I get the oversized snuggly soft dressing gown I found hanging in the bathroom and shrug it on over the pyjamas I’d never been so grateful to change into when I dug them out of my suitcase, and I open the door.
The snow on the deck area has started to melt with the heat coming from inside, and I rest my cup on the wooden railing surrounding the cabin and lean on my arms as I look out across the land.
This far up, there are snowy treetops surrounding me from the wooded areas below. I’ve got a direct view down to Santa’s House, and the multitude of multicoloured Christmas lights that illuminate it in the darkness.
In the distance in one direction, I can see the bend of the road we came in on that curves around the house and continues out of sight in the other direction, the way Tav went when he returned the dogs, and I get the impression that Dad’s land goes a lot further than I’m imagining.
I watch the lights all over Santa’s House chasing each other as they flash in ever-changing formations, and it makes me feel more Christmassy than I have in years. The red nutcrackers on either side of the door look back at me. I’ve always liked nutcrackers. They’re comforting somehow, reassuring in the way they stand like sentries. Mum used to say they brought good luck and protected a house from harm.
It’s idyllic here. The other cabins are spaced out and none block the view of the ones above. If they were all lit up like mine is, it would be a perfect little alpine Christmas village. If you have to spend a December somewhere, there are definitely worse places you could spend it.
The owl hoots from somewhere in the trees behind the cabin, sounding much closer than it did earlier. He must agree. Or be warning me that a wolf is on the way.
I ignore that thought, wrap both hands around my mug and sip my tea. There isn’t a sound to be heard, the air is clean and fresh and smells of the evergreen trees all around, and the silence is like a blanket wrapping around me, and making me feel more peaceful than I can ever remember feeling.
Maybe this Christmas won’t be so bad after all.
Chapter 5
Dear Santa,
What do you want for Christmas? Dad says Mrs Claus will get you anything you desire and does something funny with his eyebrows, and then Mum yells at him and tells him to behave himself. What does Mrs Claus get you, Santa? Dad says you must be too tired to unwrap her gift on Christmas Day.
From,
Lucas
I don’t expect to get any sleep, not in the middle of a forest surrounded by God knows how many different kinds of man-eating predators, but when I wake up, I realise I don’t remember anything after putting the hot water bottle into the bed and pulling the brushed cotton duvet over myself.
I must’ve been more exhausted than I thought after all that travelling yesterday. Usually I’d lie awake for ages worrying about one thing or another, but I don’t even remember my head hitting the pillow.
The light coming in the window has a blue-tinged twilight-esque slant, and I have a brief moment of panic that it’s the following evening and I’ve slept the whole day, and then I remember something about polar winters and it being dark a lot here, and reach over for my phone on the bedside table. Just gone 10 a.m., and Norwegian time is only an hour ahead of what I’m used to.
And then I remind myself that I’m in Norway. I never thought I’d go anywhere, and yet I got on two planes yesterday, rode in a dog sled, captured a reindeer, witnessed the Northern Lights, and saw my dad for the first time in three and a half years.
No wonder I needed a good sleep.
And my dad seemed in fine spirits and nowhere near as bad as I’d imagined health-wise. And I feel reassured somehow that Tav is around. There’s something calm about him. The kind of person who’d be good in an emergency. The only emergency I’ve ever had to deal with is a dog pooing on an angry man’s lawn.
Lying in bed thinking about dog poo is a sure-fire sign it’s time to get up, and I stretch luxuriously and sit on the edge of the bed. I don’t think I’ve ever slept in anything that comfortable before. My feet, snug in the fluffy socks from the gift basket, touch warm wooden floors, which must have the underfloor heating on a timer or something.
I force myself upright and decide a quick blast of cold air will be what I need to wake up, so I pad across to the door and pull it open, and my eyes fall on a box right outside.
There are pictures of people hiking up snowy mountains on the front and a big yellow “6” in the corner, and I crouch down to flip the lid up and fold back the tissue paper inside.
It’s a pair of snow-boots, like Tav’s but in white, with bright pink laces and pink-tinged white faux fur around the top. Tucked into the corner of the box is a compass.
It makes me laugh out loud, and I glance down the hill towards Santa’s House, but there’s no movement and no hint of how long ago he left them.
I pull on jeans, a thermal vest that was also in the gift basket, a T-shirt, and a jumper over the top of that, and I smile every time I think about not having to put my feet back into my slippery and damp trainers that never dried out last night. I sit on one of the wooden chairs, lift the boots from the box and run my fingers over the fluffy lining and solid-feeling rubbery outside, and then tuck my jeans into thick socks and bend down to pull them on. They fit perfectly, and when I get up and walk across the cabin, they feel like much-loved familiar boots that are so comfortable you forget you’ve got them on.
I can’t wait to get down to the house and thank Tav for them. I finger-comb my blonde hair and pull it into a side plait over one shoulder, wrap my cream and grey knitted scarf around my neck and brace myself as I step out and lock up behind me.
The air is crisp and the twilight-esque light is slowly turning to full daylight with a hint of brightness to the east as the sun peeks above the horizon. The steps to my left have been shovelled off, so I take those instead, a long line of wooden stairs passing every cabin on the way down. I can see why my dad wanted to restore this place as I pass weather-damaged roofs and broken signs.
The Christmas lights are still twinkling along every inch of Santa’s House, and the main lights are glowing from the living room and hallway, so I let myself in and stomp snow off my boots on the doormat.
‘Hello?’ I call out. ‘Anyone home?’
Someone’s singing. And they’re really good.
I follow the sound of “Joy to the World” along the hallway, past the crackling fire, and through the living room until I reach the kitchen doorway.
There’s a buttery smell in the air, and Tav is at one of the stoves with his back to me, something sizzling in a pan in front of him. He’s got a deep and warm singing voice that’s as comforting and reassuring as his talking voice, but I’m surprised because he seems like the opposite of someone you’d expect to find singing Christmas carols first thing in the morning. He has no idea I’m here, so I lean on my shoulder against the doorframe and enjoy it for a moment.
He’s wearing a Christmas jumper, but not an uncool one with tinsel or flashing lights on the front like you’d usually picture a Christmas jumper – this is a heavy and cosy-looking one with a zip neck and a high collar, knitted in cream with a pattern of red reindeer pulling a sleigh going around it in stripes, and even from the back, he looks hot. His mid-brown hair has chunks of lighter brown going through it like natural highlights. It’s thick and longish, straight and shaggy at the same time. The kind of hair you want to run your fingers through.
If you were so inclined, which I’m not. Obviously.
But I can appreciate a nice-looking man as much as the next girl, and his voice really is lovely. Not in a professional singer way, just as a guy who’s enjoying his day uninhibited, and I suddenly feel guilty for the intrusion. I should back away and pretend not to have heard, make some noise on my way in, but the floorboard creaks under my foot and it’s too late. ‘You did not strike me as a “Joy to the World” type.’
He lets out a wholly un-macho scream and the pan he was holding clatters on
to the counter when I make him jump so much that he drops it.
‘Oh holy night.’ He puts such an intonation on the word that it sounds worse than the most abhorrent swearword. He clearly has a talent for making even the most innocent words into something unthinkable. Last night, I thought he was a bit of an idiot for telling me not to swear, but I’ve never heard the title of a song sound so sweary before.
He whirls around. ‘Sasha! Warn a guy before you sneak up on him.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump.’
‘At this rate, Percy’s not going to be the only one who’s had a heart attack.’ He puts a hand on his chest, making me appreciate the curve of what are clearly huge muscles under that jumper.
‘I wasn’t sneaking up, I was enjoying the entertainment. You don’t seem like a guy who sings.’
‘It’s Christmas. Who doesn’t sing at Christmas?’
‘I don’t. My neighbours and the remaining Great British Public have never done anything bad enough to deserve that inflicted on them. I might if I sounded like you though. You have a great voice.’
‘Thanks.’ He looks like he doesn’t want to smile but he smiles anyway. And is he … blushing? ‘I can’t help myself when it comes to Christmas songs. I love the music at this time of year. There’s usually only reindeer to hear me though.’
I think he is. He’s definitely blushing.
‘Thank you for the boots,’ I say as I push myself off the doorframe and step into the kitchen. ‘They’re so comfortable.’
‘What boots?’ A look of confusion pops onto his face.
‘The boots I’m wearing?’ It comes out like a question instead of an answer. Surely he can’t have forgotten already?
His eyes run down me, making me feel warm for an altogether different reason, until they land on my feet. ‘I didn’t give you any boots. Maybe it was the nisse.’
‘The what?’
‘The Norwegian equivalent of Santa Claus. We don’t really have the traditional Santa that you do, instead we have nisse – small elf-like creatures who live in barns. If you’re kind to them, they’re kind to you and will bring you good fortune, but if you’re not kind to them, they’ll wreak havoc. You have to leave a bowl of rice porridge out for them to enjoy on Christmas Eve, and they’ll be particularly angry if you don’t, and it has to have a knob of butter on top.’ He glances at me. ‘Your dad tells me they’ve been commercialised in other countries in recent years. You probably know them as gonks – little gnomes you buy with a round body and just a nose and a big white beard showing under the rim of their tall pointy hat.’
‘Elves?’ I laugh until I realise he’s not joking. ‘Oh, come on. Seriously? There was a compass in the box. We talked about a compass last night.’
‘All I said was that you need a compass. Common knowledge. GPS doesn’t cover anywhere this remote so map apps on your phone won’t help if you get lost. Anyone who lives in a place like this would agree.’
‘You’re telling me that although you asked me my shoe size and said I needed a compass last night, it was actually someone else who brought me boots and a compass this morning? And not just someone, but actual elves?’
‘Answer me this – don’t you think I’d have left footprints?’
I go to answer but nothing comes out, and I end up mouthing the air like a fish stuck on land. He’s right. Despite the thick snow leading up to the cabin, I don’t recall seeing any footprints on the decking or the hill down to the steps. ‘And I suppose you’re going to tell me that elves shovelled the steps too?’
‘No, I shovelled them. It would’ve taken the nisse all day to do that – they’re very small.’ He’s gone back to the pan on the stove and he answers without looking up, like this is completely normal.
Is he joking? Is he insane? Is he like an actor who refuses to break character even when they’re not on set? Does he think there might be a five-year-old lurking nearby, ready to jump out at any moment and ambush him with questions about elves and flying reindeer? There is nothing in his voice that suggests which one it is.
The lack of footprints can be explained – fresh snowfall since he left the boots, although there was none covering the box. Some sort of shoe jiggery-pokery that prevents shoes sinking into the snow? Maybe he threw the shoebox from the top of the steps. Maybe there were footprints and I didn’t notice them.
‘Christmas pancake?’
I’m so lost in thought that it makes me jump when I realise he’s turned to me and is holding the pan out in front of him and there’s something Christmas-tree-shaped in it.
‘What are Christmas pancakes?’
He holds his spatula out towards the island in the middle of the kitchen. ‘Have a seat and you’ll find out.’
‘I don’t put things in my mouth without knowing what they are.’
He considers this for a moment and then gives me a nod of approval. ‘Generally a good life policy to have.’
His seriousness makes me laugh, and I sit down on one of the stools, and he slides a Mrs-Claus-shaped plate down the unit, spins around with the pan, stops the plate directly in front of me, and glides a pancake onto it in one swift movement. I raise an eyebrow, impressed. If I’d tried anything so dexterous, the plate would’ve smashed on the floor, along with the pancake, frying pan, spatula, probably a couple of limbs, and I’d have taken out half the floor tiles too.
He grins. ‘Vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, with a hint of orange. Christmas in a tree-shaped form. Tea? Coffee?’
‘Coffee, please.’
‘Peppermint, gingerbread, mince pie, or Christmas pudding flavour?’
‘Just coffee.’
‘Gingerbread it is, then. Coming right up.’ He presses a button on a coffee maker on the unit and ladles some more batter into the frying pan, presumably for his own breakfast.
I go to protest that I can get my own coffee, but I make the mistake of putting a bite of the pancake into my mouth, and it’s so good that it stops all words and thoughts.
This is quite possibly the most festive thing I’ve ever eaten. It literally melts in my mouth in a medley of warming spices and buttery loveliness. ‘Oh my God, Tav.’
‘Told you it’d be worth the trek down,’ he says with a smile, but there’s something else in his face – that blush again, a hesitance, like he doesn’t quite believe it himself.
I take another bite. ‘Flipping ’eck, that is a pancake.’
He’s still smiling to himself as he puts a snowman mug full of steaming coffee down in front of me and goes back to the pan on the stove.
Who knew festive homeware was such a thing?
I haven’t taken my eyes off Tav’s back as I eat, each mouthful of the pancake somehow tasting better than the one before. His wide shoulders flex as he moves, flipping the batter, things sizzling, and not just in the pan.
He catches me watching as he turns around, sipping a cup of coffee he’s already got on the go, and eats his own pancake with a fork straight from the pan.
‘Won’t you sit?’
He lifts a hand to cover his mouth while he’s chewing. ‘Running late.’
I’m about to ask what for when a floorboard creaks upstairs and I use my fork to point upwards. ‘Is that Dad?’
‘Yeah, he’s had breakfast and gone upstairs to get ready.’
I’ve almost finished my pancake, and as much as I could quite happily sit here and eat another twenty-nine of them, it’s probably a good thing that won’t be an option. There’s a telltale creaking of the stairs, so I shove the last bite into my mouth and jump down from the stool. ‘That was amazing, Tav – thank you. I’ll go and say good morning.’
I go back through the living room and into the hallway, but when I turn to the stairs at the end, Santa is coming down them.
My dad is dressed as Santa. He’s dressed as Santa. ‘Why are you dressed as Santa?’
‘I am Santa.’
‘There’s a school class coming in today.’ I didn
’t realise Tav had followed me and is standing in the living room doorway until he speaks.
‘To visit Santa?’ I look between them and he nods, and I point at Dad. ‘And you’re playing Santa? And no one told me this?’
‘This is Santa’s House,’ Tav says. ‘Did that not give it away?’
‘Well, yeah, but …’ It suddenly all adds up. Dad looking like Santa. This house and how festive it is. The portrait above the fireplace. No wonder I thought it looked like my dad last night.
Tav’s trying – and failing – to suppress laughter as he watches me figure it out.
‘You’re supposed to be taking it easy!’ I say to Dad, who’s hovering on the bottom stair.
‘What could be easier than playing Santa? I get to sit in a lovely big chair all day and meet lots of wonderful children. The most strenuous thing I have to do is a swift round of “ho ho ho”s.’
‘Dad …’
‘All I do is sit there. Tav welcomes them, directs them, takes commemorative photos for the parents, organises anything else they want to do. It’s the easiest morning for me. They treat me like a king.’
‘Apart from the children who pee on you, spit on you,’ Tav starts. ‘Sneeze on you. You remember that kid who was eating chocolate ice cream and spat all over you? Santa had to go for a quick beard wash after that one.’
‘That sounds awful!’ I try to hide the shudder, but also want to giggle in horror. ‘They come here?’
‘No, at Santa’s grotto, near the west entrance.’ Tav looks at me and points to the left. ‘That’s that way.’
I barely restrain the urge to poke my tongue out at him, and in doing so, I see past his shoulder to the fireplace in the living room. There are three stockings hung on the mantelpiece that weren’t there last night. They look hand-knitted, and one of them has my name on it.
The Post Box at the North Pole: The perfect cosy and uplifting Christmas romance to curl up with in 2021! Page 7
