The mystery visitor sat in one of the front pews normally reserved for VIP guests and other respected visitors, unaware that Duncan Dewar was only a few yards away hiding in the pulpit.
Suddenly, the tranquil atmosphere of the chapel began to echo to the familiar twenty-first-century sound of electronic bleeps from a mobile phone keypad as the user appeared to be checking and responding to text messages.
Duncan Dewar remained crouched down wondering how long he could maintain this uncomfortable position as a familiar burning and tingling sensation began to creep into his left leg; the telltale signs of pins and needles filled him with dread as he tried to silently squeeze his calf muscle to repel the onset of the painful condition.
He winced in pain as his leg muscles tightened and gritted his teeth, pulling a bizarre facial expression which would have won any gurning competition. How long he could have remained like this will forever remain as one of life’s imponderables as something quite unexpected happened, causing him to forget his own pain.
The mystery person began to shuffle and move in their seat before making a throaty straining sound. It was followed by a familiar noise which shattered the silence and ripped through the air. Far from an electronic bleep, this was the sound produced by the high velocity of gas being expelled through an extremely tight sphincter muscle which in turn produced a series of impressive farts!
Duncan’s eyes popped wide open and he let go of his painful leg, ramming both his hands into his mouth as his shoulders rocked silently and tears rolled down his face. There was nothing like a good dose of flatulence to induce hysteria and laughter in any thirteen-year-old schoolboy. He was in complete agony, unable to make a sound or movement for fear he’d be discovered.
However, he was able to deduce from the high-pitched noise that the person in the chapel must surely be a man as he recalled how his friend Ninian had reliably informed him that girls don’t suffer from flatulence like boys. “My sister Veronica told me girls can’t fart, no wonder they’re so weird and miserable,” he said with the seriousness and wisdom of an old sage when the subject came up after an evening of self-induced farting by the chugging of carbonated drinks and dried fruit.
A few seconds later, the mystery man made another familiar sound – the rapid wafting and fanning of air to dilute the odour produced – in this case, the purveyor of flatulence enlisted The Common Book of Prayer to assist him.
Duncan was sure he caught the most unfragrant whiff of bad eggs and mused about the chemical content of the gas of the mystery man. He recalled somewhere that a typical fart is composed of about fifty-nine percent nitrogen, twenty-one percent hydrogen, nine percent carbon dioxide, seven percent methane and four percent oxygen but foods like cabbage and cheese can increase the hydrogen sulphide content, thereby increasing the intensity of the pong.
Not sure when he would ever be able to use this information again, he was quite pleased with himself at being able to recall such details. However, amusing as this unexpected interlude was, the respite it gave to his pins and needles soon disappeared and he was forced once again to try and stretch and massage his calf muscles.
Moments later, the heavy metal clunk of the chapel door reverberated through the building followed by the sound of more footsteps coming down the aisle. Unlike the flatulent occupant of the front pews, these sounded more like the crisp staccato beat of a pair of high heels echoing off the stone floor.
A furtive conversation then began between a man and a woman but that was all Duncan could discern from the whispers other than their words, which were in a foreign language, possibly Russian.
He sat there and pondered about the conversation but shook his head suddenly as he could’ve sworn he’d just heard his name being uttered. He listened in earnest and picked up on Andrei and Alexei and there it was again, his name among a list of other names. He recognised most of them as being in the choir, but he wondered what the conversation was about.
When the clandestine meeting concluded, there was some shuffling as the couple stood up. Duncan couldn’t see a thing from his hiding place inside the pulpit but he could distinguish the grating metal heel sound of the man’s shoe on the chapel floor again.
However, to his frustration, he realised the woman remained behind, leaving him to wonder how much longer he’d have to conceal himself. Once again the door opened and more footsteps could be heard but Duncan recognised them in an instant as belonging to the choirmaster.
“Dr Geraint Jones,” said the heavily accented female voice, echoing in the cavernous chapel. “Ah, Mrs Volkova, always a pleasure but I am mystified as to why you would want us to meet here. It’s certainly a very chilly night and I fear we may soon be in the grip of a snowstorm. The white stuff has just started to descend from the Heavens as I arrived.”
Svetlana Volkova responded huskily: “We Russians do not feel the cold. It is our friend, Dr Jones. I arrived in Edinburgh last night but wanted to meet you in advance of the carol concert to make sure that you have everything you need.”
Dr Jones smiled broadly: "Since your generous gift, any problem we may have encountered has been overcome. The equipment for the school orchestra has all been upgraded and this has certainly been reflected in the sound of music as you will discover on the evening of our concert.
“The school’s tailor has ordered a special weave of Falkirk Tartan for the choir’s kilts; it’s more commonly called Shepherd’s Plaid or Border Drab, as it was originally worn by shepherds in the border’s area between Scotland and England. This is a sample of it,” he said removing a black and white wool scarf with a distinctive check. “A small gift for you.”
Svetlana looked at the weave, singularly unimpressed as he handed it over to her. On seeing her lack of response, he added enthusiastically: “We will also be announcing your generous donation and the setting up of a prize in your name, Mrs Volkova.” After giving the scarf another cursory look, she held it to the side of her face, serving to highlight her perfect cheekbones and almond-shaped green eyes.
The emerald colour they radiated had the choirmaster entranced as she said: “It’s not really necessary to mention my name. We do what we have to do for the benefit of the school and the boys. However, I have some exciting news and I wanted to tell you to your face, just to watch your expression.”
Dr Jones looked intrigued as Svetlana fluttered her eyes at him. The school choir, she said, would be invited to sing in Russia’s cultural centre of St Petersburg but at a special performance in the Church of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. The historic building is more commonly known in the old imperial capital as the Church on the Blood as it marks the spot where Alexander II was assassinated on March 1881.
“It is a great honour and while Christmas is probably the most important day of the calendar for people in Western Europe, in Russia we attach more importance to the New Year and that is when the concert will be. Tell me Dr Jones, what do you think?”
He stood before Svetlana almost dumfounded but wide-eyed with excitement until a look of doubt crossed his face. She could read him like a book and added: “Naturally all costs will be covered and my husband has agreed to let us use his private jet to transport the choir.”
Dr Jones looked overwhelmed and then said: “This is indeed an honour and unbelievable generosity from you and Mr Volkov. I think most of the boys would be delighted to come, although it is extremely short notice.”
Looking mildly concerned, Svetlana added: “As long as the majority of the choir can make it and, erm, especially the boy Duncan Dewar. The twins tell me you discovered him and his voice is exceptional.”
Nodding enthusiastically, he said: "It’s true. I’m giving him a solo spot at the carol concert. The boy has an incredible voice but for how long is anyone’s guess. I only hope it doesn’t break between now and the New Year. He’s at an awkward age, you know.
“I can’t think he’ll have anything planned for his holidays. He comes from a rather humble home and lives with his elderly grandfather, although I’m not sure he’d be prepared to travel without his grandfather over the festive period.”
Svetlana pulled on a lock of blonde hair from beneath her fox-fur hat and, twisting it around her right hand, something she always did when she was nervous, she said: “Yes, well, the old man can travel with us. I expect you’ll need at least two chaperones or responsible adults for the choir anyway.”
Duncan was bursting with excitement on hearing the news but was forced to contain himself in the pulpit as he continued to eavesdrop on the conversation between Mrs Volkova and the choirmaster.
As the pair got up and walked back down the aisle, Duncan could only catch certain words. He strained his hearing but he did catch one thing. It was an expression of surprise by the Russian woman on noticing two baby figures in the Nativity crib.
Dr Jones boomed: "I know exactly where this young chap has come from but I’ve no idea how he got here, Mrs Volkova. Let’s call it high jinx or japes by some of the boys.
“I will return this to Dr Shinwell at Boethius House. I’m sure he will be relieved,” said Dr Jones who turned to look back around the chapel before he escorted Svetlana through the chapel door and out into the snowy night. Offering his left arm, the choirmaster walked her safely to her chauffeur-driven car.
He retraced his steps through the crisp, white snow to the chapel to lock it for the evening. Stopping short of the entrance Dr Jones moved his head to one side as he examined the outlines and number of footprints. He could account for his own lumbering size-elevens and Svetlana’s dainty stilettos but there was another set of smaller footprints which could only have come from the chapel a few moments earlier.
“How strange,” he said out loud to himself. “It seems Mrs Volkova and I had company. Well, we’ll just have to solve this mystery by following the footprints.” The choirmaster tracked the steps in the snow with the furtiveness of a wolf stalking its prey. They led him towards Plato when the choirmaster’s concentration was rudely interrupted by a flying snowball which smacked him on the forehead.
“Oops, sorry sir. I didn’t see you coming,” said Ninian Swithers. “A few of us were just letting off some steam, sir, when…”
But before he could finish his sentence, Dr Jones snapped: “Enough.” Like frozen statues, a handful of Plato boys stood rooted to the spot as he looked in despair at the ground. The lying snow had been ploughed up by more than half a dozen different shoes of similar sizes making it impossible to continue his search.
"I know one of you Plato boys stole the Baby Jesus from Boethius but I’m not prepared to check shoe sizes in this weather. I’ve bigger fish to fry but I will be reporting you sprats to Dr Liam Wallace and he can deal with the lot of you.
“Dewar! Come here! Give this to Dr Shinwell with my compliments and tell him I will catch up with him tomorrow. Good night,” growled Dr Jones before turning once again towards the chapel to lock the door. As he walked down the footpath, he shouted: “Don’t even think about it, Swithers!”
Ninian looked shocked and dropped the snowball he’d just made. “Has he got eyes in the back of his head?” Duncan’s heart was beating quickly as he realised how close he’d come to being caught. He was also mildly amused to be left holding the baby again and looked down at the figure, saying: “What do I have to do to get rid of you?”
Later that evening, the Baby Jesus was safely back in his crib at Boethius after Duncan handed over the swaddled figure to a relieved Dr Shinwell. Swearing Ninian to secrecy, he told him what had happened after he went to the chapel.
Ninian was already on a high after finishing his ‘wheelie’ essay and escaping punishment for landing a snowball on Dr Jones, but Duncan’s night in the chapel surpassed everything, especially the farting episode. “OMG,” he exclaimed. “So who was Johnny Fartpants, then?”
Duncan jumped on his friend: “Ssshhh!” He hissed as he tried in vain to silence his roomie with a pillow. Seconds later, there was a full blown pillow fight which only came to an end when the Volkov twins next door hammered on the wall, telling the two to stop larking about.
The next day at 4 pm, James Darling, Willie Carmichael, John Russell and Ninian Swithers stood before the headmaster with their essays in hand. ‘This is going to be excruciating,’ thought Swithers, who had reflected on his traumatic day before which started with running into the headmaster and ended in a snowball fight resulting in his unfortunate encounter with ‘the Drac’.
Similarly, the other three stood there grim-faced, waiting to have their work scrutinised word by word by The Doc. After several minutes’ silence apart from the tick-tock and the sound of a scratchy nib on paper, Dr Collins looked up and said: “Pass me your work.” Each neatly, handwritten essay was placed on his desk and they were then asked: “Has this proved to be a worthwhile exercise, boys?” All nodded vigorously in the affirmative, so the head rose to his feet and, collecting the essays, walked over to a machine in the corner of his office.
It made a whirring sound when he switched it on and then, one by one he fed the essays into the machine without reading a single word. The process took around two minutes and with each sheet of paper fed in to it, the boys watched their work emerge in hundreds of tiny strips in a Perspex collection bin at the other end of the shredder.
Once it had finished, Dr Collins switched it off and said: “That’ll be all boys.”
The four retreated in complete silence and waited until they’d reached half way down the corridor before Ninian groaned out loud: “He didn’t even read a bloody word. We could’ve written complete gobbledegook and he read not one word. I sweated blood and tears. I’m telling you he is evil.”
The others muttered in agreement and Darling was in tears. “It’s probably one of the best essays I’ve ever written. I even footnoted and referenced each section. The bastard could have at least had the courtesy to mark it. What a waste of time!”
***