I expect him to laugh at the idea of a twelve-year-old writing to Santa, but he takes his usual time in thinking before he speaks. ‘What would make you believe in magic again?’
‘Being somewhere so beautiful, so unspoiled, so good. Seeing the Northern Lights. And you … meeting someone who didn’t fall for the traps of growing up like most people did, who talks about elves and flying reindeer like they’re normal and doesn’t try to be something you aren’t. The amount of effort you put into this place. And reading letters from children all across the world who put so much time and energy into making every letter special, and it isn’t just about getting stuff. Seeing my dad happy. I don’t think he’s ever been a happy person, not since Mum died. A kiss under the mistletoe.’
‘All I can say about that is next time I fix up a cabin, you’re hanging the mistletoe at the end.’ His teeth pull his lower lip into his mouth and he smiles at the same time. ‘And it’s never too late for a Christmas wish to come true, you know.’
My instinct is to tell him not to be silly. I’m thirty-six, well past the age of Christmas wishes coming true, but I wish I believed it was still possible.
‘I’ve never told anyone that before,’ I say instead.
His smile is slow this time. ‘That makes two of us. I’ve never told anyone …’
I hold my breath because I’m sure he’s going to mention the accident again, but he hesitates and then finishes the sentence in a rush. ‘Some of the things I’ve told you. What did you used to do with your mum and dad at Christmas?’ He drops my gaze and goes back to the letter in his hand, but the abrupt subject change leaves me feeling off-balance.
I want to scooch across the floor and squeeze his hand or something, but I force myself to stay still. ‘Write to Santa, visit his grotto at the supermarket, when it snowed we’d go for walks and build snowmen, come home for hot chocolates, make mince pies, decorate the tree, sing Christmas songs … All the things I’ve been doing here, actually.’ I think for a moment. ‘It’s almost enough to make someone believe in Christmas magic again.’
He goes to smile but I stop him. ‘Almost. How about you? What were your Christmases like?’
‘Christmas is different here. We celebrate on the 24th, not the 25th. We eat rice porridge for lunch on Christmas Eve and an almond is hidden in it, and whoever finds the almond wins a marzipan pig – it doesn’t sound like much, but the marzipan pig is a big thing. The neighbours always want to know who got it in each household. The main Christmas meal is in the evening, and then Julenissen, our version of Santa, doesn’t come down the chimney but knocks on the door with his sack of presents. And then there’s the period of romjul, the time between Christmas and New Year, which is for cosying up with your family and enjoying the holiday. That’s what I grew up with, but my parents were never big on Christmas. In recent years, especially with your dad here, we do a mix of Norwegian and British traditions.’
I’m looking forward to Christmas. For the first time since I realised every year would bring another excuse for Dad not to come home, things will be different this year. I’ll get to spend Christmas with Dad and Tav, and not for the first time, I think about this weird little makeshift family I’ve found here. It makes me think of the wishing jar that’s on the mantelpiece in Candy Cane Cabin, the one he gave me on the first night. When I get back later, I’m going to check it. I mean, I’m sure the writing will still be there, but I’ll check it anyway. Just in case.
Tav looks like he can tell what I’m thinking. I smile at him, but a familiar coldness settles back in my chest as the words “what then?” float through my mind. Because when Christmas is over, we’ll have to decide what to do about this place, and I’ll have to go home. We’ve been so busy that I haven’t really thought about anything beyond the next day, but once Christmas is gone, everything else will have to be faced.
I push it out of my head and try to concentrate on the letter I’m reading from a girl who wants a pet squirrel.
Tav laughs at one of his. ‘This little girl wants to know if the “little donkey” was okay after the song, and for Christmas, could she please have some donkey food to give to him.’
‘Aww.’ I push my bottom lip out and open another envelope. ‘This one says her cat ran away earlier this year and now her other cat is sad, so could Santa bring her a mouse to cheer her up.’
‘We’ll be sure to put that one in the stocking. Her parents will be thrilled.’
It makes me laugh out loud again as I slice open another innocuous-looking letter. Usually they’re addressed to “Santa Claus, North Pole”, but this one is addressed directly to the North Pole Forest, and it doesn’t look like a child’s writing.
‘Tav …’ I hold the letter out in front of me like it’s made of glass. ‘Listen to this. Hello. This is probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, but here goes. If anyone’s reading this, I’m sure you’ve never had a letter from a seventy-year-old man before. It’s a long shot, but I visited the North Pole Forest with my grandchildren last year. The date was December the 8th …’ My eyes flick to the date he’s written in the upper right-hand corner. It’s the same date. ‘I remember it to the exact minute because the clock on Santa’s House showed eleven minutes past eleven … That’s got to be significant. You have to make a wish if you see a clock with those numbers.’
I glance at him and continue reading. ‘I locked eyes with a woman on the opposite side of the road. I felt what I believe young people call “a connection”. I’m writing today because even though a year has gone by, I still can’t get her out of my mind, and it feels significant. With so much time having passed and the fact I still think about it, maybe it’s something I should chase up? I don’t know why I’m writing this or how I expect you to help me. Maybe you know who it was. My granddaughter said the lady was wearing some sort of uniform, but I’m afraid my focus was only on her eyes. The feeling that passed between us obliterated all else. I’m planning on bringing my grandchildren to visit Santa once the schools are on their Christmas break, and I don’t even know what I’m hoping for really. Maybe that the fates will align and she’ll be there again.
‘Think you can send me a little festive magic, Santa? Seasons blessings, Osvald.’
‘It’s Freya,’ I say, stating the obvious. ‘It has to be.’
He holds his hand out for the letter and I pass it over and watch as he reads it. ‘That’s amazing. It was really real. When Freya told me, I’ve got to admit I thought she was probably imagining it, but I didn’t want to be discouraging. Eyes don’t meet across a crowded road and strangers don’t make an instant connection. But the fact that she’s still thinking about it a year later, and so is he …’
‘And they both wrote to Santa at different times,’ I add. ‘So they have things in common like ways of solving problems and belief in Christmas magic.’
‘See? Anything is possible at Christmas.’
‘What are we going to do?’
He folds the letter up and hands it back to me. ‘We are not going to do anything. You found that letter for a reason. You believe in love. Make a little magic yourself. What are you going to do?’
‘Well, we have to write back, don’t we? We have to find out when he’s coming and make sure Freya’s here as well. Get them together somehow.’
‘And you say you don’t believe in magic.’
‘I don’t. I didn’t …’ I trail off because I suddenly want to cry. I believe in anything when I look into Tav’s eyes. ‘It’s nothing to do with Christmas magic. It’s common decency. She’s looking for someone and we now know he’s looking for her too. No one would just ignore it.’
‘But it’s only because of Santa that we do know it. Because of their belief that magic can happen at this time of year …’
I scramble to my feet, taking the mystery man’s letter with me, and plonk myself at the desk as I pull out some North Pole Forest stationery and start composing a reply.
‘Dear Osvald,’ I speak i
n disjointed sentences as I write. ‘We were so pleased to get your letter because our friend has been looking for you all year too. We know exactly who you mean, and your granddaughter is right: she was wearing a Posten Norge uniform. Santa and his elves are keeping an extra special sprinkling of fairy dust for you this year. Please let us know when you’re intending to visit and we’ll set up a meeting.’ I finish off by giving him the phone number and telling him to ask for me or Tav.
‘Perfect.’ Tav’s looking up at me from the floor, chewing his lip without taking his eyes off mine.
It does feel perfect. It’s the kind of thing that only happens in movies, and I can’t imagine it happening in real life too, and as I stamp the letter shut with a wax seal, it fills me with butterflies on Freya’s behalf.
‘We can’t tell Freya,’ I say as I squeeze past him and slip the envelope into the outgoing mail bag, even though I’m fizzing with excitement. When she collects this bag tomorrow, I don’t know how I’m going to stop myself blurting it out. ‘It has to be a surprise. We’ll need to get our stories straight and make sure we know exactly when he’s going to be here.’
‘It would be great if we could set it up like it was before so their eyes meet across the road …’
I let out a low, longing sigh. ‘Oh, can you imagine … That would be so romantic. We have to do that. Between us, we can make sure they’re both in the right place at the right time.’
He grins at me and I grin back at him. ‘I’ve never been involved in anything like this before. These letters are …’ That feeling of not wanting to leave flickers across my mind again. Being here and reading these is the biggest privilege I’ve ever felt in my life. ‘Special. An insight into the world around us and how much Christmas matters to people. I wouldn’t even think of turning to Santa with my relationship woes, but here we are, creating romantic Christmas miracles.’
‘We should celebrate,’ Tav says after a moment, and I sure he can read each thought that flashes in every corner of my mind. ‘I was making a batch of fresh gløgg before I left the house so we have something to give the Gingerbread Cabin couple as a welcome gift.’
‘I don’t know what that is.’
‘I love how British you are.’ He rolls his eyes and gets to his feet in one swift movement. ‘It’s the Norwegian equivalent of mulled wine, except we add our own potato-based spirit, more spices, and raisins and almonds. It wouldn’t be right not to taste-test it before giving it to paying guests. Wanna bunk off work early?’
‘It’s eight o’clock!’
‘Is it? Sorry, you make me lose track of time, Sash.’ He blinks for a long moment and then shakes his head. ‘Let me rephrase that – wanna bunk off work ridiculously late to do even more vitally important work?’
The idea of making Tav lose track of time makes me feel flushed and fluttery. I get the feeling he’s highly scheduled and time is something he doesn’t have time to lose track of. ‘I rarely say no to anyone offering me wine.’
He holds his hand out as we leave the post office and I take it automatically. The streetlamps are glowing, their orange tinge like Christmas lights strung all the way along the road back to Santa’s House, and it’s a good thing I am clinging on to his hand because I’m looking skyward so much in the hope of a glimpse of the Northern Lights that I stumble over my own feet a few times.
‘It’s too cloudy.’
‘There are patches between the clouds. You can see the stars.’
‘You’re optimistic, you know that?’
‘No.’ I stare at him. ‘No one’s ever called me that before. My life is sad and miserable. It means nothing to anyone. I’m pessimistic and always think the worst of people.’ The words burst out before I can stop them. I didn’t mean to say any of that to Tav, but he sees me in a way I’m just … not, and he makes me feel better than I am. Things are easy here, festive and magical, but the more time that passes, the closer the countdown ticks to having to go back to a reality without reindeer sticking their noses in your window every five minutes.
‘Maybe you’re just in the wrong place.’
I’ve never thought that before and I’m sure he can hear the hitch in my breathing. I can feel his eyes on me but I keep mine steadfastly focused ahead and don’t speak again until we reach Dad’s house because I’ll end up crying if I do.
‘Ah, my two favourite elves,’ Dad says when we walk in. ‘My grotto has been hectic and my Twitter notifications have gone through the roof. People keep tweeting about the letters and gifts they’ve got.’
The thought of the letters I’ve written being online makes me feel edgy. I replied because I thought the children deserved a response, not because I was trying to make something go viral and benefit us in the long run. ‘That’s not a good thing, Dad. You’re not supposed to be worki—’
‘Your hotel is so lucky to have you,’ Dad interrupts, and Tav excuses himself to the kitchen. ‘I could’ve hired a world-class publicist who couldn’t have done what you’ve done for this place. You’ve put us on the map. I had several enquiries for next year and I’ve booked them in provisionally because, well, we don’t know where we’re going to be, do we?’
The lump moves from my throat to settle as a stone of unease in my stomach. It’s another perfect opportunity to broach the subject of what we’re going to do, but I can’t make myself face it.
‘He said something about gløgg,’ I say to change the subject and point in the direction Tav went, even though I’m not sure if men who’ve just had heart attacks mix with alcoholic festive drinks. ‘Do you want …’
‘Oh no,’ Dad cuts me off quickly. ‘That’s for you two. I’m going to have a shower and an early night. I’ve got a lot of bookings for tomorrow. And tell Tav another two igloos have been booked for the romjul period, and I’ve hired a cleaner to come in and sort them out so he doesn’t have to.’
‘He won’t like that.’
‘That’s exactly why it’ll be better coming from you than me.’ He gives me a cheery pat on the shoulder. ‘But I realised that I’m the boss and I can overrule Tav and we’ve taken more than enough in the past few days to cover the expenditure. Nighty night.’
‘Night, Dad.’ I watch him go up the stairs, taking them fast, like a man with knees belonging to a fifty-year-old. He loves this place. He loves being Santa. He glows brighter than the streetlamps every time he talks about it. How can I be responsible for taking that away?
‘Dad said …’ I say as I walk through to the kitchen.
‘I know, I heard.’ Tav looks up from the stove where he’s stirring a saucepan.
‘And that doesn’t bother you?’
‘He’s right, he is the boss.’ He shrugs. ‘And honestly, you forcing me to share some of the work has been … nice. Made me realise that maybe I can’t do it all.’ He draws out the last word.
‘I’m sorry, was that Taavi Salvesen admitting someone else was right?’ I take a step backwards, pretending to be so shocked it nearly knocks me over.
He grins. ‘Doesn’t mean I can’t try though.’
‘How am I going to get him to slow down, Tav? He’s supposed to be taking it easy.’
‘He is taking it easy. You didn’t see him before the heart attack.’
‘We need to take on staff or something. He needs more help than me and you and Freya when she’s got a bit of free time. This isn’t on.’
‘I know,’ he says quietly.
The entire room smells of cinnamon and cloves and star anise, and he ladles a spoon of the festively scented drink into two glasses set out on the kitchen island, and I go around it to stand nearer to him.
‘Skál.’ He picks up his glass and clinks it against mine, and I take a sip.
‘Mmm, that’s nice.’ The sweet and fruity taste melts across my tongue, a far cry from the cheap mulled wine at office parties, and I’m once again I’m struck by how much Tav really knows how to do Christmas.
‘Thanks.’ He crouches to clatter around in a cupbo
ard under the kitchen island until he retrieves two bottles and a funnel and ladles the steaming liquid in, and screws both lids on tightly, ready to be delivered to the Gingerbread Cabin.
He picks up his glass and clinks it against mine again. ‘Happy Christmas, Sash.’
‘Happy Christmas,’ I murmur back.
This is what Christmas should be like, and for the first time ever, Christmas feels like something worth celebrating.
Chapter 12
Dear Santa,
If my Christmas presents are made by elves in the North Pole, why do they all have “Made in China” written on them?
From,
Milo
It’s colder and darker by the time we get back outside, and sure enough, there are flashes of green in the night sky, hidden by curtains of cloud and only peeking out once in a while.
‘Your optimism wasn’t misplaced.’
‘I don’t want to miss any. You get to see this every night and I have to …’ I stop myself finishing the sentence, like if I don’t speak the “go home” aloud, I can somehow avoid it.
‘It’s been nice to see it through your eyes again. You’ve made me realise how weary I’ve become. Since you arrived, it’s the first time I’ve stopped to look up in a while.’
I bite my lip as we stop at the Gingerbread Cabin door and he lets us in, the scent of gingery spices greeting us even though the scent warmer is off. I hover outside as he goes to the kitchen table and nestles one bottle into the gift basket, and then comes back with the other one. ‘For you.’
‘What am I supposed to do with this?’ I ask even as my gloved fingers curl around the neck of the bottle.
‘Generally people drink it …’ He sounds so confused that it makes me burst out laughing.
The Post Box at the North Pole: The perfect cosy and uplifting Christmas romance to curl up with in 2021! Page 21
