Big Fly
written by: Sarah Das Gupta
It was Christmas Eve, and in all the windows along Dorrington Row, bright Christmas lights shone. Children wondered why it was called Christmas Eve when the day was as long as usual. The shops were open late, and crowds jostled in the market for the last box of crackers or the last Christmas tree. In the stores, the tired voices of the ‘herald angels,’ exhausted from singing since early September, died away. The town’s regular core of Father Christmases trudged their way home after handing out a present to the final cheeky boy to pull their cotton wool beards.
Let’s see how the Dewbury children at number 10 are coping with the spirit of Christmas.
‘If we go to bed early, Santa Claus will come quicker.’
My little sister’s suggestion puzzled me. The earlier we went to bed, the longer we would wait for Christmas morning. On the other hand, I was bored decorating our shabby, artificial tree. The fairy had lost all her tinsel after Dad wrestled her from the slobbering jaws of Algie. By the way, he’s our ‘Danpoo’ puppy- a mixture of a Great Dane and a Poodle!
Our lights, too, were nothing like my friend Arabella’s Christmas lights. Dad had strung together Gran’s old lights and added them to ours. They were a muddle of colours and sizes. Bella’s were all tiny and pale blue, the’ in’ colour that year. Then Mum said we had to put the star Lois had made at Sunday School on the tree ‘cause Jesus liked kids’ art better than shop-made rubbish. I said I thought the star was shining in the sky and was made by God. Mum pointed out there were no Christmas trees or electric lights in the stable at Bethlehem.
Lois asked, ‘How did they light their headlights?’ Course, she meant ‘halos’.
As we climbed into bed, the lights suddenly went off. Lois started screaming, ‘I can’t see anything! It’s scary. Father Christmas won’t be able to find my bed.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s only a power cut. It will come back in a minute. Here’s the torch. I’ll leave it at the side of your bed, Sharon. The door is open, so I’ll hear if you call. Don’t make a noise or Father Christmas won’t come at all!’
At first, I heard Lois turning over and whispering to ‘Big Monkey,’ an ugly, fluffy toy which always slept beside her. Then the whispering stopped. I tried to shut my eyes, but I was waiting for the most exciting moment in the year when you feel the heavy weight at the bottom of the bed, and you know the Christmas sack or pillowcase has arrived.
‘There’s a person in the room, I heard them moving,’ Lois’ screams echoed in the darkness.
‘Don’t be silly, go to sleep.’ As I turned over, my heart almost stopped. There was a dark shape! It was hovering near the bottom of Lois’s bed on the far side of the room. It was hard to see, but it seemed to be wearing a long cloak. Despite my nine-year-old doubts, for a moment, I thought it must be Santa Claus.
I felt for the torch Mum had left beside my bed. My hand was scrabbling around, feeling for it among the mess on the bedside table. Why didn’t I listen when Mum asked me to clear up the bedroom? Too late, I’d just grabbed a smooth metal cylinder by mistake! A strong smell nearly made me sneeze. The can felt cold and slippery.
‘You’ve got the fly thingy,’ Lois whispered in a muffled voice from under the blankets. She had crept across the room to take refuge in my bed.
I leant out of bed again at a dangerous angle. Got it! At last, I felt the reassuring torch in my hand.
The spooky shadow had moved. Now it was closer to my bed! It seemed to float like a huge black cloud. It was moving. It stopped. It was waiting, hovering! I pressed the switch. The torch lit up the darkness. Lois sat up, shaking beside me, frantically waving the smelly can.
At the end of my bed was a tall figure, framed in the torchlight. It had a black mask covering half its face and a faded, tartan dressing gown that looked vaguely familiar. Before I could say anything, I was sneezing loudly, uncontrollably. Snot was sprayed all over the bedcover.
Standing up in bed, Lois was spraying the masked figure with insect repellent. She looked rather like a female version of Woody.
‘Go away! Big fly! Buzz off!’
Her finger remained glued to the button until the last drop had hit the ‘big fly’. The figure in the dressing gown collapsed in a sneezing, coughing pile.
I flicked the light switch on; the room was instantly as bright as day. The man in the mask had collapsed in a fit of sneezing. He lay twisting and turning, smothered in a large, bulky pillow case with Christmas parcels of every shape and size lying temptingly at his side.
‘Daddy, why are you dressed as Big Fly? Go away. We’re waiting for the real Father Christmas.’
‘Shit! Shit!’ came the agonised cry from beneath the white pillowcase. The figure emerged slowly, the mask at an angle over one eye, one arm of the tartan dressing gown was hanging loose.
‘You can’t be Father Christmas, you are saying bad words, and he doesn’t come to people who swear. The Sunday teacher told us that.’
I could hear Mum coming down the hall. I pulled Lois with me under the blankets and switched off the light. We could hear voices and feel the pillow cases on the bottom of my bed.
Dad spent Christmas Day with his leg resting on a chair and his arm in a sling.
‘Next year, you have to wear proper Father Christmas clothes, Daddy, and speak politely.’ Lois advised him firmly.
‘I’m thinking of going to Hawaii and giving Christmas a miss,’ was the pained reply.
At last, Christmas 2025 has passed and is part of history. Let’s close the curtains on number 10. Mr Dewbury’s ankle is better, while Lois has broken a window in the new doll’s house. Mum has locked up the canister of insect repellent, and the fairy was safe from the ravages of Algie, who grows ever bigger. All along Dorrington Row, discarded Christmas trees lie by the trash cans, and the writers of cracker jokes are sharpening their pencils. Dad’s looking for early offers for flights to Hawaii.
- Big Fly - December 24, 2025
- A Green and Pleasant Land - August 4, 2025
- Spotlight On Writers – Sarah Das Gupta - February 22, 2025
