The Night I Met Father Christmas Page 8

  ‘One, two, three . . .’ he counted out loud, taking care to make sure each step was the same size as the last, so that he might end up in the correct place. ‘Four, five, six . . .’

  He stopped. The fog began to rapidly disappear, as a towering shape appeared in the whiteness: a snowball so vast that if Torvil had stretched his arms wide, he couldn’t have hoped to outsize it. Pressed into the side of it, way above his head, were three stone boulders, each the size of a small cottage. ‘Seven, eight, nine . . .’ he said in a flat voice, unable to believe what his eyes were telling him, then, ‘ten,’ in a half-whisper, as he took his final hesitant step. Looking up, he saw the dark outline of a giant carrot, silhouetted against the sky. There was no mistaking it: he was standing at the feet of the most enormous snowman the world had ever seen.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Torvil was just thinking that the forest that had seemed so unappealing to him was perhaps not so dark and dangerous, after all, and that it might even be a good place to hide from a giant snowman, when he heard a low rumbling and cracking sound that filled him with dread. He had heard something similar once before, shortly before an avalanche, and he immediately felt the impulse to run. Looking up, he wished that he had, because the creature was starting to move.

  Snow began to fall in torrents, and Torvil raised his arms to protect himself. When he looked up again, he saw that the snowman’s entire head had loomed into view, and was now clearly visible as a second distant summit beyond the unimaginable heights of its belly. Above its colossal carrot nose, it had two huge black boulders for eyes, and around its neck was an enormous multi-coloured scarf.

  ‘And where might you be going?’ boomed the snowman, with a predictably terrifying voice.

  ‘To the town?’ said Torvil, with as much confidence as he could muster.

  ‘Speak up!’ bellowed the snowman.

  ‘To the town, sir. I own a humble toyshop,’ quaked Torvil.

  ‘Not any more, you don’t.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ said Torvil, trying not to sound like he knew better. He knew very little about giant snowmen, but he had a feeling they didn’t particularly like being corrected by teeny tiny elves. ‘It . . . it was there yesterday.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ said the snowman. ‘But then, we are a thousand years in the future.’

  Torvil nodded. If someone had stopped him in the street a couple of days before and told him that a giant snowman was about to time-travel him forward an entire millennium, he would have thought they were in need of therapy. But somehow, coming as it did after an adventure into the past with a red-nosed reindeer, and a midnight journey with a talking tree, it really didn’t seem that strange. In fact, it sort of made sense: past, present, future. Now he had the full set.

  ‘Come,’ said the snowman. ‘Let’s walk.’

  Down came an enormous wooden finger and thumb…

  Torvil was about to say that he was fine where he was, thank you very much, when down came an enormous wooden finger and thumb and plucked him by the hood of his red velvet jacket. Although terrifying, it was oddly thrilling, and Torvil wondered for a moment if this jolt of excitement was what all helpless animals felt in the brief seconds before they were swallowed whole by a killer whale, or torn limb from limb by a polar bear.

  Within mere seconds Torvil was higher than the treetops, and even merer seconds after that he was higher than the birds. The snowman set him upon its shoulder, and began taking great strides over the forest, in much the same way that a tall elf might pick his way through long summer grass. Torvil didn’t like heights – in fact, he often asked Steinar to fetch the toys from the top shelf – but this was different: he was so high up that he felt like he was in another world.

  In a few short strides the giant reached the lip of the valley, and began crashing down the other side towards the town. As he soared above the close-packed streets and cottages of the East Village, it was immediately apparent to Torvil that something was very wrong indeed. Street after street was deserted, and there were no lights in any of the windows. The place was like a ghost town.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ he shouted.

  ‘Gone,’ said the snowman.

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘Iceland, some of them. Greenland. Canada. Quite a few in Canada, actually. They’re attracted by the maple syrup. But there’s no magic any more. They’ve all got steady jobs. Dry cleaning, that’s quite popular. A lot of them work for eBay. I did hear of one elf that became a newsreader in Indonesia, though by and large they keep out of sight.’

  ‘But this is our home,’ said Torvil.

  ‘Well, it was all right for you, wasn’t it? The rest of them . . . they had nothing.’

  ‘Now, hang on,’ said Torvil. ‘I didn’t start out with a silver spoon in my mouth, you know. I worked hard to build a— Woooaaahh!’

  Once again, the giant grabbed Torvil by the hood, and lifted him through the air before setting him down outside a familiar-looking shop. Its windows were boarded, and its sign was faded, but it was recognisable all the same. On the door was a weathered notice which read: Closing-down Sale.

  ‘. . . build a business,’ finished Torvil quietly.

  For a few moments he stood, staring at his old toyshop, then slowly turned to look up at the snowman.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Take a look around . . .’ The snowman waved his arm in the general direction of the empty town, causing a tiny flurry of snow. ‘Does this look like a good location for a high-end toyshop?’

  ‘I went bust,’ said Torvil mournfully.

  ‘No,’ said the snowman.

  ‘No?’ echoed Torvil.

  ‘No,’ repeated the snowman. ‘You got out.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You sold to a big company,’ said the snowman. ‘There are one thousand, four hundred and forty-four of these Torvil toyshops now, spread right across the world, copied down to the last detail. And all of them pay you money.’

  ‘Pay me?’ asked Torvil. ‘As in, the present tense? I’m still living?’

  ‘You exist,’ said the snowman. ‘I wouldn’t say you were living.’

  ‘How much do they pay me?’ said Torvil.

  ‘A lot,’ said the snowman. ‘You are rich beyond your wildest dreams.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘You don’t believe me?’ said the snowman. ‘Come and see.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It was an odd thing, but Torvil actually found himself enjoying the journey back across the town. He was feeling less wary of the snowman now, and it was thrilling to see the world from such a great height. Besides, he was delighted at the rosiness of his future. He was rich! All those early mornings, all those arguments with suppliers, all those wranglings over employees’ pay – it had all been worth it. He had made something of himself, and people had to take notice. He was a success.

  Torvil was expecting the giant snowman to set him down outside his old familiar farmhouse, so for a few moments after his feet touched the ground he struggled to recognise where he was. Then everything shifted into place, and he realised he was standing outside the orphanage instead.

  Once again, though, it looked different. The garden had been replaced with a beautiful limestone pebble path circling two enormous shallow pools, each the size of small lake, complete with dancing fountains and lights. Standing either side of the freshly painted front door were two neat bay trees, and immediately either side each of those were giant torches, hurling hot yellow flames high into the cold night air.

  ‘Wow,’ said Torvil. ‘They’ve really spruced the old place up, eh?’

  To his left, through the ground-floor window, the refectory was barely recognisable: its walls were hung with expensive-looking early elfin rugs, restored battle weapons and breastplates from ancient suits of armour and, standing where the rough old wooden trestle table used to be, was a giant stuffed polar bear. To his right, the matron’s threadbare office was decor
ated in an oriental theme, complete with lanterns, screens, and dark lacquered wooden walls. Whatever the orphanage budget might be these days, it clearly stretched to some pretty punchy interior design.

  ‘Wait a minute . . .’ said Torvil. ‘Don’t tell me I did this?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said the snowman.

  ‘Bit extravagant,’ said Torvil, pretending to be cross but secretly feeling rather proud. ‘This must be the most lavish orphanage in the entire North Pole! Must have gone soft in my old age, but what can I say? The place meant a lot to me. After all, if they hadn’t taken me in . . . Rich people. Cuh. What are we like? We scrimp and save to build up a fortune, then we just give it all away. I dare say the orphans are delighted.’

  ‘Orphan,’ said the snowman, emphasising the ‘n’.

  ‘Only one?’ said Torvil. ‘I bet he can’t believe his luck.’

  ‘You’d have to ask him,’ said the snowman, and before he could protest, Torvil felt cold snow on his neck as he was hoisted upwards by the scruff of his red velvet jacket. Speeding towards the windows of the dormitory, he was fully expecting to find the room beyond utterly transformed. Yet again, he was wrong.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  To Torvil’s surprise, the dormitory was exactly as he had known it as a child. There they were, the rows and rows of hand-carved beds, neatly made with sheets and blankets, chalk boards clearly visible in the glow of flickering nightlights. Not that there was any Miss Turi to make notes on them, of course; neither were there any children to make notes about.

  Instead, at the far end of the room, with his back to them, sitting on a wooden chair by the stove, was an old man. He was sitting very still, with his head bent forward, and Torvil wondered if he might be asleep. Torvil gave the snowman a meaningful look and, understanding that the elf wished to gain a better vantage point, the giant tiptoed around the edge of the building, dangling Torvil at arm’s length.

  They approached one of the nearby windows, and now Torvil could see that the old man’s head was bent not because he was asleep, but because he was leaning forward, studying what appeared to be an old sepia photograph. Confused, Torvil looked at the snowman and shrugged, but the snowman signalled for him to stay quiet and keep watching. Torvil did as he was told, and turned back just in time to see the old man heave a deep sigh, open the door of the stove, and throw the photograph on to the fire.

  . . . studying what appeared to be an old sepia photograph.

  For a few seconds the old man watched, unmoving, as the stiff paper buckled on the hot coals. Then, as if having second thoughts, he snatched a fire iron and swept the picture on to the floor. The edge had come alight, and he immediately smothered the flames with a cushion, taking great care that every last spark was extinguished. He smoothed the blackened paper against his shirt, placed it in his breast pocket, and stood up to walk to the window.

  Thinking quickly, the snowman swept Torvil up and retreated to the highway, doing his best impersonation of a snowy hillock. Not that Torvil took much notice; he was too engrossed in the forlorn figure in the window.

  As he watched, the old man reached into his pocket and held his palm to the light, as if he was studying some small object. What could it be? Torvil squinted, trying to focus. Then the object flashed silver, and all became clear. It was the Copper Elf’s coin.

  Torvil gasped.

  ‘You know who that is now, don’t you?’ asked the snowman.

  ‘Yes,’ said Torvil. ‘It’s me.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ‘Are you all right?’ I called out to Father Christmas.

  He had broken off from the story and was sitting forward in silence, his right hand loose on the reins, his left hand pinching the bridge of his nose.

  For the last few minutes we had been flying over an enormous mangrove swamp at the western tip of Cuba, and the air around us had gone from being very cold and dry to being very warm and moist. I had heard somewhere that rapid changes in temperature could wreak havoc with your nasal membranes, and I wondered if he might be having a nosebleed.

  ‘Shall I put something cold down your back?’ I shouted.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said with a slight wobble in his voice, and dabbed his eyes with a large white handkerchief. ‘It’s just that this story isn’t easy to tell.’

  For a brief moment, I was confused. Why was he so upset? And then it dawned on me, and all became clear.

  ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ I asked. ‘Torvil is you.’

  Father Christmas nodded.

  ‘So that was your future?’ I asked. ‘Super rich, but super lonely.’

  ‘I came so close,’ he said, ‘to the most perfect misery.’

  For a while we rode in silence, with the wind whistling, and the sleigh bells clanking. ‘What was in the photograph?’ I asked.

  Father Christmas sighed and reached inside his jacket. ‘Here,’ he said, handing me a battered leather wallet.

  ‘Open it,’ he said.

  I’ve mentioned I’m good at remembering things, but a boy with the memory of a shellfish would never forget the things that were inside that wallet, they were so unexpected. To begin with, there was no money, just leaves.

  ‘What are these for?’ I asked.

  ‘What do you mean, what are they for?’ replied the elf. ‘They’re leaves; they’re the things that keep trees alive.’

  ‘Yes. But what are they doing in your wallet?’

  ‘So I don’t lose them,’ came the reply.

  And that wasn’t all. There was a laminated pilot’s licence, issued by the North Pole Aviation Authority, embossed with his photo; a Nice List written in curly handwriting; a Naughty List in capital letters; a faded map of the world; and an invitation to a brandy tasting from someone called Chivas Regal. And finally, tucked in a corner, was a small square of shiny paper.

  Its worn-out folds revealed an ancient sepia photograph of an elf boy and an elf girl, standing side by side next to a Christmas tree. The girl held a toy hedgehog, and I knew straightaway that it must be Gerda. That meant the boy had to be Torvil or, as I now knew him, Father Christmas.

  I had so many questions I wanted to ask, but I stayed silent, hoping Father Christmas would keep telling his story.

  ‘You’ll remember,’ said Father Christmas after a long pause, ‘that I ran away from the orphanage, and went travelling the world?’

  ‘Because of Gerda,’ I said. ‘You were jealous that the butcher’s wife adopted her and not you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Father Christmas, ‘But over the years, as I was travelling, I realised that it was wrong of me to try and make her choose between me and her new family. The thing about travelling, as you may one day discover, is that the first thing you unpack is yourself.’ Father Christmas turned in his seat, so that he could look me in the eye. ‘After a few years of seeing the world – and I mean the entire world – my heart softened and I started to miss home. I knew that one day, when I had seen all that I needed to see, I would go back and ask Gerda to forgive me.

  ‘So I decided to do something special for Gerda, to say sorry and remind her of the friends we had once been. Thinking of the rag toys that Miss Turi had made us, I began to collect the most incredible toys I could find, one for each Christmas we had been apart. In Russia, I bought her the most beautiful set of Matryoshka dolls.’

  ‘What are they?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh! They’re beautiful,’ said Father Christmas. ‘Some people call them Russian nesting dolls. They’re brightly painted wooden dolls and every time you pull one apart you find a smaller one inside, right down to the tiniest doll you could ever imagine.’

  ‘My sisters would like those,’ I said.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Father Christmas, and winked. ‘Then, in Hungary, I bought her a Rubik’s Cube—’

  ‘I love Rubik’s Cubes!’ I said.

  ‘Duly noted,’ said Father Christmas. ‘In Togo, I found an Awale set . . . do you know what that is?’

  ‘No, bu
t it sounds fantastic,’ I said.

  ‘You’d love it,’ said Father Christmas. ‘It’s a counting game. In Kenya, a wire car – you have to see one to believe it, they make them so beautifully out of twisted wire. In the Netherlands, I got her a shuffleboard. In the UK, a game called Tiddlywinks—’

  ‘I’ve got that,’ I said.

  ‘So you have,’ said Father Christmas, thinking back. ‘The same year I got you The Observer’s Book of Birds.’

  ‘And the red fighter plane whose wheel came off,’ I said.

  ‘Really? It had a faulty wheel?’ asked Father Christmas, suddenly business-like.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ I said.

  ‘Hmmm, I’ll have to look into that,’ said Father Christmas. ‘Can’t let the standards slip . . . Anyway, everywhere I went I found Gerda the most incredible presents. Yahtzee from the United States, Jumping Caps from Poland, a bamboo horse from China. And nine Christmases later, I’d seen enough and I travelled back to the town. Of course, I was nervous about seeing Gerda, because we had argued before I left, and I wasn’t sure if she would have forgiven me. So I stopped off in the tavern for some mead to give myself some courage.

  ‘I had friends in those days – other children from the orphanage, mainly – and they had missed me, and were pleased that I had returned. I decided to show them the presents I had saved for Gerda, so I placed them all on the bar. I was so proud of what I’d bought.

  ‘While we were there, Grimm Grimmsson came in, the owner of the shoe factory. His head for business was legendary, and I had admired him ever since I was a boy. This was in the days before he went bust and made off with everyone’s wages. He had been too busy working to buy presents for his daughters, and when he saw Gerda’s presents he offered to buy them from me.

  ‘Of course, I refused. I had bought the toys for Gerda and I hoped it would mean a lot to her that I’d thought of her while I was away. But Grimm was insistent. He turned his purse upside down on the bar top and out spilled hundreds of bright gold crowns. I had never seen so much money in all my life.