Read by Alex Mann
Smith sat and stared at the computer screen. He had one more cracker joke left to write before he could leave for the evening and today was the final deadline.
He’d never understood the point of crackers. Never even pulled one, well, not since he was a child, and even then he hadn’t liked the noise, or was it the anticipation of the noise?
‘One quick pull and a bang and it's all over in a flash, just like sex with the wife,’ as Alan the security guard at Chapman’s Gifts Ltd always said to Smith at every single Christmas party.
He seemed to think it was hilarious every single time, like he’d never heard it before. Smith wished he could experience that kind of unselfconscious laughter. He rarely laughed at anything these days. Sometimes he pulled a face in the lift mirror and wondered if there really was a security camera watching him.
Last week he’d left his office late at night and he’d ridden all the way down with his flies undone, just to see if that gave him something to smile about. All that happened was he had to zip himself up quickly when Barbara from accounts got in unexpectedly on the second floor. She was looking a bit sheepish and her hair was falling out of its usual tight bun. Smith had caught his finger in the zip and suppressed a yelp. They’d travelled together in awkward silence and hadn't looked each other in the eye since.
The sound of a Champagne cork popping echoed down the corridor , followed by a round of applause. Smith could hear Mr Cruickshank the Company Director making his annual speech. It would be the same speech he’d given every year for the past thirty years, ever since Smith had started out as a bright and eager copywriter on the 19th December 1979.
“I’ve no time for jibber-jabber, belly-aching, or flimflam,” Cruickshank had said to Smith. “If you’re going to get on at Chapman’s you need to keep your nose clean, your head down, and your mind sharp. Not to mention your pencil. We’ve been bringing joy to the hearts of the British public for over 130 years and I’m not about to preside over its demise. The day we stop making crackers and snow globes is the day they carry me out of here in a box.”
Smith had wanted to ask if the box would be gift-wrapped but he’d just nodded.
He could picture the rows of faces, the women in their party make-up, the men ruddy cheeked from the alcohol; everyone wearing their paper hats, a couple of the younger girls wearing comedy antlers, grinning foolishly as the bubbles went to their heads.
Smith wondered how long it would be before Steve or Keith from the post room tried it on with one of them.
He recalled how the new designer Emma had knocked her mouse onto the floor on Monday morning, and Keith and Steve had practically fought to be the one to hand it back to her. Then again, she was too clever to fall for either of them.
It would be left to poor Angie, with her antlers balanced precariously on a frizz of curls, to fend the two of them off with a bowl of nuts, as the terrible twosome leaned and leered drunkenly over her.
Smith had a funny feeling she’d end up leaving with one of them. Probably Steve, he’d got his own flat, whereas Keith was still living with his mum.
Emma would laugh at their clumsy chat up lines and flick her hair, down her drink, and head off into town to meet her friends. Smith couldn’t see her sticking around for the night.
She reminded him of his wife, soon after they’d first met, carol singing to raise money for the local children’s home. He didn’t like to be reminded. Not any more.
There was a sign on Mr Cruickshank’s desk that said ‘You don’t have to be crackers to work here, but it helps.”
No one knew how long it had been there but it was used as a test for new recruits. He’d leave it on the desk so that you couldn’t help but read it. Then just as the interview was ending he’d gesture to the sign and say:
“I don’t know why I have this on my desk, really I don’t. It was a gift from my late mother. Well, I don’t know. Do you think it’s funny?”
Smith recalled that as he said this Mr Cruickshank’s expression froze somewhere between solemnity and inquisition, peering at the nervous interviewee over the top of his spectacles.
The story was that it didn’t matter whether you said it was or wasn’t funny. It was a test to see if you’d tell the truth, or say what you thought Cruickshank wanted to hear.
During his interview Smith had stared at the sign and then reached out to pick it up, sat a little too far forward in his seat, and slipped off onto the floor.
Mr Cruickshank had paused for a second and then begun to laugh so uproariously that the entire typing pool had come running in to see what had happened.
One of them, a pretty young secretary to the head of accounts, had helped him up and escorted him from the room.
“Mr Cruickshank never laughs,” she said as she handed Smith his coat.
“I don’t expect I’ll see you again then,” he said.
But he did see her again, every day.
Because Mr Cruickshank clearly thought Smith had something special to offer Chapman's Gifts, enough to employ him and give him his own office. And that secretary clearly thought Smith had something special to offer her, enough to agree to marry him.
The speech came to a close and a round of applause jolted Smith out of his reverie, and he tried to focus once more on the task in hand.
He’d written so many jokes. He wondered if anyone ever gave a thought to where they came from. It was so hard to write something that struck the right balance of wit and groan-inducing cliché. Then he remembered his first creation.
“How do snowmen get around? They ride an icicle.”
His wife had laughed at that one. Laughed and dug him gently in the ribs as she kissed him.
She’d always bought a box of Chapman’s crackers as soon as they were in the shops. His wife had been so proud of his job at first. It seemed unusual. The pay wasn’t great but they’d got by.
Then as the years rolled by the house they’d bought together seemed too big for just the two. And of course there had meant to be more but those little stockings she’d knitted had been left empty. One year she’d turned to Smith and said:
“I don’t even want to sing carols. I’m tired of singing for other people’s children.”
One December he’d come home and the Christmas tree lights weren’t on. He knew she’d gone. Every year he'd still offer to write for the crackers. No one else wanted to do it, and they let him get on with it.
“What's furry and minty? A Polo bear.”
Did that work? Smith stared at the line and was about to hit backspace when there was a knock on his door.
“Come in, come in,” he called, glad for a distraction.
The door opened and a young woman entered holding a mince pie and a glass of sherry. It was Emma. “I thought you might like a little something,” she said, setting the plate and glass down on Smith’s desk. “It is Christmas after all. Well, almost.”
She hesitated for a moment and then gestured to the card that sat unopened on Smith’s desk.
“You saving that for Christmas Day?”
“Hmmm? Oh, that. No. I probably won’t open it.”
“Why ever not?”
“It’s from my wife. She sends one every year.”
“Oh. And do you send one back?” Emma folded her hands in front of her. “If it’s not rude of me to ask?”
Smith stared up at her.
“It’s not rude Emma. It’s just, well, she made me very sad and now I can’t go back. The snow’s melted away.”
Emma pushed the mince pie nearer.
“Maybe,” she said. “Or perhaps you just need to find the right words, and the right way to say them.”
She moved toward the door, and then turned back to Smith.
“A few of us are going to the pub for dinner soon. Come along why don’t you? Isn’t this your last Christmas with us? You’re retiring next year aren’t you?”
Smith nodded and scratched his thinning hair.
“I don’t suppose you know any jokes?”
Emma stared at the Artex ceiling for a moment and then said:
“What’s Santa's favourite pizza?”
Smith frowned.
“I don’t know. I really don’t.”
“One that's deep-pan, crisp and even.” She grimaced. “I know, it's awful. You can have it. Merry Christmas Mr Smith.”
As the door closed Smith stared at the computer screen, at the unopened card, and back at the screen. He began to type, a smile playing about the corner of his mouth.
The security guard waved at Smith as he left the building.
“Merry Christmas Sir. See you next year.”
“I don’t think you will. A Merry Christmas to you too. Goodbye.”
As he walked briskly down the road, into the crisp, bright night, Smith didn’t look back, but he imagined that Alan was, for once, lost for words.
The lights of the Hogarth Arms beckoned him on. As he crossed the threshold Smith smiled to himself and made a wish.
*
Mr Cruickshank was furious. No one could recall seeing him this angry before. Everyone was gathered in the factory. He stood surrounded by boxes of crackers, some torn open, their contents spilled across the floor, paper hats and plastic whistles, novelty key rings, and toy reindeer at the feet of the assembled employees of Chapman’s Gifts Ltd.
“Where is Smith?” bellowed Mr Cruickshank. “Thirty years I gave that man and this is how he repays me? Ruined. All ruined. We shall have to recall the entire stock. What good is a cracker without a joke?”
Everyone looked at their shoes or the ceiling and no one made a noise. They all quite agreed. Smith had finally gone crackers.
Inside every cardboard tube was a slip of paper, and on every slip of paper were the same words.
“To my darling wife. You always knew how to make me smile. Come home. I love you. Smith.”
Thousands of families across the country were scratching their heads on Christmas day, as they sat together over their turkey dinners and pulled their Chapman’s crackers.
But in one modest home, a middle-aged couple were sat, paper hats on their heads, holding each other’s hands, laughing together into a bright new year.
Bang! by Adrian Brown was read by Alex Mann at the Liars' League Faith & Hope event on 14 December 2010 at Upstairs at The Fellow, London.
When he was small Adrian Brown wrote a story about two dogs on a canal boat holiday. He’s decided to give writing another shot. Born in Newcastle but has never met Ant or Dec. Now lives in London with a nice young lady and two spoilt cats. He blogs at http://meerwords.posterous.com
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