by Martin Bryce
of tea and the cartoon page in the paper.
I began transferring the boxes from pallet to goods lift by hand while Harry looked on and offered advice. Cunningly, I thought, I wedged an empty pallet against the lift doors to stop them closing before I was ready. But a sharp intake of breath and a slow shake of the head from Harry informed me that this was not allowed. As soon as I removed the pallet the doors closed and the lift disappeared upwards with three gross cheap digital watches, two gross disposable cameras, five dozen water pistols and three dozen mini Roxanne dolls that wet their knickers. When the lift reappeared all had gone and were never seen again. At least, not in Harridges. Harry shrugged and shook his head sadly.
Welcome each rebuff
That turns Earth’s smoothness rough,
Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go.
So, I went and got the empty pallet again before loading the rest of the boxes into the lift. I noticed Harry said nothing this time.
Fortunately, there was a trolley handy on Santa’s floor and I soon had the boxes stacked away in the Gifte Shoppe. All, that is, except two, which despite my desperate sprint for the lift, disappeared downward never to be seen again, at least not in Harridges.
It all took less time than I’d expected so I took myself to the staff canteen for a cup of tea before making for the toilet to apply my make-up and get dressed. Being the gents there was no make-up mirror, of course, but I coped manfully and was just putting the finishing touches to my lips when Harry walked in.
‘What the fuck’s your game?’
‘Make-up, Harry; got to look the part.’
‘Wilk’nson never wore no fuckin’ make-up.’
‘Wilkinson?’
‘Yeah, shortsighted bastard… used to work in accounts. Done Faver Christmas for years, ‘e did.’
‘Well there’s the difference, you see, I’m a pro and he isn’t.’
‘Wasn’t, you mean. ‘Ere, you an iron, or what?’
I thought quickly and decided it must be rhyming slang for ‘iron-wheeled tractor’ - actor.
‘Yes, of course, that’s why I’ve got the job.’
‘Fuckin’ thought so… tell your sort a mile off.’ He spat noisily into the urinal.
‘D’you ever go to the theatre, Harry?’
‘Nearest I’ve been is the stripper down the boozer Saturday night, init?’ And he wandered off. ‘Fuckin’ poofs.’
I finished dressing. I left my street clothes on underneath as the store felt a little chilly. That had been okay as long as I was working physically, but sitting still I thought I might get cold. The trousers were a tad short and the boots very uncomfortable despite the thin socks. The beard, though clean… well, cleaner than it had been for a long time, was strangely warm and smelled strongly of cat. I vowed not to let Cloudesley sleep on it again. I felt full of confidence and there would have been a spring in my step had it not been for the bloody boots. I waved to the assistants as I passed through the store on my way to the Grotto, but they were too busy to notice.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide;
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height! – On, on, you noble English,
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!’
No idea of why that came to me just then, but it seemed somehow appropriate. I thought of Rowena standing in men’s toiletries wishing me luck for my opening. Another real pro who would surely be recognised as such one day.
I introduced myself to Mrs Jones who was to collect the entrance money in a kiosk disguised as a toadstool. She came, apparently, from Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgolgerichwryndrwbwyllantisiliogogogoch and normally worked in the canteen. But, like poor Mr Wilkinson, was seconded every year to the Grotto. And why poor Mr Wilkinson?
‘Well, look you now,’ she began lyrically, ‘e’d become an institution ‘e ‘ad. Played Santa for over thirty years, ‘e ‘ad. Only this year, see, ‘e ‘ad a massive ‘eart attack, right there in accounts and died when they told ‘im ‘e was the unanimous choice of the Board for Santa again. That’s why you got the job, see, no one else wanted it.’
I have asked for death. Begged for it. Prayed for it.
Then the worst thing can’t be death.
I approached my throne with the dignity of an ancient Wiseman who is yet timeless. I turned and with a regal flourish sat and radiated powerful splendour. That is it would have been if the bloody brassicas from the night before hadn’t caused me to fart mightily. No matter. At last, I had entered the heart and mind, and it seemed, the bowels, of Father Christmas. My heart was bursting with love for all the children in the world, wherever they might be. And in that instant I wished, with a deeper conviction than I’d ever felt before, that all children everywhere could have eternal happiness and that I hadn’t eaten the pasty. So rapturous was my joy that a small tear rose in my eye. I had quite forgotten the boots.
Within half an hour I was in agony.
I don’t normally speak ill of the dead, but if I could’ve gotten hold of poor Mr Wilkinson I’d’ve kicked him all the way to Llanfairwhereveritfuckingisandbackagain. It seems the bastard suffered from rheumatism and arthritis and when the hot air central heating system had been installed some years before, he’d asked for Santa’s throne to be situated directly beneath the main outlet for that floor. The site had remained the same from that day on. The throne was bolted to the floor!
Consider, if you will, my plight. I was wearing two sets of thermal underwear, thick corduroy trousers, a padded woollen lumberjack shirt and an Arran sweater the old trout had knitted for me. Add the Santa suit, the boots, the beard and something that felt like the sirocco blowing down my neck, and you may have some idea of how I felt. Needless to say, I was sweating like cheese in a tent at the height of summer, and my toes felt as if they’d been thrust into a particularly vicious nest of ants by the time the first hopeful visitor arrived – a charming young lady of some four or five years. My long theatrical training now proved its worth. Despite my pain-racked body I held out my arms to her, and with the jolliest smile I could muster, said, ‘Ho,ho,ho, little girl; would you like a sweetie?’
Apart from telling me that her mother, who was standing smugly behind her, had told her never to accept sweets from strangers, NOTHING. Not even a flicker of a smile as she stood there, dumbly licking her ice cream. Her mother’s own smirking silence began to unnerve me as the minutes slipped by. I looked desperately from mother to child and back again, lost for words, too hot to extemporise. My outstretched arms began to ache and shake, sweat was pouring down my face and body. I could tell that the mother was deriving a good measure of satisfaction from my predicament. Go on, she seemed to be saying, see if you can get the little chit to co-operate, nobody else can. I was on the point of passing out when the Head of Security arrived to save me.
‘You Santa Claus?’ he demanded in a deep booming voice. I was further dumbstruck. Even the impervious child gave him a quizzical look. ‘Are you Santa Claus?’
He was an impressive, bull-necked man some six and a half feet tall. He wore a pinstripe suit with creases as sharp as razors, a crisp, white shirt and a regimental tie. Guards. His shoes shone like mirrors; his haircut was a brutal short back and sides which made his head look squarer than it probably was. His eyes flashed fiercely and his thin, clipped moustache bristled to attention.
‘Are you, or are you not Santa Claus. And don’t mess me about laddie, I was in the Guards for thirty years.’ About the same length of time that that bastard Wilkinson had been playing Santa, I recollected for no particular reason. ‘Coldstreams.’
‘Oh yes, please,’ I whimpered.
‘What?’ he bellowed, pressing his face close to mine. ‘You’re sweating laddie,’ he observed.
‘I’m hot,’ was all I could weakly reply.
‘People sweat when they’re feeling guilty, laddie. What do you know abo
ut three gross cheap digital watches, two gross disposable cameras, five dozen water pistols, three dozen incontinent dolls and twenty-four dozen sets of coloured felt tips which have all disappeared while in you possession?’
‘So it was felt tips,’ I breathed.
‘What happened to it all, laddie?’
‘I don’t know,’ I croaked.
‘Perhaps it was your friends, the shagging dwarves made them magically disappear into thin air.’ He turned smartly at attention to the girl and her mother and gave a slight bow. ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am.’ Whatever else he was, he was certainly a shagging gentleman.
‘Dwarves?’ I replied weakly. ‘They’re elves, actually.’
He spun back to face me so fast, he was just a blur. ‘I don’t care if they’re shagging zombies,’ an interesting thought, ‘where’s the merchandise? SANTA!’ There were some loud drill instructors in the Navy, but this man could have been heard across central London.
I was beyond caring now; it all seemed like a bad dream. I shrugged and managed a sickly smile.
‘Been in trouble before, have we, son. Mark my words, laddie, I’ve got ways of dealing with people like you. I’ll be back.’ And he disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived.
Amazingly, mother and daughter were still there; mother more content than ever. Wildly I searched for the nearest exit, but it was too late. The girl was now advancing with an evil grin and her ice cream poised. My feet! If only they would stop itching. The girl climbed onto my lap, I winced and she immediately leapt off again.
‘Ugh,’ she complained, ‘mummy, Father Christmas stinks of cat!’
‘Well really,’ mummy snapped, ‘poor Angela’s allergic to cats. I shall be making a formal complaint to the manager.’ She stuck her nose in the air and led the now madly sneezing Angela toward one of the uniformed security guards who was engrossed in a big yellow Tonka toy.
Time – ten forty-five. Two hours and fifteen minutes to lunch. I thought of Rowena and wondered if she was thinking of me. I stamped on the toes of my left foot with my right heel, then those of my right foot with the left heel in a frantic effort to stop the itching. Tonka man was eyeing me suspiciously.
A terrible thought occurred to me as Mrs Jones popped her head around the corner of her toadstool and smiled the sort of smile that strips flesh from bone. ‘Mr Wilkinson didn’t have verrucas, did he?’ I asked somewhat wild eyed.
She thought for a minute. ‘I don’t think so.’ she replied, then added in her sinister Welsh accent, ‘There was a rumour of piles, though.’ And with that, she disappeared again.
I looked down at the boots and said a quiet little prayer. I wished I’d thought of verrucas earlier; not that I’m a foot ailment fetishist, but you know what I mean. Bloody hell. Just calm down and think… think. All right, no need to panic; I’ll simply buy some foot powder on the way home and treat the boots tonight. Even better, I’ll call Madame Moineau at lunchtime and have her put those lovely new boots I saw the other day aside for me. It’ll cost a bit, but yes, that’s it! I looked at my watch – ten fifty.
Time is a test of trouble –
But not a remedy –
If such it prove, it prove too
That there was no malady.
I shifted uneasily in my chair and wished the Welsh witch hadn’t mentioned piles. I wondered if they were infectious.
A new tack. I decided to try to control my predicament through meditation. I closed my eyes, pressed the tips of my fingers lightly together and breathed deeply. It felt good.
WHAM, I was severely winded by a small, pre-school male who had leaped into my lap. Mother saw my distress and ordered her offspring to apologise to the old man. He did and followed it up by saying that he didn’t know Santa kept cats.
‘Ho, ho, ho,’ I
