A Christmas Fic for edgeofthewoods
Title: Here We Go A'Caroling
Genre: Are You Being Served?
Rating: PG
Word count: 1535
Prompt: To impress her, he learns all of the words to her favorite Christmas carol. And he doesn’t even like carols. Or Christmas. Or singing. Writer’s choice: Mr. Lucas, Mrs. Slocomb.
My thanks to edgeofthewoods for a fun prompt and for playing along. Likewise, a top of the hat to sparky955. Better?
There was a scheme forming in Mr. Lucas’s brain, but the truth be told, there were often half-baked plans percolating in his little gray cells.
He stared across the floor at Mrs. Slocomb and inwardly sighed. Why Captain Peacock left her in charge of the floor was beyond him. Why he hadn’t asked Captain Peacock for Christmas Eve off for his shopping was equally beyond him. At least with old Peacock he stood a chance. With that old bat, he was lost.
“You look like you took a sour pill,” Mr. Humphries murmured as he passed. All right for him, he was having a right time with his commissions. There would be partying at his house on Christmas. “Still trying to figure out how to get the 24th off? With your commissions, I would think you would be begging to stay.”
Mr. Lucas made a face at him. “And I thought Peacock was a tough nut to crack.”
Mr. Humphries glanced around and gestured him over. “You are going about this all wrong. You need to flatter her.”
“That old trout?” Mrs. Slocomb shot a disapproving look in his direction.
Mr. Humphries shushed him by saying, “Well the trout was old, but it was fresher that the salmon.” She returned to her reign on the floor. “That attitude is what’s getting you into trouble. You need to be kind, you need to make her feel special and young.”
“She’s my mother’s age and Mother’s dead. How do you suggest I go about it?”
“Listen. I overheard her saying that she misses the carolers who used to come to her place. There aren’t any at her new flat and she’s very upset. Now, if you were to learn her favorite songs and sing them outside her door, I suspect that when you approach her, her attitude will be much more malleable.”
Mr. Lucas laughed and nodded, then paused. “Come again.”
“Sing to her, Mr. Lucas. Sing to her and she will be putty in your hands.”
“What songs does she like? You mean like the Jethro Tull and Status Quo?”
“I was thinking more traditional.”
Mr. Lucas nodded wisely. “Aw, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones.”
“Christmas songs...” Mr. Humphries was about at the end of his rope.
“They did a Christmas album?” At Mr. Humphries’s look, Lucas made a face. “Only problem is, I don’t know any. I hate carols, I hate singing and I’m not looking too favorably on you at the moment, either. Scrooge had it down right.”
“Just trying to be of help.” Mr. Humphries swept away to help a customer, leaving Lucas alone with his thoughts.
They didn’t see him at lunch, but that wasn’t unusual this close to the holidays. Plans had to be made and gifts purchased. It was normal for one or more of their group to be gone.
Mrs. Slocomb took her usual chair and stared down at her cod. “You have any of that old trout left, Mr. Humphries.”
It took him a minute and then he laughed. “I was merely foiling another of Mr. Lucas’s schemes to get Christmas Eve afternoon off.”
“He needs a good clip around his cake hole,” she muttered. “If he were just to ask politely and professionally, I would be happy to give it to him, but now, he goes behind my back with all this… this… skullduggery flimflam.” She poked her limp lettuce leaf.
“I told him that.” Mr. Humphries cautiously poured some catsup onto his plate and sighed. “Look at that. This is watery enough, they should put it in a pot and call it tomato soup.”
“No use complaining,” Miss Brahms struggled to cut her chicken. “You wouldn’t have to eat it, but you might be wearing it if you rile up that lot.”
“What’s he up to, Mr. Humphries?”
“Were I to know that, Mrs. Slocomb, you would be the first to know.” He held up his right hand in a three-finger salute. “Scout’s honor.”
“I didn’t know you were a scout, Mr. Humphries.” Mrs. Slocomb looked him up and down. “Imagine that.”
“My mother thought it would make a man out of me. She thought wrong.” He paused to chew a soggy chip. “What are your plans for Christmas, Mrs. Slocomb?”
“Me and Mrs. Axelby will attend church and then after Christmas luncheon, we will listen to the Queen’s speech and afterwards we’ll open our little gifts. Then down to the pub for some darts and singing.”
“You like Christmas carols, don’t you, Mrs. Slocomb?”
“Oh, my yes, properly done, of course. None of this recent silly stuff.” She managed the last bit of her fish and washed it down with some anemic coffee. “It’s time,” she said with a sigh. “I thought Captain Peacock’s job would be exciting, but all I do is tell people where to go.”
Mr. Humphries bit his lip and closed his eyes against the obvious comeback that she’d been doing that for years.
“Indigestion, pet?” she asked, patting his sympathetically on the arm. “Those chips will get you every time. I don’t think they’ve changed the oil since Clement Attlee was prime minister.”
Miss Brahms looked sick. “And I’ve been eating them for years.”
“I think we build up a sort of immunity after a while.”
Mr. Lucas was behind his counter as they returned to the floor. His face was flushed and he was humming to himself.
“Where were you, Mr. Lucas? We missed you at lunch.” He made sure that Mrs. Slocomb could hear.
“Just doing a bit of Christmas magic, Mr. Humphries.” Once she turned away, he gestured to his co-worker. “Check this out.” He opened a cardboard box. Inside was a phonograph player and some records. “Now I don’t have to learn the words. I’m just going to mouth them.”
“Aren’t you the clever one? When are you going to do it?”
“Tonight! Wish me luck!”
“You don’t need luck, you need a miracle.”
The next morning Mr. Humphries entered the floor and looked around. He wasn’t used to being the first one here. Captain Peacock nearly always beat him, but that was okay. He didn’t want to give the firm another minute of his time unless it was required.
He went to store his hat and coat, then paused. Mr. Lucas’s were already hanging there.
“Oh, Mr. Lucas, are you free?” He waited for a beat. “I’m quite alone. You’re safe.”
Finally the curtain to the men’s changing room shifted slightly and Mr. Lucas peered out.
Mr. Humphries clutched his chest. He raced to the man and placed a hand on his forehead. “Whatever has happened to you? You look like death warmed over.”
“I… I…” His voice was a harsh whisper.
Mr. Rumbold appeared. He took stock of the scene, then asked, “Is everything all right, Mr. Humphries?”
“I think Mr. Lucas is coming down with something.”
“I am…” Lucas said, stumbling forward. “I need to see Nurse.”
“I’ll call her.”
“I need to go there.”
Then the lift opened and Mrs. Slocomb came in. She was gaily decked in a red and white coat. When she saw them, she twiddled her fingers at them and giggled.
“What on earth?”
Mr. Lucas’s legs went and he slid to the ground as Rumbold was heading to Mrs. Slocomb.
“Mr. Lucas, Dick!” Mr. Humphries patted his cheeks.
“Mr. Humphries, you need to get me out of here. Now.”
“What happened?” He half carried his coworker into the men’s changing room.
“I went up to the record department and got an assortment of records. Set things up and started to serenade her.”
“Didn’t she like the ones you picked?”
“Not so much the Chipmunks,” he muttered, huddling into a ball. “Then I found Plácido Domingo.”
“You didn’t?” He looked so miserable. “Then I told her I needed this afternoon off to practice with my choir.”
“And?”
“She said she’s coming with me.” He looked pleadingly at Humphries. “You have to help me. It was your scheme in the first place.”
“I never told you to pretend you are the greatest tenor of our times.” He shook his head. “As is so often the case with this holiday, it’s better to give that receive. It’s all yours, my young friend.”
“You’ll get yours.” The opening bell rang.
“Quite probably and here comes Sister. I imagine you are going to get yours as well.”
He stepped back out onto the floor. Mrs. Slocomb studied him, her face worried.
“He’s got the flu,” Mr. Humphries mouthed and touched his throat. “Can’t sing.”
Mrs. Slocomb looked sad and sighed. “Is that just like Christmas, though?”
She left and Lucas looked beseechingly at the nurse. She touched his forehead. “Why, Mr. Lucas, you are burning up! We need to get some medicine into you. I’m afraid you need to go to hospital.”
“But… but… my counter...” Lucas protested hoarsely.
“Mr. Humphries will just have to manage it as best he can.”
“Is he all right?” Mrs. Slocomb came over to Mr. Humphries, drywashing her hands.
“The Nurse thinks he has the flu.”
“I’m not surprised. Last night, he sounded like a ruddy chipmunk half the time he was singing to me.”
Genre: Are You Being Served?
Rating: PG
Word count: 1535
Prompt: To impress her, he learns all of the words to her favorite Christmas carol. And he doesn’t even like carols. Or Christmas. Or singing. Writer’s choice: Mr. Lucas, Mrs. Slocomb.
My thanks to edgeofthewoods for a fun prompt and for playing along. Likewise, a top of the hat to sparky955. Better?
There was a scheme forming in Mr. Lucas’s brain, but the truth be told, there were often half-baked plans percolating in his little gray cells.
He stared across the floor at Mrs. Slocomb and inwardly sighed. Why Captain Peacock left her in charge of the floor was beyond him. Why he hadn’t asked Captain Peacock for Christmas Eve off for his shopping was equally beyond him. At least with old Peacock he stood a chance. With that old bat, he was lost.
“You look like you took a sour pill,” Mr. Humphries murmured as he passed. All right for him, he was having a right time with his commissions. There would be partying at his house on Christmas. “Still trying to figure out how to get the 24th off? With your commissions, I would think you would be begging to stay.”
Mr. Lucas made a face at him. “And I thought Peacock was a tough nut to crack.”
Mr. Humphries glanced around and gestured him over. “You are going about this all wrong. You need to flatter her.”
“That old trout?” Mrs. Slocomb shot a disapproving look in his direction.
Mr. Humphries shushed him by saying, “Well the trout was old, but it was fresher that the salmon.” She returned to her reign on the floor. “That attitude is what’s getting you into trouble. You need to be kind, you need to make her feel special and young.”
“She’s my mother’s age and Mother’s dead. How do you suggest I go about it?”
“Listen. I overheard her saying that she misses the carolers who used to come to her place. There aren’t any at her new flat and she’s very upset. Now, if you were to learn her favorite songs and sing them outside her door, I suspect that when you approach her, her attitude will be much more malleable.”
Mr. Lucas laughed and nodded, then paused. “Come again.”
“Sing to her, Mr. Lucas. Sing to her and she will be putty in your hands.”
“What songs does she like? You mean like the Jethro Tull and Status Quo?”
“I was thinking more traditional.”
Mr. Lucas nodded wisely. “Aw, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones.”
“Christmas songs...” Mr. Humphries was about at the end of his rope.
“They did a Christmas album?” At Mr. Humphries’s look, Lucas made a face. “Only problem is, I don’t know any. I hate carols, I hate singing and I’m not looking too favorably on you at the moment, either. Scrooge had it down right.”
“Just trying to be of help.” Mr. Humphries swept away to help a customer, leaving Lucas alone with his thoughts.
They didn’t see him at lunch, but that wasn’t unusual this close to the holidays. Plans had to be made and gifts purchased. It was normal for one or more of their group to be gone.
Mrs. Slocomb took her usual chair and stared down at her cod. “You have any of that old trout left, Mr. Humphries.”
It took him a minute and then he laughed. “I was merely foiling another of Mr. Lucas’s schemes to get Christmas Eve afternoon off.”
“He needs a good clip around his cake hole,” she muttered. “If he were just to ask politely and professionally, I would be happy to give it to him, but now, he goes behind my back with all this… this… skullduggery flimflam.” She poked her limp lettuce leaf.
“I told him that.” Mr. Humphries cautiously poured some catsup onto his plate and sighed. “Look at that. This is watery enough, they should put it in a pot and call it tomato soup.”
“No use complaining,” Miss Brahms struggled to cut her chicken. “You wouldn’t have to eat it, but you might be wearing it if you rile up that lot.”
“What’s he up to, Mr. Humphries?”
“Were I to know that, Mrs. Slocomb, you would be the first to know.” He held up his right hand in a three-finger salute. “Scout’s honor.”
“I didn’t know you were a scout, Mr. Humphries.” Mrs. Slocomb looked him up and down. “Imagine that.”
“My mother thought it would make a man out of me. She thought wrong.” He paused to chew a soggy chip. “What are your plans for Christmas, Mrs. Slocomb?”
“Me and Mrs. Axelby will attend church and then after Christmas luncheon, we will listen to the Queen’s speech and afterwards we’ll open our little gifts. Then down to the pub for some darts and singing.”
“You like Christmas carols, don’t you, Mrs. Slocomb?”
“Oh, my yes, properly done, of course. None of this recent silly stuff.” She managed the last bit of her fish and washed it down with some anemic coffee. “It’s time,” she said with a sigh. “I thought Captain Peacock’s job would be exciting, but all I do is tell people where to go.”
Mr. Humphries bit his lip and closed his eyes against the obvious comeback that she’d been doing that for years.
“Indigestion, pet?” she asked, patting his sympathetically on the arm. “Those chips will get you every time. I don’t think they’ve changed the oil since Clement Attlee was prime minister.”
Miss Brahms looked sick. “And I’ve been eating them for years.”
“I think we build up a sort of immunity after a while.”
Mr. Lucas was behind his counter as they returned to the floor. His face was flushed and he was humming to himself.
“Where were you, Mr. Lucas? We missed you at lunch.” He made sure that Mrs. Slocomb could hear.
“Just doing a bit of Christmas magic, Mr. Humphries.” Once she turned away, he gestured to his co-worker. “Check this out.” He opened a cardboard box. Inside was a phonograph player and some records. “Now I don’t have to learn the words. I’m just going to mouth them.”
“Aren’t you the clever one? When are you going to do it?”
“Tonight! Wish me luck!”
“You don’t need luck, you need a miracle.”
The next morning Mr. Humphries entered the floor and looked around. He wasn’t used to being the first one here. Captain Peacock nearly always beat him, but that was okay. He didn’t want to give the firm another minute of his time unless it was required.
He went to store his hat and coat, then paused. Mr. Lucas’s were already hanging there.
“Oh, Mr. Lucas, are you free?” He waited for a beat. “I’m quite alone. You’re safe.”
Finally the curtain to the men’s changing room shifted slightly and Mr. Lucas peered out.
Mr. Humphries clutched his chest. He raced to the man and placed a hand on his forehead. “Whatever has happened to you? You look like death warmed over.”
“I… I…” His voice was a harsh whisper.
Mr. Rumbold appeared. He took stock of the scene, then asked, “Is everything all right, Mr. Humphries?”
“I think Mr. Lucas is coming down with something.”
“I am…” Lucas said, stumbling forward. “I need to see Nurse.”
“I’ll call her.”
“I need to go there.”
Then the lift opened and Mrs. Slocomb came in. She was gaily decked in a red and white coat. When she saw them, she twiddled her fingers at them and giggled.
“What on earth?”
Mr. Lucas’s legs went and he slid to the ground as Rumbold was heading to Mrs. Slocomb.
“Mr. Lucas, Dick!” Mr. Humphries patted his cheeks.
“Mr. Humphries, you need to get me out of here. Now.”
“What happened?” He half carried his coworker into the men’s changing room.
“I went up to the record department and got an assortment of records. Set things up and started to serenade her.”
“Didn’t she like the ones you picked?”
“Not so much the Chipmunks,” he muttered, huddling into a ball. “Then I found Plácido Domingo.”
“You didn’t?” He looked so miserable. “Then I told her I needed this afternoon off to practice with my choir.”
“And?”
“She said she’s coming with me.” He looked pleadingly at Humphries. “You have to help me. It was your scheme in the first place.”
“I never told you to pretend you are the greatest tenor of our times.” He shook his head. “As is so often the case with this holiday, it’s better to give that receive. It’s all yours, my young friend.”
“You’ll get yours.” The opening bell rang.
“Quite probably and here comes Sister. I imagine you are going to get yours as well.”
He stepped back out onto the floor. Mrs. Slocomb studied him, her face worried.
“He’s got the flu,” Mr. Humphries mouthed and touched his throat. “Can’t sing.”
Mrs. Slocomb looked sad and sighed. “Is that just like Christmas, though?”
She left and Lucas looked beseechingly at the nurse. She touched his forehead. “Why, Mr. Lucas, you are burning up! We need to get some medicine into you. I’m afraid you need to go to hospital.”
“But… but… my counter...” Lucas protested hoarsely.
“Mr. Humphries will just have to manage it as best he can.”
“Is he all right?” Mrs. Slocomb came over to Mr. Humphries, drywashing her hands.
“The Nurse thinks he has the flu.”
“I’m not surprised. Last night, he sounded like a ruddy chipmunk half the time he was singing to me.”