The Night I Met Father Christmas

by Ben Miller

‘Ah,’ said Father Christmas, clearly pleased that I had asked. ‘Because it’s summer.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said, although I didn’t.

  ‘When it’s winter at the North Pole, it’s summer here,’ said Father Christmas. ‘The sun shines for the whole of Christmas.’

  ‘But there can’t be any children at the South Pole,’ I said.

  ‘Usually there aren’t,’ said Father Christmas. ‘But this year’s different. See down there?’ I nodded. ‘That is a research station. It’s full of scientists, and one of them . . . well, you’ll see in a minute. Look out!’

  ‘Yah!’ he bellowed, and gave the reins an authoritative shake.

  ‘Will you please stop doing that?’ called Rudolph, from way up in front. ‘I find it mildly condescending!’

  ‘Sorry!’ called out Father Christmas.

  ‘Come on, team!’ shouted Rudolph, and the reindeer began to take the full weight of the sleigh, pulling us up into a steep climb. Doing my best not to look scared, I fumbled around on the seat to see if there might be anything resembling a safety harness. There wasn’t. We were now slowing to a halt, as if at the very top of a giant rollercoaster, and sure enough, Father Christmas put his hands in the air.

  ‘Woohoo!’ he called.

  ‘Woohoo!’ I shouted, and stuck my hands in the air too.

  The rest is a bit of a blur. One minute I was staring at the sky, and the next at the ground, while Rudolph and the other reindeer galloped at full tilt. The wind was so fierce it was almost impossible to open my eyes, although once I did, I immediately wished I hadn’t. We were coming up much too fast on a large rectangular grey building, surrounded by a brightly coloured jumble of huts and tents.

  It wasn’t going to be much of a Christmas present, I thought to myself, if we ended up flattening the whole camp.

  ‘Is this safe?’ I called out to Father Christmas.

  ‘Goodness me, no,’ he shouted. ‘It’s absolute idiocy! But that’s what makes it fun!’

  Suddenly, there was a jolt and Father Christmas and I were flung into the footwell.

  ‘AAARGH!’ Father Christmas cried, and I sensed that this wasn’t exactly soothing his swollen ankle.

  We had landed. The sleigh was still in one piece, but we were careering across the ice so fast that it felt like we might never stop.

  ‘Pull on the reins!’ I called to Father Christmas.

  ‘You pull on the reins!’ he called out, stuffing them into my hands.

  ‘STOP!’ I shouted to the reindeer, and I stood up, and pulled as hard as I could.

  Gradually, the pack slowed from a gallop to an ever-so-slightly slower gallop, then to a canter, and finally drew to a halt just a metre or so from a black-and-white pole with a shiny sphere on top.

  ‘Blimey,’ said Rudolph. ‘We nearly broke the South Pole.’

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Right!’ said Father Christmas. ‘No time to lose.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said, and jumped down from the sleigh. Unfortunately I was still dressed in my night clothes, and I discovered that there is very good reason you never see a polar explorer in cotton pyjamas, slippers and a dressing gown. The South Pole is cold. A light breeze skipped across the snow to greet us, and I felt like I had been pricked by a thousand tiny burning needles. Then Father Christmas hopped on to my shoulders and, suddenly, it was as if I was in a bubble. The ice, the snow, the bitter air: none of it could touch me.

  ‘I’m . . . I’m not cold any more! What’s happened?’ I asked Father Christmas.

  ‘What part of magic don’t you understand?’ said Father Christmas, tousling my hair to show that he was teasing. ‘I’m an elf, and my magic means I don’t feel the cold. And while I’m on your shoulders, neither do you.’

  He was right! It didn’t matter how bitterly the wind blew, I was as cosy as if I were at home in my nice warm bed.

  ‘Now, then,’ said Father Christmas. ‘I think that’s our target, over there.’

  Tents are easier to get into than houses, and soon we were standing in the yellow glow of a large circular canvas dome, surrounded by a wall of whiteboards, each of which was inscribed with all sorts of diagrams and important-looking mathematics. In the middle of the floor was a crib, draped with gauze and hung with fairy lights. Standing next to it was a mother holding a baby in her arms, her eyes wide in a loving gaze, frozen as still as a statue.

  ‘As I say, I don’t usually deliver to the South Pole,’ said Father Christmas. ‘But then I heard that Miss Bellwater here had a new arrival.’

  I looked again at the lady and her baby, then at the wonderful drawings and equations on the walls around us.

  ‘But what are all these diagrams?’ I asked. One day, when I grew up, I thought I might like to write mathematics and make complicated pictures like these.

  ‘Miss Bellwater’s a scientist,’ replied Father Christmas. ‘She’s working on something truly incredible. It’s the world’s biggest telescope, and it’s made entirely from ice.’

  ‘Where is it?’ I asked secretly hoping we might have time to take a look.

  ‘The telescope? You’re standing on it,’ said Father Christmas. ‘It’s right under your feet, in fact, it’s under the entire South Pole. The ice here is so pure that they can use it to detect a very special kind of particle, called a neutrino. Neutrinos are everywhere, but it’s very hard to see them.’

  ‘A bit like you,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Father Christmas. ‘You can tell where a neutrino has been, because when it hits a water molecule, it sends out a tiny beam of light. And you can tell when I’ve been, because I leave at least one present. Which is exactly what I’m going to do now.’

  In one corner of the tent was a little silver Christmas tree made of tinsel, and I walked towards it with Father Christmas on my shoulders.

  ‘Okay,’ said Father Christmas. ‘Hand me the sack.’

  ‘What sack?’ I asked.

  ‘Good one,’ said Father Christmas. ‘I like a boy with a sense of humour. The sack with all the presents in it.’

  ‘Um . . . I haven’t got it,’ I said.

  ‘I specifically asked you to bring it,’ said Father Christmas.

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ I replied, before I quite remembered to whom I was talking. ‘It must be on the sleigh,’ I said, more politely. ‘Shall I go and fetch it?’

  ‘No time,’ said Father Christmas, glancing at his watch. ‘It’s nearly two a.m. and we haven’t done North and South America yet. Sorry, baby Sean.’

  I felt very bad. We couldn’t leave Sean without giving him a present! Everyone should always have a special first present from Father Christmas. And that’s when I had an idea . . .

  ‘I could give him Mr Bodecca?’ I suggested.

  ‘Mr Who?’ asked Father Christmas.

  ‘Here,’ I said, and produced my cuddly rabbit from my dressing-gown pocket. He had been my first gift from Father Christmas and my best friend ever since. I always slept with him by my side.

  ‘Ah, so that’s what you called him,’ said Father Christmas. ‘Hello, Mr Bodecca. I remember you. But, Jackson . . . are you sure?’

  ‘Definitely,’ I said. ‘It’ll be like when Torvil gave Gerda his rag hedgehog.’

  ‘Won’t you miss him?’ said Father Christmas.

  ‘A lot,’ I said. ‘But that’s better than Sean not having a present.’

  ‘Could you put me down for a minute?’ asked Father Christmas, and I set him next to the tree.

  Father Christmas frowned, and I wondered for a moment if he might be cross. Then he took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. After a few moments, he put his glasses back on, and I saw there was a tear on his cheek.

  ‘You’re a good boy,’ he said in a gruff voice, and placed Mr Bodecca beside the little Christmas tree. ‘High-five,’ he said, and I slapped my hand against his red velvet glove.

  Moments later, Father Christmas was back on my shoulders, and a strong wind was g
usting at my back.

  ‘As a reward, maybe you’d like to hear a bit more of the story?’ asked Father Christmas. ‘I can tell it to you while we make our deliveries in South America.’

  ‘I was hoping you might say that,’ I replied. The wind was so strong that I was now jogging against my will.

  ‘Where were we again?’

  ‘Torvil has visited the past, and now the present,’ I said. ‘When we last saw him, he was falling through the branches of the Christmas tree.’

  ‘So he was,’ replied Father Christmas. ‘So he was.’

  And this . . . well, this is exactly what he told me.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Down fell Torvil, bouncing from branch to branch, sometimes landing on his bottom, sometimes on his belly, and once or twice on his chin, which was really rather painful indeed. Now and then he tried to grasp a branch in order to slow his descent, and each time he did so there was a splintering sound and it came away in his hand. Just when it seemed that he would continue being buffeted and tuffeted for ever, he came to an abrupt halt on something very hard and flat.

  It took Torvil a few seconds to realise that the hard and flat thing in question was his own bedroom floor, and that the branches he had thought he was tangled up in were actually his bedclothes. Opening his eyes, he ran a swift check to see if any of his bones were broken, but it seemed – miracle of miracles – that he was all in one piece. He looked at the clock on his bedside table; it was a little after four in the morning. There was no point trying to get back to sleep, so he might as well head into work. He could get a head-start on that stocktake. But, first, there was something he needed to check . . .

  Torvil took a deep breath, walked to the window, and pulled back the shutters. To his great relief, there in the front garden, swaying in the wind, was the same old fir tree. There were no signs of a muddy trail or any broken branches. So there it was: proof it had all been a dream. There had been no talking reindeer, no talking tree, no early Christmas feast at Steinar’s house, and no tiny bicycle for Steinar’s daughter, Kiti. And since none of those things had happened, he decided, there was no need whatsoever for him to feel guilty.

  With that settled in his mind, Torvil emerged from his front door in what felt like a jolly mood. And he felt even jollier when he realised he was just in time to catch one of the few passenger sleighs that day. What a treat lay ahead: a whole day of going through all the items of stock in the toyshop, together with their prices, to calculate the year’s profits, without being bothered by pesky customers. The very thought made him chuckle with glee.

  Torvil’s house was last on the forest road, and usually he had the whole sleigh to himself until they reached the edges of town. On this particular morning, however, just as they reached the densest part of the forest, a dark figure stepped out from the trees and into the path. The driver pulled to a halt and an elderly lady climbed aboard.

  A ragged black shawl covered her head and shoulders, and she was very stooped, so it was impossible to see her face. She was feeling her way with a long walking stick, and Torvil quickly realised that she must be blind. For the briefest of moments, he felt the urge to help her, but managed to overcome it. She was probably a beggar, he told himself, and only pretended to be blind to make people feel sorry for her. Well, he wouldn’t give her a penny!

  ‘Good morning,’ said the old lady politely, as she staggered and swayed up the aisle. ‘Is there a spare seat here, by any chance?’ Of course, with the rest of the sleigh empty, there was no one to answer her, so each time she simply shrugged and moved on. ‘Good morning,’ she said again. ‘Is there a spare seat by any chance?’

  Torvil folded his arms and crossed his legs and pretended to be fascinated by the passing scenery. And as he did so, the Copper Elf’s coin fell out of his pocket and rolled on to the floor.

  The old lady’s eyesight might have been poor, but her hearing was excellent, and with one swift movement of her walking stick she pinned the coin to a floorboard. Then, steadying herself with one hand, she bent to pick it up.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Torvil quickly. ‘That belongs to me.’

  The old lady frowned. ‘Do I know you, sir?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Torvil.

  ‘Your voice . . . it sounds familiar.’

  ‘I have a shop in town,’ said Torvil. ‘Perhaps you are a lover of high-quality toys?’

  ‘No,’ said the old lady, shaking her head. ‘That’s not it. What’s your name, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  ‘Torvil.’

  ‘And your surname?’ said the old lady.

  ‘Christmas. Torvil Christmas.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the old lady, pulling back her shawl. ‘This really is a very unusual coin,’ she said, examining it with her fingertips. ‘Is that a reindeer I can feel there?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I think that is a reindeer,’ said Torvil, wishing she would give the coin back. It was extremely valuable, after all.

  ‘And next to it . . . is that a fir tree?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Torvil.

  ‘And what’s this strange creature . . . a bear?’

  ‘Creature?’ asked Torvil.

  ‘There’s something around its neck,’ said the old lady. ‘A scarf, maybe?’

  ‘That’s funny,’ said Torvil. ‘I never noticed that before. Let me see. Well . . . I think that’s a snowman.’

  ‘A penguin, perhaps?’

  ‘I SAID, I THINK IT’S A SNOWMAN,’ said Torvil loudly, and tried to take the coin in his grasp. But the old lady held on to it firmly and drew him close.

  ‘Don’t you recognise me?’ she said in a low voice.

  ‘I think you must have me confused with someone else,’ said Torvil, slightly alarmed.

  ‘I don’t think so. I would never forget you, Torvil Christmas. I named you, after all.’

  For a few seconds, Torvil’s face was as blank as a field of fresh snow. And then . . .

  ‘Miss Turi?’ he asked.

  He could see it now: her face might be wrinkled, but those were quite definitely Miss Turi’s bright blue eyes.

  ‘How is Gerda?’ she asked. ‘Are you two still in touch?’

  ‘Umm . . .’

  ‘Of course you are. How could you not be?’

  Torvil gave a little awkward laugh.

  ‘What a fine jacket,’ she said, feeling the collar of his red velvet suit. ‘You must be rich.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Torvil awkwardly.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Did you ever bring presents to the children at the orphanage, like you said you would?’

  ‘I . . . I . . .’ said Torvil, but no other words came out.

  ‘I thought so,’ she replied. ‘You always were such a lovely boy.’

  Smiling, she placed the coin in Torvil’s gloved palm and closed his fingers around it. The driver was slowing for the next stop and Torvil saw that they were approaching the orphanage. By the time he looked back, the old lady was halfway down the aisle.

  ‘Miss Turi!’ he called, as she made her way towards the front of the sleigh. He needed to talk to her, to prove to himself that the Torvil she had known, the kinder, thoughtful Torvil, was still there, deep inside him. ‘Please! Wait!’

  But the old lady didn’t seem to hear him. They were still a good few kilometres from town, and there would be no other sleigh for at least an hour, but Torvil didn’t think twice: as quickly as he could, he gathered up his things and headed after her.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  There were patches of fog on the roadside, and Torvil could see no sign of the old lady. But as the sleigh pulled away, he caught a glimpse of her some way off, by the orphanage gates.

  ‘Miss Turi!’ he called. ‘Miss Turi!’

  And then the strangest thing happened: she pulled back her shawl, and turned towards him. But instead of the kindly face of Miss Turi, Torvil saw the low forehead, hooked nose and fierce green eyes of the Copper Elf. Or, at leas
t, he thought he did. Because the next instant, a blanket of fog descended, burying him in white.

  Could it be that the reindeer and the fir tree had been real, after all? There were three creatures on the coin – what if there was still another visit to come?

  ‘Hello!’ Torvil called nervously. He was answered only by silence. The fog was so thick that when he stretched his arms, he could barely make out his own red gloves. Now he knew who his third visitor would be: a snowman. That didn’t sound too scary. So why did he feel so uneasy?

  The best course of action, he decided, was to head for the town. If he could find the gates of the orphanage, then he might be able to point himself in the right direction. When he had glimpsed Miss Turi – or was it the Copper Elf? – the gates had been only forty paces or so away. Once he found the gates, he could find the path, and once he found the path, he could find the town.

  The problem was that he had no idea in which direction the gates might lie. After thinking for a moment, he hit upon a rather ingenious plan. Taking off his gloves, he scooped up two large handfuls of snow, and began to pack them together into a snowball. He put his gloves back on and rolled the snowball around in the fresh snow until it was the size of a football. That, he decided, would make the perfect marker.

  Standing with his back to the snowball, he took exactly forty steps forward. There was no sign of the gate, so he about-turned, and counted forty steps back. To his great joy, there was the snowball, exactly where he had left it. It was somewhat larger than he remembered: more the size of a boulder than a football, but that must be his mind playing tricks in the fog. No matter; his plan was working. He shuffled around the snow-boulder so that he was facing a new, unexplored direction, and set off once again to take forty paces.

  The fog was even thicker now, and after forty steps, when he held his arms in front of his face he couldn’t see further than his elbow. He frowned. The gates might be as close as a single step away, and he would never know. What was he to do? No kind of weather lasts for ever, and eventually the fog would surely lift, but for the time being it was all rather unsettling. At least he had his boulder for comfort, he decided, and about-turned to take forty steps back.