“That’s it! He has to go!” Sister Flahoulla’s voice rang down the corridor, bounced off the rafters and disappeared somewhere beyond the pigeons’ nests.

Mrs Peatherington, the matron, shot out of her office. “What-ever is the matter, Sister Flahoulla?”

“It’s….it’s….that….that….”

“Calm down, my dear, calm down,” the matron ordered as Sister Flahoulla heaved her large body around the corner of the resting area and down towards the office.

By now the little kitchen hand, Beantipple, and the elderly nurse, Mother Clapper, had emerged from the kitchen, drawn by the shrieks and screams.

Sister Falhoulla arrived at the matron’s office. “It’s that….that….Bannermann boy.”

“Hans,” the matron sighed. “Yes, Sister, what has he done this time?”

“Done?” Sister Falhoulla placed her arms under her ample bosom and thrust upwards. “Only dropped one of the…the largest spiders I’ve ever seen into Mrs Pinkerton’s cup of English Breakfast!”

“Oh dear,” s ighed the matron.

“Oh dear is not good enough this time, ” Sister Flahoulla thundered. “He has to go.”

“Indeed,” the matron sighed for a third time. “But where, Sister? Where should he go?”

“That’s not my problem!”

The matron retreated into her office, sank into her large leather armchair and sighed for a fourth time.

Hans Bannermann: a twelve-year-old blonde boy with the face of an angel and the imagination of the devil.

Almost a year before, his mother and father were killed in an avalanche and since then various aunts, uncles and generous citizens of the little town in the valley had tried to offer the boy a new start. Each attempt had been a disaster. The boy was a little nightmare. He had given one aunt a nervous breakdown, driven another into a marriage to a man she had never even met and caused the postman to leave the district completely when he delivered an entire morning’s mail to all the wrong addresses. No-one in the neighborhood was safe and in desperation the boy had been deposited in St Gabriel’s Orphanage. St Gabriel’s had been a happy little community, but all that changed with the arrival of Hans Bannermann. Three cooks, two supervisors and four kitchen hands had all resigned within days of the boy’s appearance. Two sisters had even left the order as a result of the shocks they had suffered. The matron knew the boy had to go, but the question remained: Where?

Suddenly a little voice piped up. It was Beantipple, the insignificant little kitchen hand. “I’se got an idea.”

“I’m sure that’s a new experience,” Sister Flahoulla sneered.

“Charity,” the matron whispered. “Charity, Sister.” She turned to Beantipple, “Yes, my girl?”

“Ise heared my mom telling someone that Old Man Gunther needs a new goat-herd.”

“What? Him up in the mountains? He’s as crazy as a brush!”

“Shhhh…Sister. You sure about this, girl?” the matron asked severely.

“No.”

Before Sister Flahoulla could explode and risk her blood pressure once again, the matron smiled, “We’ll inquire and see.” With that she shooed the others out of her office and closed the door.

*

The mountains rose up on all sides like great, grey icicles with little white ice-cream blobs on top. Han’s eyes grew wider and wider as the bus banged and clattered its way through tall black trees standing as stiff as soldiers. Now and again somebody waved but Hans ignored them. Finally the bus stopped at a funny little hut on the edge of a green clearing which gave out onto a high plateau. Hans stumbled into the road with all his worldly possessions: a battered little pack with one change of clothing inside.

“Are you the boy?” Hans spun round. A strange old man sat hunched in a little donkey cart, his weather-beaten old face staring out from under a wide-brimmed mountain hat.

“S’pose,” Hans muttered.

“Let’s be having yah then. Up here….there’s work to be done.”

Hans climbed up beside the old man and the donkey cart moved off along a little mountain track. Neither spoke for the whole trip up to a quaint little house perched on the edge of a steep cliff, encircled by a stand of tall pine trees. It reminded Hans of the little gingerbread house he had seen in a book a long time before……in the good times.

“This is it then.” That was all the welcome Hans received. He didn’t care. He knew at the first opportunity he would escape. He’d get away and travel to the other side of the mountains. The boys in St Gabriel’s reckoned there was money to be made on the other side of those mountains.

That night Hans sat down to a meal of the most delicious stew he had ever tasted, washed down with two large cups of goats’ milk. He didn’t tell the grumpy old man of course. That would be letting down his guard and Hans never did that…..not since…..well he just didn’t.

After the meal he was shown an old tub with fluffy white stuff floating on top and told to wash himself, then the plates. The old man sat outside in his rocking-chair smoking his pipe.

A while later, he took Hans up a little ladder and pointed to a bed. “That’s yours.” With that he returned to the rocker and his pipe.

Hans made his way back to the main room and sat in a dark corner with his head on his hands and his hands on his knees and quietly rocked himself to sleep.

He awoke the next morning lying on top of the little bed covered in a rug. After a wonderful breakfast of thick whole-meal bread and slabs of tasty cheese, the old man gave Hans a stick and took him up to where the goats grazed.

They spent the whole day there. It was the most marvelous time Hans had ever known. The sun gleamed off the points of those grey icicles and the goats ate out of his hands. He chased butterflies and picked mountain daisies. But best of all, he lay on his back in the thick fresh grass and stared into the deep, deep blue. It was pure magic. It would have been absolutely perfect if there had been a train. Hans loved trains. When he was little, his father had taken him up into the drivers’ cab and shown him the ropes. Well that’s what his father said, not that Hans could remember any ropes. Of course, it was silly to think of having trains in the mountains but if only…….The old man said little. Now and again he glared at Hans in a rather suspicious way, but for most of the day he just grunted.

When it came time for going home, neither spoke. The old man showed Hans how to guide the goats down to the little plateau where the animals spent the night in a fenced-off area.

For the next four days Hans and the old man returned to the high pastures with the goats. Gradually Hans learned their names and he was able to call them and herd them by himself.

On the fifth day, when it came time to leave the house, the old man sat firmly in his rocker and lit his pipe.

“Aren’t we going to take the goats up mountain today?”

“Am not, you are!”

Han’s heart surged with pride. He was allowed to take the goats by himself. Then he began to feel that the old man was just taking advantage of him. “I don’t want to take your silly goats!”

The old man threw him a staff, furrowed his thick grey eyebrows and ordered, “Go!” He looked so jolly fierce Hans didn’t feel like arguing. He just went.

Again it was a wonderfully warm day and everything went well until, just as he made ready to head for home, Hans found two of the goats were missing.

“Stupid animals,” Hans muttered to himself. Quickly he searched the area but there was no sign of the missing goats. Reluctantly he herded the others back to the little house.

The old man was waiting for him. “Lost two, did yah?” The old man shook his head. “Some goat-herd. Pah!” He spat on the grass.

Han’s neck burned and he knew his face was bright red. He felt humiliated. He stormed up to his room and lay on the bed and sobbed. He never came down till the morning when he learned that Griesel and Bertha, the two missing goats, had returned the previous night by themselves.

“Yah gotta watch them two. Typical women, minds o’ their own. They’ll always go off by theirselves.
Just watch ‘em.”

Again Hans was forced to return to the high pasture with the goats, but this time he watched carefully.

The days floated blissfully by and although they rarely spoke the old man and the boy slowly came to understand each other. Autumn passed into winter and soon snow began to fall. There were no more trips to the high pastures. Instead the goats were put in a large barn. It grew cold, but Hans loved the blazing log fire which warmed the whole house and he slowly forgot about the fortune waiting for him over the mountains.

One day Hans was finishing his chores when the old man threw the door open and struggled into the room with a large fir tree.

“What’s that?” Hans blurted in amazement.

“Christmas soon, aint it. Got to have a tree. My Martha always had a tree. Decorated it right pretty too. Still have her decorations and I puts them on the tree ‘bout this time every year. That aint gonna change this year.”

That night they decorated the tree.

Two days later it was Christmas. Hans woke up early and raced down to the tree. He didn’t know why, he just did. And there hanging from a high branch was a stocking. He clambered up and pulled it down.

While two old eyes watched from the larder he tore the stocking open. Candied cherries, fancy chocolates, a picture story book and another long parcel. Hans shook it. It rattled but it wasn’t any sort of rattle he’d ever heard before. He tore the wrapping apart.

His eyes popped and his heart missed a beat. It couldn’t be, but it was. In his hands sat the brightest, most magnificent train engine he had ever seen. Fashioned from mountain pine, it was painted red and black in all the right places. It had a driver’s cab with a real whistle and wheels that turned and….. and….oh it was just too…..too marvelous.

He turned to the kitchen and stared at the old man. What could he say. “Thank ….thank you.”
“Pah,” the old man turned back to the goose he was cooking and brushed away a lonely tear.

All day Hans played with his special gift.

They had goose and dumplings for dinner and Christmas pudding for supper.

That night Hans asked the old man if he would tuck him in. The grizzled face glared fiercely and muttered something about taking liberties. But later he stumbled up the ladder and said good night to the boy. Hans threw his arms around the old man’s neck and whispered his thanks for a wonderful day, the goats, the presents and….and the bed……and the train.

As he drifted off to sleep the old man sat on the side of the bed and watched him. It had been a very special Christmas.

Suddenly the little eyes winked open. “Old man, I’m….I’m sorry. I never gave you anything for Christmas…..”

The old man smiled for the first time in many years. “Oh but you did, little fella, yah did. Yah put warmth in a sore old heart. Now go to sleep.”

 

About the Author

Bob Nimmo

Bob Nimmo has written poetry, short stories and longer works which have been published in Britain, Asia and New Zealand. As a practising lay-preacher for the Presbyterian Church, his work is always underpinned by faith, although the topics and issues are wide-ranging. Bob has a passion for world affairs and the difficulties we all face but firmly believe hope conquers all.