at the doorway. Mr. Strange was one of the first to leave, being nearest to the exit.
‘How nice to see you, Mr. Strange!’ The vicar pumped the other's bony, gnarled hand, heartily. ‘I do hope we shall see you again soon. Sunday, perhaps…? Ah, Mrs. Watson, how is your dear mother progressing?’
Alexander Strange stepped out into the driving snow. Somehow, he felt more at peace with the world, calmer
