‘Have a good day,’ I call after her as she hurries off.
I don’t want to walk that fast, so I wander in the same direction. The snow has been shovelled from the road and a fresh layer has already frozen on top because it’s thin and crunchy under my boots and the iciness makes cracking noises with every step. It’s still not quite daylight and I spot two reindeer grazing on something in the snow. I still can’t believe I’m in a place where you randomly walk past grazing reindeer. One of the reindeer looks up at me, and the other one carries on munching without giving me a second glance. One of them is the one-antlered Rudolph from last night.
I can see why this place was special once. There’s a tingle in the air that doesn’t just come from being cold, although I pull my scarf a bit higher anyway. If I was a child who believed in Santa Claus, walking along here with drifts of snow and Christmas trees on either side, passing reindeer in the woods, Christmas lights twinkling all over … It would be magical.
The road slopes gently downhill and the sound of distant bells reaches my ears. A festive ring-ting-tingling that adds to the Christmassy atmosphere.
Unless polar bears come with bells now.
I walk a bit faster just in case. You never know what skills predators may have picked up this far out in the back end of beyond. Polar bears could be maestros of percussion instruments by now.
Eventually the trees thin out and I can see the edge of a clearing on the left side of the road. There’s the most traditional North Pole signpost I’ve ever seen – on top of a red and white striped pole is a rectangular “North Pole” sign, complete with a red-breasted robin on top, and below are arrow-shaped signs pointing in different directions.
“Santa’s House” and “Reindeer Runway” point towards the direction I’ve just come from, and then smaller signs point towards the twisting cul-de-sac of log cabins that the clearing leads to, showing the directions for “North Pole Post Office”, “Mrs Claus’s Kitchen Diner”, “Ice Cream Parlour”, “Hot Chocolate Bar”, and “Elf House”.
A sign to “Santa’s Workshop” points down into the forest on the opposite side of the road where there’s what looks like the beginnings of an overgrown path between some bushes, and then there’s a sign pointing further along the road that reads “Santa’s Grotto” and “Main Entrance”, and one elongated arrow that points out past the collection of little cabins that reads “Northern Lights Igloos”. Each sign is red with white writing to match the striped post, and a layer of real snow enhances their traditional look. Whoever built this place was truly dedicated. So much effort has gone into something as simple as a signpost. I take my phone out and snap a photo of myself standing next to it, and go to send it to my friend Debra, but I stop myself. She isn’t going to be interested in where I am. She’s probably not given me a second thought since firing me the other day.
The map is next to the sign – a big glass-covered table that I have to brush snow off to see the 3D layout with a “you are here” arrow in the shape of an upside down Santa’s hat.
There’s a vague sound of chatter from the visiting school class in the distance, but I ignore it and wander into the clearing, a gentle incline that leads up to a winding cul-de-sac of log cabins that are much bigger than the guest lodges. A real hideaway in amongst the trees. The closest wood-constructed building has a ramp to a double door, and a large sign reading “North Pole Post Office” is curved above it in red and green. There’s a wreath on the door that’s made from tree branches and decorated with tiny wooden envelopes, and beside the door is the biggest glossy red post box I’ve ever seen, and I can imagine parents lifting excited children up to post their letters through the wide slot.
I go and look at the other cabins on a winding path that twists around the shallow hillside from one door to another, each one surrounded by overgrown holly bush hedges covered in glossy red berries. Mrs Claus’s Kitchen Diner looks like it’s seen better days. The tattered wreath that was once on the door now lies on the ground, half covered with snow, and the jagged edge of the broken hook is still attached to the door. I peer in the windows, but there’s so much dust and grime on the glass that I can barely make out the silhouettes of a few tables with chairs that have fallen over. There’s a “North Pole Ice Cream Parlour” and a “North Pole Hot Chocolate Bar” in the same condition, and some sort of elf house – a peek in the windows reveals a house full of miniature model things. It’s like looking into a life-size doll’s house, but it looks like the only things currently residing inside are spiders.
The post office intrigues me the most though. The thought of so much mail is unfathomable, and I crunch back towards it and try the door handle, surprised when it opens. Well, opens is the wrong term. It loosens in its frame, but giving it a push to get inside does nothing. It’s pushing against something. I crouch down and open the letterbox, and a slew of envelopes come whooshing through it, making me jump back so fast that I land on my bum in the snow.
I gather up the stray letters and push harder against the door, feeling the resistance of what must be the most ridiculous pile of paper on the other side. It barely budges an inch, and I wonder if I’m going to find the previous postmaster in here, suffocated under a mountain of envelopes.
I throw my whole weight at the door until it starts to move, a centimetre at a time, eventually opening wide enough for me to edge my way around it. I’ve pushed so many letters aside that as soon as I let the door close, a heap of them slides down, blocking it again. I’m going to have to dig my way out.
I blink as my eyes adjust to the darkness. The whole room smells musty and papery, the cloying, inky smell of pens and the waxiness of fading crayons that a majority of the letters are written in, mixed with the clammy smell of a room that hasn’t been opened for months.
I aim for the nearest window and climb over literal mountains of envelopes to reach it and undo the rusty latch. The hinges are stiff as I push it open until a blast of desperately needed Arctic air sweeps in.
My boots slip and slide over the letters as I wade through them to the other window and open that too, letting in daylight. I finally spot a light switch beside the door, and I start pushing letters aside with my feet to make a path and flip it on, blinking as the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling hesitantly flickers into life, like it’s been off for so long that it’s not quite sure what to do.
It illuminates a room that’s absolutely full of letters. No wonder Freya hasn’t been able to get any more in through the letterbox. At the other end of the room, there’s a hefty wooden counter, and behind that, an open doorway to a back room of some sort.
Dad said half a million letters a year, and I’m pretty sure this is a few years’ worth. So many letters feels overwhelming, but despite my urge to squeeze back out the door and pretend I never saw this place, something about it intrigues me. The idea that this many children still write to Santa, and that all those letters are actually delivered. I would’ve thought that if post offices got any Santa letters, they’d have gone straight to the recycling plant, but the idea that these letters come to a physical place, a real person, and that my dad actually reads them … I like it, somehow.
The building has the same Tardis-like feel of Candy Cane Cabin because it’s much bigger inside than it looks outside. There are shelves around the walls that hold Christmas cards and North-Pole-themed postcards, along with festive gift boxes and wrapping paper, and stationery supplies for writing to Santa, but they’re covered in a heavy layer of dust, and half of the shelves have fallen down at one side, so things are diagonally slipping into the sea of letters below.
It was obviously loved once. I can imagine people dressed as elves working here, happily singing as they went about their day. There’s a feeling in the room, a sense of something so strong that I almost expect the envelopes to start fluttering at me of their own accord.
I start pushing them up to the walls on either side, making a path from the door towards the back room. When I finall
y reach the counter, the floor behind it is clear, apart from where a shelving unit on the side wall has collapsed, spilling the letters it was holding. The broken in-trays all bear the names of different countries. There are wooden shelves built into the underside of the counter, full of Santa postage stamps and stickers and pens, and all sorts of stationery you’d expect to see behind the counter of a real post office. I pick up a “North Pole Mail” rubber stamp – a circle containing a leaping reindeer and the words “delivery from Santa” running around the edge – and then put it back on the dried-up ink pad.
Through the open doorway in the back room, there’s a solid oak desk that’s almost empty, apart from a dusty desk lamp and the wooden chair behind it. I’ve still got the mail bag over my shoulder, and there’s another chair in a corner – a comfy reading chair in red fabric with a couple of reindeer cushions on it, and I finally let the heavy bag slip off my shoulder, sending up a cloud of dust as it lands on the seat.
There’s a window to one side so I open that too, and then look around at the office-like room. There are a few sets of shelving on one wall, containing what were once living poinsettias, and underneath them is a row of filing cabinets and document boxes. On the wall, there’s a framed photo of my dad dressed as Santa sitting at the desk with a pen in his hand and letters spread out in front of him. It must’ve been taken a couple of years ago because his hair isn’t as long and white as it is now, and below that are a few photos of other men dressed as Santa. A history of the Santas here over the years.
I open one of the desk drawers and find a pair of golden letter openers with initials engraved on them. PH … Percy Hansley? TS … Taavi Salvesen? I’ve never even used a letter opener before. It feels like something a posh lady with satin gloves on would use, but I select an envelope, push the letter opener in and slide it along, and pull out two halves of the letter I’ve just sliced clean through. Oops.
I put that one aside and pick up another one, trying to be more careful this time. I pull the letter out and start reading …
Chapter 6
Dear Santa,
I’ll leave carrots out for Comet. Not the other reindeer – I only like Comet.
From,
Jacob
‘You found the post office then.’
Tav’s voice makes me jump in the silence. How can I have been so absorbed in the letters that I didn’t hear him come in?
I look up at him and it’s only when tears drip off my face and land on the letter in my hands with a splosh that I realise I’m crying. And have been for a while.
Before I have a chance to be embarrassed, Tav reaches inside his jumper, pulls a packet of tissues from his pocket, and tosses them to me without a word.
‘Thanks.’ I scrabble one out and turn away to wipe my wet face and snot-filled nose. Always ideal in front of a hot stranger.
When I think I might be a bit more presentable, and I’ve got plenty of time to be embarrassed about being in floods of tears over letters children have written to Santa, I turn back towards him.
I notice two things – the light is much brighter than it was when I last looked up, and the way Tav is leaning in the doorway at an almost diagonal angle to accommodate his height. One hand is holding the doorframe above his head and he’s got to duck to see in. It’s a sight that could’ve come directly from Elf.
‘You do not seem like the type of guy who carries packets of tissues about your person,’ I say in an effort to detract from how embarrassed I am about needing said tissues.
‘Kids with runny noses and Santa don’t mix. Head elves have to be prepared for all eventualities and children have a lot of orifices for many unpleasant eventualities to emerge from.’
His seriousness makes me laugh and I let out another embarrassing wet snort.
‘What time is it?’ I ask when I can muster the courage to face him again post-snort.
‘Half past one.’
‘Seriously?’ I say in surprise. It was before 11 a.m. when I came in. I’ve been here for over two hours, sitting on the floor, surrounded by piles of letters. ‘How did you know I was here?’
‘The nisse told me.’
I raise an eyebrow so high that he laughs and points behind him. ‘Footprints leading up to the door but not away from it.’
‘Ahh, the snow foils everything.’ I’m glad he isn’t maintaining the elf nonsense this time. ‘And there was me thinking you were some master tracker or something.’
His weird-coloured eyes twinkle in the sunlight coming through the windows. He shifts awkwardly and switches arms holding on to the doorframe and quickly ducks when he nearly hits his head on the ceiling. ‘Thanks for doing the washing up.’
‘I didn’t. Maybe it was the elves.’
‘Maybe so, but the elves usually put everything away afterwards, and this “elf” wasn’t sure where things went.’ His tone is jokey this time and it makes me smile.
‘I’m sure the new elf will find their way around in time.’
He seems to be lingering and it makes me smile to myself. I don’t even know why. It’s not like I need his help with anything, and asking him questions is as useful as a waterproof teabag when every answer is something to do with elves or Christmas magic.
I appreciate that he hasn’t said anything about the crying though. He hasn’t tried to ridicule me or make me feel silly, like some men would. Most men see a woman in tears and decide she’s hysterical, but Tav is just … there.
‘You met Freya?’ He nods to the now half-empty “Posten” bag on the chair.
The thought of the letters make my eyes well up again. ‘Oh my God, Tav. Are they all like this?’ I gesture to the pile of opened envelopes behind me.
‘Not all. Some of them are exactly what you expected – long lists of expensive toys from demanding children, but some … Santa is a special person in children’s lives. He’s a confidant, a year-round friend, someone who already knows their deepest secrets so they feel comfortable sharing anything with him. He’s the only person some children have got to talk to.’
I’d never thought of Santa like that before, but most of these letters have been the opposite of what I expected when I delved into Freya’s bag. ‘I’ve just read a letter from a nine-year-old girl who’s got cancer, and for her present this year, she wants Santa to leave something that will help her mum and dad cope when she dies. She’s asking if Santa will make the extra effort this time because she’ll be gone by next year and he won’t have to worry about delivering to her after that.’ My voice breaks again.
Tav gives me an understanding nod. There are tears streaming down my face again, but I can’t pretend I’m not touched by the things I’ve read.
‘Earlier there was one from a boy who’s being bullied and he wants Santa to make it stop.’ I reach behind me and rifle through the pile, trying to locate the correct letter in the rainbow piles of paper and envelopes that are scattered across the room. ‘A brother and sister have written together saying their mum and dad have both lost their jobs and could Santa bring them enough food for a Christmas dinner this year.’
‘We can send a food parcel if you’ve got their address.’
I look up at him in surprise and blink through the tears. ‘We do that?’
‘If we can. We ignore the lists of toys, but if a child shares that their family needs help and we can help, then we do.’
‘Do we have the budget for that?’
He shifts on his feet and one hand drops from the top of the doorframe to wring his fingers together. He’s still wearing the elf gloves from this morning, even though his hat is gone. He ums and ahs like he’s trying to answer but can’t find the right words, but I can see exactly what he’s trying to say.
‘By “we”, you mean “you”, don’t you?’
‘Too many “yous” in that sentence,’ he mumbles, but his cheeks are red and he won’t look up from the floor.
‘That’s really nice, Tav.’ I feel like I’ve discovered a secret h
e didn’t want me to know.
‘I’m lucky in life. I have enough money to eat, heat my cabin, and feed the reindeer. I don’t need much else.’ When he finally meets my eyes, his are so sincere that it makes something flutter in my chest. ‘If I can help someone who isn’t that lucky … Surely that’s one of the greatest privileges of working here.’
It’s enough of a sentiment that it makes my breath catch in my throat and more tears form in my eyes. I’d never thought of it like that before, never thought Santa could be a way of helping people who need it, but he’s clearly got a heart proportionate to his huge size, and I’m so touched that it makes me want to give him a hug, even though I can’t remember the last time I hugged anyone besides Dad last night, never mind a stranger who I met yesterday and I don’t think likes me very much.
‘I’m not expecting you to do the same or anything,’ Tav says quickly. ‘I don’t know your financial situation – I would never expect you to fund anything like that …’
‘Good, because I’ve just lost my—’ Oh God, of all the things I wasn’t supposed to say, and of all the people I wasn’t supposed to say it to. ‘Can you pretend you didn’t hear that?’
He gives me a soft smile. ‘Hear what?’
I let out a nervous giggle, but there’s something infinitely trustworthy about someone who would send a food parcel to a family after reading a child’s letter to Santa, and I know he won’t repeat it.
‘If you come across anything like that, anywhere we can help, there’s a website I use to put together care packages for people all over the world. I’ll give you my login details and you can use my account to send something.’
‘My dad doesn’t know you do this?’
‘He knows I used to, it was part of the service here, but the North Pole Forest’s budget ran out long ago, and he’d yell at me for continuing without it.’
I can’t help smiling at the idea of this at least six-foot-six guy scared of being admonished by my five-foot-four father, who actually looks like he’s shrunk since I last saw him.
The Post Box at the North Pole: The perfect cosy and uplifting Christmas romance to curl up with in 2021! Page 9
