The Night I Met Father Christmas

by Ben Miller

  ‘What?’ I asked, horrified at the interruption. ‘But . . . what happens next?’

  ‘A lot of things,’ said Father Christmas. ‘That’s why it’s such a good story.’

  ‘But . . . but . . .’ I said, searching for any reason to make him stay. ‘You said you were ahead of schedule.’

  ‘I was, and now I’m not,’ said Father Christmas, rising from the footstool where he had been sitting. ‘And this tale is much too good to rush. OW!’

  ‘Is everything all right?’ I asked, suspecting that it probably wasn’t.

  ‘My ankle!’ he said, hopping around on one leg. ‘AH!’

  I remembered when my father had twisted his ankle during the parents’ egg-and-spoon race at my last sports day. ‘Take off your boot!’ I said and raced to the kitchen, grabbed a bag of frozen peas, and raced back again.

  Father Christmas gave a sharp intake of breath as I wrapped the peas around what I have to tell you was a rather sweaty sock. ‘Ow!’ he said. ‘That’s freezing!’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, feeling like this was all my fault. ‘But I promise this will make the swelling go down.’

  ‘This is bad,’ said Father Christmas. ‘This is very bad. How am I going to deliver my presents?’

  ‘Can I help?’ I asked.

  ‘How?’ asked Father Christmas.

  ‘I could carry you?’

  There was a pause while Father Christmas considered what I can only describe as a limited range of options.

  ‘Let’s try it,’ he said, shouldering his sack of presents. I lifted him on to the chair, and he clambered on to my back. I did my best to stand, but the sack was much too heavy, and I had to plonk him down again before I toppled over backwards.

  ‘It’s no good,’ he said. ‘This is never going to work.’

  ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘What if you sit on my shoulders, and balance the sack on my head?’

  There was another pause.

  ‘That,’ said Father Christmas, nodding slowly, ‘might be a very good idea indeed.’

  Seconds later, we were on the roof. There, standing in the moonlight, was the largest sleigh I had ever seen in my life. It was the size of a lorry and half-buried under a landslide of presents. Harnessed in front of it were nine enormous reindeer, pawing the ground, breathing out huge clouds of steamy breath, and shaking their antlers, so that the large bells around their necks rang out in the night. Father Christmas led me straight to the leader of the pack, an enormous grey-brown beast with a very runny pinkish nose. I knew at once that this must be Rudolph.

  ‘Here he is,’ said Father Christmas, feeding Rudolph the carrot. ‘My secret weapon.’

  ‘Because of his shiny nose?’ I asked breathlessly, partly in wonder, and partly because I had just carried Father Christmas up four flights of stairs.

  ‘Not really,’ said Father Christmas, passing the carrot around to the other reindeer so they could all have a nibble. ‘In fact, that’s a major drawback. He’s always got a cold and passes his germs on to the other reindeer. No, he’s my secret weapon because he can fly.’

  ‘He can hear as well,’ said Rudolph matter-of-factly.

  ‘Sorry, Rudolph,’ said Father Christmas.

  ‘Apology accepted,’ said Rudolph. ‘Although for your information, it’s not a cold, it’s flu. I’ve got the shivers and my joints ache. Who’s this?’

  ‘This is Jackson. He’s going to help me on my rounds tonight.’

  ‘Is that a good idea?’ said Rudolph. ‘No one ever comes with us.’

  ‘He has to,’ said Father Christmas. ‘I’ve twisted my ankle and without him, I can’t deliver the presents.’

  ‘And Father Christmas is telling me a story,’ I said proudly. ‘It’s about Torvil the elf.’

  ‘Ah, then he must have told you how we met?’ said Rudolph.

  ‘Ssshh, sshhh, sshhh!’ said Father Christmas. ‘You’ll spoil it. Anyway, as I was saying, Rudolph is my secret weapon because he can fly. Without him, we’d never get off the ground. Now, let’s get going; we’ve got a lot of places still to visit.’

  I helped Father Christmas on to the seat of the sleigh, then clambered up beside him. I pulled a bearskin rug over our knees, and Father Christmas took up the reins.

  ‘Yah!’ he cried. ‘Yah!’

  ‘Come on, guys!’ called Rudolph to the other reindeer, swallowing hard. ‘Let’s do this!’

  As one, the nine reindeer leaned into their harnesses, and dragged us in a wide circle until we were facing the edge of the roof.

  ‘Hang on tight!’ whispered Father Christmas.

  ‘Here we go!’ called Rudolph. ‘Three, two, one . . . charge!’

  The reindeer strained as they took the full weight of the sleigh. For a brief moment, it felt as if it might be too much for them. Then, all of a sudden, we lurched forward and began to rapidly accelerate. If you have ever been in a plane when it takes off, it was a little bit like that, except we weren’t wearing seatbelts and no one had shown us the emergency exits.

  I was expecting us to lift off high into the night sky, but the instant we cleared the edge we toppled downward, dropping like a stone, and it was only when I thought we were bound to crash that the sleigh began to heave and creak and we surged back up again. We rammed into the top of a large tree, scattering snow and pine needles, and soon the lights of the city were spread out before us.

  We were flying!

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said Father Christmas. ‘My fault. If they have too long a break they start to lose the knack.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

  ‘Africa,’ said Father Christmas. ‘Do you know which direction that is?’

  ‘South?’ I asked.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Father Christmas. ‘Eight thousand and thirty-one kilometres away, to be precise. We should be there in eight minutes and seventeen seconds. Look! The Houses of Parliament!’

  I looked to where he was pointing, and instantly regretted it, because a split-second later we flew so close to the clock on Big Ben that I nearly jumped out of my seat.

  ‘Yah!’ called Father Christmas. ‘Yah!’

  ‘Yes, we get it!’ shouted Rudolph.

  We plunged into a bank of cloud, and I looked at Father Christmas in concern.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ called Father Christmas. ‘Rudolph knows where he’s going.’

  A few minutes later, the stars reappeared, and London became a fizzing web of yellow light far behind us.

  ‘Now, we have a bit of time until we land, so where were we in our story?’ he called.

  ‘Torvil the elf,’ I said, battling against a gust of wind, ‘he’s just hit a tree and been knocked out.’

  ‘Impressive,’ said Father Christmas. ‘You really listened. Well, this is what happened next.’

  And this, pretty much word for word, is what he told me . . .

  Chapter Eight

  When he finally opened his eyes, Torvil found that he was lying flat on his back in the snow, staring up at a clear, moonless sky, littered with stars. What’s more, he had a very bad headache.

  He felt something cold on his face. Was he bleeding? Tenderly he pulled the glove from his left hand, stroked his cheek, and squinted at the tips of his fingers to see if they were red. They weren’t, but they were covered in slobber.

  It was at that point the reindeer decided to lick him again.

  ‘Eww!’ said Torvil, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve. ‘Shoo!’ he said, waving his arms.

  The reindeer looked at him in surprise. ‘I’m sorry,’ it said. ‘I’m guessing you’re not very tactile? Though you are alive, which is a bonus.’

  Torvil, who had never met a talking reindeer before, stared back in disbelief.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ said the reindeer. ‘Have I got a bit of lichen in my teeth? Where’s a frozen puddle when you need one, eh? Ah! Here we go . . .’

  Taking a deep breath, he blew the snow off a small section of ice very close to Torvil’s
face, and examined his front teeth. ‘Negatory, officer,’ he said in an official voice, ‘that is one clean grill.’ And then, ‘Sorry, I seem to have caught you with a couple of snowflakes there,’ he said, huffing the snow from where it had settled on Torvil’s glasses.

  Torvil continued to stare, not quite sure what to say.

  ‘That is one clean grill.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the reindeer. ‘It’s the talking thing, isn’t it? I always forget. People say to me, “It’s amazing that you can talk!” and I say, “Anyone can talk. What’s amazing is that I can connect.” ’

  Wondering if his bump on the head had somehow affected his brain, Torvil decided to try and stand up. He stretched his toes and fingers to check everything was working properly, then took a deep breath and hauled himself to his feet using the lower branches of a nearby sapling. It was then that he noticed something very odd. The snow around him was freshly fallen, with no sign of the crash.

  ‘Hang on,’ he said, trying to make sense of it all. ‘Where’s the sled?’

  ‘It doesn’t exist yet,’ said the reindeer with a shrug.

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Torvil, thinking he must have misheard.

  ‘Well, not as a sled,’ said the reindeer. ‘The wood exists. In fact, that’s it right there.’ And with its rather sore-looking nose, the reindeer pointed to the sapling fir tree that Torvil was now propped up against.

  ‘What in the great wide Pole are you talking about?’ asked Torvil. How could the sled he had just crashed not yet exist?

  ‘This tree becomes the dog sled,’ explained the reindeer, speaking slowly, as if Torvil was a small child. ‘It grows big and tall, then gets cut down by a Woodcutter Elf, then turned into planks by a Lumber Elf, and then carved by a Woodworking Elf.’

  ‘Turned into planks?’ asked Torvil, more confused than ever. ‘There’s not enough wood here to make a box of matches.’

  ‘Not now there isn’t,’ agreed the reindeer. ‘But in five hundred years’ time there will be.’

  ‘Say that again?’ asked Torvil.

  ‘We’re five hundred years in the past,’ said the reindeer, wiping a sniffle from its red nose with one of its knees. ‘Five hundred and six, to be precise.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ said Torvil. ‘I must have hit my head harder than I thought! Well, I can’t walk home from here, it’ll take all night. I’ll go back into town and hire another dog sled. I’ll probably be charged a fortune for losing this one!’

  And, with that, Torvil gave a big humph and strode back towards the town.

  Chapter Nine

  At least, that’s what he tried to do. What actually happened was that Torvil took one step forward and sank right up to his neck in a snowdrift.

  ‘Ah, yes. It is quite deep there,’ said the reindeer. ‘Do you need a bit of help?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said Torvil. ‘I knew the snow was deep. If it’s any business of yours, which I strongly suspect it isn’t, I felt a little hot and bothered after my accident and I thought this would be an efficient way to cool down. In a moment, when my body temperature has reached a comfortable level, I shall be on my . . . Wait a minute . . .’

  With some difficulty, Torvil looked up at the reindeer, who was now standing right beside him.

  ‘Why aren’t you sinking?’ asked Torvil.

  ‘I float,’ said the reindeer.

  ‘You do what?’ said Torvil.

  ‘I’m a . . . you know . . . flying reindeer. You see these shoes?’ he said, picking up one of his hooves.

  ‘That’s close enough, thank you,’ said Torvil, who didn’t much like having a large reindeer hoof shoved in his face.

  ‘Any idea what these are made of?’ asked the reindeer.

  ‘Please do tell me,’ said Torvil.

  ‘Osmium,’ said the reindeer. ‘Twice as dense as lead. That one there,’ he said, waving his hoof right under Torvil’s nose, ‘weighs the same as a bucket of sand. Without them I’d shoot up into the sky like a hot air balloon. With them on, I’m balanced just right.’

  ‘Really?’ said Torvil. ‘Are you sure you aren’t just standing on a snow-covered rock?’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said the reindeer and, reaching down, he gripped the fur collar of Torvil’s jacket between his teeth, and began to pull Torvil up on to the surface of the snow.

  ‘Ow!’ said Torvil. ‘You’ve got my neck hair!’

  ‘Just relax,’ said the reindeer. ‘We’ll have you out of there in no time.’

  ‘Stop it!’ shouted Torvil. ‘Stop it! Let go of me this instant!’

  ‘Honestly,’ said the reindeer, dropping him like a stone. ‘I was only trying to help!’

  ‘I don’t need any more of your “help”, thank you very much,’ said Torvil, struggling to his feet. ‘Goodbye!’

  Chapter Ten

  The snow on the track was deep, and Torvil found the walk back up the hill extremely tiring. Luckily, the stars were bright and there was very little cloud, which meant there was just enough light to see by. If he hadn’t been in such a bad mood, Torvil might have marvelled at how still and silent the forest was, how his breath hung in the air like smoke, and how the tiny ice crystals on the snow-covered branches sparkled like fairy dust.

  Soon he saw the glow of the town lighting the clouds ahead of him and, as he grew closer, he heard the distant beating of elfin drums. Clearly the Christmas revels were still in full swing. No doubt the streets were packed with rosy-cheeked elves, dancing and making merry, careless of the worries of the world.

  The thought made Torvil shudder. He would have to pass through the crowds on his way to the sled-hire shop. What if someone tried to dance with him, or make him sing? He stopped in his tracks. As deep as the snow was, maybe it was worth walking all the way home, after all . . .

  He was about to turn around when he noticed something very odd on the road beside him. Just visible through the trees was the outline of the abandoned orphanage. For as long as he could remember, it had been empty, cold and unloved, surrounded by a tall, locked, rusting iron fence. But now there was something very different about it. All the lights were on.

  He frowned and waded more quickly through the snow, curious to see what might be going on. Had a band of drunk elves decided to take it over for a party? If so, he would lodge an official complaint with the town elders. The building was old and dangerous, with slates missing from the roof and rubble in its grounds, and he was sure that a party would be against health and safety regulations. This, he told himself, was the whole problem with allowing elves to enjoy themselves. They were never content with a nibble of acorn cake and a sip of silver bark tea. They always had to take it too far.

  But Torvil was wrong. As he drew closer, it was clear that the orphanage, far from being derelict, was the picture of health. There were painted shutters on the windows, and the snow had been cleared from the path in a garden laid to lawn and late-flowering shrubbery. Through the windows he could see smartly dressed staff ushering boys and girls in dark-blue uniforms. The sight moved him greatly, and he almost smiled. Almost, because it was at that point he heard a baby crying.

  At the gate, barely metres ahead of him, sat a wicker shopping basket. Edging closer, Torvil saw that the crying was coming from a rather cross-looking baby wrapped tightly in a hand-knitted blanket.

  The reindeer nudged him. ‘Mind-blowing, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘Excuse me?’ asked Torvil, who hadn’t realised he was being followed.

  ‘You know who that is, don’t you?’ said the reindeer.

  Torvil peered at a label attached to the handle of the basket. In clear handwriting was a single word: Torvil.

  ‘It can’t be,’ said Torvil in a quiet voice. ‘It’s that bang on the head, it’s sent me funny for sure. I passed by here ten minutes ago, and the whole place was deserted. No lights, no people, and definitely no baby.’

  ‘I told you,’ said the reindeer. ‘We’re in the past. And that’s you. Left here at th
e orphanage gates.’

  ‘That’s not possible,’ said Torvil. ‘That’s simply not possible.’

  The baby, which had paused for breath, started crying again.

  ‘I’m taking this poor child inside,’ said Torvil, stepping forward to pick up the basket. But, just as his hand was about to close on the handle, the reindeer’s teeth clamped down on his collar once again, and dragged him backwards through the snow.

  ‘Would you please stop doing that?’ exclaimed Torvil.

  ‘It’s against the rules,’ said the reindeer.

  ‘What rules?’ asked Torvil.

  ‘This is your past. You’re not allowed to change it. All you can do is watch.’

  As if to emphasise the reindeer’s point, a gust of wind skittered past them, kicking up clouds of powdery snow. A handful of snowflakes found their way into the basket, and the baby began to cry even more loudly.

  ‘Oh, this is absurd!’ said Torvil, his heart melting a little. ‘That poor baby!’

  Thankfully, at that very moment, the door of the orphanage opened, and a young woman in uniform placed a crate of old-fashioned glass milk bottles on the doorstep.

  ‘Over here!’ called Torvil. ‘Over here!’

  ‘Ssssh!’ said the reindeer, making an executive decision to butt Torvil backwards through a bush.

  ‘Ow!’ said Torvil.

  ‘Keep down!’ hissed the reindeer.

  Over on the doorstep, the young woman turned and looked in their direction. Taking a lantern, she began to walk down the path towards them. She held the lantern high and scanned the ground beyond the gate, but could see nothing but a single bush, curiously free of snow. And then, finally, she saw the baby.

  ‘I remember her,’ whispered Torvil to the reindeer. ‘That’s Miss Turi. We liked her. She was very kind.’

  As quickly as she could, Miss Turi opened the gate, lifted the baby from the basket, and held it close. She looked all around, but could see no sign of anyone that might have left it there. For the briefest of moments she looked straight at the bush where Torvil and the reindeer were hiding, and they had to crouch down even further to be sure they were out of sight. Then, seeing no one, Miss Turi closed the gate and hurried back to the orphanage, shutting the door behind her. Through the large staircase windows, Torvil saw her climbing, floor by floor, all the way to the eaves.