Christmas In Cloverbridge | Bedtime Story With Scottish Narrator

Hey, Jeffrey here, and welcome back to Night Falls. I truly love this time of year, and getting into the festive spirit. One of my favorite books to read when December comes is The Jolly Christmas Postman. I such a joy to read and even better to share, full of superb characters, amazing illustrations, and lovingly written by Alan and Janet Alberg. I hope I can bring a little of that same festive magic tonight as we travel to the village of Clover Bridge, where their postman is finishing up his rounds ready for Christmas, and the village is coated in a soft blanket of white snow. Before we begin, here's the quick ad break that keeps this free content possible. To go free, subscribe via the link in the show notes. To find out more, Toyota, let's go places. LinkedIn is the network that works for you. All right, now back to Night Falls. For almost 40 years, Bernard Selby had worked as a postman, taking his bright red van out at dawn, or before dawn, as the case may be, to drive the winding country lanes down to the post office. Some mornings, the road were lit by the summer sun. Other days, they were drenched in autumn mist, coming so thick off the fields that he might overshoot the depot by a length or two, and have to reverse back up the road. But once there, he would fill his van up before setting out again to deliver letters, and parcels, and packages to the few hundred residents of the village of Cloverbridge, England. Cloverbridge was so sleepy and unassuming a place, that often if you mention the name to others, even those who lived in the larger town just a few miles over, they hardly even recognized it. They would frown a little, or screw up their eyes, and say, Cloverbridge? Now where is that? Everything important, Bernard often found himself thinking, seemed to happen somewhere else. All the grand events of politics and history, the kinds of things you'd read about in the newspaper, or see on the television. And yet, whenever he drove through the village with its birch woods and cottages, its rustling hedgerows, and its silent, glassy lake, his heart simply swelled up two sizes with love. There was no other place on earth that Bernard loved more than Cloverbridge, which, small as it may be, teamed with quite as much life, with as many worries and wonders, triumphs, and tribulations as any other place in the world. Bernard's father had been a clockmaker, and had spent the hours from dawn until dusk, sitting at his table, tinkering and tampering with timepieces, fixing their hands, painting their delicate faces, mending their insides when they spluttered and ran slow. Bernard remembered a morning when he was just a boy, when his father took him by the hand, and led him to his workshop. There, from among all the large and impressive clocks, that were piled on the shelves and surfaces, he had picked up a tiny silver watch. He pulled back the watch face and showed Bernard, wide-eyed and breathless with curiosity, the mechanism within, the intricate network of hairsprings and barrels, and delicate interlocking wheels, which performed the magic of making time happen. It all seemed, Bernard thought, his breath caught in his throat, all the more beautiful because it was so tiny. Now, whenever he thought about the beauty of little Cloverbridge, he thought of his father's silver watch. And this morning, it was so cold, the air itself seemed to shiver. The coldest December on record, they were saying on the radio, and so Bernard had put on his gloves and his hat, and wrapped a thick woolen scarf around his neck. The snow was mounted up on the verges, soft and unblemished on the fields, while the sun, like a thin disk of white paper, was just peeking over the white hills. It was Christmas Eve, and Bernard was mindful that he did not want to be late. He had still to deliver the final parcels before the big day tomorrow, and his daughter, Rhiannon, and the grandkids were due at his before eleven. They wouldn't be best pleased turning up and finding him still out on his rounds. He turned on the ignition, and looking over his shoulder, and turning out onto the road, counted the several packages that lay in the back of the van, each one wrapped in red and gold. And green paper, and tied with silver-fringed ribbons, or crisp strands of raffia, waiting patiently to be delivered. So Bernard Selby set off on his Christmas Eve rounds. He stopped at little cottages with Christmas lights strung from the gables, and at farmsteads with smoke billowing from the chimneys, saying, Good morning, Merry Christmas, to the villagers, and handing over their letters and packages. As he went, the sun continued its ascent through the sky, turning a pale, wintry yellow. It spilt light, making the frosty hedges dazzle. As he drove, he thought about his father, who this morning lay as heavily on his mind as the snow on the fields. When Bernard had decided, at twenty years old, to join the postal service, his father had been proud. Oh, so proud. He had said he thought it suited him to work in the post, and Bernard had said, Well, that's why I chose it. Oh, to be twenty. He had thought back then that he was old, that he was all grown up. He had been so sure that he understood himself, and other people, and how the world worked. But now, looking back down the wide corridor of his life, he could see with perfect clarity how young, in fact, he'd been, little more than a child, with a head full of fallacies, and so much yet to learn. You never do stop learning, his father used to tell him. Time is a constant teacher. Well, his father had been right about that, more right as far as Bernard could tell, with each year the past. And he had been right about postal work, suiting him too, suiting his early rising, his desire to please, his concern with timeliness. Bernard hated being late. This was a trait certainly not inherited from his father, who, in spite of the nature of his work, was always terrible at keeping time. Even now the old man ran through his memory calling, I'm late, I'm late, and disappearing down the road. And yet Bernard sometimes wondered if all that time spent as a child around the dam, ticking of dozens of clocks, had not somehow shaped him into the man he now was. The pattern of the second hand was so consistent a feature of his world, that the noise seemed to come not from outside, but from within. A man with a clock inside him, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock. Bernard pulled up to a red brick house, tick, tock, tick, tock. Bernard pulled up to a red brick house with white window sills, and the woody trunk of a wisteria growing over the door. In the spring, and again in the summer, the tree erupted into magnificent bloom, plumes of purple flowers hanging so low that you had to duck when you walked through the door. But now the wisteria was flowerless and leafless, and only ribbons of snow clung to its ash and bark. He opened the small wrought iron gate, and saw that Jenny Bright was already standing at the door, shrugging the folds of a pale pink dressing gown more tightly around her body. Merry Christmas Jenny, he said, as he walked up the path, and she waved at him. Her dark hair was pulled back in a loose bun, and on each of her cold nipped cheeks was a bright pink spot, which deepened into a blush as he held out two packages. The kids will be delighted, she said, taking one of the packages into the pocket of her dressing gown. They can go under the tree and wait there for Father Christmas to add all his tonight. Oh, IOP's bringing them plenty, Bernard said with a big smile. They grow up so soon, and Jenny Bright smiled in agreement at that. Bernard asked, and how is John? He has his last shift at the hospital tonight, she replied, and then glanced over his shoulder. He should be back any minute now, and then we can get into it properly. She gave a small smile, and nodded twice quickly. Doesn't feel quite like Christmas until he's back, she said, and we can get into it properly. Bernard inclined his head slightly, so as to indicate that he understood perfectly what she meant. But inwardly, he had to stop himself shaking his head with a kind of unbelieving wonder. Johnny Bright, a little Jenny Maddox, married. He still couldn't believe it, though it had been six years since the wedding, and they had two young things scurrying around now. He remembered them both when they were little. He remembered them both when they were little. In fact, he could recall holding Johnny Bright in his arms at the summer fair, when he was just a gargling baby. He'd seen the two of them grow up on opposite sides of Cloverbridge, watched with the rest of the village as they fell in together, holding hands at the bus stop, or down on the green beneath the crab apple tree, utterly oblivious to the existence of anything in the world except each other, and the mysterious, sapling love, taking root, and blossoming between them. How beautiful and bewildering thought Bernard now to see children grow, to see them live. But he didn't say any of this out loud. All he said was, of course. And yours? Jenny asked. Are you spending Christmas with Rhiannon? Ah, yes. She's coming over with the kids and staying until Boxing Day. In fact, he looked at the watch and his wrist. At this rate, I'll be late for them. Jenny took the other parcel from him and held it in the crook of her arm. Well, I hope that they're all doing well. Oh, they are, Bernard told her. But I blink and they get bigger. In the back of the van, one lonely parcel remained on the bench. Bernard checked the address, gave a small nod to himself, and buckled himself in. He turned left onto the road that skirted the woods. The rows of white birches, with their bare, grasping branches, look like arms sticking up out of the earth. He recalled as a child running through those woods with friends, trying in vain to hide his skinny boyish frame behind the birches, even skinnier trunks. And then, as adults, he and Linda brought Rhiannon there in early autumn to wander among the trees and share a picnic beneath the yellow turning leaves. Perhaps tomorrow, they would bring the kids down to the woods for a Christmas morning walk. Perhaps they would build a snowman together. He would take a bag of carrots and find two fallen birch twigs to use as knobbly arms. Bernard passed through the main street of the village, past the news agents and the haberdashery, the butcher's shop and the bakery, where already there was a queue of people wrapped in colorful puffer jackets, waiting most likely to get their hands on one of Mrs. Shah's famous Christmas puddings. Soon, he pulled up outside a house at the end of the street. He took the final parcel from the back of his van. Then he walked up the narrow path between flower beds, in which clumps of soil were still frost hardened and glittering. He knocked on the door. When Mrs. Woolly opened it, she stood a little blarely in the fresh winter light. She looked tired. Her eyes were a little puffy, and with one hand she pulled her wire-rimmed glasses to the bottom of her nose, so that she could rub the sleep-free from her eyes with the other. Mr. Bernard, she said croakily. She seemed surprised to see him. Hello. Hello, Mrs. Woolly, Bernard said, handing her the parcel, which she took from him without really noting what it was. She said, my goodness Bernard, she said, what time is it? Bernard looked at his watch. A quarter to eleven, Mrs. Woolly, he told her. A little surprised himself, for the time really was getting on. Rihanna would be arriving at his house in any moment. She may well be there already. Mrs. Woolly was blinking at him with a mild shock. Oh dear Bernard, I've overslept. I thought it was still very early in the morning. I was sleeping in my armchair in the lounge, and just now the clock said it was not even seven in the morning. Oh dear, oh dear. She said, now shaking her head, her eyes sliding downward. The clock must have stopped. It must be broken. Then an idea struck her, and a light was switched on in her eyes. Oh Bernard, thank heavens it's you. Folding her hands before her, as if in prayer. Just the men I need, please. Bernard, would you be a love and pop inside to have a look at my clock for me, to see whether you'd be able to fix it? Bernard looked for Mrs. Woolly's pale, twinkling eyes, which despite her age, for she was one of the oldest residents in all of Cloverbridge, still shone with a rye and unexpected youth, to the watch on his rest. He was not sure whether he had the time, for he didn't want to be late. Oh please Bernard, Mrs. Woolly asked again, more softly this time. I do rely on it, so without it I won't have any idea when I need to be ready for my son to come and pick me up. We're having Christmas with his wife's family this year, you see? She said. Bernard relented. Of course I'll have a look, Mrs. Woolly, he said, and followed her through the dark corridor into her living room. There was her armchair, with a blue knitted blanket laid over it, and in the corner was a small television set. On the mantelpiece stood a range of framed photographs, some black and white, some in colour. Bernard noticed pictures of Mrs. Woolly's husband, and of her children and grandchildren too. In the midst of them all stood a mahogany mantel clock, with gold roman numerals, and a high, curlicued arch. But no ticking of a second hand could be heard in the room. There it is, Mrs. Woolly was saying, pointing at the clock. See, still says seven in the morning, certainly something wrong with it. Bernard told her not to worry, he would take a look. He lifted the clock carefully from the mantel, and held it on his lap. Then, taking great care, he lifted the panel from the back, revealing the cogs and wheels, and interlocking pieces of metal. Ah yes, he said, after he had finished inspecting it, oh it's an easy fix, all right. See, and then Bernard sunk his fingers into the clock's mechanism, and very gently began to manipulate its inner workings. Well Bernard, Mrs. Woolly murmured as she watched him work, how wonderful that you learned all this from your father. Ah, without looking at her, Bernard nodded. But now as he watched his hands at work, lifting a pin, and placing it back against the cog from which it had become untethered, it was as though he were looking at the hands of his own father, decades and decades before, as they worked away at the shop table. Yes, his fingers had the same knuckles, the same delicacy, he had inherited something then from his father. When he was finished, Bernard returned the clock to the mantelpiece. Now it showed the true time, two minutes to eleven, and the quiet thrum of a ticking clock had joined the hum of the heating, the noise of cars passing outside, the sound of Mrs. Woolly's breathing, and his own. Oh, perfect Bernard, Mrs. Woolly said, clasping her hands together. Thank you ever so much. It's back to normal now, Mrs. Woolly, he said. Oh yes it is, she replied. She looked at him glowingly, and he turned to make his way down the corridor. Thank you Bernard, she said again. You are a godsend. Oh, thank you for the parcel. You're very, very welcome, Mrs. Woolly, Bernard said, standing at the front door, and letting the electric cold of the winter air knit at his skin. I've got head off for Rihanna now. Oh, she's coming with the children, is she? Mrs. Woolly looked out over his shoulder at the street beyond, apparently thinking deeply about something. You know, she said after some moments had passed, I've often thought what a wonderful family you are, always pulling each other through. She pushed her glasses up her nose, and smiled at him. Merry Christmas Bernard, she said. And a merry Christmas to you too, Mrs. Woolly. Bernard drove slowly back through the village. He passed the haberdashery, the bakery, and the tea rooms with the tables and chairs folded away. He was late. It was past 11 now, according to the digital numbers flashing on the dashboard. But for some reason, he was in no hurry. Something had changed in him. What Mrs. Woolly had said had moved something in him, some tiny pin or spindle. And now the clock inside him beat slow. As he turned the corner and made his way up the hill road that would lead to his own home, it occurred to him that he quite agreed. They had pulled each other through, he and Linda and Rhiannon, their only girl. Each of them, like everyone living in Cloverbridge and in the rambling world beyond, had been doubt their share of trials. And yet, together they had pulled through out the other end of thick and thin, of good times and the bad. The thought was sweet. It made the winter sky almost blue. Made the snow drifts in the trees look like piles of crystals. Bernard was glad to be done with work. Glad that Christmas was finally here. He turned his car into the driveway, pulled up behind Rhiannon's red people carrier. So, they were here. Yes, there they were now, stood on the stoop, waving at him fondly. He got out of the car and bent low to scoop her youngest, the little boy up into his arms. Merry Christmas, Granddad. He said, Oh, Merry Christmas to you too, Mikey. Bernard said. And there was Rhiannon coming towards him now, her far-lined hood pulled up around her ears. Yes, he thought to himself as a warmth went through him. She was happy. She was smiling broadly. He could see her happiness. He could feel it. It was there in the softness of her features, as though any of life's burdens had lifted and made her lighter. Whenever he saw his daughter happy like that, he rejoiced. It filled him up. In that moment, he felt that nothing in the world could spoil the brilliance of his joy. She was walking towards him, opening her arms to him, ready to join him in a Christmas embrace. He opened his arms. Afterwards, they would go inside and light a fire. They would sing and put the presents under the tree. They would leave some carrots out for Rudolph. And in the morning, after presents were opened, still in their pajamas, they would go out for a walk. Yes, they would pull on their hats and their scarves, and they would go to the birch woods. And he and Rhiannon would show little Mikey where they had gone with his own father. Many Christmases passed to build men out of the fallen snow. We'll leave our story there for tonight. The magic of Christmas time, especially under a blanket of snow. Sleep well and sweet dreams.