The Night I Met Father Christmas Page 6

  One day, when he was old, he would take it to a bank and exchange it for cash. Then he would go on a lovely summer holiday in Iceland, where he had heard it was often so warm that you could walk around in nothing more than a wool sweater. He grasped the coin tight. What a fortune he had been given! And how lucky was he, with no family or friends that he had to share it with?

  It is indeed strange how the mind works. For no sooner had he convinced himself that his miserly ways were the path to true happiness when, from nowhere, a youthful memory flashed before him. There he was, a child again, handing Gerda his rag hedgehog, seeing her smile, and feeling joy in his heart. For a few seconds, he stood stock still, held in the moment. Then, with a shudder, it passed, and he dismissed it in the same way he would a gripe of stomach ache.

  Chapter Sixteen

  One of the challenges of living in such a large house, Torvil had long ago decided, was the expense. He’d wanted a big house, as he was sure it would be worth more money when it came to sell it, but in the meantime, he had to watch the pennies. The cost of lighting so many rooms, let alone heating them, would have been horrendous. Instead, Torvil had devised some clever methods of spending as little money as possible, methods he was extremely proud of.

  Firstly, every time he went home, he used magic so as not to feel the cold. Every elf has a daily store of magic that they can choose to spend however they like. Most of Torvil’s went on a sack that could hold an unlimited number of toys, to save on delivery costs at the toyshop, but he always used whatever was left over to make himself immune to temperature. That way he never needed to turn the heating on in his house, saving a fortune.

  Secondly, he ate very little. If he felt hungry, he simply drank a pint of tap water. As a result he was unhealthily skinny, as well as being in a bad mood most of the time due to low blood sugar.

  Finally – and most cleverly of all – he had constructed a web of ropes that ran from room to room so that he could find his way about in the dark, to avoid spending money on candles.

  The only downside of living like this was that there wasn’t all that much to do in the evenings, except go to bed. After all, there was no meal to cook, no one to talk to, no storybooks to read, or pleasure to be taken of any kind whatsoever. So, once he was safely inside the door, Torvil simply felt in the dark for the roughest of all the ropes, and followed it through the hall, up the main staircase, and into the master bedroom.

  The bedroom, like the rest of the house, was pitch dark, but Torvil was used to it. Once inside, he followed a soft cotton rope to the bathroom, where he cleaned his teeth – making sure that he turned the tap off while he was brushing so that he didn’t waste any water – and then followed a knotted linen rope to the bed. He felt in his pocket for the coin and placed it carefully under his pillow, where it couldn’t get lost. Then he clambered in between the sheets, pulled up the bedclothes, and before he knew it was fast asleep.

  Someone was whispering his name.

  ‘Torvillss! Torrrvillss!’

  For a few moments he lay in the dark, listening. Where had the voice come from?

  The covers were halfway off the bed, as if he had been sleeping restlessly, and he pulled them back over his head, hoping to go to sleep again. Perhaps it had just been the wind in the trees.

  No such luck.

  ‘Torvillss!’ came the voice again. ‘Torvillssss!’

  Frowning, Torvil pulled back the shutter and pushed the window wide open. There, right in front of him, was the fir tree that had been growing in his front garden ever since he could remember, now lit by a high full moon. Only this time – unless he was very much mistaken – it was talking to him.

  ‘There you are!’ it hissed, and as it spoke, smatterings of fresh snow fell from its branches, revealing the outline of eyelashes, a nose and a mouth. ‘Come on, or we’ll be late!’

  ‘Late?’ said Torvil in return, wondering if he might still be dreaming. ‘Late for what?’

  ‘Late for, you know, er . . . your mate . . . little fellow?’ said the tree, gesturing with one of its branches. ‘Pointy hat . . . fingers . . . wispy, er . . . beard . . .’

  ‘Steinar?’ said Torvil.

  ‘That’s the one!’ said the tree.

  ‘But I can’t be late for Steinar,’ said Torvil. ‘He works for me. That’s the beauty of being an employer. I come and go as I please, but if he’s a minute late I dock his wages. In any case, he’s not due for another . . .’ Torvil’s voice trailed off as he looked at his bedside clock. ‘Good gracious. Five hours.’

  ‘Come on, or we’ll be late.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the fir tree, pulling up one of its roots. ‘You think we’re going to the . . . you know, the place. Children . . . wheels . . . windows . . . the, umm . . .’

  ‘Toyshop?’ offered Torvil.

  ‘That’s it! The toyshop.’ The tree breathed a sigh of relief that it had finally found the right word. ‘Well, we’re not!’

  ‘Too right we’re not,’ said Torvil. ‘Because I’m going back to bed.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the fir tree, with an expression of surprise. ‘Okay. Well, if you’re not bothered about the spell . . .’

  ‘What spell?’ said Torvil warily.

  ‘You know,’ said the tree. ‘The one the, er, the whatsit, put on you . . . little chap, red hair . . . unusually large teeth . . .’

  ‘The Copper Elf?’ asked Torvil.

  ‘It’s very annoying when people do that,’ huffed the tree. ‘As I was just about to say – before I was so rudely interrupted – the spell the Copper Elf put on you.’

  ‘And what would you know about that?’ asked Torvil.

  ‘Me?’ said the tree, astonished. ‘Well, let me think. Because I’m the second of your three visitors? Come to save you from misery? But what do I know? I’m just a talking Christmas tree.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Torvil. ‘I think you must have got me mixed up with someone. I’m not miserable. I’m one of the richest elves in town. And no one said anything to me about three visitors. No offence, but you could be anybody. Or anything. A hill-daemon, maybe, or a water-warlock, shape-changing to trick me. And if you think I’m about to follow you into the woods at this time of night you are very much mistaken. I mean, really, I’ve never heard such nonsense!’

  ‘Nonsense, is it?’ asked the tree, pulling up the last of its roots. ‘Check the whatsit . . . on the coin . . . the inscription!’ And, with that, it stumbled off across the garden, scattering soil as it went.

  Torvil reached under his pillow, and held the coin up to the moonlight. There were three rows of runes on the back. In the first there was a reindeer, just as there had been the last time he looked. And in the second, he now saw something that looked very like a fir tree.

  ‘Wait!’ called Torvil.

  But the fir tree did nothing of the sort.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Seconds later, Torvil was at his own front door, pulling on his leather boots. Unfortunately, because he was wearing his very thickest bed socks, he had great difficulty getting the boots on properly, and by the time he made it outside, the tree was nowhere to be seen. Huffing and puffing with the inconvenience of it all, Torvil snatched a walking cane from the pot, and followed the tree’s muddy trail across the lawn and through the gate at the far end of the garden.

  Much to his surprise, when he reached the lane on the other side of the gate, it too was empty. Fir trees, it turned out, are nimbler than you’d think. Luckily, its roots were shedding soil, and Torvil could see that after following the icy road for a few hundred metres, the tree had veered off sharply to the left. In fact, there it was now, stomping towards the brow of the hill, heading for the town.

  Torvil gave chase, and soon found himself standing flush-faced on the hill top, looking out across the moonlit valley. Below him, to the right, was the close-packed West Village where he had his shop, and beyond that lay the spacious homes and gardens of the rich elves. To the left was the disused shoe f
actory and the closely packed cottages of the East Village. That was the part of town where the poor elves lived and, sure enough, way below him, there was the fir tree, pushing its way through the edge of the forest and into an alleyway.

  Before he knew it, Torvil was yomping down the mountainside, and rapidly gaining on the tree. ‘Wait!’ he called. ‘Wait!’ But if anything, the tree put on a burst of speed, and by the time Torvil reached the alleyway it had vanished. Its roots had stopped dropping soil, and the snow on the ground was too hard to show scuff marks. Which way had it gone?

  Torvil never visited this part of town; there were fences in need of repair, overflowing rubbish bins, and battered old sleighs up on bricks. Trusting to luck, he wove his way through the tiny cobbled streets, glancing this way and that, looking for any sign that might lead him to the tree. On a couple of occasions he thought he glimpsed it ahead as it ducked down an alley or pitter-pattered down a back lane. But try as he might, he just couldn’t keep up. And then, horror of horrors, he realised it had given him the slip.

  He was just turning towards home when a beam of light illuminated the wall at the end of a particularly narrow lane. And there, in silhouette, was the fir tree.

  The tree stood at the bright window of the tiniest shack in the whole of the East Village. And what a shack it was! Its eaves were freshly painted in the traditional colours of red, green and cobalt blue, and its tiny front yard glittered with wind chimes and potted shrubs. On the door was a homemade wreath of ivy, wild rosemary and red forest berries, and there were paper chains hanging from beneath the windows.

  ‘There you are!’ said Torvil with relief.

  ‘Shhhh!’ said the tree. ‘They’ve just woken up.’

  ‘Who has?’ said Torvil.

  ‘What? You don’t know who lives here?’ said the tree.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Torvil. ‘This is the East Village, where the poor elves live. As I keep trying to tell you, I’m rich.’

  ‘In that case,’ said the tree, giving him a stern look, ‘come and take a, er . . . a, whatsit . . . look.’

  Torvil gave a little snort, which he often did when people said something he didn’t much approve of, but curiosity got the better of him, and he stepped forward to gaze through the window. Inside, a pretty female elf with brown hair was putting the finishing touches to one of the smallest, spindliest Christmas trees he had ever seen.

  ‘Wow,’ said Torvil. ‘That is one tiny tree. Thank you for the experience.’

  The tree turned to look at him, as if it didn’t quite understand what he was saying.

  ‘That’s what we’ve come to see, right?’ asked Torvil. ‘The smallest Christmas tree in the world. That’s some serious crafting, right there. I mean, those baubles are minute.’

  ‘At least their tree has, you know, the things that hang down . . .’

  ‘Decorations?’

  ‘Oh, so you do know what they are,’ said the fir tree pointedly. ‘Then how come you’ve never bought me so much as a strand of tinsel?’

  Not quite knowing what to say, Torvil simply shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Anyway,’ said the tree. ‘That’s not why we’re here. Keep . . . you know . . . thingy . . . watching.’ As the tree spoke, a familiar figure entered, carrying half a dozen juicy sausages on a large wooden platter.

  ‘Steinar!’ said Torvil, shocked to see his chief toymaker awake so early and in so happy a mood.

  ‘Tah dah!’ said Steinar, by way of a fanfare, as he set the sausages down on the tiny table. On a serving dish sat a small roast potato and two thin carrots, and next to that a jug of watery-looking gravy. And yet despite it being such a modest meal, the female elf – who Torvil now realised must be Freya, Steinar’s wife – applauded, and Steinar took a bow.

  ‘What on earth are they doing?’ asked Torvil in surprise.

  ‘Having their Christmas dinner,’ replied the tree.

  ‘But it’s the middle of the night!’ said Torvil.

  ‘Indeed it is,’ said the tree, nodding its upper branches. ‘You wouldn’t give him the, you know, time off. So if they want to spend Christmas together they have to do it now.’

  ‘Right,’ said Torvil quietly. ‘I see.’

  Inside, Steinar’s wife pointed to the clock and said something to Steinar, who nodded, and took a medicine bottle from the shelf. He opened a door, revealing a staircase, and started to climb it to the floor above.

  ‘Where’s he going?’ asked Torvil.

  ‘Why don’t you find out?’ asked the tree. ‘Come on, up you come.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fir trees aren’t the easiest of things to climb, and it took a moment or two for Torvil to work out that he had to push his way inside the tree, out of the way of its needles, so that he could get a foothold in the more spacious region where its branches met its trunk. Hand over hand he climbed, until he found his head emerging from between its spindly upper branches.

  He was now at the top of the house, looking in through an open window into a bedroom. The room was dark, but the moon was easily bright enough for Torvil to see that there was a child in the bed, tucked up warmly and sleeping soundly. The bedroom door opened, and in crept Steinar, lighting the way with a candle. He sat beside the bed and whispered gently.

  ‘Kiti. Wake up, Kiti. It’s Christmas.’

  ‘Daddy!’ said Kiti, opening first one eye and then the other. ‘Happy Christmas!’

  ‘Happy Christmas!’ said Steinar, pouring a spoonful of medicine. ‘We’ve got a slap-up roast dinner downstairs and we thought you might like to join us?’

  ‘Really?’ said Kiti, wincing as she swallowed. ‘What are we having?’

  ‘Sausages,’ said Steinar.

  ‘Lucky me!’ said Kiti. ‘Lucky us!’

  ‘I know,’ said Steinar. ‘But I do have something rather sad to tell you. I know you wanted a bicycle for Christmas . . .’

  ‘Oh, not really, Daddy,’ said Kiti. ‘I only said that because Mummy asked me what I would wish for if I could have anything at all.’

  ‘Oh, Kitty,’ said Steinar, his eyes moistening with tears. ‘I’m afraid we couldn’t afford one. But I did make you this . . .’ And Steinar handed Kiti a small present, wrapped in brown paper.

  ‘Thank you, Daddy!’ said Kiti, ‘Thank you so much!’ and she tore off the paper to reveal a tiny bicycle carved from wood.

  ‘It’s perfect!’ said Kiti, throwing her arms around his neck.

  ‘Come on, time for that dinner,’ said Steinar, wiping away a stubborn tear, and he and Kiti began to make their way down the narrow staircase, the candlelight casting both their shadows on the stairwell, then shuttering into darkness as the door closed downstairs.

  He and Kiti began to make their way down the narrow staircase.

  Torvil, his head still poking out from the upper branches of the tree, nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Lovely girl, that, erm . . . Kiti, isn’t she?’ said the tree. ‘You could tell she was so . . . disappointed, you know, about the bike. But did she show it? No.’

  ‘Well, there’s always next year,’ said Torvil, feeling slightly uncomfortable.

  ‘Ah,’ said the tree. ‘You’re feeling guilty.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Torvil.

  ‘Well, it’s your fault, isn’t it?’ said the tree.

  ‘My fault?’ said Torvil. ‘What’s my fault?’

  ‘It’s your . . . whatsername, isn’t it?’ said the tree. ‘Meanness. You don’t pay Steinar enough, don’t give him days off. You’ve ruined their Christmas, haven’t you?’

  ‘Woah, woah, woah,’ said Torvil. ‘Stop right there. Did I close the shoe factory? Did I devalue the crown? At least Steinar has a job. There are plenty of elves around here who would love to be in his position, let me tell you.’

  ‘Wow,’ said the tree. ‘You really do feel . . . whatsit . . . guilty.’

  ‘No!’ said Torvil, stamping his foot. ‘No, no, no, no, no! I’m not having you blame this on
me!’ At which point the branch that he was standing on snapped, and he immediately began to fall.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘Hang on,’ said Father Christmas in a voice that told me this wasn’t part of the story. ‘I need to concentrate for this bit.’

  I had been so wrapped up in Torvil and little Kiti, I had failed to notice the night had somehow turned to day. A few minutes before, we had taken off from the Cape, at the very tip of Africa, where the Atlantic meets the Pacific, heading due south. We were now descending through bright cloud, and I saw that tiny ice crystals had begun to form on my dressing gown. That could only mean one thing: we were near the South Pole.

  ‘There!’ said Father Christmas, as the final wisps curled from view. ‘Look! The Antarctic coast!’

  The clouds parted, and I was almost blinded by the most dazzling sunshine. Before us was a colossal field of icebergs, floating like sugar lumps in the dark-blue ocean. I looked to where Father Christmas was pointing and I could just about make out a ribbon of grey pebble beach, crowned by a wall of ice.

  Seconds later, the cliffs rushed up to meet us, and everywhere I looked, all I could see was snow. We were flying over Antarctica! A causeway of dark mountain peaks stretched out in front of us, surrounded on either side by an ocean of glimmering white.

  ‘See?’ shouted Father Christmas. ‘The Transantarctic Mountains. They lead all the way to the South Pole.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I shouted back. ‘Why is the sun shining?’