John Paul Docherty and the Christmas Gratuity

John Paul is back with a heartwarming story about his time as a paperboy. It's Christmas and John Paul is collecting his Christmas Tips, All is going well until the last house on his round. 

Transcript

The Christmas Gratuity 

A short story by Jeff Price 

John Paul tugged the bell chain at the ancient oak door and waited, stamping his feet against the cold. An icy December wind swept down the street, swirling fresh snow across the gravel drive. 

This was the last house on his paper round, the poshest street in Newcastle, and the strangest house. Gothic turrets loomed above him, mullion windows stared down like blank eyes, and the weathered sandstone facade offered no welcome. Every other house on the street had a Christmas tree glowing in the window, warm lights, wreaths on doors. Not this one. Through the living room window John Paul could see nothing festive at all, just shadows and dark furniture. 

He heard footsteps echoing inside and straightened up, putting on his best Christmas smile. 

It had been a long morning. He'd started his round before the sun peeked over the horizon, walking instead of cycling because the snow made the bike useless. His army surplus jacket pockets jingled with coins now, plus several oranges, two apples, and a bar of Five Boys chocolate from Mrs Thomas. She was lovely, Mrs Thomas, always had a biscuit for him. He'd collect her groceries from the Co-op when she needed it. 

Most of his customers were decent enough. A few he never saw, already at work when he came by. Some would get angry if he mixed up their papers—socialist readers of the Daily Herald did not appreciate copies of The Daily Telegraph. But mostly they were alright, and Mr Parker the newsagent paid well. Ten shillings a week for two rounds a day plus Sundays. Good money. Reliable paperboys were hard to find. 

John Paul would hand most of his Christmas tip money over to his mother, keeping just enough back for himself. She needed it, Christmas was always har but it pleased him too. On Christmas Day his father would say grace, thank God for the feast, thank his beautiful colleen of a wife for making it, and thank his hard-working son who helped pay for it. For one brief moment John Paul would 

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stop being the boy who was always in trouble at school and become Saint John Paul the Provider. He loved that moment almost as much as he loved the turkey. 

On freezing December mornings like this, though, he didn't love the job much at all. His feet were freezing despite two layers of socks inside his wellies. He wore a thick vest, two jumpers with newspaper stuffed between them for insulation, and though he'd die before admitting it to anyone but the other paperboy, a pair of his mother's tights under his trousers. Every paperboy knew that trick. His mother was still wondering where her best pair had gone. 

The footsteps inside grew louder. 

John Paul had been delivering to this house for three years and this was his fourth owner. The last few had never stayed long. This one had been here six months and he'd never seen them, not once. Just the door opening a crack, a hand taking the paper, the door closing again. The house was old, Mr Parker said, older than the street itself. There used to be a grand estate here once, a big house that burned down decades ago. This had been the gatekeeper's house, extended and added onto over the years until it became this jumble of styles that didn't quite fit together. 

The footsteps stopped on the other side of the door. 

John Paul held up the calendar, ready to hand it over with his outstretched palm and his most cheerful "Merry Christmas." Last house of the day, his feet were numb with cold and all he wanted was to go home to a hot bath and breakfast. 

The door began to open. 

John Paul's stomach tightened. For some reason he felt nervous, and despite the cold, sweat prickled under his layers. 

"Who is it?" A disembodied voice came from behind the partially open door. 

"John Paul the paperboy, Mr Beecham. I have a calendar for you from Mr Parker." He thrust his hand forward, clutching the calendar. 

Two hands appeared, gripping the door's edge, pulling it slowly back. When the gap was just wide enough, Mr Beecham squeezed himself through and stood on the doorstep. 

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"Damn door. So stiff. The bloody thing's ancient and I want to get rid of it, but it's Grade Two listed." 

John Paul had no idea what Grade Two meant, but he did have an idea. "My dad uses lard on rusty hinges. Says it works a treat." 

"Oh, that sounds like a good idea." Mr Beecham took the calendar from John Paul's outstretched hand. He looked at the boy properly, taking in the red nose, the chattering teeth. "You look freezing. Come in and warm yourself." 

John Paul hesitated. Mr Parker's warning about Mr Jenkins echoed in his head, but Mr Beecham seemed kind enough, and the thought of warmth was irresistible. "Thank you. Just for a minute." 

Mr Beecham stood to one side as John Paul squeezed past into the hall. A large oak staircase rose on one side and against the back wall blazed a proper fire, the kind his own house never had. 

A door near the fireplace opened and a woman entered. 

"Ah, Mrs Beecham, we have the pleasure of company this morning. This is John Paul, our paperboy.” His accent was clipped and John Paul could not place. 

Mr Beecham continued “He's frozen through and I've invited him in to warm up. Would you be so kind as to make him a hot drink? Hot chocolate, perhaps?" 

"Of course, Mr Beecham. Hot chocolate it is." She smiled at John Paul. "Nice to meet you at last. Mrs Thomas speaks very highly of you." 

John Paul's face flushed. He wasn't used to compliments from adults or anyone for that matter. 

While Mrs Beecham was gone, John Paul looked around the hall. The oak-paneled walls were lined with photographs—formal portraits, family groups, street scenes. 

"Is this your family? That's not Newcastle, is it?" 

"No. That's Vienna. We lived there before the war." 

"Nice." 

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"It was." Mr Beecham's voice changed. "And then it wasn't." 

For a moment the room seemed darker. 

"You haven't got a Christmas tree then?" he said, immediately wishing he'd said something else. 

"Ah, yes. Christmas." Mr Beecham's face softened. "I'm Jewish, John Paul. We don't celebrate Christmas—we have our gift giving at Hanukkah. It was a few weeks ago." 

"Oh. Right." John Paul didn't know what to say. He'd heard things from his Dad about the war, about what had happened to Jewish people, but it had always seemed distant, like something from a history book. Standing here in this hall, looking at these photographs of smiling people who might not be smiling anymore, it felt different. 

Mrs Beecham returned with a cup on a saucer. The smell hit John Paul before he even took it, rich and deep, nothing like the cocoa powder his mum made with hot water and a splash of milk. 

The first mouthful was a revelation. It wasn't like Five Boys chocolate either. It was silky, almost thick, and tasted like the cakes his grandmother used to make at Christmas. As he sipped he could feel the coldness of the morning draining from his body, his hands and feet tingling as the warmth spread through him. 

"This is amazing. But it's not chocolate, is it? Not like normal chocolate." 

Mr Beecham smiled. "It is chocolate. Viennese chocolate. The best in the world. You're very privileged, John Paul. Mrs Beecham doesn't share her hot chocolate with everyone." 

"Thank you, Mrs Beecham." John Paul handed back the empty cup, reluctant to let it go. 

"I should be going. My mum'll be wondering where I am." He straightened up, remembering his routine. "Merry Christmas, Mr and Mrs Beecham. It's been a pleasure delivering your papers this year." The slight tilt of the head, the cheery smile. 

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Mr Beecham picked up an envelope from the hall table. "This is for you, John Paul." 

John Paul opened the envelope and pulled out a Christmas card. As he opened it, a piece of paper fell to the floor. He bent to pick it up and realised it was a five-pound note. 

He gasped. His head snapped up to look at Mr and Mrs Beecham, who were both smiling at him. 

"I can't—this is too much. This is—" He couldn't find the words. Five pounds was more than all his other tips combined. Five pounds was a fortune. 

"For you, John Paul," Mr Beecham said. "Mrs Thomas tells us you help her with her shopping, that you shovel her path when it snows. That you stop to talk with her even when you're in a hurry. Kindness matters. Especially to people who are 

alone, or different, or far from home." He paused. "We know something about that." 

John Paul felt his throat tighten. He wanted to say something meaningful, something worthy of the moment, but all that came out was: "Thank you. Thank you so much." 

"Mazel tov, John Paul. That means good luck. Mazel tov for 1968." "Mazel tov," John Paul repeated carefully. "Mazel tov, Mr and Mrs Beecham." 

"Oh, and thanks for the tip about the lard," Mr Beecham said as he opened the door. "I'll give it a try." 

John Paul stepped out into the cold, the five-pound note clutched in his hand. He pushed it deep into his pocket, picked up his empty paper sack, and made his way back down the snowy street. 

He didn't look back at the house with the gothic turrets and the mullioned windows. He didn't need to. He'd been inside now. He knew what it held. 

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