The Night I Met Father Christmas Read online

  On one particular Christmas Eve, however, something rather remarkable happened. Excited by the prospect of selling a great number of toys, Torvil had woken early, and caught the first horse-sleigh into town. But as he snuck down the high street, doing his best to avoid the street-sellers and merry-makers, the sound of an old elfin sack-pipe caught his ear. He wasn’t usually one for sack-pipes, or music at all for that matter, but the melody he heard drifting through the sharp winter air seemed oddly familiar. And what was even odder was that it was coming from right outside his toyshop!

  Sure enough, huddled outside the front window was a little group of elves, all singing at the tops of their voices.

  ‘That’s odd,’ he whispered to himself. ‘I think I know that tune.’ Like an elf in a trance, he pushed his way to the centre of the circle. There, floating in mid-air, was the sack-pipe, seemingly playing all of its own accord. Beside it stood a Copper Elf with red hair and bright green eyes, holding a large brown felt hat, full of pennies.

  Torvil’s eyes narrowed. He was always suspicious of Copper Elves. They had some of the strongest elf magic, but never seemed to use it to good purpose. Magic, Torvil believed, should only ever be used responsibly. He wielded his to run an efficient business and keep his bills low, not to amuse elves on the street.

  There, floating in mid-air, was the sack-pipe, seemingly playing of its own accord.

  With a flourish, the pipe sang one final note and collapsed in a heap on the floor. ‘Penny for the carol singers?’ called the Copper Elf through the letterbox.

  ‘It’s no good,’ said a young elf, flapping his arms to try and keep warm. ‘A very mean elf owns this shop, the meanest in the whole North Pole. He never gives us any money.’

  Suddenly, Torvil came to his senses. The young elf was talking about him! Was this how people spoke of him behind his back? Without thinking twice, he pulled his scarf up around his face, in case any of them recognised him.

  ‘Maybe he didn’t like our singing,’ said a voice in the crowd.

  ‘I think we peaked at the butcher’s,’ sighed another.

  Disheartened, the group of elves drifted off, and the Copper Elf began to pack away the sack-pipe. Soon, only Torvil was left. Part of him wondered whether he should drift off too, and come back when the coast was clear. But another part of him wanted to know more about the tune.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ he said to the Copper Elf. ‘Seems like there’s no one home.’

  ‘What’s that?’ came the reply. ‘Sorry, I can’t hear what you’re saying.’

  ‘I said, it seems like there’s no one home,’ said Torvil, holding the scarf away from his mouth so that he could get the words out more clearly.

  ‘Oh, they’re home all right,’ said the Copper Elf with a twinkle in his eye. ‘At least, the pipe seems to think so.’

  At that moment, the sack-pipe rose from its box like an octopus escaping from an aquarium, floated over towards Torvil, and began to play again.

  ‘I really don’t know why it’s doing that,’ said Torvil.

  The Copper Elf frowned. ‘This wouldn’t be your shop, would it?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh!’ said Torvil. ‘No, no, no. I am far too poor an elf to own a grand shop like this. Though I have to say,’ he said, stepping back and taking in the window display, ‘they do have some spectacular offers on.’

  Ignoring him, the Copper Elf simply held out the collection hat and shook it. ‘Penny for the carol singers?’ he said with a sinister grin, as the coins inside jingled.

  ‘You’re right, this is my shop,’ said Torvil, lowering the scarf. ‘I just felt a bit embarrassed because I don’t have any money on me.’

  ‘Nothing?’ asked the Copper Elf.

  ‘Nothing,’ Torvil replied, rather unconvincingly.

  ‘Then you’d better have this,’ said the Copper Elf, plucking a coin from his hat and tossing it in Torvil’s direction. Torvil fumbled, and it landed in the snow.

  ‘May it keep you as you deserve to be kept,’ said the Copper Elf. By the time Torvil had found the coin, the Copper Elf was gone.

  Chapter Four

  Torvil’s conversation with the Copper Elf had been rather unsettling and, despite the promise of a brisk day’s trading, upon entering his shop, he found himself in a rather discontented mood. To make matters worse, his Toymaking Elf, Steinar, was nowhere to be seen.

  Torvil frowned. Whenever he sold a toy, Steinar would magically make another one straight away to replace it so that the shelves were never empty. How could he be late on Christmas Eve, of all days? He should already be there making toys so that Torvil could make as much money as possible. Where on earth was he?

  In fact, Steinar was at the butcher’s shop in a rather large queue, hoping to buy a goose for his family’s Christmas dinner. The money that Torvil paid him was barely enough to make ends meet, especially since his only daughter, Kiti, had become ill and often needed expensive medicine. But Steinar wanted to make his wife and daughter happy, so he was hoping the butcher would be willing to part with his smallest goose for just a few pennies.

  Unfortunately, the butcher was not in a good mood either. Despite the big queue promising lots of profit for the shop that day, he had no patience for anything: not for his poor grownup daughter, Gerda, who was serving with him, and certainly not for hard-up elves without money to spend.

  ‘How much have you got?’ he asked Steinar bluntly, so that all the other customers could hear.

  ‘Two crowns,’ said Steinar.

  ‘Cheapest goose is twelve,’ said the butcher. ‘Next!’

  Feeling like a failure, Steinar wandered back on to the snow-covered street wondering how he would tell his dear wife, Freya, that they would have nothing to eat for Christmas dinner. And what about poor Kiti, who was so excited about the festivities? Steinar tried hard to think positive thoughts, but it was no use, and a large hot tear rolled down his nose and drilled a tiny hole in a snowdrift.

  Suddenly, he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. It was Gerda. She had a kind, open face, and her long blonde hair was tied back with a pretty red-velvet ribbon.

  ‘Here,’ she said, putting a small package in his hand. ‘Happy Christmas.’

  Before Steinar could think to thank her, she kissed him on the forehead and went back inside the shop.

  Stunned, Steinar undid the string on the package. There, nestling in the shiny brown paper, were half a dozen of the finest beef sausages he had ever seen. He couldn’t believe his luck. What a Christmas dinner this was going to make! His family would be thrilled! He looked through the window at Gerda, who was busy serving customers again.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, clasping his hands to his chest, so that even though Gerda couldn’t hear him she would know what he was saying. Gerda waved and smiled a big smile.

  No sooner had Steinar gone than Gerda felt a hand on her own shoulder. She turned to find her father’s red face right next to hers.

  ‘What did you give him?’ he asked threateningly.

  ‘Just a couple of sausages,’ said Gerda. ‘He looked so sad and it is Christmas, after all.’

  The butcher nodded slowly. ‘Come with me,’ he said taking her by the elbow and leading her to the office at the back of the shop. ‘Here,’ he said, pointing at an old ledger book on the desk. ‘Here is everything it’s cost me to raise you. Every meal, every pair of socks, every night you’ve stayed in my house. Look, see how much you owe me.’

  Gerda looked up the number. ‘Two hundred and ninety-three thousand, eight hundred and twenty-four crowns, Father,’ she said meekly.

  ‘Good girl,’ said the butcher. ‘Now, add the price of the sausages.’ And Gerda did exactly as she was told.

  Chapter Five

  ‘What time do you call this?’ asked Torvil, when Steinar arrived back from the butcher’s shop.

  ‘An inexcusably late one, master,’ said Steinar. ‘I’m so sorry, I got held up at the butcher’s.’

  ‘Humph,’ said Torv
il, scanning the street for customers. ‘Squandering your wages on steak, no doubt. Learn to love the vegetable, Steinar! It’s better for your health and your purse.’

  Steinar wanted to say that his low wages meant that once he’d paid for Kiti’s medicine, he could barely afford a carrot, but he thought better of it. Instead, he wiped the snow off his boots and followed Torvil into the wonderland that was the toyshop.

  Seeing the toys he had made on display always gave Steinar a burst of bittersweet pride. There they were, the bright wooden building blocks, the toy sewing machines and rocking horses, the play castles and popguns. Steinar knew every screw and rivet, every varnish and paint job, every piece of ash and leather just as well as he knew the hairs on Kiti’s head. It delighted him that they were so perfect, and saddened him that so few elf children could afford them.

  ‘Now, before you start on those roller skates,’ said Torvil sternly, ‘I need your help. We have to up our prices, lickety-split, before all the Christmas shoppers arrive. Check the label of every toy, double the price, and magic a new label to replace the old one.’

  ‘Yes, master,’ said Steinar, unlocking the door to his workshop. Well, I say ‘workshop’; really, it was more of a cupboard. Crammed inside were all the things Steinar needed to make his toys: lathes, vices, angle-poise lamps and soldering irons, as well as a bewildering variety of felts, paints, strings, glues, silver buttons and sequins made from mother-of-pearl.

  Steinar placed the brown parcel of sausages on his desk, and looked at it thoughtfully. Now that he had something to cook for Christmas dinner, he needed to ask Torvil a question.

  ‘Ahem,’ he said, approaching the shop counter, where Torvil was counting out the day’s cash float. ‘I was wondering . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ said Torvil, without looking up.

  ‘I know I asked this last year . . . and the year before that . . . in fact, I’ve asked every year . . . you must be so bored of me! But I just wondered . . . Would it be at all possible for me to have the day off tomorrow?’

  ‘Out of the question,’ said Torvil, emptying a bag of coins on to the table.

  ‘It’s just . . . I’d like to spend Christmas with my family.’

  ‘Forty-six, forty-seven . . .’ said Torvil, counting under his breath.

  ‘And there won’t be any customers,’ tried Steinar. ‘Because it’s a holiday. The shop will be empty.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Torvil, glancing up at the toymaker. ‘So it’s the perfect day to take inventory, noting down every toy in the shop. Business is all about the bottom line, Steinar,’ said Torvil, as he placed each coin in its correct compartment. ‘To raise your profits, you need to lower your costs. Knowing every toy – what sells, what doesn’t, which toys I can charge more for, which are a waste of time – that’s why I’m so successful!’ And, with that, he shut the till with a ringing sound that neatly emphasised his point.

  ‘You forgot one,’ said Steinar.

  ‘What?’ said Torvil, slightly annoyed that Steinar had ruined his big speech.

  ‘You missed a penny,’ said Steinar.

  There, on the counter, was the silver coin given to him by the Copper Elf.

  Torvil frowned. ‘Hmm,’ he said. At the end of the counter was a rickety mechanical arm with a magnifying glass on the end, which he often used for changing the insanely small screws that hold batteries in place on so many plastic toys. He pulled the magnifying glass towards him, and studied the coin closely.

  It was old. Older than any coin he had seen before and covered in strange early-elfin symbols. It must be valuable, surely? He chuckled to himself. What a fool that Copper Elf was! He probably had no idea how valuable it was and had given it away!

  ‘What do you make of this?’ he said to Steinar, showing off.

  Steinar shook his head. ‘Never seen anything like it.’

  ‘Ha!’ said Torvil, greatly pleased. ‘Now face the other way.’

  Once he was sure that Steinar wasn’t looking, Torvil turned to a painting with an ornate gilt frame. It was hinged on one side, and Torvil swung it open to reveal a safe. Dialling in the correct combination, he carefully placed the coin inside, with the rest of his mountains of cash. Then, he locked the safe and pushed the picture frame back into place.

  ‘Carry on,’ said Torvil. And that was exactly what Steinar did.

  It was one of the busiest Christmas Eves Torvil could remember. Skittle sets and leather footballs, toy swords and dolls’ prams were flying off the shelves, and it was as much as Torvil could do to keep track of them all. At one point, the cash till became so full that he had to start stuffing notes into his Wellington boots, and Steinar had to fire up the kiln to bake more porcelain dolls to replace the ones that had been bought from the shop window.

  Just as Torvil was ushering the last of the shoppers to the door, it started to snow. Cold-hearted though he was, even Torvil loved the sight of giant snowflakes settling on the fir trees and wooden roofs, and together with the thought of all the money he had made, he began to feel just a tiny bit generous.

  ‘Do you know what?’ he said to Steinar. ‘I think I’ve been a little too miserly these past few months. Seeing all this snow has reminded me that it’s Christmas. And Christmas is a time for generosity,’ he said.

  ‘Really, master?’ said Steinar.

  ‘A time to reward hard work and live a little.’

  ‘Quite so, master,’ said Steinar, allowing himself to hope.

  ‘So, as it’s snowing, I’ve decided to treat myself to a dog sled home. Be a good elf and hire one for me, would you? I’ll bring it back first thing in the morning.’

  Steinar’s smile froze as he tried not to let his disappointment show. He had thought that, perhaps, just once, Torvil might show some kindness and Christmas spirit and allow him the day off, or even just a little extra money for all his hard labour. But really he should have known better.

  ‘Yes, of course, master,’ he said. ‘It would be my pleasure.’ And out he went into the blizzard.

  With Steinar gone, Torvil had just the chance he needed to stash away all the day’s takings. The safe was full, almost to overflowing, and he kept having to push the money back inside so that he could close the door.

  ‘Ready and waiting, master,’ said Steinar, shaking the snow from his hat as he entered the shop.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Torvil.

  Steinar unfolded an umbrella and held it over Torvil’s head as Torvil locked the door of the shop and clambered on to the back of the empty dog sled.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want a driver, master?’ Steinar asked. ‘It’s bitter cold out there.’

  ‘And pay nearly twice the price?’ said Torvil with a sneer. ‘I am quite capable of steering my own sled, thank you very much. See you tomorrow at eight o’clock sharp!’ he said to Steinar, and with a ‘Yah!’ he cracked the reins, and disappeared into the snowstorm.

  Chapter Six

  If you ever do go to the North Pole – and on that subject I feel I have made my feelings clear – then you absolutely have to ride on a sled pulled by huskies.

  There’s nothing like tearing through the muffled silence of a snowy town at night, with fat snowflakes sinking like galleons and the icy wind nipping at your cheeks. A husky is never happier than when it is running as part of a pack, and it’s almost impossible not to feel the excitement of the dogs as they take off across the snow.

  Torvil was far too miserable at heart to really feel alive, but that evening as he sledded home, he came pretty close. There were still revellers in the high street, and the dogs wove expertly among them as they pounded first past the post office, then the bakery, then the butcher’s shop. As he raced past, Torvil glimpsed Gerda in the bright window, scrubbing the chopping block in the sink while the butcher barked orders from the counter. Torvil had known Gerda in his youth, and for a moment he felt a pang of sadness that they were no longer friends. He felt the urge to wave to her, and had half-raised one arm when one of t
he huskies lost its footing, the sled jolted, and he was needed at the reins.

  After the high street, the road began to climb, and Torvil had to crack the whip to keep the dogs working. This was where the rich elves lived, and he passed the lights of large wooden cabins, where young elves in brushed cotton pyjamas were saying goodnight to their well-groomed parents, and sprightly older elves were reading to one another by the fire. Then, one by one, the houses began to fall away, and Torvil passed the darkness of the town’s derelict orphanage. Up here on the hill the air was clear and still, and for a few brief seconds a hazy full moon lit the path. Next came a few solitary fir trees, then a gaggle, and then the road plunged into dense forest.

  ‘Yah!’ Torvil called to the dogs once more, and they began to pick up speed. The trees pressed closer, and the track began to weave wildly from left to right, as they raced deeper and deeper into the forest. Torvil was beginning to wonder whether he might be going a tiny bit too fast when he rounded a corner to find the path ahead completely blocked by an enormous reindeer.

  There’s a strange thing that happens when you have an accident at high speed (as I hope you never find out): time expands and split-seconds drag out into what feels like minutes. In what seemed like the slowest of slow motion, Torvil threw himself to the ground and proceeded to slide head-first right between the reindeer’s legs and out the other side. The last thing he could remember was a large tree trunk ploughing towards him like the periscope of a submerged submarine, followed by black.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Ah,’ said Father Christmas. He glanced at his watch, and then at his sack of presents. ‘Erm . . . I think we might have to pick this up another time.’