Stewart Devitt was born in Belfast, worked and played there and in Dublin, donning the jerseys of Instonians and Bective Rangers rugby clubs. An experienced training professional, specialising in communication and personal development, he lived in Auckland for 15 years and is now back in Helensburgh, Scotland, where he can devote more time to writing, a lifelong hobby, and pleasure.

Christmas pickings

By Stewart Devitt

Mary shuffled into the department store at the far end of High Street, the fluorescent Christmas lights adding to a heat that was foreign to her. It was a particularly cold day and the snow that had enveloped the region had eased, although the forecast for the next few days indicated no respite from the artic-like conditions.

A staff member smiled a welcome, whilst at the same time texting a message to her manager to let him know a suspicious person had entered the premises. Putting the phone aside she saw Mary ease towards the children’s department, her thick woollen socks hanging in ringlets around her ankles, and her black canvas shoes secured by frayed pieces of rope. A large shopping bag hung over her left forearm.

Customers moved aside, casting suspicious looks at the strange woman making loud sucking sounds as she constantly adjusted her upper set of teeth. Noses seemed to literally stiffen, in anticipation of smelling body odour and sweat, commonly associated with such unfortunate people, unaware that Mary took pride in looking after her personal hygiene. As if to illustrate this point, a gift box containing talcum powder and bath salts was deftly flicked into the open bag.

Peter Fisher enjoyed the Christmas period as it inevitably proved a rewarding time for the business, and more importantly, the unrestrained spending of his customers contributed significantly to his annual bonus. He watched now, from the top of the staircase on the first floor, as Betsy, the newly recruited store detective, mingled effortlessly with the shoppers, and observed discreetly what was happening around her. The gift box was already covered with an array of socks and underwear and an expensive box of Belgium chocolates.

Mary looked over her shoulder, seemingly acknowledging Betsy’s presence and with a nonchalant toss of the head weaved slowly through the different departments within the store, taking time to closely read through the wide range of seasonal cards on display. On reaching the Christmas Grotto she stood transfixed watching children hooting with delight as they clambered up and around Father Christmas, a somewhat gross figure in a tight-fitting red suit. Digging deep into her purse she managed to find enough cash to buy and enjoy a regular hot chocolate and a date scone, so settled down in a corner of the cafeteria to rest her legs.  

It was shortly after one o’clock when Peter was interrupted, from his year-on-year sales analysis, by his secretary advising him that Betsy had texted up that Mary was preparing to leave the shop.

“Shall I tell her to do the necessary?”

“No, tell her I will be right down, best to do this together until she is more settled in the job.’

As Peter walked towards the main doors, straightening his tie, and pulling back his shoulders.  his stomach was tying itself in little knots; the butterflies were not flying in their usual formation. He could never understand why this always happened, after all he had apprehended shoplifters many times over the past five years, as a matter of routine, and it was not as if Mary was a first-time offender.

Lopsided, with her shopping bag close to the ground Mary stopped for a moment to regain her balance before trundling towards the exit and asking one of the younger assistants to open the door. Standing under the heater, the warmth filtered through her hair, bringing a slight glow to weather-beaten cheeks. Once outside and a few yards down the street she flinched, as a hand lightly touched her shoulder. Turning to look at her assailant she spoke softly.

“Careful, Mr. Fisher, we don’t want you up for assault, do we?”

“Thank you, Mary, indeed we do not, although I must ask you to return, with me, to the shop. We have reason to believe that there are items in your bag that have not been paid for.”

She smiled contentedly, “Of course, would you mind carrying the bag?”

Staff fiddled with stock and whispered to each other as Peter directed Mary back into the shop with Betsy close behind.  Up in the office, the interview was formal, although friendly. A denial at first, of course, although after a warm cup of tea and a couple of shortbread biscuits, a confession was forthcoming. It was duly recorded in writing, and a slowly written, but legible, signature from Mary Flint completed the in-house formalities.

“What address shall I put?” queried Peter. “Did they manage to find you a suitable place to settle down?

“You must be joking. I am not regarded as being important and anything they offer is always unsuitable for my lifestyle. I spend most of my time flitting between hostels and hotels or squatting in the University’s old halls of residence. They are taking ages to knock the building down and it is a good place to catch up with friends.”

The office seemed to shrink in size as a smart young constable, followed a burly red-faced sergeant into the room. Peter was aware of his responsibilities to explain to the police why he had called them in, and the action taken so far, although first he offered the visitors some refreshment.

Sergeant Brooks took a drink of his sherry, swilling the sweet liquid between his teeth before allowing it to seep down from the back of his throat, creating a warm trail through his body.  His protege sat quietly in the corner nursing a glass of water.

Wiping his lips with the sleeve of his jacket the sergeant turned to Mary.

“I am disappointed with you, Mary Flint. I thought you would have learnt your lesson after last year, although now it seems you are back to your old ways. You are likely to end up in custody again over Christmas.”

There was a noticeable widening of her mouth as Mary rested her chin on the lapel of her black duffle coat. Raising her eyes, barely moving her head, she looked up at the sergeant, a little bit of saliva dribbling down her chin. Memories of a warm room and a week of regular meals flashed through her mind and, oh, how she had enjoyed that Christmas dinner. The sergeant interrupted her thoughts.

 “The magistrate’s court is in session tomorrow morning from 10 o’clock, I will make the arrangements to get your case listed. It is convened as usual by Jim Jefferson.”

The courtroom mirrored the weather. It was cold and unfriendly and, apart from what were obviously a few cub reporters, it had only four interested onlookers.  The clerks were busy talking with each other and Mary clearly overheard them comment that Mr. Jefferson had been delayed by an accident on his way in from home. He was apparently stranded on the motorway in the middle of a long tailback, and a Miss Greendale was going to preside.

Minor traffic offences, and a case of unruly behaviour, were dealt with sympathetically before it was Mary’s turn. She knew her lines well. Homeless in the city, where she slept in hostels and hotels or squatted in empty premises, depending on circumstances She had felt sad and depressed and had ventured into the city centre hoping that the Christmas lights and decorations would cheer her up. She could not explain the urge that had come over her; she just wanted to get some presents for her homeless friends. They were struggling to survive and sure the shop was part of a larger chain and would not miss the few items she had taken.

The magistrate looked at Mary, over the top of her horn-rimmed spectacles. It was, after all, Christmas, and her own charitable work with the homeless had given some appreciation of the difficulties facing such a community. Mary heard the admonishment, and subsequent withdrawal of the charges, in a state of disbelief. Hadn’t Mr. Jefferson passed on the script; it was not meant to be like this; this wasn’t what she had planned for. She glanced over at Sergeant Brooks, eyes beseeching help, although he remained unmoved, his hands open in front of him.

Mary found herself looking over the bridge as the night settled in, with the temperature falling close to below zero. She dropped a few stones into the darkness below, listening carefully to hear if they landed on firm ground. Her fingers were becoming numb, despite wearing the woollen gloves that had evaded Peter Fisher’s search. Picking up a bundle of old newspapers from a waste bin she unsteadily shuffled down stone steps to under the bridge. The place reeked of alcohol and urine as she fumbled her way along the uneven ground before, in a state of bewilderment, lying down on a bed of cold damp grass.

Sergeant Brooks, conscious that Mary had no real home to go to, alerted all his officers on the beat to keep a watchful eye out for her, during their rounds, although it was he who found her semi-unconscious and suffering from exposure, on Christmas Eve morning. The following afternoon, motivated both professionally and personally, he drove into the hospital car park before making his way to the reception inside the main building. Receiving authorisation to proceed he took the lift to the second floor and followed the signs to General Ward 2. There at the far end was Mary, sitting up in bed tucking into a big bowl of chicken curry, having just politely dismissed the duty doctor by telling him to come back later once she had finished her dinner.

Licking a few grains of rice from her bottom lip she greeted her visitor, “Hello Sergeant, how kind of you to come and see me; it is all a bit different from last year, although the people are lovely and the food is every bit as good.

“I am very pleased to hear that Mary, and just relieved you are safe and well. Maybe next year you will take a more sensible approach to making your Christmas arrangements.”

After five minutes of small talk he stood up to leave. “Enjoy the rest of your stay and remember what I have said.”

“Oh, just one thing sergeant.”

“What?”

“Would you have time to drop by and see Miss Greendale? She is in a ward on the next floor. Got mugged going home last night!”