Frosty Reception

Little Tommy Whittle had prayed every night for the last week. He put on his spectacles and pulled at his bedroom curtains, his tiny hands coming together as he thanked God for answering his prayers. He reached for his toy sword and tapped his sister Melanie on the head, as she slept soundly on the lower bunk.

    “Mel, Mel, it’s snowing. We’re going to have a white Christmas,” he enthused, noisily.

    “Shhh! You’ll wake Mum and Dad, Tommy.”

    Tommy was ten-years old, and his bossy sister a year older. Tommy had bugged his parents for a sledge, and his father moaned it would be a waste of money. “It hardly ever snows,” he would say.  He eventually conceded, as he always did. Who could resist the tiny, cherub-faced boy?

    Tommy always managed to get his own way. A bowed head usually did the trick. Tommy was spoilt, in fact, spoilt rotten. He was born with a hole in his heart. His parents cherished every morning Tommy saw. His condition was stable, but he had regular medical checks.
    Melanie was more like a second mother to her brother, for she acknowledged his fragile condition.

    “God is having a pillow fight, Melanie,” insisted Tommy.

    “Go back to sleep. It’s too early.”

    “No fear,” he yelled, putting on his layers of clothes. He pulled the bed sheets from his sister.

    “Tommy! Give me em back! It’s freezing.”

    The small boy giggled and ran off with the sheets, ignoring his sister's complaints.

******

    Ten minutes later, and they were scavenging about in the garage.

    “I’ve found it, Mel,” screamed Tommy. “I’ve found the sledge.”

    Mel sprinted towards the green, dragging her excited brother along, the deep snow slowing her progress. The bitter, cold wind numbed their delicate faces, the playing children ignorant of Mother Nature. Tommy scooped up a handful of the white powder and made a snowball.

Mel felt the missile strike the back of her head, and the coldness run down her neck. “Stop it, Tommy. If you want me to pull you, then stop messing about.”

    They heard the loud rapping at the window and realised what that meant. Old Mr Pringle was awake.
     Arthur Pringle was sixty- seven years of age. He was the modern equivalent of Ebenezer Scrooge. He chased carol singers from his doorstep, refused to give to charities, and despised children; especially children who interrupted his slumber. Pringle had never married, for nobody was sadistic enough to wed old Pringle.

    Pringle owned the three houses on the green, as he liked to remind people. He charged extortionate rent to the students who occupied his other two houses. Nobody, and he meant nobody was allowed to play on his green. He often chased children with his walking stick, their parents passing him off as an eccentric, harmless old man.

    Most of the neighbourhood children were afraid of old Pringle, but not Tommy though. He pulled out his tongue and wiggled his fingers in his cold ears at the old man, who shook his fist at them.

    “Perhaps we should go and play somewhere else. We don’t want to upset old Pringle,” suggested Mel, pulling her woolly hat down to cover her freezing ears.

    “Let’s build a snowman,” laughed Tommy.

    Mel shrugged. “We’ll build one in our back garden then.”

    “No, I want to build one here.”

    Mel put her hands on her hips and looked sternly at her tiny brother, the fine snow covering his spectacles. “Remember what mum and dad said. We have to stay away from old Pringle.”

    The protest fell upon deaf ears. Tommy scooped up the snow with his small-gloved hands. The snowman was being conceived.

*****

    Thirty minutes later, the children were joined by Peter Hall and his sister, Gemma. Peter was even smaller than Tommy, but he wasted no time in aiding with the construction of the snowman. Gemma and Mel chatted in the background, keeping a wary eye on Pringle’s house.

    Frosty the snowman was born that morning. The boys stepped back to admire their handiwork, like artists who had just painted a masterpiece.

    “He needs a face,” said Mel, twirling one of her pigtails. “Come on, Gemma, I know where we can find a face for him.”

    The girls ran off into the white wilderness. Peter loped behind them, his small legs struggling through the deepening snow.

    Tommy saw old Pringle’s curtains move. The rebellious child stood firm. He picked up a stick and marched up and down, military like. Nobody was going to take his snowman.

The children returned with their treasure; an assortment of buttons, cotton reels, and a long carrot. As they approached the snowman, they heard little Tommy talking.

    “Tommy, why are you talking to yourself?” asked Mel.

    “I’m not. I’ve been talking to Frosty.”

    “Frosty?”

    “Yes, that’s his name.”

    “We should vote on his name,” complained the gangly Gemma, who jumped up and down to try to keep warm.

    Tommy protested. “But Frosty is his name. He told me.”

    Mel pushed her tiny brother. “Tommy, sometimes I worry about you. He doesn’t even have a mouth, so how can he speak to you?”

    Peter giggled in his high-pitched voice. “Snowmen cannot talk, Tommy.”

    “He did speak to me; I’m not lying.”

    “Oh yeah…so what’d he say then?”

    “He asked my name, and told me his.”

    The other three children laughed and mocked him, before they settled down and created the face of Frosty. His eyes were blue cotton reels, which were embedded deeply into his head, and the carrot was his nose. A red woolly hat was stretched across his head, and a red scarf was tied around his massive neck.

    “Oh no, we’ve forgotten his mouth,” complained Gemma.

    They heard the door open, and saw the ominous figure of old Pringle marching towards them, waving that walking stick of his.

    “Come on, run for it!” yelled Mel.

    All the children fled, except the defiant Tommy. He stood in front of Frosty, his stick resting across his slender shoulder.

   Pringle faced him, his receding hair in dire need of a comb, his unflattering attire hanging loosely from his wafer-thin body. His false teeth were too large for his wrinkled mouth, and as he moved them about, an irritating sound grated on Tommy. Pringle’s green cardigan was missing a button; his ragged, food-stained shirt visible beneath. His soiled trousers were held together with string. Pringle was not a poor man; he just did not like to spend money.

    “Out of my way, you young rascal. You know this is my green.”

    Tommy looked at the miserly man’s long, thin, pointed nose. The usual droplet hung from it, like an icicle waiting to thaw.

    “This is my snowman, Mr Pringle. His name is Frosty.”

    “Piffle!” The old man pushed Tommy to the ground, his face numbing as it made contact with the snow.

    Pringle brought his walking stick above his head and swung it wildly, knocking Frosty’s head off his shoulders. He stabbed at the decapitated snowman, like a swordsman fighting a duel. Tommy pulled at old Pringle, but he was no match for the older man. He continued his onslaught, swiping out, until a mound of snow lay at his feet.

    “Let that be a lesson to you, boy. This is my green.” Pringle marched off, a thin layer of snow covering his sodden body.

    Tommy cried out loudly, fell to his knees, and caressed the snow. “Frosty, I’m sorry,” he sobbed.
    His sister and her friends, who had watched from a distance, consoled the distraught boy. Mel placed a caring arm around Tommy and escorted him back home.

Tommy lay on his bed the rest of the day; his delicate little heart had been broken. His mother tried without success to lure Tommy downstairs. Even his favourite jam roly-poly could not persuade him to leave the luxury of his bedroom. He just lay there crying. He had lost a friend.

******

    Pringle huddled over his one bar electric fire, blowing on his thin, watery vegetable soup. The banging on his door interrupted his supper. He peered through his dirty net curtains. “Piffle!”

    He opened the door to be confronted by an irate Barry Whittle.

    “You old scrote! What have you done to my son? He was only building a bloody snowman, for God’s sake.”

    “Building an effigy on my land. My land, do you hear?”

    “He was doing you no harm. A small boy playing in the snow. Haven’t you any heart?”

    “If you’ve finished…my supper’s getting cold.”

    “Listen to me. If you ever lay a finger on my son, I’ll...”

    “You’ll what? I know my rights. He was on my land.”

    The door was slammed shut. Barry Whittle returned to the blizzard. His only thoughts were for his son.

******

    Mel opened her eyes. It took but a few seconds for her eyes to focus. Her younger brother stood over her, fully dressed, a smile covering his cherub-like features.

    “Tommy, you’re smiling.”

    “Come on, Mel, we have to see Frosty.”

    “Frosty is not there. Don’t you remember what happened yesterday?”

    “Come, take a look over here.” he insisted.

    The weary girl approached the window. She cupped her hands over her eyes and the brilliant snow dazzled her. The white smattering of snow dispensed its light flakes, and cleansed the landscape of its corrupt surroundings. Mel peered into the distance to see the unmistakeable figure of the snowman. “That’s impossible. Someone has rebuilt him.”

    “Get dressed, Mel. I’ll meet you over there.”

    “No wait, Tommy!”

    He never heard her. He was out of the door, running towards Frosty, racing as fast as his little legs would allow him. Tommy threw his arms around Frosty and cried tears of joy. “Frosty, Frosty, you’ve come back.”    

Mel ran through the snow, having to pick herself up as the deep powder made her progress slow. She stopped about twenty metres from Tommy. He was talking to the snowman. There was no mistake, as she could hear him clearly.

    “Tommy, you must stop talking to the snowman. He’s only make believe.”

    “Frosty was asking me about the nasty man who knocked his head off.”

    “I wonder who rebuilt him,” mumbled Mel, suspecting her parents to be responsible. She looked at Frosty. Something had changed. He had an opening for a mouth. “I‘ve brought mum‘s lipstick. I thought he needed a mouth.”

    She approached the snowman and traced his mouth with the red lipstick, before she stepped back to admire her work.

    They played in the snow, until their mother called them for lunch.

    “I don’t want to go for lunch, Mel.”

    “You must. You have all day to play with Frosty.”

    Tommy conceded and gave Frosty another hug, before setting off home. He wolfed down his lunch, and his mother complained he would get indigestion. Tommy did not care; he just wanted to be reunited with Frosty.

    “You’ve built another snowman, I see, Tommy?” asked his mother.

    “No, Mum, he built himself.”

    “He built himself?”

    “Yes, he told me.”

    His mother frowned, and watched Tommy wrap himself up.

    Mel spoke up. “He thinks the snowman talks to him, Mum.”

    “He does. Frosty talks to me.”

    “Well, why doesn’t he talk to me?” moaned Mel.

    He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t like sissy girls.”

    His mother chuckled, as she watched him exit the front door.

Tommy scampered through the snow, skipping and whistling. He stopped, frozen to the spot. A large pile of snow lay where Frosty had been standing, just minutes before.

    “Nooo!” he screamed. “Please, don’t let it be true.” He ran frantically towards the pile of snow. Frosty’s head lay on the ground. He cradled the head and sobbed, as he looked to see Pringle’s door closing.

******

Old Pringle cuddled up to his hot water bottle. His false teeth lay in a glass of water, besides his rickety bed.  He heard the howling wind and the branches of the tree tapping against his window, reflecting their shadows on his yellow bare walls. He cocked his ear. Again, he heard a rapping downstairs. He sat up in bed and lit his half candle. He was not imagining it. Someone was tapping quietly on his door.

    “Piffle!” he moaned, and pressed his wrinkled nose against the cold, steamed up window. He made a circle on the glass, but nobody appeared to be on his doorstep. He squinted at his clock on his rotten bedside table to see it was two-fifteen. Who could be knocking at his door at this hour?

    The tapping continued and Pringle angrily threw off his bedclothes and proceeded down his creaky staircase. He carried his candle on a saucer, and a nightcap rested on his head. His blue striped pyjamas had seen better days.

    The tapping continued, even though he was now stood behind the door.

    “Who is it?”

    There was no response.

    “I said, who is calling at this unearthly hour?”

    Again, there was no answer.

    “Bloody kids, if this is their idea of a joke, I’ll tan their hides.”

    He unlatched his chain and turned the key. He opened the creaky old door slowly and stepped back. His trembling hands dropped the candle. His lips quivered uncontrollably, as he continued his retreat.

    “This is a dream! This cannot be happening.”

    His progress was halted by his grubby wall. The shadow of the intruder cast a large, black shadow across him, and Pringle let out a blood-curdling scream.

******

The next morning, the sun made an unexpected appearance, intruding into the white landscape, like an unwanted guest. Tommy stood, talking to Frosty, as he watched the police car and ambulance outside old Pringle’s house. Tommy, his two front teeth missing, looked to Frosty and laughed.  

******

    The official enquiry concluded that Pringle had died of a heart attack. Why was his front door open? Had he admitted an unwanted guest that morning? The detective, DC Rogers, had called at Pringle’s that morning. He, along with the coroner was baffled. Pringle's face was a mask of fear. If the detective did not know better, he would have sworn the old man had died of fright. Perhaps, he had surprised a burglar, but no fingerprints were ever found.

    The most puzzling factor was, why was there a large pool of water on Pringle’s carpet with a candle lying in it?  Tommy knows!”