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Listen to thisIt was just two days before Christmas, the weather sharp and cold. All morning a low, grey sky had hung above us, the prospect of snow very real in the hours ahead. We were tired, fed up of dealing with troubled children, all of us looking forward to the Christmas break.
'I hate that bloody Bob!' stormed Karen, bursting into the staff room at break time. I looked up from the crossword puzzle in the daily paper, irritated at having my train of thought broken. Karen was flushed and angry, eyes blazing in her round, pretty face.
'What's he done?' I asked.
'Oh, nothing much! Just gone off in the van, that's all! I booked it to take my group Christmas shopping – all week they've been looking forward to it. Now Bob's gone off to County Hall and won't be back 'till this afternoon.'
She picked up a cup and saucer and slammed herself down into a chair. Coffee angrily slopped over the top of the cup, patterning like rain drops on the legs of her jeans. Her group was a small one, just three junior boys. I knew how disappointed they would be. Besides, Bob was a friend of mine – perhaps I had better try smoothing things over, I thought.
'I'll take you, if you like.' I volunteered. 'I'm not doing anything after break.'
Karen smiled at me and gave a huge sigh of relief. 'Would you? Really? Oh, Phil, the kids will be over the moon.'
I shrugged. 'Well, it is Christmas. Call it my seasonal good deed, if you like. I'll meet you by my car in ten minutes.'
When I reached the car park Karen and her group were already there, coat collars turned up against the biting east wind. There were just two boys, young Jason and a new lad by the name of Patrick who had come in only a week or so before. His parents were in the middle of a bitter, acrimonious divorce and the pressure in his home was intense. We had admitted him for a few weeks to try to relieve the tension in the house. So far he had been quiet and withdrawn.
'Terry's sick in bed,' Karen announced. 'So you'll just have to make do with us three.'
We climbed into the car and drove off, Jason and Patrick chattering happily in the back seat. They were ten years old and both of them were going home for Christmas that afternoon. To hear them speak you would have thought they'd been bound for the Bahamas. Even Patrick, normally so taciturn and still, seemed animated by the prospect. “
We spent an hour wandering along the main shopping precinct, the shops full of Christmas decorations and last minute shoppers. Patrick and Jason spent their money quickly, piling up their selection of cheap gifts in battered carrier bags.
'Nice to see them so excited.' Karen sighed. 'Not that they've got much to be excited about. I wouldn't like to be spending Christmas with their families.'
'Really?'
'Oh, Jason's isn't so bad. But Patrick! Can you imagine Christmas in that house? Parents fighting and squabbling, dad on the bottle most of the day? Doesn't bear too much thought, does it?'
Eventually, we arrived, exhausted, hot and bothered, at the restaurant of a large department store. It seemed to be a good time for a break.
'What would you like?' I asked as we waited for an empty table.
'Coke!' Patrick demanded. 'And crisps!'
I scowled in mock anger and turned towards Karen. 'And you?'
'I want to see him!' She was laughing and pointing excitedly at a large poster on the restaurant wall. “Visit Father Christmas in his Grotto," the sign declared across a red faced image of the man himself. 'I want to sit on his knee and tell him what I'd like for Christmas.'
Jason laughed and dived for a recently vacated chair. 'Me too! After the cokes.'
Ten minutes later we stood in the long queue before Father Christmas' Grotto. Jason hopped eagerly from one foot to another, his face aglow with expectation.
'I think I'll ask him for a new bike,' he declared. 'What do you want, Karen?'
She considered the question carefully for a few moments. 'A fur coat! Or maybe a nice new sports car. Anything, as long as it's expensive! What about you, Patrick?'
There was no response. Patrick was gazing distantly at the dark entrance to the Grotto. His eyes were huge and staring. Presently, we reached the head of the queue and moved in to the darkened corner of the store. It was a dingy, second rate set up with ancient pictures of elves and cartoon characters across the walls.
'Ho, ho, ho!' boomed a red-coated figure in the corner of the chamber. 'A merry Christmas everybody! What can I do for you?'
I stared at him. His false beard had slipped sideways and his red trousers were too small. Dirty, black shoes poked unerringly out from underneath them. Karen sat herself on his knee and giggled into his ear. Lucky Father Christmas, I thought, as their laughter bubbled out, filling the grubby cave.
When his turn came Jason bounded towards the man and proceded to tell Santa Claus exactly what he required to make his holiday complete.
Karen joined me at the door. 'That's the youngest Father Christmas I've ever seen,' she said. 'He can only be eighteen or twenty.'
'Sign of old age,' I smiled, 'When all the Father Christmases start to look so young.'
When Jason finished we turned expectantly towards Patrick but he shook his head and backed towards the exit. His face was white and his hands shook.
'No,' he said. 'I'm not going.'
We went out into the bright lights of the store. I was puzzled and spoke quietly to the boy. He was adamant he would not see the store Father Christmas. It was not just obstinacy, more a fear, a terror of the unknown.
'I just don't want to,' he said. 'I don't have to, do I?'
'Of course you don't. We just thought it might be fun.'
He shook his head again. 'I think I'll just give it a miss,' he said.
It had begun to snow as we made our way back towards the car. Huge flakes swirled rapidly into our faces and we bent against the icy blast of wind.
'What did you think of Father Christmas, then?' Karen asked.
Jason announced his approval and ran on ahead, stooping here and there to gather up the first few layers of snow.
Patrick stayed firmly by our side. 'Is that what he really looks like?' he asked, at last.
'Father Christmas? Of course,' said Karen. 'Big white beard, red face and coat. You've seen him before, haven't you?'
Patrick shook his head. 'No. Never.'
We stopped, suddenly, the snow settling on our hair and faces. As far as we could see a mass of driving white obscured the town.
'Do you mean nobody's ever taken you to see Father Christmas?' I asked.
'I don't think so. At least, I can't remember going. He's not real, is he?'
We stumbled on to the car and headed back to the Centre. The whole world was turning rapidly white and the atmosphere was quiet, oppressive. We sent the boys in for lunch and sat in the car, silently digesting our new information.
'Poor little bastard!' Karen sighed, at last. 'Ten years old and never seen Father Christmas. What sort of childhood has that kid had?'
She looked at me, her lower lip trembling. Then she smiled, distantly. 'Do you know, I think that's the saddest thing I ever heard.'
After lunch most of the boys left for their Christmas holiday. I stood by the front door, wishing them the compliments of the season as they slouched happily off into the swirling snow. Patrick was one of the last to go. He sidled up to me and pushed a white envelope into my hand.
'Sorry it's not coloured in,' he said. 'I've only just done it.'
I ripped open the envelope and took out a slip of grubby paper. “Merry Christmas" was scrawled across the top. He had spelt it CHRISMAS and the ink was badly smudged. Underneath, in blue school biro, he had drawn a picture of Santa Claus in his Grotto. As he had said, there was no colour but you could not fail to recognize the flowing beard and huge, contented belly. And sitting precariously on the knee of Father Christmas was the unmistakable figure of a young boy.
'That's me,' said Patrick. 'Visiting Father Christmas.'
I grinned, shook my head and opened the door. Snow gusted suddenly in and lay thickly upon the mat. Patrick looked at it and frowned.
'See you soon, Phil,' he said. I watched as he moved off down the drive, his back bent, shoulders hunched against the wind. He seemed so forlorn, so sad and without purpose. After a moment I stepped out into the driving snow and squinted through the storm.
'Merry Christmas, Patrick,' I called. 'And a Happy New Year.'
He paused and turned towards me. For a second he raised his arm as the snow whipped wildly around his head. Then he turned again and, in a moment, he was gone.
