by Anna Blix
“How about this then,” she said. “Maybe those letters weren’t misdirected at all. What if they were meant for you all along, and you just didn’t realise it?” She stopped to count the stitches. “…Twenty-six, twenty-eight, thirty… I’m a great believer in destiny, Niklas. Always have been. If you are willing to listen, life will show you the way forward, that’s what I always thought …thirty-four, thirty-six… It’s such an unusual thing to happen. I’m sure there’s a hidden meaning to it.”
Niklas emptied his glass and set it down. “No. I mean, I don’t believe in destiny or anything like that.”
“…Forty. So you don’t believe in Father Christmas, and you don’t believe in destiny? But what do you believe in, then? You’ve got to believe in something.”
Niklas took some time to think before he answered. “I believe in science. Hard, undeniable evidence. Until I have the facts, I don’t believe anything.” He nodded. Yes, that was it. “See, if I wanted to find out about something, I wouldn’t just guess, or believe. I would set up an experiment. Make a well-founded assumption, and then draw up a hypothesis designed to either verify or falsify this assumption.”
“A hypothesis?”
“Yes, a hypothesis — a clearly defined statement which can be put to the test using scientific methods.”
Mrs Dollimore blinked at him. “A hypothesis… Would you like another piña colada, Niklas? There’s plenty left. I made up a whole batch.”
Niklas nodded.
“I think I’m going to give Steven a ring while I’m up. See if he can give us an idea of how long you’ve got. There’s paper and a pen on the shelf under the table if you want to get started.”
“Get started with what?”
“With the hypothesis, of course!” Mrs Dollimore left the room.
13
Eighteen-year-old Niklas arrived early for the first laboratory session. He chose a workbench in the middle of the room and waited for Emma to arrive. The minutes passed. If she didn’t show up, he would work on his own. That would be fine. He was used to being stood up. Actually, the more he thought about it, the better it would be to have the disappointment now, rather than later.
But two seconds before the session was due to begin, Emma walked through the door. Her hair was still damp and pulled back in a snag and her cheeks were rosy. She sat next to Niklas.
“Hi.” She smiled. “I didn’t see you at the freshman party yesterday. Were you there?”
Niklas smiled and nodded. Emma didn’t need to know he had been home all evening.
“Cool. Wasn’t it awesome?”
He smiled again.
It turned out Emma had not had time to do her preparatory work, so Niklas let her peek at his answers when the assistant tested their knowledge ahead of the session.
It was an experiment on the Doppler shift, where a little cart sped down a track while emitting a signal. It was perhaps better suited for high school than university, but Niklas was prepared to give them some lenience since it was the first lab session. He set up the equipment while Emma looked on. Then they started collecting readings.
The pair in front of them, two young men in shirts and neat haircuts, finished first, and the assistant praised their good work attitude. However, there was still plenty of time left and Niklas pressed on with the measurements, making sure Emma wrote down his readings in the right boxes.
After a while, one of the two young men turned around and smiled at Emma. “How’s it going?”
She laughed. “I have no idea what we’re doing.”
How could she not have any idea what they were doing? It was the simplest of experiments, and they had been working together the whole time. “Look here,” Niklas said, but before he had a chance to explain, the man in the shirt got up and walked up to them.
“I’m Pekka, Pekka Aho.” He looked at her notes and nodded. “See, you’ve already got pretty far. Let me show you how to do the rest.”
Niklas put his head down and made a note of the signal’s frequency, while Pekka explained the assignment to Emma, even though there was no need.
Strangely, Emma didn’t seem to mind. “Ah, now I see,” she said. “Thank you! You’re a superhero.”
When Niklas came home that evening, he was boiling. Why had she let that Pekka Aho help them? Everything had been under control and there was no need to ask for help. They would have finished well within the set time if they had only carried on.
He took his TV dinner to the dining room and set the plastic tray straight down on the mahogany table. His mother had always used placemats, but tonight was not a placemats kind of night. Then he mechanically forked microwaved meatballs and mashed potatoes into his mouth.
Later in the evening, his mother phoned. It was still sunny and warm in Tenerife. What was the weather like in Helsinki? Cold by now, she imagined. Had the big maple tree shed its leaves yet? And had Niklas remembered to rake them up?
Niklas had not checked the back garden for a while, but he said that he had raked up all the leaves. Everything was under control.
14
Niklas picked up a pen and an A6-sized notebook from the shelf under the coffee table. A hypothesis. An experiment to test the assumption that he was the real Santa Claus. It was absolutely ridiculous. He scribbled a quick line, then he put the pen down and listened to Mrs Dollimore rummaging around in the kitchen. Niklas stared at her picture of the guardian angel behind the empty armchair.
He sighed and stood up. Since he couldn’t think of anything else to do, he gave in and went upstairs to his room to collect Sophie’s letter. When he came back downstairs, Mrs Dollimore was on the phone in the hallway.
“…If you and Lydia have settled on a date, it would be good to know. Just for my planning. Your piña colada is on the table, Niklas. Anyway, darling, give me a ring when you get this message so I know when to expect you. Bye.”
Niklas handed Mrs Dollimore the letter as they sat down. She carefully unfolded the creased piece of paper and read out loud:
London, England
Dear Santa,
How are you? You must be very busy making presents for all the poor children in the world. But if you have time, I’d really like a red scooter. Turn the page to see what my house looks like.
Love,
Sophie
“But this is adorable!” Mrs Dollimore moved her piña colada out of the way and placed the letter on the table, sniffing. “Is it scented?”
Niklas grunted affirmatively.
Mrs Dollimore picked up her knitting again. “It would be such a nice thing to do, wouldn’t it Niklas?”
White the cat entered the room and jumped up on her armrest. She lifted him back to the floor. “Not now, White, I’m knitting. Imagine her surprise when she opens the present!” White gave the ball of yarn a half-hearted tap with his paw, then he ambled over to the rug and dropped onto his side, energetically licking the inside of his front leg.
“I thought you said he was deaf.”
“Well, he is, but I still talk to him. Anyway, how are you getting on with the hypothesis?”
Niklas showed her the piece of paper. In minuscule letters, he had written, “The Christmas Hypothesis”.
“The Christmas Hypothesis. Now we’re talking!”
Niklas shook his head. “You can’t really apply scientific methods on something like this, but okay.” He sighed. “Just for demonstration, say that you suspect I’m the real Santa Claus and now you want to test whether the assumption holds up.” He wrote: “There is one genuine living Santa Claus, and his name is Niklas Heikkinen.”
“There. That’s your hypothesis. Next, you ask yourself, is this assumption warranted? Do you have reasonable ground to believe the hypothesis might be true? Is there anything that indicates it is?”
Mrs Dollimore frowned. “Oh, I don’t know. Is there?”
Niklas nodded encouragingly. She was going to need some help. “I’ll give you a clue. The evidence smells of violet.”
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“The letter?”
“Exactly. You have made the following observation: An abnormally large quantity of children’s wish lists have, in recent years, arrived at the Petrov-Nielsen Polar Laboratory.”
Mrs Dollimore nodded. “Yes, that’s true,” she said uncertainly. “So have we already proven the hypothesis?”
“No. Not at all.” Had she not been listening? “All we have proven so far is that there’s reasonable ground for the assumption. It means we can carry on. But we have only just started. Now let’s design a test — a test which can make or break the hypothesis. To do that, we need to gather as much information as we can about Santa Claus.”
The little lady looked confused. “Don’t we already know what there is to know? I mean, everybody knows Father Christmas.”
“No. We can’t just use our own preconceptions. That would be unscientific. The information needs to come from well-documented sources. That’s crucial to the validity of our experiment. Where do you normally go to find information?”
“Oh, I don’t know… The encyclopaedia?” Mrs Dollimore said as if she was trying to guess the correct answer.
Niklas smiled. “Yes. The encyclopaedia is good. Go get it! I’ll look online.” He picked his phone up.
Mrs Dollimore came back with Volume 8 of The New Encyclopaedia Britannica, Menage to Ottawa, from her bookcase.
“Here, Nicholas, Saint. Let me see what they say.” She spread the volume on the table and read the article.
After a while, Niklas said, “Listen to this: ‘Santa Claus. A benevolent character who brings presents to children at Christmas. Often associated with St Nicholas, the patron saint of children.’”
“Mmm.” Mrs Dollimore made a pencil underline in her dictionary. “Do you think you might be a reincarnation of the actual St Nicholas, Niklas?”
Niklas shook his head. “No. That’s not what I think at all. I don’t believe in reincarnation. This was all your idea, don’t forget that.” He still thought the whole project was completely absurd, if she really wanted to know. But he didn’t say so.
“Well, I just thought… since it fitted so neatly. Maybe you could write to the pope and ask if St Nicholas had any children? He might well be in your ancestry.”
Niklas read on, “‘Very little is known about the historical figure St Nicholas.’ It doesn’t say anything about him having children. I think we’re going to have to look at it from this angle: What is the specific definition of Santa Claus? What does Santa have to be like, or what does he do, in order to qualify for his title?”
Half an hour later, they had collected all the characteristics they could find, and made a handy checklist:
The Christmas Hypothesis
Assumption
There is one genuine living Santa Claus, and his name is Niklas Heikkinen.
Observation
An abnormally large quantity of children’s wish lists have in recent years arrived at the Petrov-Nielsen Polar Laboratory.
Criteria
Beard
Red Coat and Hat
Benevolent
(St) Nicholas/Niklas
Travels by Reindeer
Lives at the North Pole
Makes Presents with the Help of Elves
Brings Presents to Children at Christmas
Drops Presents Through Chimney
“You already have a beard, Niklas.”
“That’s right. You can tick that one off right away.” He passed the A6 piece of paper across the coffee table.
“Me?”
Niklas nodded. “Yes, you should be the one conducting the experiment, since I’m the test subject.”
Mrs Dollimore laughed. “Me, a scientist? Well, this is exciting!” She made a tick next to the first bullet point and ran her finger down the list. “Don’t worry about the hat, I’ll take care of that. And you already have a red coat, although you might want to give your coat a wash, if you’re to call it red.”
“My coat is red enough. You must never force science — that’s vital. But look at this one: ‘Lives at the North Pole.’ Lucky I haven’t changed my address. Tick it off.”
Mrs Dollimore put another tick next to the North Pole bullet point. She took a sip of her piña colada and then she asked, “What’s next?”
Niklas smiled. “Next, I produce the present. A red scooter. Shouldn’t be too hard. I’ll worry about finding the right house later.”
“And the reindeer? That one might be tricky.”
“Yes. But let’s worry about that later too. One thing at a time.”
Mrs Dollimore’s eyes twinkled. “That sounds like a good plan. I’ll put this list up on the fridge so we can both check on the progress. You’ll see that we can prove you’re the real Father Christmas after all, Niklas. Just like I thought. Isn’t it exciting?”
Niklas shook his head. “Don’t get carried away. We have to stay objective. It’s all too easy to misinterpret the facts if you want the outcome to be a certain way.”
Mrs Dollimore tapped the side of her nose in what Niklas could only interpret as a gesture of deep mutual understanding.
“Why don’t you go to Hamley’s tomorrow?” Mrs Dollimore put her knitting back in the wicker basket. “It’s the biggest toy shop in London — I’m sure you’ll find a scooter there.”
Had Mrs Dollimore not understood anything about science? Niklas sighed. “I can’t buy one. Santa Claus doesn’t buy Christmas presents; he makes them! It’s on the list.”
“Oh,” Mrs Dollimore said. “You’re not planning on making a children’s kick scooter? One they can ride on? Are you?”
“That’s the kind I assume Sophie means, so that’s what I’m making. The real Santa Claus would, so therefore I have to. Anything else is out of the question.”
“But… Have you ever made anything like that before?”
“No. But how hard can it be? I’ve nearly completely mapped the topography and composition of sea ice in the Arctic Ocean. Of course I can make a scooter!”
Mrs Dollimore fingered the gold chain around her neck. “But where are you going to find the parts?”
“I don’t know. A hardware store? I’m sure I’ll find something suitable. This is London, after all — there’s got to be a place that sells some castor wheels and a few screws.”
15
The city-farm was already closed for the day and the car park was empty. Clare pulled up her four-by-four with the reindeer trailer in tow and parked it in a spot close to the entrance.
After receiving the phone call, she had set out early the following morning and driven all the way from the foothills of Ben Bolgach with only one short stop at a service station, and she was relieved to finally arrive. She got out of the car, narrowly avoiding putting her leather boot in a large puddle of water. Stiff after hours in the car, she stretched out before she locked the door. The car answered with a reassuring beep.
The afternoon was nearing its end, and the farm seemed gloomy and run down in the disappearing winter light. There was a grubby old climbing frame at the opposite corner of the lot, and beyond it, dark clouds were building up on the horizon.
Clare followed the grey wooden fencing that guided prospective visitors to the gift shop — and stopped anyone from sneaking in without paying the entrance fee. The gravelled path was muddy and patched with puddles, which she avoided as best she could in an effort to save her boots. She had only bought them last month and was hoping to get a good couple of years out of them. Next time she visited a farm, she would wear wellies, even if the farm happened to be located in London.
She walked up to the gift shop and knocked on the door. Since there was no sign of life inside and the lights were out, she decided to have a look around. She climbed over the wooden fence and walked around to the side of the building, where she found a narrow path leading up to a large brick-built farmhouse. She assumed it was the main residence. She gave the front door a resolute knock. A light was on somewhere inside, and she could h
ear muffled talking, laughter and applause. Somebody in there was watching television. She persisted and knocked again, and waited. After nearly a minute, she heard steps approach on the other side, and the door opened a crack, still on the chain. A boy, maybe seven years old, peered out at her.
“Hi, my name is Clare. Is your mum in? I spoke to her on the phone yesterday.”
The young boy answered in a hoarse voice. “No.” He started shutting the door.
Clare put her hand up and stopped the door from closing. “Is your dad in then?”
“No.”
“Is there an adult I can speak to?” She rummaged in her bag for her phone.
A sudden rattle made her jump. The boy had unhooked the chain. The door burst open and the boy pushed past her. He ran down the steps. “MUM!” he called out as he hurtled along the gravelled path. “MUM, THERE’S A LADY HERE!”
Clare followed him.
“MUM, MUM!” The boy was in his pyjamas, and his Crocs were slipping in the wet mud. It looked like he was going to fall over any second.
“Take it easy!” called Clare. “I won’t hurt you. I just want to speak to your mum.” The boy paid her no attention.
She followed him to what turned out to be an inner courtyard, consisting of a muddy grass area divided into four little paddocks. Two sad-looking Shetland ponies were standing in one of them, but the other three were empty. Three large barn buildings flanked the courtyard and the boy ran towards one of them, but before he could reach it, a woman appeared in the doorway with a hayfork in her hand. A thick, oversized jumper hung from her shoulders and her wellington boots were ankle-deep in mud.
“Mum, a lady came to the house,” the boy croaked.
“And what have I told you about answering the door to strangers?” snapped the woman. “Do you want to be snatched?”
“No.” The boy bowed his head.