by Matt Haig
‘What greater gift than the love of a cat,’ he told the stranger in the red clothes. He said it in a grand way, moving his hands, as if every word was incredibly important and he was talking on a stage.
Father Christmas smiled and nodded. He liked this man and his waistcoat. ‘The love of a reindeer is pretty good too,’ he said.
‘Well, I know little of reindeer but I will take your word for it. Now, a Merry Christmas to you.’
Father Christmas decided to come straight out with it as the man started to close the door. ‘I am looking for someone called Amelia Wishart. This cat belonged to her once.’
The door opened wide again. The man was intrigued.
‘And who is making this enquiry? At one of the clock on Christmas morning?’
‘Just a friend of the family.’
‘And a friend of reindeer?’
‘I try to be everyone’s friend.’
‘And what is your name? My name is Charles Dickens.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Father Christmas. ‘I know who you are.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘I have given your books as presents.’ Father Christmas realised this man could help him but no one was going to help him without trusting him and the road to trust was truth. He came closer to the doorstep so no one else could hear. ‘I am Father Christmas.’
And Charles Dickens laughed nervously. ‘I am a writer of fiction, but that doesn’t mean I believe in it.’
Father Christmas tried really hard to remember the children who lived there. It took a moment but he knew it was still in his brain somewhere. ‘Did . . . did Charley like his chocolate money? And did Kate like the pens I gave her? And did good little Walter like his toy soldiers?’
‘How the dickens did you know that?’ asked Mr Dickens.
‘Because I am telling the truth. And I am sorry to bother you so late at night, and at Christmas, but this is very important. You see, there is not enough magic in the air to stop time. And the later it gets the less likely it is I can deliver all the toys before morning. Also, without magic, it’s too dangerous to fly my sleigh. Reindeer aren’t birds. They just drop out of the sky if there isn’t enough magic around. And it needs to be restored. And that means there needs to be more hope.
‘One time before, when I needed extra hope, there was a child whose hope was so strong it got the magic moving. A girl. Amelia’s magic helped me travel from Elfhelm. That’s where the elves live.’
Charles Dickens was shaking his head in disbelief and laughing. ‘Elves? Excuse my gigglemug but you are clearly as mad as a fruitcake. I know it is Christmas, but how much mulled wine have you had?’
But Father Christmas carried on explaining. ‘You see, two years ago, everything went to plan. But only just. There was only just enough magic in the air. Only just enough hope. And so I started with the child with the most hope. The one who most believed in magic. She got me and my reindeer on my way. She kind of made it happen. There has never been a child so full of hope. It was a whole world’s worth. But now that hope is gone.’
Charles Dickens was dabbing his eye with a handkerchief. ‘That is really quite a sad tale, but I still don’t believe it. All that stuff about stopping ti . . .’
Stopping time.
That is what he was going to say. But he didn’t. Because, once again, time had stopped. So Father Christmas knew this was his chance to convince him. He quickly put his red hat with the white fluffy trim on Charles Dickens’ head.
Then he took five big steps backwards and stood in the middle of the street and waited for time to start again.
Which it did.
Charles Dickens gasped at how Father Christmas was now in the middle of the street.
‘Heavens. How on this beloved earth did you do that?’
Father Christmas then pointed to the hat that Mr Dickens still didn’t realise he was wearing.
‘A fine hat,’ said Father Christmas.
Charles Dickens dropped his pen in surprise. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish. Then it finally dawned on him. ‘Bless my soul! What wondrous magic. You really are Father Christmas. This is most remarkable. Most remarkable indeed.’ He held out his hand. ‘It is exceedingly pleasant to meet someone who is almost as famous as me.’
‘But, please,’ whispered Father Christmas, shaking his hand, ‘you mustn’t tell anyone.’
‘Of course not. Do come in.’
Father Christmas spent the next ten minutes with Charles Dickens in his parlour. It was quite dark in there, with just one candle flickering away, but it was a very nice room, and they had some mulled wine to drink. Which was still warm.
Father Christmas learned that Amelia had been sent to Creeper’s Workhouse – ‘the very worst workhouse in the whole of London’.
‘I must save her.’
‘What? This instant?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Father Christmas. ‘It has to be tonight if there is a chance of saving Christmas. We can’t have another missing Christmas. Two years in a row and there would be no hope left.’ And then he realised time hadn’t stopped at all for over ten minutes. ‘I really have to go. There is only four hours until children will begin to wake.’
‘But wait,’ said Charles Dickens. ‘You will need a plan. And a disguise. If the magic is failing you can’t just skilamalink down a chimney and take her out of there. And also, what will you do with her? Where will you go? And what if she’s not even there any more?’
These were a lot of questions. And they whizzed like fireflies around Father Christmas’s brain.
‘I think it is all quite impossible,’ said Charles Dickens.
‘There is no such thing,’ said Father Christmas as Captain Soot jumped on his lap.
Charles Dickens laughed. ‘Of course there is such a thing. Lots of things are impossible. Like writing a story when you don’t have any ideas.’ The laugh became a sigh. ‘It’s hopeless.’
Father Christmas winced. ‘Hopeless and impossible. The two worst words.’
‘I have been sitting upstairs at my desk every day for five weeks trying to think of a new story, but my mind is barren and empty. I’ve been getting the morbs. People liked my last story a lot and now I worry I will never be able to write another. Presently, my mind is as foggy as the River Thames in March. I have no idea what to write about next.’
Father Christmas smiled. ‘Christmas! You should write about Christmas!’
‘But it takes me months to write a book. How could I write about Christmas in, say, March?’
‘Christmas isn’t a date, Mr Dickens. It’s a feeling.’
Father Christmas saw the writer’s eyes light up like windows at night. ‘A Christmas story? That’s not such a bad idea!’
‘See. There is no impossible.’
Charles Dickens sipped his wine. ‘All right, well, I have an idea. You could pretend to be a night inspector. Workhouses, you see, get inspected. Normally when they aren’t expecting to be inspected. Like at night. Or at Christmas. But you will need a disguise. I will help you. You can wear some of my clothes.’
So Father Christmas wore Charles Dickens’ largest pair of black trousers. They were still so tight that when he tried them on the button popped off and shot into Charles Dickens’ eye.
Captain Soot laughed, but it was a cat laugh, so no one knew.
‘I’ll give you a belt, and my largest overcoat,’ said Charles Dickens. ‘And you will almost look like a normal person. Well, in a fashion.’
‘Right. Thank you, Mr Dickens. I’d better be going. I have to find Amelia and deliver presents to 227,892,951 children before sunrise.’
‘That’s a high number,’ said Charles Dickens. ‘Almost as high as my book sales. Oh good luck, Father Christmas. I do hope you find Amelia. Please give her this if you do.’ Charles Dickens handed over a signed copy of Oliver Twist. ‘And do drop in next year as you do your rounds, won’t you?’
‘I certainly will.’
Then Father C
hristmas stared at the black cat with the white tip on its tail, gazing up at him from between Charles Dickens’ slippers, and realised he had one more question to ask.
The Night Inspector
ather Christmas knocked on the scary wooden door of Creeper’s Workhouse. It was large enough to be the door to a castle. Eventually, someone answered. It was Mr Hobble, the porter.
Mr Hobble was hardly taller than an elf. He was a hunchback, but his arms were thick and his hands were big and strong.
He looked up at Father Christmas. It was quite a long way. ‘What?’
There was a long silence. Father Christmas was expecting him to say more, but he didn’t.
‘My name is Mr . . .’ Father Christmas suddenly realised he hadn’t come up with a good name. ‘Mr Drimwick. And I’m an inspector.’
Mr Hobble stared at Father Christmas’s giant belly and his tight trousers.
‘Inspector? You don’t look like a policeman to me.’
‘Why?’ said Father Christmas. ‘What do I look like?’
Mr Hobble thought. ‘A giant puddin’ with a human face.’
‘Well, I am not a pudding. And nor am I a police inspector. I am a workhouse inspector. And I am here to inspect your workhouse.’
‘Mr Creeper ain’t said nothing ’bout no inspection.’
‘That is because it is a surprise inspection.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, Mr Drumstick . . .’
‘Drimwick.’
‘You ain’t coming in.’
‘Well, you are making a very big mistake,’ he told Mr Hobble. ‘When Mr Creeper has to close down his workhouse because I was denied an inspection do you want him to blame you?’
Mr Hobble went pale. ‘All right. You’d best come in then, Mr Dimwit. And you’re in luck, because Mr Creeper is ’ere right now.’
Father Christmas then went paler than Mr Hobble. ‘What? Mr Creeper is here? It’s night. It’s Christmas.’
‘Exactly,’ said Mr Hobble. ‘See, two years ago, some malevolent being crept into the workhouse and sought to corrupt the children with toys and niceties. And Mr Creeper stays on guard to make sure he doesn’t come back.’
Father Christmas gulped. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Right. Good idea. Down with toys and nice things. Absolutely.’
So before Father Christmas could pretend to inspect the workhouse he had to go and see Mr Creeper. Creeper stood in front of Father Christmas, tapping the top of his cane with his long bony fingers. Father Christmas liked as many people as it was possible to like, but he found it hard to like Mr Creeper.
‘So,’ said Mr Creeper. And for a while he said nothing else. The word just hung in the air, as sour as his breath. ‘Mr Drimwick . . . you are an inspector. Working for whom?’
Father Christmas thought for a moment. He noticed the bite-mark on Mr Creeper’s hand. It was clearly a child who had done the biting, from the size of the pink scar. ‘For the British Government. And . . . and the Queen.’
A smile crept onto Mr Creeper’s face. ‘I doubt that very much. You see, I have been running this workhouse for ten years. In other words, I have been running this workhouse since workhouses began. And I can safely assure you that you are not an inspector. Inspectors do not wear too-tight clothes and they don’t smell of mulled wine. You are an imposter. Not an inspector. And so I have already sent Mr Hobble out to contact my friend Officer Pry at the police station, who will shortly be coming around to arrest you and lock you up for faking your identity.’
Father Christmas hadn’t felt this nervous since he was a little boy. Magic had always been his safety net. Here, in the human world, while the magic was broken, he realised there was nothing to protect him. ‘I am not faking my identity!’
Mr Creeper came in close. His face was dry and grey. His nose was broken and twisted. His lips almost black. His breath as rank as a sewer. ‘You are not a workhouse inspector and I believe very strongly that Mr Drimwick isn’t your real name. You see, working here – with all the riff-raff of London – has made me smell a lie quite easily.’
Father Christmas wondered how Mr Creeper could smell anything with breath like that, but he didn’t say that. He just had to stay quiet as Mr Creeper’s nose twitched.
‘Yes. No doubt about it. There is the scent of lying in this room. And if that is the case then you are committing a very serious crime, by pretending to work for the Queen. Very serious indeed. Punishable by death.’ Father Christmas gulped. ‘So unless you have a letter from Her Royal Highness Queen Victoria herself in your pocket, then you are in very big trouble indeed!’
A letter from Queen Victoria? Of course! That is exactly what he did have. So he put his hand in his pocket and handed it over. And Mr Creeper stared at the writing and the royal seal and he kept staring and staring and staring until eventually he forced a smile and his head tilted to the side and he held out one of his bony hands.
‘Well, Mr Drimwick! It’s an honour to meet you. I am sorry for that little misunderstanding. Now, when would you like to begin the inspection?’
‘Right now,’ said Father Christmas.
Mr Creeper’s eyes widened. ‘Right . . . now?’
‘Yes.’
And Mr Creeper could do nothing but think of that letter from the Queen and nod his head and say, ‘Well then, let’s make a start, shall we?’
A Ghostly Place
he workhouse was a dark place, even in daylight, so at night it was like walking around a building made of shadows. There were a few oil lamps sticking out of walls in corridors and hallways but they gave off little light.
‘As I am sure you know, Mr Drimwick, a workhouse is not a hotel,’ Mr Creeper said as they walked through the empty corridors. ‘It is designed to be as miserable as possible.’
‘Why would you want to make a place miserable?’
‘Life is hard, Mr Drimwick. Only a halfwit would want to fool people otherwise.’
Then Father Christmas heard something. Noise, from upstairs. Footsteps.
‘Who is that?’
Mr Creeper smiled. ‘Well, you see, two years ago we had another surprise visitor arrive unexpectedly in the middle of the night. And when Father Christmas somehow got into the building, we made sure we confiscated every single present he left. And tonight – just to be on the safe side – we have extra night workers. Not just the kitchen maid and people being punished on nightshifts but people on patrol.’
Father Christmas glowed red with rage and had to bite his tongue not to say anything. So instead he turned to Mr Creeper and said, ‘May I take a walk around the rest of the place?’
‘Of course.’
And Mister Creeper began to walk beside him so Father Christmas had to add, ‘On my own, if you don’t mind.’
Mr Creeper was about to object. His lip quivered like a dying worm. But then he remembered Mr Drimwick’s royal seal of approval. ‘Of course I don’t mind. Inspect. Inspect away.’
Father Christmas walked around, uninterrupted. And he remembered it now, these corridors and dormitories, from his rather pointless visit there two years ago. He walked past a frail old lady mopping the floor and wondered what she was doing.
‘Are you on the lookout for Father Christmas?’ he asked her.
‘No, sir, I have to make it so clean and shiny Mr Creeper can see his face in it. You see, I have to work nights now, since I did something wicked.’
‘What was the wicked thing that you did?’
‘I yawned when Mr Creeper was talking.’
He passed a boy, hanging upside down by his shoelaces which were tied to a pipe running along the ceiling.
‘And what was your crime?’ asked Father Christmas.
‘One of my shoelaces was undone. So now I have to stay here till morning.’
He saw three more boys. Large teenage boys. They were standing by the fireplace, holding bricks and sharp knives and a red-hot poker. The fire was ablaze.
‘Who goes there?’ they asked when Father Christmas approached.
‘My name is Mr Drimwick. I’m the night inspector. I have a letter from the Queen.’ He showed them the letter from the Queen. ‘So I need to ask, what are you doing here?’
‘Mr Creeper has told us to stay up all night,’ said the one with the poker, ‘and if we see Father Christmas then we have to stop him and brand his backside with this.’
Father Christmas gulped, staring at the poker. ‘Well, if I see him I’ll give you boys a shout.’
Father Christmas knew the best chance of finding Amelia was to head to the dormitories. He remembered where they were. He had left the presents there two years ago. Presents that were confiscated before breakfast and which none of the children got to enjoy.
He reached the large empty dining hall, a particularly ghostly place. It was cold and draughty and had murky walls and high sinister windows giving glimpses of the night’s dark clouds. A clanking noise came from the room to the side. So, on tiptoe, Father Christmas went to have a peep inside to see who was in there.
It was the kitchen, where large pans of grey goo rested on the worktops.
He saw a kitchen maid, illuminated by an oil lamp. She was wearing the inmates’ uniform of brown sack-cloth. She was stirring something in a saucepan on the stove.
He slowly opened the kitchen door and stepped inside.
‘Hello,’ said Father Christmas.
The kitchen maid turned and gasped. She quickly grabbed one of the saucepans hanging nearby and threw it straight at Father Christmas. Luckily for Father Christmas he managed to move out of the saucepan’s path. But then she threw another one and it hit him hard on the forehead and Father Christmas suddenly wondered why the kitchen was now spinning. And then things went dark.
The next thing Father Christmas knew he was lying on his back staring up at a large piece of ham hanging from the ceiling.
Something Magic
he woman leant over him. She had rosy apple cheeks and her face was round, and made rounder by her hair being scraped back into a bun. There were sparkles in her eyes. Father Topo had once told him that you can always tell if someone is kind because kindness is the sparkle inside their eyes. But the sparkles in these eyes looked a bit more cross than kind.