Cedric the Optimist

         Author’s Note: Written for those who would like some inspiration to get through a dreary January. Requests to republish this short story should be sent to the attention of the author via the Contact form on this Barnaby Druthers website. Comments welcome about this story. Please consider sharing your thoughts below.

The following is a work of fiction. Any similarities between any parties or situations are completely coincidental.

Cedric the Optimist By J. Timothy Quirk ©2024

 A blanket of charcoal hid the path of Apollo’s chariot as it sped all too quickly across the heavens while below, the once beautiful cover of white soured into a dark wet carpet of dirty snow and ice that clung to the boots of all who tread upon it. The days were cold, the nights were colder, and the happy days of yuletide and the high expectations of a new year gave way to the drudgery of daily toil.  The exact cause of the citizens’ general malaise to outright misery was ill-defined and often left unexpressed, but to be certain, a feeling of quiet discontent permeated the souls of all those who felt the promise of Spring was a lifetime away. In short, it was late January, the uncompromising, irredeemable late January.

As he sat with his wife Elizabeth at the dinner table, Cedric Temple announced they would host a party on the night of January 31st.  

“Isn’t the 31st a Wednesday? That’s midweek.  Our friends will be busy.  Surely, we should wait for a weekend.”

Cedric was undeterred. It must be the 31st or not at all and “not at all” was not an option.

“Why? It is not your birthday and not my birthday and not the day of our wedding. Is it any other anniversary?”

“It is the end of January,” he said, “and we must celebrate it’s departure.”

“We don’t have the money for it,” Elizabeth said with kindness.

It was true that crushing debts hovered over the household budget like a guillotine waiting for one false step, but Cedric was resolute to his cause.

“By God, we must have a party. How else can we endure?”

His coworkers were not enthused with the prospect of leaving their homes in the midweek of January.

“I shall have to review my calendar,” lied one clerk.

“I’ll try to be there,” lied another.

The neighbors believed Cedric had gone mad for they knew his tiny home could barely hold the family of three, let alone the entire neighborhood. Still, they reassured him they would bring a dish if they could attend, while quietly preparing to lock their doors and silently retire early for the evening, lest they offend a troubled man who resided in close proximity to their own families.

The weekend before the party, Cedric and Elizabeth scrubbed the floors and dusted the shelves.  On Monday, Cedric sent his son Peter to market to purchase the largest goose they could afford, but they could not afford a goose for the goose club to which they belonged had already provided a bird for Christmas and funding would take all year to provide for next year’s feast. Peter settled upon some cheese, watercrests and the smallest pork in the shop which was still burdensome to their finances.

            The morning on the last day of January arrived without ceremony. Cedric was required to work and though his employer knew of Cedric’s quixotic quest, there was no accommodation made for his workday. His coworkers were extremely busy and had no time for idle discussions, so the party was not spoken of aloud and Cedric returned home when the evening of January 31st was dark and cold and quiet.

            Upon opening his door, he found the parlor illuminated by candlelight and the fire roaring in the fireplace. The table was set for the modest feast while Elizabeth and Peter looked at his expression expectantly.

“Has anyone been by?” he asked.  

“Not yet,” she replied. “But it’s early.”

But it was not early, not for a Wednesday evening at least.

“It is a fine cut of pork, father,” said Peter.

“Of that I’m certain,” he said, “but we shall save it for our guests.”

An hour passed without incident or merriment and conversation in the home dwindled into a kind of silence only the dead could recognize. Cedric moved from the window and sat down at the table and refused to eat. When all was lost, he finally broke the silence.

“Open the door, Elizabeth, if you please,” he asked without keeping his head aloft.

“It is far too cold, Cedric. Can’t keep the heat in with the door open,” she advised.

“They don’t know the party has started,” he said. “And they won’t know until the door is open. That must be it. So please, my dear, open the door.”

She nodded to her son and Peter dutifully opened the door and a chilling wind became the first guest to enter the home.  Peter could not see any lights on in any of their neighbors’ houses and he decided not to mention it. A half hour came and went while Cedric looked at the table when he found the motivation to raise his eyes above his chin at all.

The Parkers lived three doors down and across the street from Cedric and his family and Mrs. Parker loved to bake. She took every opportunity to make bread or simple pies and on very rare occasions, she made little cakes and on the last day of January, Mrs. Parker chose to bake little cakes in case the Parkers attended the party. Mr. Parker thought the entire concept of a party without purpose was nonsense although he approved of the smell of baking in his home. The little cakes were cooled, and Mr. Parker ate his fill but there were still five little cakes that remained on the counter near the stove.

“I suppose there is no sense letting these few little cakes go to waste,” Mrs. Parker said as she put on her coat.

“If you insist on going out, I will go with you,” Mr. Parker replied.

As the Parkers stepped out of their house with a covered basket and walked toward the open door that was three doors down and across the way, their movement did not escape the eye of Guilford Bennet, the bachelor gentleman who lived next door. Guilford had no intention of attending any celebration, but he had not eaten anything all day and as it just so happened, he had ensured his clothes were presentable and his face and hands were clean and though he had no food to bring to a party, he did have his English fiddle. He waited until the Parkers reached the threshold to Cedric’s home before running across the street with his fiddle so that he stood behind Parkers and they all entered the Temple’s home together.

 “I brought my fiddle, if you care for a song,” Guilford offered and the offer was accepted.

The Parkers had no intention of staying at the party but as their basket was warmly received and Guilford Bennet began playing his fiddle, they were handed a plate with some pork, water crests and cheese, so they felt obliged to engage in some conversation and within a few minutes, an unintentional joke by Peter set the Parkers and the Temples to laughter.  

The sound of merriment did not go unnoticed by the Temple’s next-door neighbors, Margaret and Ambrose Butterfield, and Ambrose Butterfield loved to dance. They could hear the fiddle, but it was too faint for Ambrose to coax Margaret to join him in a dance.

“I bet they’re dancing next door,” he sulked.

“Go next door, then,” she said.

“Perhaps I will. But only if you come with me,” he pleaded.

“Very well,” she sighed. Before the song ended, the Butterfields were dancing in the Temple’s house.

The children at the Henderson’s house saw the excitement at Temple homoe and believed incorrectly there were presents for children there if they could only convince their parents to take them. At first, they were told it was only party for adults, but the children remained undeterred, vocal, and steadfast in their unwarranted beliefs. To satiate their own curiosity and to satisfy the children’s pleadings, the Hendersons found enough scraps in their pantry to make some semblance of a dish, put on their coats, and walked two doors down to the Temples while their children exclaimed boisterously with delight in the evening air.

The Henderson children thundered down the street with such enthusiasm that every household in their vicinity seemed to come alive as they passed, and lights began to flicker in every window.  When the Parkers began to plan their departure, Mrs. Calloway stepped in with little cakes of her own and Mrs. Parker wanted to learn her recipe.

The party grew and grew until some of the neighbors felt obligated to open their own doors. Soon each guest went house to house as the neighborhood came alive.  Every friend and acquaintance celebrated the fact that the uncomromising, irredeemable month was coming to an end.

The morning of Thursday, February 1st arrived, and Cedric Temple rose with the hint of the sun behind grey clouds that promised to not overstay their welcome. He surveyed the table, and every shelf he had spent the prior weekend dusting was filled with plates or baskets of food donated to the celebration.  Although every guest left the party with full hearts and stomachs, the Temples now possessed more food than they owned just two nights before.

“Are you happy?” Elizabeth asked.

“I think so,” he replied as he readied himself for work. Upon reflection, he added, “I will be.”

“I didn’t expect so many people,” she confessed with a yawn that turned into a smile quickly.

He nodded as he ran a brush through his hair. He knew the workday would be interesting as a few of his coworkers had actually attended the party after all and he would thank them for coming when he saw them. Word would spread through the workplace and no doubt every coworker would ask to come to the party the following year.

As her husband stood at the door, Elizabeth Temple asked, “Why on earth made you think of it?”

He threw the scarf loosely around his neck.

“January tricks us. The cold and the darkness deceives us into believing we experience all of it alone,” he said. “We need to be reminded sometimes that January is not forever, that February goes fast, and soon there’ll be Spring.”

She fixed his scarf so that it was neatly presented and would keep him warm. “We’ll ask the goose club if we can put a deposit in for a goose in January next year,” she said.

They kissed and he smiled as she closed the door behind him.

The charcoal grey still covered the sky in the early days of February, but Cedric didn’t mind it as much as he used to and soon Apollo’s chariot took longer to cross the heavens and the icy mush finally yielded and vanished as green seemed to awake from its slumber and reclaim its domain. When the happy days of March arrived, the long dreary days of January lay distant in his mind, redeemed in memory by the fellowship of friends and neighbors by candlelight with a door open and the sound of an English fiddle playing in the night air.

-Fin

1819-1820 by Francis Guy

Sir Bedivere’s Gift

         Author’s Note: Requests to republish this short story should be sent to the attention of the author via the Contact form on this Barnaby Druthers website. Comments welcome about this story. Please consider sharing your thoughts below.

The following is a work of fiction. Any similarities between any parties or situations are completely coincidental.

Sir Bedivere’s Gift By J. Timothy Quirk ©2022

When December 24th arrived, Otis Boyd wandered aimlessly through the East End of London. He wished no one a Merry Christmas and received no seasonal greetings in return. His unkempt beard with flecks of white covered the lower half of his wrinkled face but as his balding top half had no cover, he walked as briskly as a man of his girth and condition could muster with a walking stick carrying some of the burden.  When he wore his dark shirt, the holes in his long brown overcoat were obscured but at least his pockets were patched and filled with enough coins for a four-penny-coffin for the night.

Just at mid-day, as he strolled among the shoppers, revelers, street vendors and carolers, Otis spied a small package sitting in the snow underneath a streetlamp.  He surmised this Christmas present must have fallen from a carriage, for certainly many London cabbies were known to take the turns far too quickly at the corner. He considered that perhaps a shopkeeper had dropped it while making a delivery and would retrace his steps once he was realized what was missing. In any case, Otis felt it was no business of his and began to turn away when he saw a young boy moving furtively towards it.  Their eyes met, and he yelled, “Be on your way, boy! Do not think to steal. Not before Christmas!”  As the boy ran off, Otis picked up the package to inspect it further. There was no name or address, no card, no writing on it at all, just the colorful holiday images of canes, trees and angels on the paper wrapped around the box with a brown ribbon that was tied in a bow.

He placed the package back in the snow to return to his meandering journey when he stopped and turned to look at it once more.  How long had it been there? How long would it remain before an unscrupulous fellow nicked it? Who could be trusted with its protection until the true owner returned? A nicely wrapped gift is not soon forgotten, so whomever lost it would come for it soon enough and Otis decided he would spend a moment as its temporary guardian until the package could be properly recovered.

But as day fell into night and after the lamplighter lit the streetlamp above him, Otis, now sitting next to the package, wondered aloud whether the gift would ever be found. More than once, a policeman asked his business and he replied he was protecting a Christmas gift, and this seemed to satisfy the inquiry. A dusting of snow provided a hint of holiday charm, but it did not please the balding man who could not adjust his own coat above his head without leaving where he sat at the mercy of the snow below.

Big Ben chimed nine when a tall bespeckled gentleman in a fine overcoat peered down at him and smiled.

“Merry Christmas,” he said.

Otis returned the greeting without much thought.

“Is this your package?” asked the man.

“No, it is not,” Otis replied, now interested in the questioner. “Is it yours?”

“That is a very good question. May I see it? Even if it is not mine, I may be able to discern its true owner.”

“There is no name or address on the package, sir,” warned Otis.

“Indeed. All the better to hone the investigatory skills, eh what? It is something in my line, or at least interest, after all. May I?” he asked, motioning to the package and Otis readily lifted it up to him.

“It’s yours, sir. Truly it’s yours,” Otis pleaded. “Say it is yours so I can leave this corner.”

“Why can you not leave this corner all the same? Did someone instruct you to stay here?”

“No, sir. But…,” Otis attempted to explain his motives but in the end all he could muster was the phrase, “… but it’s Christmas.”

“And you wished to protect a Christmas gift for Christmas? I see. I see. Well now, let’s examine the item a little closer, shall we? Yes, yes…I see there is no written name on this package just as you advised, so we must seek other clues. Note how the ribbons are crossed just so. Why, if my eyes do not deceive me, this must be a Sir Bedivere’s Gift.”

“Sir Bedivere’s Gift?”

“I’m sure you know of the grand tradition of the Sir Bedivere’s Gift? Oh, it is very special. You see, every Christmas, somewhere in the world, there is a Sir Bedivere’s gift. You know the story, don’t you?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

“Well, you know the story of King Arthur who, after being mortally wounded at the Battle of Camlann, asked Sir Bedivere to return his sword, Excalibur to the Lake?  At first Sir Bedivere said he returned it, but when King Arthur asked what occurred and Sir Bedivere said nothing, the King knew Sir Bedivere had not completed the task. Ashamed, Sir Bedivere went to the Lake a second time and threw the sword to the water, not knowing what would occur. Before his eyes he saw a Lady’s hand reach from the water and catch the sword before bringing it below. And so, the idea of a gift being brought into the elements for its rightful owner to claim is a long and storied one. A Christmas present wrapped in a bow but without a name or address may indeed be a lost item or it may be a Sir Bedivere’s Gift.”

“If it is a Sir Bedivere’s gift, who is the rightful owner? Has it found you?” asked Otis.

“Not necessarily. Let us inspect the clues, for the clues should tell us to whom this Sir Bedivere’s gift belongs. There is a cover of brown ribbon. This indicates to me that the owner would have a brown covering. I, sir, do not have a brown stitch upon me. Let us look closer. There are images of a cane on this package. This is a curious detail and alas, I walk without a cane. Then there is the imagery of a tree. A dark colored tree with bright ornaments upon it. This is the most striking clue to this mystery yet.”

“Am I to look for someone carrying a tree with ornaments before I turn over this present to him and find my rest for the night?” Otis was incredulous.

“Not at all. I think the identity can be discerned quite clearly. For instance, you, sir, wear brown as a cover.”

“My overcoat?”

“And I can not help but notice you carry a cane,” remarked the gentleman.

“I use a walking stick, it is true,” answered Otis.

“And your thick beard is flecked with pure white, which is quite ornamental, is it not? Why indeed, I could mistake your face for a Douglas Fir in the right light!”

Both men laughed heartily until Otis’s face fell. In a somber tone, he pointed to the angel on the wrapping. “But there is one clue unaccounted for. It is an angel. I can assure you, sir, I am not that. No, I am not that. Nor am I a man who could claim to have lived as virtuously one. The gift must be meant for another.”

The gentleman holding the package was taken aback by the confession, then he considered it for the moment and then thoughtfully replied, “I would not be so hasty. I am not certain that an angel depicted on a Christmas present would prevent any person not angelically pure from receiving it. If that were true, then nobody except for the one whose birth is celebrated on Christmas would be perfect and pure enough to receive it. No, I think this angel means something else today. Perhaps it is meant for how one has acted on the day the gift is received.  And what have you done today? You have protected something that was not yours, and it was done for the benefit of someone you didn’t know. What knight of the round table would have done more? Tell me, how long have you been sitting here, sir?”

“Since the mid-day, sir.”

“That’s what I thought. You did not steal the present yourself; you did not sell it. So indeed, to my estimation, the man wearing brown, using a cane, with a full beard with flecks of white and whose actions today are noble and virtuous is indeed the true owner of this gift.” Pointedly, the gentleman gave the package back to Otis and said once more, “This is your Sir Bedivere’s gift. Please take it.”

Otis took the gift and asked, “Do I open it?”
“It is Christmas Eve, sir. I think it is right you should do so.”

Otis unwrapped the package he protected all day. From within the confines of the box he found a hard felt hat with a rounded crown.
“A gentleman’s hat!” Otis exclaimed.

“A bowler perhaps from Thomas and William’s shop itself. It suits you,” said the gentleman as Otis placed it upon his head.

“I don’t know what to say,” said Otis, “except thank you, sir.”

“Any expressions of gratitude are not meant for me, sir. But I do believe the intent of Sir Bedivere’s gift has been achieved. Merry Christmas, my good man!”

“And Merry Christmas to you!” Otis cheerily replied.

Now what occurred after that day for Otis Boyd is not entirely known. Some say Otis found work at a hattery, let a room in a reputable boarding house and eventually married the widow who ran it.  Some say he made amends to his estranged children and, on his deathbed, bequeathed the bowler hat to his son who wore it with pride. But what is known is that every year hence, an unmarked wrapped gift would sit in the snow below a streetlamp at a corner in the East End of London on Christmas Eve, and wait to be found by its rightful owner in the name of Sir Bedivere.

-Fin