I saw Daddy kissing Santa Claus. That was
this time last year. I don't see much of Daddy these days. Mummy
made sure of that, with something called an injunction. I can't say I'm
100% sure on what an "injunction" is, but it sounds painful, and I
think it involves needles of some kind. Now
it's nearly Christmas again, and I've been really good this year, so I’ve written
a second letter to Santa with a very special request.
I asked if he and Daddy could come down from the
North Pole where they live together, and have Christmas dinner with me and
Mummy. I haven't told Mummy about the letter, as every time I mention
Daddy she starts throwing around the word "migraine" and then I have
to go and play in my room. I think it is
best kept a secret, for now at least. After all, everybody is nicer on
Christmas Day - surely if Daddy and Santa show up, she'll have to make them
welcome? We did a whole play on it at school.
Tonight is Christmas Eve. Mummy has laid out
a carrot for Rudolph, but she refuses to leave a mince pie or glass of milk for
Santa. I feel the beginnings of doubt in the bottom of my stomach.
What if she goes into one of her very grown-up strops tomorrow? I know
there is nothing to be done about it now, so I let her tuck me in and kiss me
goodnight, then squeeze my eyes shut. I can't get to sleep straight away,
so I occupy myself by trying to remember all the names of Santa's
reindeer. There's Rudolph, of course, but I always struggle with the
others. Donner. Dancer. Prancer. Dasher? Cupid
and Blitzen. The other names evade me as I drift off.
I wake up early the next morning, and run into
Mummy’s room, shaking her shoulder until she opens her eyes and grumbles at me
to put the kettle on. I carefully make a
cup of coffee, like she showed me, and take it up to her in bed. She gulps half of it down and then smiles at
me mischievously, reaching under her pillow and retrieving a small red box with
a green bow. She hands it to me and I
rip it open – it is a new bicycle bell.
“Your bike will look good as new with that snazzy
new bell,” she says, finishing her coffee.
I force a smile and I say thank you, even though I feel a little
crushed. I’d asked for a brand new bike
this year.
We go downstairs together and Mummy makes us both
cheese toasties for breakfast. When I
have eaten mine, and washed the crumbs from my hands, I am allowed to choose a
present to open from my stocking on the hearth.
It is a book.
I smile and say thank you again, slightly less convincingly, and then I
give Mummy her present, the one I have spent the last few weeks working
on. I’ve made her a photo album. I have avoided putting in pictures of Daddy,
so mainly it is just photos of Mummy and me, padded out with pictures of
Mummy’s brothers and sisters and Granny and Granddad.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Mummy says, tearing up. “I love it.
Thank you.” She hugs me so
tightly that it hurts a bit, and kisses me on the cheek, leaving a wet lipstick
print behind. I wait until her back is
turned and rub my cheek furiously with my sleeve.
The next present I open is a bookmark. To go with the book, I suppose. I can’t help sighing just a bit, and
immediately I feel the room go cold.
“Sorry, darling, if this isn’t quite up to
scratch,” Mummy says icily.
“No,” I protest, “it’s fine, honest.”
“Fine? Oh,
it’s fine? Well maybe if your pervert
of a father hadn't decided to up and run off with Pere Noel, we'd be able to
afford better presents. But he didn't. And we can't. So you'd
best like it or lump it, my little prince!"
I apologise, and Mummy calms down. I am starting to seriously rethink my genius
plan when the doorbell rings. It can’t
be them, can it? Daddy and Santa? It’s too early! I look at the clock and realise I must have
woken up later than I thought – it’s nearly noon.
“Oh no,” I whisper under my breath, and as Mummy
leaves the room to answer the door, I think I might be sick.
“What are you
doing here?!” I hear her shriek from the
hallway. “And you brought him with you? What were you thinking?”
“We thought you knew,” I hear Daddy say, calmly.
“We got a letter…”
I don’t hear the rest of the conversation, but I am
familiar enough with the stern, adult tone they are using with each other to
know that I am in serious trouble.
When Mummy re-enters the living room, she is
followed by Daddy and Santa. Santa isn’t
wearing his uniform, which surprises me at first, but then I imagine he must be
shattered after his night shift.
“I think you have some explaining to do,” Daddy
says to me, but I am just so happy to see him that I begin to tear up, and
simply run into his arms. Suddenly, the
loudest thing in the room is Mummy’s silence.
“Please let them stay,” I plead into Daddy’s
jumper. “Please can they stay?”
I don’t have to be able to see Mummy to sense her
exasperation as she sighs and reluctantly agrees.
“Thank you,” Santa says quietly, clearly
embarrassed by the whole thing.
For the next few hours, Mummy busies herself in the
kitchen preparing lunch, clutching a glass of white wine like a good luck
charm, leaving Daddy, Santa and me in the living room, playing with the toys
they brought me. I am so grateful to
have them there that I don’t dare ask Santa why I didn’t get the bike I asked
for in my first letter.
When the four of us sit down together, Mummy
insists on carving.
“After all,” she declares, “I’ve become the man of
this house. It was a desperately
deprived role.”
Dinner is eaten in near-silence, and I start to
feel rather foolish. This is far too much
like the Christmases we had before Daddy moved in with Santa – quiet and
tense. I finally understand that
grown-up expression “an atmosphere you could cut with a knife”. Maybe things would have been best if I hadn’t
written my letter at all.
But it is good
to have Daddy around again, even if it is only for the day. I hadn’t realised how much I missed him until
I saw him come through the living room door earlier, holding Santa’s hand. I think Mummy has noticed too – that this is
the Christmas present I wanted more than anything, even more than a bike. I keep seeing her from the corner of my eye,
watching me and Daddy. I wonder if this
means she will let me see him more.
Over Christmas pudding and custard, it strikes me
that I’ve been rather selfish. I wished
and wished for what I wanted for
Christmas, when I should have been looking for a way to make Mummy less
sad. I decide that my New Year’s
Resolution will be to cheer her up properly, so that she’ll be the way she used
to be.
After dinner, everybody avoids looking at me when I
suggest we play a game. I think Mummy
wants Daddy and Santa to go. Santa tries
to shake her hand as they leave, but all he gets in return is one of her famous
frosty glances. Daddy at least gets a
hug, before he sweeps me up into a huge kiss and cuddle. Then they are gone.
I thank Mummy as she closes the front door behind
them.
“You’re welcome, my little prince,” she says. “He’s your Daddy; I never should have made
him stay away.”
“So I’ll get to see him more?” I ask.
“Yes. As
much as you like.” She replies.
“And might I be able to go and stay with him and
Santa, up at the North Pole?” I
continue, hopefully. Mummy freezes.
“We’ll see,” she says, finally.
~
