With apologies to the shades of Dickens and Baroness Thatcher (who will always be Mrs Margaret Thatcher to me), I've tried to create a diverting tale with some political characters while steering clear of the party politics. I have no notion about how politicians spend their Christmas - so I have completely made this up apart from the words I have stolen from Dickens' original Christmas Carol novella.
Stave 1 - Margaret's Ghost
Margaret was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. Mrs Thatcher was dead as a doornail.
Theresa knew she was dead? Of course she did. How could it be otherwise? She had followed in Mrs Thatcher's footsteps to the very door of number 10 and was now Prime Minister.
Once upon a time -- of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve - Mrs May sat busy in her office.
She interrupted her study of the umpteenth red box to watch the news headlines. She smiled approvingly at the news that a brave, quick-thinking Police Officer had foiled armed bank robbers and, almost certainly, saved the bank manager's life. That Officer was certainly a woman who deserved a Merry Christmas. But Bah Humbug to everyone who refused to consider sensible compromises over Brexit and Cabinet Ministers who seemed to be doing their best to redefine sleaze. And herself for forgetting the wretched sprouts.
Red boxes completed, Theresa looked gloomily at the clock. She really didn't want to disturb Philip so late and climbed the stairs to sleep in one of the guest rooms. There was nothing at all particular about the handle on its door, except that it was very large. Theresa saw, not a handle, but Mrs Thatcher's face.
Margaret's face. It was not in impenetrable shadow as the other objects in the house were, but had a dismal light about it. As Theresa looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a handle again. She did pause, with a moment's irresolution, before she shut the door; and she did look cautiously behind it first, as if she half-expected to find one of her younger relations snap-chatting her bemusement.
She sat down at the dressing table and prepared to remove her makeup. Her mobile rang. She shuddered as she saw the name of the former Prime Minister on the screen. The ringtone was succeeded by a clanking noise, deep down below; as if some person were dragging a heavy chain up the stairs.
Her colour changed though, when, without a pause, it came on through the heavy door, and passed into the room before her eyes. The same face: the very same. Margaret in her blue suit. The chain she dragged was long, and wound about her like a tail; and it was made of all the sacrifices that she had made during her political career. All the times she wasn't able to be there for her children, the people who had suffered when she had made tough choices.
"How now!" said Theresa. "What do you want with me?"
"Much!" -- Margaret's voice, no doubt about it.
"You are fettered," said Theresa, trembling. "Tell me why?"
"I wear the chain I forged in life," replied the Ghost. "Would you know the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? Longer than mine - I may have been controversial but at least I was competent. Your chain is made of hubris, clichés, bizarre choices of ministers, food banks, Police Officers living in poverty and more.
Theresa had been well brought up but her young lady's book of etiquette hadn't prepared her for this. She wanted to explain that she had inherited a dreadful situation but knew that Margaret disapproved of people who made excuses.
"You were always a brilliant politician, Margaret," faltered Teresa. I've done my utmost to honour your memory. To be strong and stable. She was rewarded with a sharp look.
"You will be haunted," resumed the Ghost, "by Three Spirits."
Being much in need of repose; Theresa went straight to bed, without undressing, and fell asleep upon the instant.
Tomorrow will bring Stave 2 - The Ghost of Christmas Past.
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