The Night I Met Father Christmas

by Ben Miller

  ‘ “Don’t be silly,” said Grimm. “With the money I’ll pay, you can start your own toyshop. Think of all the toys you’ll be able to give Gerda then.”

  Out spilled hundreds of bright gold crowns.

  ‘Like a fool, I agreed. When I woke up in the morning, I knew straightaway I had made a terrible mistake. As I opened the shutters, I saw Gerda walking down the path to my house. She had heard that I’d returned, and of course she wanted to see me. But I was so ashamed I had sold her presents that I hid and didn’t answer the door.

  ‘I kept avoiding her,’ said Father Christmas. ‘Instead, I used the money to buy my toyshop. The money in my till started to take the place of Gerda, and I began to forget her. I decided that I could never really have cared for her in the first place, that I was better off alone. As time went on I needed more and more money to feel even the tiniest bit happy. It didn’t matter how much I earned, it was never enough.’

  ‘So we must be coming to the part of the story where you change,’ I said. ‘Because you’re not mean like that at all! You’re one of the most generous people in the whole world.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Father Christmas. ‘It’s nice to be appreciated. And you’re right, of course. We’ve reached the really crucial part of the story. Yah!’ he cried to the reindeer, and then straightaway, ‘Sorry!’

  Rudolph and the other reindeer slowed their gallop and we began to descend. For the last few minutes we had been flying across the Gulf of Mexico; to our right, the lights of Florida stretched out into the dark ocean like the fin of a golden turtle. Next stop would be Miami.

  ‘Where shall we pick it up?’ asked Father Christmas.

  ‘Where we left off,’ I said. ‘You’ve just seen yourself in the future, all alone.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Father Christmas. ‘In which case this, well, this is what happened next . . .’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  No sooner had Torvil realised that the old man at the window must be him than – you guessed it – a sharp gust of wind whipped up the snow, forcing him to raise both arms in front of his face for protection. The gust quickly strengthened to a gale, but just as it seemed fit to blow him over, it suddenly raced upwards, the snow settled, and the world around him fell eerily still and silent.

  Glancing up, Torvil saw a very curious thing: up and up went the gust of wind, spiralling round and round the snowman, causing a sudden puff of snow round about its tummy; then another somewhere in the region of its elbow; then finally the snowman’s enormous black top hat blew clean off, and circled in the sky above them, like an eagle riding a thermal.

  If Torvil had known anything about tornadoes, he might have worried at seeing such a sight; but tornadoes are almost unknown in the North Pole, especially in winter. Little did he know, but that sharp gust of wind had been the first breath of a newborn tornado, and he and the snowman were now standing at its very centre, the place we call the eye of the storm.

  The first sign that anything was really wrong came when the snowman decided to reach out to try and re-capture its hat, which was still circling way above its head. As it did so, its hand was blown off, and a long trail of snow began to spiral out from its wrist, up into the sky above them, looking for all the world as if the creature was unfurling a giant streamer.

  ‘Stop!’ called Torvil. ‘We’re surrounded! Don’t move!’

  But the snowman took no notice. As the hat took wing, it decided to give chase.

  As each and every part of the giant creature’s body made contact with the tornado, it was blown to smithereens. The enormous wall of wind that surrounded them was suddenly bleached thick with snow, and Torvil saw to his horror that he was trapped in a gigantic swirling funnel of ice that surrounded him on every side, yawning right up into the heavens.

  Strange winds swung him like a puppet.

  Torvil’s feet left the ground, as strange winds swung him like a puppet in an ever-widening spiral, higher and higher. Soon he joined the snowman’s top hat, circling round and round, hundreds of metres above the ground; shortly after that he glimpsed the Copper Elf, clutching his sack-pipe. Old Miss Turi flew past, her skirt billowing; next came the reindeer, sneezing violently. He saw the fir tree dancing a jig, and Steinar the Elf and his family clinging to their tiny dinner table. Finally, he came face to face with Gerda, who reached out her hands for Torvil to take hold.

  ‘Wake up, Torvil!’ called Gerda, her voice drowned by the winds. ‘Wake up!’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Torvil opened his eyes to find himself sitting upright in low fog, his back slumped against the orphanage gates.

  ‘Wake up!’ said the sleigh driver, taking him by the hands and pulling him to his feet. ‘Wake up!’

  ‘Where am I?’ asked Torvil. ‘Is this heaven?’

  ‘Not quite,’ said the sleigh driver. ‘It’s a bus stop. It was me dropped you here, sir, about an hour ago, on my way into town. Now I’m on my way back. Come on, let’s get you home.’

  ‘Wait, wait . . . erm,’ said Torvil, coming to his senses. ‘I’m so sorry – I don’t know your name.’

  ‘That’s because you’ve never asked,’ said the sleigh driver.

  ‘For which I am truly sorry,’ said Torvil. ‘Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?’

  ‘Err . . . yes,’ said the driver, unsure what had brought about such a marked change in his most miserable passenger. ‘Yes, I suppose I can. My name is Erik.’

  ‘Erik!’ said Torvil. ‘Erik!’ His eyes filled with tears. ‘My name is Torvil. Pleased to meet you, Erik.’ And without any warning, he gave Erik the most enormous bear hug.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Torvil,’ said Erik, slightly bemused.

  ‘Erik,’ said Torvil, placing a comradely hand on each of Erik’s shoulders.

  ‘Yes, Torvil?’ said Erik.

  ‘What day is it today?’

  Erik shrugged his shoulders. Surely Torvil must know?

  ‘It’s Christmas Day.’

  ‘I hoped so. I hoped so! Happy Christmas, Erik!’ And with those words, Torvil bounded off into the snow.

  ‘Happy Christmas!’ called Erik.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ‘Yes, all right!’ called Gerda in the darkness, as she struggled to light the old oil lamp in the butcher’s shop. ‘I’m coming!’

  Not that it made much difference. Whoever was outside just kept on knocking, as if they were determined to wake the entire house. Tutting, Gerda took the key from its hook, opened the door, and came face to face with Torvil Christmas.

  ‘Gerda,’ he said breathlessly.

  ‘Torvil?’ she replied, stunned.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said.

  ‘For what?’ asked Gerda suspiciously.

  ‘For everything. For being jealous when you were adopted, for arguing with you, for running away, for not speaking to you when I came back. For all of it,’ said Torvil.

  ‘Ah, I see,’ said Gerda, smiling. ‘That’s very clever! Let me see . . . I’ve got something for you here somewhere,’ she said, handing him a coin from her pocket. ‘That’s some pretty impressive shape-changing,’ she said. ‘Merry Christmas. Now go on, let’s see who you really are.’

  ‘Gerda, it’s not a magic trick,’ said Torvil. ‘It really is me.’

  ‘What?’ said Gerda.

  ‘I’ve had the most extraordinary night,’ said Torvil, his words tumbling out so fast he could only just manage to get them in the right order. ‘One day I’ll tell you the whole story, but for now . . . I’m changing my ways.’

  ‘What’s going on here?’ came a gruff voice from the back of the shop, and Gerda and Torvil turned to see the butcher framed by the doorway.

  ‘It’s the toy seller, Father, from across the street,’ replied Gerda.

  ‘Is it, indeed?’ said the butcher, stepping forward into the lamplight. Torvil could now see that his enormous moustache was covered with a net that hooked up behind his ears. ‘The same toy selle
r I refused as a boy? The same toy seller who has worked opposite me for two hundred and fifty years and never spent so much as a penny in my shop?’

  ‘The same, sir,’ said Torvil boldly. ‘Though as I was just telling Gerda, I am a changed man, and have more than words to prove it. In fact, I would like to buy your largest goose.’

  ‘Humph!’ snorted the butcher, deeply unimpressed. ‘Would you indeed? Our largest goose! It’s Christmas Day, sir, and anyone with a brain in their head booked their bird the day of the first frost. Fetch yourself a good throwing stone and try and knock a robin off its perch. Pluck it, pop a raisin in its bottom and roast it over a lighted match; that’s going to be the closest you’ll get to Christmas dinner this year.’

  ‘But, Father,’ said Gerda, ‘we do have one goose left. I plucked it last night.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ said the butcher, smiling. ‘That’s a monster. Heavier than a dining chair. He hasn’t the strength to even pick it up. Besides –’ and he now sauntered right up to Torvil, drawing himself to his full height – ‘it’s worth a small fortune, and this one’s tighter than a spider’s purse.’

  Torvil laughed. ‘It’s true,’ he said, his eyes twinkling, ‘I’ve been a miser, a hoarder and a skinflint, and I too can scarcely believe the change in me. But here I am, and more to the point, here is my gold.’

  With that, Torvil took a leather drawstring bag from his pocket and handed it to the butcher.

  ‘Take whatever you feel is the right price.’

  The butcher frowned. Even without looking inside, he could tell from its weight that the purse was worth a great, great deal.

  ‘Gerda,’ said the butcher. ‘Fetch the goose.’

  Gerda nodded, and did as she was told.

  ‘She doesn’t know,’ said the butcher quietly, so that only Torvil could hear.

  ‘Doesn’t know what?’ said Torvil.

  ‘Why you’re really here,’ said the butcher. ‘But I do.’ As he spoke, he produced a large leather-bound ledger.

  ‘Do you know what this is?’

  ‘Your accounts?’ asked Torvil.

  ‘Her accounts,’ said the butcher. ‘This –’ he turned the pages slowly, savouring the hundreds and thousands of tiny handwritten numbers – ‘is my right.’

  ‘I don’t understand . . .’ said Torvil.

  ‘If you think you can just take Gerda away, then you’re wrong,’ said the butcher. ‘If she goes with you, then this –’ he stuck out his tongue, while he made a swift calculation – ‘this is the reckoning.’

  ‘Two hundred and ninety-three thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five crowns,’ read Torvil.

  ‘Well, we agree on something,’ said the butcher.

  ‘Firstly,’ said Torvil, ‘you are an ogre, a beast and a brute, and how you ever came to have the good fortune of adopting Gerda as a daughter I will never understand—’

  ‘She’s no daughter of mine,’ said the butcher. ‘Adopting her was my wife’s idea and I’ve been lumbered with her ever since.’

  Once again, Torvil felt a pang of guilt. How had he let Gerda be treated in this way?

  ‘Do not forget, sir,’ he said, speaking clear and close, ‘that I have seen with my own eyes the comings and goings of this household. Gerda has worked for you, unpaid, since the day she left the orphanage; ever since your poor wife died, she has cared for you as tenderly as any daughter could, cooked your meals, washed your clothes, and tended you when you were sick. Gerda owes you nothing.’

  ‘Let me stop you there,’ said the butcher, ‘because we need to find you a high horse to sit on.’

  ‘Gerda is the kindest—’

  ‘Kindness doesn’t pay my bills,’ said the butcher with a smirk.

  The words hit Torvil like punch to the stomach, and he took a sharp intake of breath. Had he not once said something similar to the customers in his shop? Had they seen him as he now saw the butcher: a man so obsessed with money that he had lost all feeling?

  It was then that he remembered the coin in his pocket.

  ‘Do you know what this is?’ said Torvil, pulling out the coin and flashing it between his finger and thumb.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ asked the butcher, greedily staring at the silver.

  ‘It was given to me,’ said Torvil.

  ‘ ’Course it was,’ scoffed the butcher. ‘A penny from the First Elves. People just give them away like toffees at the fair.’

  ‘Will this do?’ asked Torvil.

  ‘Do for what?’ said the butcher.

  ‘Will this free Gerda from her bond?’

  ‘Humph,’ snorted the butcher again. And then, when Torvil’s expression failed to change, ‘You mean it?’

  ‘If you’ll take it, it’s yours,’ said Torvil, and placed the coin in the palm of the butcher’s hand.

  The butcher closed his huge sausage-like fingers around the coin.

  ‘May it keep you as you deserve to be kept,’ said Torvil.

  That was when Gerda appeared in the doorway, struggling to carry the most enormous goose that Torvil had ever seen.

  ‘Gerda, let me help you,’ said Torvil, and the two of them placed the bird in a withy basket, taking a handle each.

  ‘May it keep you as you deserve to be kept’ said Torvil.

  ‘There’s no way he can carry this on his own, Father,’ said Gerda to the butcher. ‘Would you mind awfully if I helped deliver it?’

  ‘You’re free to do whatever you choose,’ said the butcher, looking Torvil straight in the eye.

  ‘Shall we?’ said Torvil, and the two of them began the tricky business of steering the goose through the doorway of the shop and out on to the street.

  ‘Goodbye, Father,’ said Gerda to the butcher, and the door sprang shut, ringing the bell.

  ‘Goodbye, girl,’ said the butcher.

  A cold draught rushed to greet him, and he shivered violently, as if he was being entered by some evil spirit. He opened his fingers. There, resting in the palm of his pink hand, was the beautiful silver elfin penny. Turning the coin over, the butcher could see that on the back were three pictures: a robin, a penguin and a polar bear.

  At that very moment, there was a tap on the window, and the butcher looked up to see a robin perched on the ledge. The butcher frowned. The robin tapped the glass with its beak, and gestured with one of its wings. It seemed to want him to come outside.

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘Please do come in,’ said Torvil, holding open the toyshop door with the heel of his boot, as he and Gerda struggled with either end of the colossal goose. ‘We’ll set it down on the counter while I light the kiln.’

  ‘Kiln?’ said Gerda.

  ‘The shop doesn’t have an oven,’ said Torvil. ‘But we do have a kiln. I’ll get it nice and hot and we’ll have this goose roasted by lunchtime.’

  ‘Not without some herbs, you won’t,’ said Gerda. ‘Where’s your kitchen?’

  ‘I don’t really have one,’ said Torvil sheepishly. ‘I don’t allow lunchbreaks in the shop … or, at least, I didn’t. I probably will now. I mean, I definitely will.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Gerda, ‘I am going to knock on doors until I find some. I can’t have you eating your Christmas dinner with an unseasoned goose, it just wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘Actually the goose isn’t for me,’ said Torvil. ‘It’s for my … someone I work with.’

  ‘Well, then,’ said Gerda, smiling and heading for the door, ‘I’m going to hunt down an orange as well. Goose tastes wonderful with orange.’

  With Gerda gone, Torvil was alone in the shop for a few moments and he felt a strange warm feeling in his heart that had been absent for so long. His chin rose and his shoulders dropped. He was finding himself again, remembering the elf he had once been.

  He looked around the shop, but instead of feeling his usual burst of pride and excitement at all the money he could make from the toys he felt sad. Sad that so many beautiful toys were sitting lonely on the shelf,
while so many of the town’s children would be without presents on Christmas Day. And guilty at the prices – newly doubled with nothing but profit in mind.

  His eye fell on a beautiful red bicycle. And in that very moment, an extraordinary thought came to him; a thought that would change the world.

  Seconds later, when Gerda returned with a basket full of salt, pepper, butter, oranges and fresh herbs that she had begged and borrowed from her friends and neighbours, she found Torvil standing in the middle of the toyshop, beaming from ear to ear.

  ‘Gerda!’ he cried, his eyes full of tears. ‘I know what we have to do. We have to give the toys away!’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  ‘Come on!’ cried Torvil, picking up a wooden train set from the shelf and balancing a toy aeroplane on top of it. ‘We are going to make sure that every child in this town has a fabulous Christmas. Quick, pass me that doll’s house!’

  ‘Torvil?’ said Gerda. ‘Are you sure you feel quite well?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Torvil. ‘I’ve never been better.’

  ‘But Torvil . . .’ said Gerda. ‘You can’t just give your toys away.’

  ‘That’s just it!’ said Torvil. ‘I can and I will!’

  And, with that, he rushed outside, without stopping even to button up his jacket. Shaking her head, Gerda picked up the doll’s house and joined him in the street.

  ‘Excuse me, sir!’ said Torvil.

  A Mining Elf was passing, carrying a pickaxe, his face black with coal dust.

  ‘Sir, do you have any children?’ Torvil asked.

  ‘Yes!’ said the Mining Elf, hoisting the pickaxe off his shoulder so that he could rest it on the ground. ‘I’ve got nine. What’s it to you?’

  ‘Would they like these toys?’ asked Torvil.

  The elf looked at the toys, then looked at Torvil. ‘Why?’ he asked, with suspicion. ‘What’s wrong with them?’