Bertie's Christmas Eve Page #2

"Bertie's Christmas Eve" is a charming short story by Hector Hugh Munro, also known as Saki. It follows the misadventures of young Bertie, whose Christmas Eve plans are disrupted by a series of comedic misunderstandings and the antics of his rather unconventional family members. With Saki’s signature wit and satirical style, the story captures the whimsical chaos of the holiday season, highlighting the tensions and absurdities that often accompany family gatherings, all while delivering a delightful commentary on social conventions and expectations.

• Short story

								

began to come to the front--the extreme mustiness of the cow-house, the
possibility of it catching fire, and the probability of it being a Rowton
House for the vagrant rats of the neighbourhood.  And still no sign of
deliverance came to the unwilling vigil-keepers.

Towards one o'clock the sound of rather boisterous and undisciplined
carol-singing approached rapidly, and came to a sudden anchorage,
apparently just outside the garden-gate.  A motor-load of youthful
"bloods," in a high state of conviviality, had made a temporary halt for
repairs; the stoppage, however, did not extend to the vocal efforts of
the party, and the watchers in the cow-shed were treated to a highly
unauthorised rendering of "Good King Wenceslas," in which the adjective
"good" appeared to be very carelessly applied.

The noise had the effect of bringing Bertie out into the garden, but he
utterly ignored the pale, angry faces peering out at the cow-house
window, and concentrated his attention on the revellers outside the gate.

"Wassail, you chaps!" he shouted.

"Wassail, old sport!" they shouted back; "we'd jolly well drink y'r
health, only we've nothing to drink it in."

"Come and wassail inside," said Bertie hospitably; "I'm all alone, and
there's heap's of 'wet'."

They were total strangers, but his touch of kindness made them instantly
his kin.  In another moment the unauthorised version of King Wenceslas,
which, like many other scandals, grew worse on repetition, went echoing
up the garden path; two of the revellers gave an impromptu performance on
the way by executing the staircase waltz up the terraces of what Luke
Steffink, hitherto with some justification, called his rock-garden.  The
rock part of it was still there when the waltz had been accorded its
third encore.  Luke, more than ever like a cooped hen behind the
cow-house bars, was in a position to realise the feelings of
concert-goers unable to countermand the call for an encore which they
neither desire or deserve.

The hall door closed with a bang on Bertie's guests, and the sounds of
merriment became faint and muffled to the weary watchers at the other end
of the garden.  Presently two ominous pops, in quick succession, made
themselves distinctly heard.

"They've got at the champagne!" exclaimed Mrs. Steffink.

"Perhaps it's the sparkling Moselle," said Luke hopefully.

Three or four more pops were heard.

"The champagne and the sparkling Moselle," said Mrs. Steffink.

Luke uncorked an expletive which, like brandy in a temperance household,
was only used on rare emergencies.  Mr. Horace Bordenby had been making
use of similar expressions under his breath for a considerable time past.
The experiment of "throwing the young people together" had been prolonged
beyond a point when it was likely to produce any romantic result.

Some forty minutes later the hall door opened and disgorged a crowd that
had thrown off any restraint of shyness that might have influenced its
earlier actions.  Its vocal efforts in the direction of carol singing
were now supplemented by instrumental music; a Christmas-tree that had
been prepared for the children of the gardener and other household
retainers had yielded a rich spoil of tin trumpets, rattles, and drums.
The life-story of King Wenceslas had been dropped, Luke was thankful to
notice, but it was intensely irritating for the chilled prisoners in the
cow-house to be told that it was a hot time in the old town to-night,
together with some accurate but entirely superfluous information as to
the imminence of Christmas morning.  Judging by the protests which began
to be shouted from the upper windows of neighbouring houses the
sentiments prevailing in the cow-house were heartily echoed in other
quarters.

The revellers found their car, and, what was more remarkable, managed to
drive off in it, with a parting fanfare of tin trumpets.  The lively beat
of a drum disclosed the fact that the master of the revels remained on
the scene.

"Bertie!" came in an angry, imploring chorus of shouts and screams from
the cow-house window.

"Hullo," cried the owner of the name, turning his rather errant steps in
the direction of the summons; "are you people still there?  Must have
heard everything cows got to say by this time.  If you haven't, no use
waiting.  After all, it's a Russian legend, and Russian Chrismush Eve not
due for 'nother fortnight.  Better come out."

After one or two ineffectual attempts he managed to pitch the key of the
cow-house door in through the window.  Then, lifting his voice in the
strains of "I'm afraid to go home in the dark," with a lusty drum
accompaniment, he led the way back to the house.  The hurried procession
of the released that followed in his steps came in for a good deal of the
adverse comment that his exuberant display had evoked.

It was the happiest Christmas Eve he had ever spent.  To quote his own
words, he had a rotten Christmas.
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