The Night I Met Father Christmas

by Ben Miller

  ‘Oh, nonsense, Bryn,’ said Mrs Loven, forcing a smile. ‘I know you want a child just as much as I do.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the butcher. ‘Girls make the best assistants. She comes. The boy stays here.’ And with that, he turned on his heels and marched to the door.

  ‘Wait!’ called Mrs Loven and, grabbing Gerda’s hand, rushed after him.

  For a few moments, none of the children could quite believe what had happened. One by one, they all turned to look at Torvil, standing alone.

  ‘That’s decided, then,’ said Mrs Somby, with a cruel smile. Leaning closer to teenage Torvil, she whispered, ‘I told you not to trust that girl.’

  ‘You see?’ Torvil said to Rudolph. ‘It was me she chose. But Gerda took my place.’

  ‘Sssh,’ said the reindeer. ‘Listen.’

  Gerda, Mrs Loven and the butcher were now at the orphanage door. Gerda was speaking firmly with the butcher, her fists clenched with determination.

  ‘I’m not coming without Torvil,’ she was saying. ‘Either you adopt us both, or not at all.’

  ‘Suits me,’ said the butcher, heading for the gate.

  ‘Gerda, please,’ said Mrs Loven, lowering her voice. ‘He doesn’t mean it. It’s just his way.’

  ‘I’m not leaving Torvil,’ said Gerda.

  ‘You won’t have to,’ replied Mrs Loven. ‘I can handle Bryn. You want the best for Torvil, don’t you?’

  Gerda frowned. ‘Of course,’ she said.

  ‘Bryn will change his mind, you’ll see. Then you’ll both be out of this place.’

  ‘I’m not leaving Torvil,’ said Gerda.

  ‘Promise?’ said Gerda.

  ‘On my life,’ said Mrs Loven. Taking Gerda by the hand, she began to follow the butcher along the path to the gate. As they walked, teenage Torvil appeared at the window, watching them go.

  ‘See how heartbroken I am?’ asked Torvil.

  ‘You did hear that, didn’t you?’ asked the reindeer.

  Torvil said nothing.

  ‘Mrs Loven promised Gerda they would adopt you too. That’s the only reason Gerda went with her.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know that, do I?’ replied Torvil angrily. ‘Look at me. Betrayed by my only friend.’

  ‘It wasn’t Gerda’s fault.’

  ‘You know whose fault it was?’ snapped Torvil, burning with shame. ‘Mine. It was my fault for trying to do something good. Well, don’t worry, I never made that mistake again.’

  And without another word he stormed off through the grounds, towards the orphanage gates.

  Chapter Thirteen

  No sooner had Torvil reached the gates than the wind picked up again, flinging snowflakes so cold they burned his skin like hot pennies. Was the Copper Elf’s magic working on him once again? If it was, he was determined to fight it. If he could run fast enough, he told himself, he might escape. But the harder he fought, the harder the winds blew. Putting one foot in front of the other became a colossal struggle, and he was soon exhausted to the point of collapse. Just when he felt he could bear it no more, the wind dropped, the snowflakes settled, and he found himself alone, standing in the middle of the town on a bright summer’s morning.

  Except this wasn’t the town as he knew it now. This was the town of his youth. And there, right before him, was his shop; though instead of toys in the window, there were dusty secondhand books.

  That’s right, thought Torvil to himself. This is the place as it was before I bought it. How did the old man who owned it ever make any money? No wonder I managed to get it so cheaply.

  The thought of the bargain price for which he had bought his little shop did wonders for Torvil’s mood. Smiling to himself, he began a little daydream in which the dusty books with their measly penny prices were replaced by his expensive toys costing tens and hundreds of crowns. And he might have daydreamed for a good while longer had he not been awoken by a dreadful clatter coming from across the street.

  His heart skipped a beat. There, dressed in a butcher’s apron, was the lovely Gerda, rolling down the awning of the butcher’s shop. Still a teenager, she appeared to him more beautiful than anyone wearing a hygienic hair net had any right to look.

  He was about to call out her name when the butcher, standing at the open doorway, beat him to it.

  ‘Gerda!’

  ‘Yes, Father?,’ she answered politely.

  ‘Where are the sheep’s eyes?’

  ‘In the ice bucket, Father,’ called Gerda, ‘To keep them fresh.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said the butcher. ‘They’d better be. Or they’re coming out of your wages.’

  Something about the moment seemed familiar to Torvil, and he was about to call to Gerda a second time when, yet again, someone else got there first.

  ‘Gerda!’

  A slender blond boy of little more than one hundred and forty was running down the street towards them. ‘Gerda!’ called the boy again, with great urgency. On his back was a rucksack, hung with various billy-cans and tin drinking cups, and as he ran they clattered and clanked like miniature cowbells. He was clearly in a very great hurry.

  ‘Gerda, I’ve done it!’ he said. ‘I’ve run away from the orphanage!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Gerda.

  ‘Mrs Somby was at the gate, I dodged her. I’m free.’

  ‘But . . . where will you go?’

  ‘South,’ said Torvil, struggling to get his breath. ‘To seek my fortune. And I want you to come with me.’

  ‘You know I can’t do that,’ said Gerda, leading him away from the open window of the butcher’s shop. ‘I wish I could, but I can’t.’

  ‘There you are,’ said the reindeer, suddenly appearing beside Torvil. ‘I’ve been looking for you all over.’

  ‘Shhh! Keep your voice down,’ whispered Torvil, and pointed to the two elves on the other side of the road.

  ‘Oh, right,’ said the reindeer, catching on. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘My mother is sick.’ Gerda was saying. ‘I can’t leave her – she’s really not well, Torvil.’

  ‘Mother?’ said young Torvil, scornfully. ‘You’ve only been here two weeks!’

  ‘They need me.’

  ‘They need cheap labour.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Gerda replied. ‘They’re all I’ve got.’

  ‘But this is our chance,’ pressed Torvil. ‘Come with me. Please!’

  There was a long pause, before Gerda slowly shook her head.

  Young Torvil nodded and let go of Gerda’s hand. Stooping to pick up his rucksack, he turned and began to walk in the direction he had come from. As she watched him go, Gerda’s eyes welled with tears and she buried her face in her apron.

  ‘She’s crying,’ said Torvil, amazed.

  ‘Of course she’s crying,’ said the reindeer rolling his eyes. ‘You just abandoned her.’

  ‘I did not!’ Torvil exclaimed. ‘She abandoned me!’

  ‘That’s low self-esteem for you,’ said the reindeer.

  ‘Low what?’ said Torvil.

  ‘Long story,’ said the reindeer. ‘Got a touch of that myself. As my aunty always says, how can I expect other reindeer to respect me when I don’t respect myself? No wonder they love to laugh and call me names.’

  There was a pause while Torvil stared at him blankly. Then, seeing that his teenage self was already almost out of earshot, Torvil Christmas did something quite out of character; something no one had seen him do for a very long time. He began to run.

  ‘We’ve got to stop him – I mean me – from leaving!’ he cried, heading off across the street.

  ‘Wait!’ said the reindeer. ‘This is the past, remember? You can’t change it!’

  ‘But if he leaves now it’ll never be the same again,’ said Torvil, already battling a rather painful stitch. ‘When he comes back they’ll be strangers.’

  It was too late. The wind was already picking up, and soon Torvil was once again lost in a blizzard of snow. He had no idea which way was forward or w
hich way was back. As he stumbled off the path he found himself jogging down a large snowbank, then running, then sprinting, then sliding for some considerable distance on his stomach, before colliding head first with a young fir tree and knocking himself out.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘I think that bag of peas has warmed up. Could you fish them out of my boot?’ said Father Christmas, jolting me from the story. I suddenly remembered where we were: on an enormous wooden sleigh, pulled by nine fully-grown reindeer, hurtling through the air about a kilometre off the ground.

  Below us were the lights of a city, edged with black. ‘Where are we?’ I asked.

  ‘Accra!’ called Father Christmas. ‘Capital of Ghana. They love Christmas here.’

  The reindeer began to descend and we met a swell of warm, sweet-smelling air. Among the jumble of streets and buildings below us, I glimpsed a long, straight row of lights that I thought must be an airport runway.

  ‘Is that where we’re landing?’ I asked.

  ‘Goodness me, no,’ said Father Christmas. ‘I avoid planes. Freaks people out to see a flying reindeer through their window. We’re going to land on the beach!’

  Seconds later we buzzed over a wide freeway, jammed with traffic. Every lane was full of people, dancing, singing, and calling to one another from their cars.

  ‘Where are they all going?’ I asked.

  ‘Nowhere!’ said Father Christmas. ‘They’ve been all over Ghana, visiting their relatives. On Christmas Eve, they all come home . . . and party!’

  We skimmed a row of date palms, and below us I could see lush gardens and holidaymakers swimming in a turquoise pool. Then the reindeer banked a turn, and we were arcing out over the ink-blue ocean, as white waves raced to the shore.

  ‘Hold tight!’ called Father Christmas, as we kept turning and turning, until a ribbon of sandy beach opened out before us. Down plunged the reindeer, and I closed my eyes and gripped the rail tight, ready for anything. A few seconds later I realised that we weren’t dropping any more, and the rails of the sleigh were sliding smoothly across the sand. We had landed!

  ‘Is it safe?’ I asked. ‘There are so many people about, won’t someone see us?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Father Christmas, smiling. ‘This is where you find out my biggest secret. If you’d be so kind?’

  I jumped down on to the sand and padded across to the other side of the sleigh, where Father Christmas was sitting. I crossed my fingers and held my hands in front of my chest, palms up, so as to make a foothold. Father Christmas placed his left boot in my hands, and swung his right leg around the back of my neck so that he was sitting on my shoulders. I passed the sack of presents up to him, he balanced it on my head, and we were on our way.

  ‘Now then. “Won’t someone see us?” ’ he said, repeating my question. ‘Let me answer that question with another question. Have you ever seen a mouse?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘We’ve got two at my school. One is black, and the other one is white, brown and grey.’

  ‘So you’ve seen a pet mouse,’ said Father Christmas. ‘What about a house mouse?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said.

  ‘That’s because pet mice are slow, and house mice are very, very fast,’ said Father Christmas. ‘Almost too fast to see.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked.

  ‘Really,’ said Father Christmas. ‘You’ve probably got a dozen living in your skirting boards, but they move so quickly you’ve never noticed them. Now, let me ask you another question. Do you think they have ever seen you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  ‘Then I’ll tell you,’ said Father Christmas. ‘They have. And how do you think you look to a house mouse? Fast or slow?’

  I thought for a little while. ‘Slow,’ I replied.

  ‘Really slow,’ said Father Christmas. ‘So slow as to be hardly moving.’

  The beach was empty, but I could see a campfire glittering up ahead. Beyond it lay the yellow lights of the freeway, and the red and blue neon of the city. Suddenly I felt like the luckiest boy in the world: far from home, in an exciting country, sharing Father Christmas’s deepest secrets.

  ‘And let me ask you yet another question,’ said Father Christmas. ‘Before tonight, had you ever seen an elf?’

  ‘No,’ I said, shaking my head.

  ‘And why do you think that might be?’

  ‘Because they move too fast?’ I guessed.

  ‘Super, super fast,’ he said, nodding. ‘That’s how I can get around the whole world in one night. If I hadn’t got stuck in your chimney, and fallen into the fireplace, you’d never have seen me. I’d have been moving too fast. And here’s the really amazing bit. Because I’m on your shoulders, you’re moving superfast too. See?’

  He stretched out his little hand and I looked to where he was pointing. We had reached the campfire, and circled around it were a group of teenagers. I saw now that each of them was as still as stone, eyes unmoving, face frozen: one girl even had her eyes closed mid-blink. One of them had just thrown a cup of water at another, and the drops hung in the air like beads of glass.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said.

  ‘You’re moving as fast as an elf now, and that’s how humans look,’ said Father Christmas. ‘Which is why, if we are careful, no human will ever see us.’

  I grinned a huge grin. One of the things I had been most worried about was getting caught, and ruining Christmas for good. Having super-speed really took the pressure off.

  ‘Where’s our first delivery?’ I asked, keen to put myself to the test.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Father Christmas. ‘One thing you will quickly learn: things vary from country to country. Here, in Ghana, I don’t come down the chimney. Instead, I leave the presents at church, and the children collect them in the morning. Which makes it nice and easy because I don’t have to make lots of individual deliveries. That’s our first drop off, right up ahead.’

  ‘What, at the top of the hill?’ I asked nervously. Father Christmas was surprisingly heavy for an elf, and the church he was pointing at was some way away.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘After this there’s just ten thousand, five hundred and eighty-six to go.’

  That sounded like a lot of carrying. I needed a distraction, fast.

  ‘I don’t suppose you could tell me what happens next in the story?’ I asked.

  ‘Excellent idea,’ said Father Christmas. ‘Where were we?’

  ‘Torvil has just been knocked out again. By a fir tree.’

  ‘So he has,’ said Father Christmas. ‘So he has.’

  He continued to tell me the story as we delivered to the ten thousand, five hundred and eighty-seven churches in Ghana. And to all the children in Togo, Burkina Faso and the Côte d’Ivoire. And you’ll know by now that this, pretty much word for word, is what he told me . . .

  Chapter Fifteen

  Torvil opened his eyes to find that, once again, he was lying on his back in the snow. Gingerly, he rolled over on to his side, then raised himself up on one elbow. On the edge of the forest, something caught his eye: the outline of a reindeer. A reindeer that looked very much like Rudolph.

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there,’ Torvil bellowed. ‘Help me up!’

  But the animal simply gave him a long stare, then bounded off into the forest. Sitting up, Torvil saw that he was at the foot of a tall, fully grown pine tree, and the snow around him was scattered with shards of broken wood.

  Suddenly it dawned on him; he was back in the present. The broken-wood fragments were all that was left of the sled, now that the frightened huskies had dragged the rest of it off into the night. And the wild, red-nosed reindeer that had just run off into the forest was the same one he had so recently swerved to avoid.

  He shook his head, and struggled to his feet. Now that he was back in the real world, it all seemed ridiculously far-fetched. A talking reindeer! Travelling through time! It was preposterous. The bump to his head had knocked
him out and he had suffered a very vivid dream. There was nothing to do but put it all from his mind, and focus on the real task in front of him: getting safely home before he caught his death of cold in the forest. And yet . . .

  Torvil frowned. Some of it had at least seemed real. The orphanage, for example. Of course he had no memory of being left there as a baby, but the scene he had witnessed did fit the facts he knew: he had been found in the early hours of Christmas Day and named Torvil Christmas as a result. It was true that he had been passed over for adoption in favour of Gerda and his feelings had been so hurt he thought he might never get over it. And it was most definitely true that he had run away from the orphanage . . .

  It’s extraordinary how the mind works, he thought to himself, as he trudged home along the forest path. His imagination, he decided, had ornamented a few small facts with an elaborate fantasy, like an oyster builds a pearl around a stubborn piece of grit. Had Gerda’s eyes welled with tears the day he had left the town? He wished they had, and his dream had made it so. The truth . . . well, the truth might be different. Maybe she had cared for him, and maybe she hadn’t; he would never know for sure. And what did it matter now, anyway? The past is the past, and you can never change it.

  Thankfully, Torvil was now nearing his house on the hill, and with every step of the way he felt his breath come easier and his body relax. There were no gaudy Christmas decorations here: no striped candy canes on the gatepost, no evergreen wreaths on the door, and no coloured fairy lights on the large fir tree in the front garden. Everything was orderly, calm and dark. There were no neighbours to bother him either. Here, he could truly be alone.

  He felt in his pocket for his door key, and as he did so, his fingers came across something hard and round. He fished it out, and placed it in his palm. It was the silver coin the Copper Elf had given him. He frowned. That made no sense: he had locked it away in the safe at the shop. Hadn’t he? Maybe he had meant to put it in the safe, but stowed it in his pocket instead?

  Torvil looked at again, carefully, trying to make sense of the elfin runes that were embossed on the back. Was that a reindeer, in the first of the three rows? What an extraordinary piece it was! Every time you examined it you noticed something new. It was worth a fortune, he was sure of that: the first elfin coins were collectors’ items. What if he had lost it in the snow when he crashed the sled? Or if some rogue elf had taken it from his pocket while he lay unconscious, dreaming about the past? It wasn’t worth thinking about. He must be much, much more careful in future.