Tom was looking shifty. He sat in the corner of the bar in his favourite position, shuffled in his seat, occasionally sipping from his pint of cider and pulling on his long white beard. The conversation in the crowded small bar buzzed busily around him. Pre-recorded Christmas music in the background blended with the pungeant drifting aroma of cranberry and venison pie and woodsmoke from the open fire. Outside the snow lay brown and clumped by the tiny country road edges but brilliant white in a crisp sheet across the open fields with their high hedges and winding country paths.

In pride of place, next to Tom was an extremely large, flat computer screen.

"What's that you've got there," questioned Silas as he picked hedgerow cuttings off his well worn leather jacket and jeans, deftly flicking them into the fire, his dark eyes darting continuously around the small country bar like a nervous ferret.

Tom's slate grey eyes glittered mysteriously reflecting the light from the old wood burning fire that crackled in the corner below a mantlepiece of 16th century oak. He lifted his old gnarled hand to his head and smoothed the thin layers of white hair he'd put out of place moving the computer screen. His face with it's ruddy complexion glowed with expectation.

"Well young Silas", he said in his slow West Country drawl, "you've got to keep up with the times. As you know it's Christmas and at Christmas time we often look to the past with old wine, memories of times and traditions long ago but perhaps we should spend some time thinking about the present and what is important today."

"Cor, you're not getting all philosophical in your old age are you", shrilled sharp eared Nancy. Out of season, when she wasn't tending her summer tea rooms further up the valley, her low cut blouse, ready smile and friendly ear was a regular feature at this bar. There was a rumour that the landlord dropped drink money into her hand from time to time because she kept the regulars regular. Others said that he encouraged her attendance in other ways ... but then that's country folk for you and, as the nights draw in and the winds blow cold outside, country folk love to tell stories.

A dozen heads turned as the motley group of assorted farmers, labourers and other fellow drinkers sensed something was afoot, paused their conversations and stared at old Tom.

"Go on ... you don't even know how to switch that computer thing on?" said Ben, superciliously. Being Friday lunchtime, it was the end of his week. He was still in his dark grey suit and had come straight from his local government office job. He had a clear white complexion, glasses with little round lenses, perched on a tiny nose, neatly combed slicked back brown hair and an arrogant belief that computers were for people aged in their early '20s or less and for people who talked very rapidly, like himself.

"I've been having lessons down at the new local learning centre," said Tom slowly and proudly. "You know the one that that offers free courses for pensioners." Tom waved his hand, pointing through a thick stone wall in the direction of the local town, past the old brown wooden beams, the fading pictures of hunting folk and the stuffed animals that bedecked the walls providing reminders of long past victories over furry friends and foes.

"You can learn quite a lot from our local town further learning centre", he chuckled. "They're not all asleep like the people in this tiny little hamlet, hidden away as we are amongst the Exmoor Hills.

"Well go on tell us what are you going to do with it", said Ruby. Fresh from the fields, she was dressed in an old green woollen pullover, brown skirt and black waterproof boots streaked with mud and farmyard splashes. Her shiny white teeth crunched hungrily on a chicken drumstick and she wiped splashes of it's juice from her full lips with the back of her hand.

Like Tom, she had a rosy red face, but her hair was concealed by a grey woollen hat, pulled down and nearly covering her tiny smiling eyes. She cuddled a large glass of mulled wine between gloved hands that had holes in the finger ends to give her fingers better grip. Her sheep dog lay obediently at her feet, his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth as he snoozed and dreamed of rabbits lolloping over snow covered moors and sheep in unusually obedient lines.

"Yes what are you going to do with that rather flashy looking computer, Tom,"  chorused the country folk around him, nudging each other and enjoying the moment.

"All in good time," chuckled Tom. "Before I get on with the new, I have to explain some of our traditions to these town folk."

He waved at two young couples at the other end of the bar. Their waterproof boots were green and shiny and had clearly only been used to walk down the lane from their infrequently used holiday home. They lifted their glasses containing gins and tonic and freshly mixed martinis in acknowledgement and smiled nervously, clearly wishing they could observe these quaint countryside habits from afar without any danger of becoming involved.

Seated nearby were their well scrubbed offspring - a young boy of about 8 years old and two fresh faced girls in their early teens, who were clearly in charge of their baby sibling who cooed and gurgled as they poked him gently and talked in high pitched voices about how ticklish he was, whilst at the same time sipping on their fruit drinks.   

"It's the time of the year for our Christmas story," said Tom, "It's the time when in the past a volunteer has taken the storytelling seat and provide us with good Christmas cheer."

"And can you remember that one last year", yelled a touzleheaded young man from the window seat. That young woman gave me such a look as she walked out the door - fair turned my blood cold." There were murmurs of agreement all around, she was vividly remembered.

The townsfolk were looking more and more nervous, afraid they had some scary part to play in a weird countryside ritual.

"And these jolly people from the city are going to be very involved in the telling of the story", continued Tom, confirming their worst fears.

"And how are we going to do that?" asked the tallest man, his short cut fair hair bristled and his face darkening with concern that he was going to have to assert himself over this old, wrinkled country yokel. The other lady, a striking soft curled brunette, whose tweed suit looked as if it was having it's first time out, moved over and sat protectively by their children.

Tom climbed down from the bar stool and hobbled towards the young city dweller who hesitantly stood up to meet him. But he wasn't Tom's target. Instead Tom shuffled past the young executive and patted the knee of the slim young woman that was seated beside him. Her long blonde, luxuriously brushed hair cascaded down over her bare perfectly suntanned shoulders meeting a dark body-hugging cocktail dress that showcased her youth and beauty magnificently. Any bar, drinking establishment or club from Madison Avenue in America to London's Bond Street would have welcomed her with open arms. Red blooded men worldwide, would drink in her perfume and die for her willingly. She was every man's trophy dream.

And Tom had his hand on her knee.

She shrunk back, tossed her flaxen hair in annoyance, bridled like a fresh filly new to the bit, pursed her lips in a grim disapproving smile - but Tom was undeterred.

"My dear, could you please get up and let me have that chair that you are keeping so warm and comfy. You see, my dear, this humble stool on which you are seated is our storytelling chair and, at this time of the year, it is the most important piece in this ancient hostelry."

The other male outsider was seated on an old wooden bench to her left and he wriggled over to make space. Unaccountably, he was wearing an Australian Bush hat complete with corks hanging from the brim which was completely at odds with his smart business suit and open necked shirt.

"You can come and sit next to me, Suzanne", his Australian accent explaining the corked headgear.

"Then if you, Mr Tom,  will take your hand off my knee", said Suzanne imperiously, "I will be pleased to do that."

Tom patted her knee, again, undaunted. "Thank you my dear."  Then he turned to the man with short hair. "And if you will help by pulling the chair over there we can get started."

The city gent was quick to comply, it didn't seem dangerous and it got Tom's old hand of his wife's knee.

The old chair was quickly situated by the huge roaring log fire and Tom took his place. The wood in the huge fireplace immediately crackled and spluttered like gunfire marking an end to the remaining conversations in the assembled throng.

Tom reached into a pocket and withdrew a headset with a small microphone. He placed it on his head, tucking the microphone into his bushy beard. An aerial protruded above its' earpiece close to the few tufty hairs that remained on the side of Tom's head indicating the headgear was linked to the computer wirelessly.

He stretched over and switched the computer on. Then, speaking clearly, he ordered the computer to log onto a web site. The assembled crowd couldn't quite hear the name of the site. He seemed to say it very fast, mumbling it into his beard.

A picture came up on the screen. It was familiar to all of them and a roar of laughter erupted from the crowd. Ruby, who'd now finished sucking her drumstick, summed it up.    

"By golly, you've got what they call a web cam there Tom", she chortled, "and the web site you're on is showing us in this bar. Ah there it is!" She pointed to a camera that was angled towards the centre of the bar, almost unnoticeable behind an old stuffed fox.  

"Yes", said Tom, "My boy has gone off and left me for the Americas, perhaps even to avoid the embarrassment of my Christmas story. But he won't get away. I made him honour bound agree to come and visit our web site so he can hear our Christmas story this year just as he has for all his life. That video camera is putting our bar, live, onto the web site and he can see us from all that distance away in America.

"He'll forget to login," said Alf, a dapper chap with a cloth hat, "he may be a wiz at computers but your son is even more forgetful than you. Remember how he forgot to hit the cricket ball last summer and got bowled out middle stump." The bar roared with laughter.

"There's no chance of that", said Tom, "he's got this new and clever system called RSS." He leaned over conspiratorially to touch the bare arm of the blonde whose leg he had earlier patted. She shrank back, again, kingfisher blue eyes widening.

"It means he's notified on his desktop as soon as there is a change on our bar's web site. He's at work just this minute in America so he can't get away from seeing the notification and now look you see he he's just joined us."

Tom pointed to a computer window discussion board that had appeared in the top right-hand corner with a signature containing the familiar face of his son who had, as promised,  travelled across the world to join them in this tiny bar, in this small corner of the Exmoor Hills as it nestled in the heart of the West Country of the United Kingdom.

"Hello dad." His son's voice was strong and clear across the thousands of miles and he'd  still not lost his soft west country accent.

"Hello son, welcome to our gathering of friends and now we are properly ready and the Christmas story can begin."

Tom snuggled deep into the story tellers chair, knowing all eyes were on him but he was biding his time.

"This year I thought we would do something a bit different," he firmly announced.

"You mean it'll be traditional ... and different" yelled a local farmer, always the joker. Sympathetic laughter erupted and Tom waited for it to subside.

"Instead of just one person telling the story, I thought we'd all tell a story together and I want to call it 'My Christmas Wish' ... so who is going to be the first to start?"

Immediately, there was shuffling of feet as everyone turned away to avoid Tom's gimlet eye, especially the newcomers who suddenly found the old stone flags beneath their feet immensely interesting.

Finally, it was Ruby who spoke: "Oh all right" she said, "It sounds easy enough. I'll go first."

"So what is your Christmas wish?" said Tom.

" 'Tis a small thing", said Ruby, "I wish that there were no poor people in the world and nobody wanted for anything." There was general applause - who could question that wish?

But Silas, always eager to find the downside, jumped in with both feet, his eyes darting this way and that: "You can't say that, Ruby, it's a wasted wish! If everybody had enough money, the world would stop working. Who would fix your bunions and corns at the hospital?" he demanded. "If everybody was rich and had no need to work then that probably nobody WOULD work and all the things that we rely on to make life worth while would be impossible to find. What would be the point of having loads of money but nothing to spend it on?"

"Cor, you've got a point there", said Ruby, contritely. "I never thought of that. We'd all probably be worse off not better. Imagine coming down to the bar and there being no bar man  to serve the pints." There was a welling up of acceptance in the room. The bit about the drinks had hit home hard.               
 
"No pints, Ruby ... that would be NO GOOD!" This was from Ben. "We've got to get our priorities right. First we get the pints in ... and then we save the world."

"All right ", said Nancy," if one of the most important things that people can do is work then let's make it easier for people who are self-employed to make a living. I know you say I'm always going on about the self employed but do you know that as soon as I open my door to my cafe in the hills I start paying business rate taxes, even though I haven't made a penny. I've known people start a business and then be driven into the ground and poverty by property taxes before they've even had a chance to start making a living. Surely that's wrong."

"Yes and talking about the self-employed, what about all the red tape that the government is constantly pushing on us?" This was from the landlord. he stabbed the air in front of him to emphasise his point with his free hand, while at the same time serving up a freshly foaming pint of beer with the other.

There were a lot of self employed people in the bar and none that earned a princely sum - except perhaps the outsiders, who were keeping quiet - so many heads nodded in agreement.

"Government deserves shooting", someone affirmed, knowledgeably.

But one person disagreed and it was the fair haired youth in the window seat, just turned 18 years old and made brave (and a bit dizzy) by his first glass of cider.

"How can you t-talk about your own needs when there are m-millions of people dying each year of disease and hunger", he stammered, looking indignantly around the bar. "I b-bet there's none of you starving here, despite all your c-complaints."

"I don't know about that", said the man at the food counter petulantly. He'd a deep voice and had been waiting for some time because the landlords attention had been distracted by the debate.

"I'm starving! Isn't it possible to get some food around here?"

The rest of the room laughed and the landlord quickly moved to take his order.

Then a new voice spoke up. It was small, high pitched like the lark in the spring but fiercely angry.

"It's all very well joking, but I think the young man is absolutely right".  Everyone looked round in surprise and saw it was Suzanne, now standing, and a speck of red glowing in each cheek.

She continued "I spent some time in Africa ..."

But she was interrupted, rudely, by an older man in dungarees seated by the door, unlit pipe clenched firmly in his teeth.

"Africa eh, we were wondering where you got that sun tan from. You wouldn't have got it  from holidaying around here, that's for sure."

"Go on, Bert, given her a chance," said Ruby, dismissively. "She's making a reasonable point."

"What would you know about travel anyway, Bert," added Nancy, "to my recollection you've never even been out of the county of Somerset!"

Bert stolidly chewed on his pipe and sagely shut up, knowing he was out gunned.

The tall blonde outsider continued: "as I was saying, I spent some time in Africa. I've seen people die of hunger and it's horrible. I've seen people digging hard ground with wooden sticks trying to grow food. That was hard enough but then people came to beat them from the government and stole what little they'd grown."

"It's the same wherever you go ", said Nancy. "All governments rip the people off, and unlike the fox, they don't just take a few ducks or hens, they take the whole damn farmyard. They're playing around with billions and none of them get poor on it either."

Suzanne shook her head, the highlights of her hair flashing regally in the light from the candles on the tables.

"You don't see what I'm getting at. I'm talking about simple kindness. If everybody was kind to each other then people wouldn't need to steal and be horrible. People would be willing to share whatever they had because others would share back. Isn't that the original message of Christmas?"

"She may be an outsider but she's got some wise words" came the mutters from around the room. There was a brief pregnant pause then suddenly:

"Yeh! Landlord, you've got to be kind to us - drinks on the house!" It broke the ice and the raucous laughter returned.

Suzanne sat down, confused, unsure whether she'd convinced them or not.

"All right", said Tom, "we've people wishing for all the world to have work and everybody to be kind to each other. 'Tis a start but I wonder what my boy in the far off Americas has to say? Come on boy, speak up."

Speaking from so far away, Tom's son's opinion now seemed to those in the bar to be of the utmost of importance and a hush fell over the bar. It seemed as if his words were  sanctified by distance and imbued with the wisdom of an oracle. Everybody in the bar leaned forward trying to hear his quiet voice from all those miles away.

He started slowly, his words travelling across land and oceans in a flash.

"Maybe what we all need is better communication! When we talk to each other, we tell each other our needs and that enables us to help each other. There's none of us that don't feel better for a chat in the bar. And remember last year when Ruby's barn burned down just in the middle of lambing and that bitterly cold spring? Because we all knew about it, we couldn't stand by and do nothing. We all got together and helped her put up a new one to provide shelter for the weakest new born lambs. If all those people in Africa, or wherever, were in daily contact with us, we couldn't stand by for them either and do nothing. We'd have to share their problems and help find solutions."

Sage nods all around as they each remembered how the hard unyielding frosty earth surrendered to the wooden posts driven in by equipment operated by frost cold fingers and how wonderful was the feeling when the new barn stood proud against the cold star ridden night sky. Later the villagers had visited to see the first born lamb delivered by Ruby with a proud tired smile and attended by whoops of joy from the onlookers.

"Well, I guess my boy has spoken and perhaps he is right", said Tom. "Of course, I don't know necessarily how you get people to listen. Over the years, there's many people, probably thousands, from abroad who've visited this bar and then gone back to their own lands and maybe on to other countries worldwide. But we don't hear from them, do we? It's the distance makes us lose touch."

The strong voice of the Australian broke in.

"I don't know about you guys, but wherever I go in the world, I always feel I'm taking my Australia with me and I just think that maybe when I leave here, it'll be hard to forget you load of pommie scruffs, your scratched wooden beams and your warm beer, because from what I've just heard, I reckon your hearts are in the right place."

He pulled his hat with it's hanging corks lower over his head and stuck his jaw forward as if to warn off anybody who'd heard his words and now thought he was a soft touch.

Tom gazed sideways into the blazing fire as if he was seeing far into the distance. Everyone gazed hard into the embers wanting to see what he saw. His drawl had slowed to a crawl and he was clearly in deep thought as he weaved his words.

"Perhaps at this Christmas time the real story is in us here and now. We have people who work on the land and in the offices. We have people who are from the town and the village,  we have the young and the old. And we even have people from the two continents of America and Australia Perhaps this foretells of better times in the future when there will be more understanding and happiness from better communication in the world everywhere."

"That's got my vote, Dad", said Tom's son, and from all the way over here in America, I wish you all a Merry Christmas and the happiest of new years.

There was a chorus of Happy Christmases and the best of New Years from the small community in the bar, glasses were raised and toasts were drunk.

Suddenly, everybodies eye was caught by a message that had just been added to the online board

"Happy Christmas from your friends in Hong Kong ..."

Then another

"Health and prosperity from the Peoples Republic of China ..."

And another

"Happy Christmas from Italia ....."

And another

"Happy Christmas from Russia ... "

Within seconds the message board was a blur of Christmas good wishes from all around the world with the screen scrolling too fast to read except by the very sharpest eyes.

Tom's eyes misted over as the bar erupted with joyful shouts of welcome followed by cheer after cheer for the different countries as they appeared one after another, faster and faster on the large screen.

The old man now found himself no longer the centre of attention, but he didn't mind. Instead, he sat quietly by himself by the crackling fire, shaking his head in wonderment and quietly musing:

"If our little corner of this wild countryside can come together like this in hope with all these far off places in this big wide world ... maybe this Christmas story truly is a sign of better things to come ... "

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