Santa Claws

by Gabriela Harding

  Great. Now the old hag would see her cry.

  But Grandma wasn’t looking at her. She was scanning the distance, the fields and hills covered by sparkling snow. Bunny Park was on their doorstep, so every house on Cuckoo Lane had a back garden that opened onto it.

  “What happened to that tree?” Grandma asked, narrowing her eyes.

  “It was the storm,” came Teddy’s reply.

  “The tree was there last Christmas. And now they cut the branches.” She sighed. “I feel like that, puppets. Only a stump of what I once was. My roots sticking out everywhere, just like that tree. No sap flowing through me. And I can’t ever be put back on. That’s what. Once you’re uprooted, you become an air plant…your roots feed on air and you have no home.”

  “Loco!” Honey whispered as they were whisked back into the toasty warmth of Chess Cottage.

  At four o’clock, when the outdoor lights shone on a fox crossing the garden with a chicken in its mouth, the dark had already fallen. The days were getting shorter. On the other side of the park, windows lit up behind the thick curtain of trees. Water gurgled out from a pipe in a neighbouring house, and a blast of blue-grey smoke floated in the cold air.

  Grandma Florence was preparing one of her favourite dishes: roasted quails with cherry puree and polenta, an Italian porridge made of maize. She was tipsy and in a singing mood. Her hoarse voice floated around the house:

  “Rien, rien de rien, non, je ne regrette rien!” It was a famous French song, translating ‘No, I don’t regret a thing,’ sung a long time ago by Edith Piaf, a street singer who eventually turned famous.

  Behind the black window, the snow fell like in a dream. Snowflakes gathered on the hat of a snowman that had appeared near the frozen vegetable patch. The children played out all afternoon, forgetting about the squirrel abandoned in the cardboard box. Poor darlings, thought Grandma Florence, licking the sauce off the wooden spoon. Suddenly she remembered the owl.

  She shivered, added more seasoning to the quail dish and placed it back in the oven. She glanced at her watch. The supper would be ready in no time. After that, she would see that everything went according to plan. She just hoped the alarm clock on her ancient phone would not fail her this time. Opening the small bottle of cherry liqueur hat she kept hidden in her belt, she took a long swig.

  Upstairs, the children were changing into warmer clothes. The snow fight had been fun but left them with soggy shoes and soaked gloves.

  “What time are we eating tonight?” yawned Teddy, pulling a thick jumper over his head as he walked into his sister’s room.

  Honey smirked. “What? You’re not wearing the teddy bear onesie Grandma gave you?”

  “You can have it,” he answered. “When are we eating? I’m hungry.”

  “The question is, what,” replied Honey, hanging a wet sock on the radiator.

  “And what if Santa gets annoyed if we spy on him?”

  “How many times do I have to tell you – THERE IS NO SANTA! I mean, Santa is Grandma. Since she’s the only one here. If she doesn’t get drunk, that is. She might just sleep like a log and give you the presents herself in the morning. Ha, ha!”

  “Liar, liar, your pants are on fire!” Teddy flicked out his tongue.

  “Suit yourself. I’m going down for tea.”

  “Caterpillars turn into butterflies! Isn’t that magic?” he called after her.

  But Honey was too busy sliding down the banister to respond.

  During supper Honey wondered, for about the millionth time, why her grandmother never removed her gloves. She would have asked her had she not known Grandma Florence’s English was not good enough to provide a proper explanation. No, that wasn’t it. She would have pretended that her English wasn’t good enough to provide an explanation. Because it was a secret. That much she knew. A secret she had kept even from her son. Honey found it odd that Dad didn’t talk about what Grandma did for a living when he was growing up in France. Whatever it was, it must have been enough to pay for the fancy villa in Côte d’Azur and for Dad’s extortionate fees at the boarding school in Mill Hill.

  After dinner, she made them each a cup of hot chocolate with real vanilla, chopping up the moist pods and scooping the lovely seeds in their cups. Teddy curled up on the sofa, Honey sat on the rocking chair, cradling Kitty on her lap, and Grandma stretched on a sheepskin on the floor. The flames in the hearth leapt up merrily, casting shadows around the dark room. A film called A Christmas Carol was on, but, after a while, Honey’s eyes drifted to the white, glowing moon. It was gliding behind the treetops, see-through like a ghost. Was there anything more sinister than the moon? When she was little, Honey was terrified of it. In its smoky belly, she saw headless riders and evil monsters. The sky was black, like a chocolate cake sprinkled with stars. Snow was falling on the empty branches of the trees. And up in the pine trees, more owls hooted.

  Honey was dozing when the news programme started. The voice from the screen rattled on and on, without making much sense. It was as if someone was speaking to her in a foreign language. Suddenly she was wide awake:

  “…Georgie Reynolds has been missing from her house in Plymouth, Devon, since 25th of December. There is still no information of her whereabouts. At the time of her disappearance, she was wearing animal print pyjamas. She is three feet tall, weighs about four and a half stone and has a small scar on the right side of her head. If you have any information you should contact the police immediately.”

  Honey thought of the boy on the carton of milk. He too had disappeared without trace. And how about the girl Miss White was talking about? Her neighbour’s daughter? This was certainly a series of most peculiar events.

  Grandma Florence was fast asleep, her hands still holding the cup of hot chocolate. The shadows of the flames flickered on her face. Honey heard her mumble in her sleep:

  “Flaubert, oh, Flaubert, je t’aime…I love you…”

  Honey giggled. Flaubert was, of course, the children’s grandfather, a beast of a man who could eat thirty eggs for breakfast and three roast chickens for tea. His occupation was uncertain, just like Grandma’s, which meant there was no way of telling how the two had gotten hold of such a large fortune. The grossest thing was, however, that this unusual pair of grandparents acted as if they were still on honeymoon. They constantly pecked each other’s lips when they were together and, when one of them left the room, the other would smack their bottom as a form of goodbye. It was disgusting.

  Without bothering to wake Grandma up, Honey tapped Teddy on the shoulder and, carrying sleeping Kitty around her neck like a fur scarf, went upstairs to bed. Halfway up the stairs she remembered the squirrel.

  “Teddy,” she whispered. “Help me bring the box inside.”

  “But Dad…”

  “Dad’s gone.”

  Honey took the key from the ceramic bowl in the dining room. At this time of night, there was something macabre about the garden. The blue light of the stars gave it an alien look. For a moment she stood looking at it, and it felt as if it was looking at her, too. When she opened the door, the silence, more than the cold, froze her to the bone.

  It felt like a plunge into a soundless world, a world full of eyes. From the trees and the shrubbery, from her mother’s rosemary and thyme bushes, from behind the windows of their shed, someone seemed to be watching.

  Honey stepped barefoot into the ankle-deep snow. It was so cold it burned, but she relished the sensation. Sometime, long ago, maybe in another life, she was swimming in pure white, soft snow.

  “Hurry up,” Teddy said. “I think I saw something move.”

  “It’s gone. How could it have run away?”

  She held the box in her hands, the top ripped open.

  In bed, Honey lay awake for a long time, with a worry she couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t the baby squirrel, but so
mething else. Just as she was drifting into sleep, she realised it was something she had forgotten to do. She’d forgotten to lock the back door. The back door was closed but not locked…not locked…

  Down in the garden, a large shadow untangled itself from the thick darkness of the rose bushes. Something sharp and silver glinted in the eerie night light. The moon, floating behind a cloud, above the trees, over the owls and over the shape that began to creep over to the house, seemed to smile a wicked smile.

  6. Christmas Eve

  She sat bolt upright. It was 3 a.m. Through a pane of glass the moon stared at her. An owl wailed: twoohit – twohoo, twoohit – twohoo, twoohit – twohoo.

  There was also something else. It sounded like cats. Honey could almost see their wide eyes glimmering in the darkness, their fangs bared. Oh no. They’d surrounded the cardboard box where the baby squirrel shivered with fright, whimpering, hypnotized by the swish of their tails, left right, left right, left right…

  Then she remembered. The baby squirrel was gone. Kidnapped by a fox, no doubt.

  The cats continued to growl. Honey saw them chasing each other along the thin edge of the fence, along the rooftops, diving one after another into the deep, snow-covered bushes. A great sadness came over her. It was okay, Dad said. Grey squirrels were pests. Grey squirrels could die. It’s not as if they were red…the red could live, should live, because they were red. It didn’t make any sense.

  Honey was overwhelmed by hate, hate of Mum, Dad, the world. The world was a messed-up place where nothing made sense. She was even more determined now to prove to her brother that there wasn’t such a thing as a kind old geezer with a sack of toys who visited houses on Christmas Eve. What happens to the poor neighbourhoods where kids get bugger all for Christmas? Many of those kids get a punch in the face as a Merry Christmas. And some still think there are such things as Santa Claus, and…God?

  It was dark apart from the pool of light on her bed. It looked as if the moon had been sleeping next to her. Honey threw the duvet aside.

  The door to Teddy’s room opened without a sound. In the dim glow, he stood watching her. The pale skin, the mad eyes, the smile stretching across half of a hideous face made her give out a throttled scream. A small, sweaty hand covered her mouth.

  “What are you doing?!” she cried, pulling off his clown mask. “What the heck is this?”

  “It’s a disguise. I don’t want to be in Santa’s bad books.”

  “You’re a weirdo!” She threw the mask back at him with relief.

  Barefoot, they went down the stairs. There was a funny smell around the house. Have Dad’s pickles gone off already? Honey thought, hopefully. But there was something else, too. The air was heavy with an unseen presence lurking in the shadows, something that could detach itself from a corner at any moment. Honey thought she felt the warmth of a breath behind her, but when she turned around, she saw, in the faint light of a lamp, one of Mum’s Tahitian women staring at her from a painting on the wall.

  The lamp switched itself off as if by magic, and darkness swallowed them.

  “I can’t see a thing,” Teddy complained. “What if we fall over?”

  “Stop talking!” snapped Honey. “If Grandma is downstairs, she’ll hear us. I bet she’s wrapping the presents right now.”

  “What if…”

  “Shhh…”

  “But…”

  “Whoever says another word is cursed!” This was Honey’s favourite trick. It worked every time. “May you forever be bed-bound if you make another sound!”

  “But…but Honey…”

  Honey’s mouth fell open. A soft, eerie glimmer sifted through the door of the guest bedroom. The door was ajar and in the blue light they could see the tangled sheets on the single bed. Those sheets hadn’t been changed since last Christmas. They were probably clean, too, since Dad only slept there after arguing with Mum, and Mum was no longer around to argue with.

  They edged closer, drawn by curiosity.

  “She’s not here,” Teddy whispered, stepping inside.

  “That’s her suitcase over there,” Honey remarked.

  The black leather suitcase had dozens of padlocks with phosphorescent key holes, so that it glinted in the darkness like a flurry of fireflies. The old-fashioned buckles were unfastened, their long black leather tongues flowing on the floor. All sorts of colourful items spilled out of the too-full suitcase.

  “It’s coming from the case,” said Teddy, making his sister jump. “The light.”

  They looked at each other, and Honey felt herself shudder. Teddy’s eyes were wide.

  “What the heck,” she said, taking a step forward. “Let’s open it. She’s not here anyway.”

  There was a loud clinking noise as the padlocks scraped one another, and the buckles clattered. Inside, the blue light was brighter. On one side of the suitcase, cutlery hung from mini hooks along with a bottle opener and an apple corer.

  “Just nuts,” Honey sighed, her eyes falling on the glow, tangled between Grandma’s bras and knickers. “Let’s see what else is here.” Her hands worked feverishly, pushing everything aside and out of the way, including a small bag full of powerful-smelling mothballs, until all that was left was a hidden compartment. Looking at Teddy, she pulled the zip.

  “And this,” she announced, “would be where she hid the Christmas presents…you know, the ones that Santa is supposed to drop through the chimney, blah blah?”

  The next moment, Honey drew back in wonder. In the secret compartment were maybe a dozen leather-bound books with sumptuous covers.

  “Spell books,” Teddy blurted out. “I knew it! She’s a witch! She wears gloves because she has claws.”

  “Shut up, you moron. You’ll wake up the whole block.”

  “We don’t live in a block, smarthead.”

  “Be quiet…”

  A shadow fell on the floor beside them, along with a golden ribbon of light. The door to the en suite bathroom opened, and Grandma Florence stepped out, wearing her frilly nightgown and a pair of fluffy socks. Her hair was in curlers and her eyes were vacant, focused on something in the darkness only she could see. She walked to the wardrobe, pulled out a coat and put it on.

  “What’s she doing? I thought she was still downstairs. Phew. She might have scared Santa off,” whispered Teddy, from under the bed.

  “She can’t see us. She’s a sleepwalker, remember? She probably walked up here in her sleep.”

  Teddy sighed with relief. “We’re lucky. If she caught us going through her things…”

  “I’m out of here,” said Honey, as Grandma Florence brushed her curlers off with the hook of a hanger.

  “What now, then?”

  Honey groaned.

  “I suppose we need to go down and wait for her to wake up from her trance enough to put some presents under the tree. Since you can’t take my word for it, that is. We could go back to bed if you just took my word for it.”

  “It’s not as if you couldn’t win £50 out of this. Although I’ll win it, you know.”

  “What do you need £50 for?” snapped Honey. “To raid all the cake shelves in Marks and Spencer? Geez, I’m hungry. That bird Grandma cooked was so crap. I think I still have a bone left in my throat.” She coughed.

  “I’m not hungry,” said Teddy, patting his stomach. “I’m full.”

  “Because you’re always eating!”

  They reached the bottom of the stairs, their feet sinking pleasantly into the soft carpet before stepping on the cool wooden floor of the landing.

  Honey moved slowly along the wall, groping for the door to the front room. Through the French windows of the dining room, where the curtains hadn’t been drawn for the night, a moon that had changed shape in only a few short hours threw a patch of silvery light that fell like fairy dust o
n the spines of the bookshelves dressing the walls.Honey pushed open the door. The tree stood at the back of the room, no longer tied up in a bundle, or hidden behind a ladder, but tall and proud, its beautifully decorated branches spread out like wings. The lights on them were twinkling, as if a hundred eyes were winking at them from between the fragrant needles. Several parcels had appeared on the floor.

  “The presents! They’re here!”

  “Err…what?”

  The presents were carefully wrapped in glittery paper and tied with ribbons. Teddy picked up the first one.

  “You’re supposed to wait until morning,” Honey reminded him.

  Teddy rattled the box. It felt very light.

  “It feels like there’s nothing in here,” he said, and ripped it open.

  Among the shreds of torn paper there was…nothing. Honey tore open another present. There was nothing in there, either.

  “Is this her idea of a joke?” she cried. “I told Dad I wanted Twilight for Christmas…The books and the DVDs and…what was that?”

  A noise was coming from the fireplace. It sounded like something scrambling up the chimney.

  “Here he is!” Honey grinned. “Santy bloody Claus! Go and say hello to Santy…aaaahhhhh!”

  Something furry shot between her legs. A rat? It skittered across the hall, turning the shoe rack upside down and knocking over the small telephone table. A pile of Christmas cards, letters and leaflets tumbled to the floor, burying it under a white heap of paper.

  There was a leaflet at her feet that Honey could barely read in the moonlight. It looked a little old and crinkled, but the picture of a circus tent was still visible under the coffee and tea stains, through which the letters Circus of Ice wriggled into view. Laughter and applause exploded in her mind, quickly replaced by a sensation of grief, as Honey remembered the night their parents took them to the circus in Ealing more than a year ago. If she had known then that it was to be their last night together as a family, she would have made more of an effort to be pleasant but, of course, she had been her usual annoying self, certain that she was not even midway through what would be a life of family opportunities.