The Magic of Christmas

‘Well Santa’ the Chief Elf said standing back from the sleigh. ‘The last present is loaded, all that’s left is to wish you good luck on your final run.’

‘Thank you Chief,’ Santa replied with a sad glint in his eye, ‘it’s strange to think that after two hundred years, this is my last night on the job. Still, time for speeches later, I have a job to do. Open the hangar doors Chief and stand aside for Santa’s last ride.’

‘With pleasure Santa,’ the Chief said with a smile. ‘Up and away Rudolph,’ he shouted as the doors swung silently open letting in a cold, icy blast of Arctic winter.

The Elf stood, sadly watching as the sound of sleigh bells diminished into the cold dark night. Snow swirled in through the opening, driven by strong, below freezing winds; it began to form around his feet, sticking to his red and green jumper and trousers as he stood, rock still, not moving until Santa had disappeared from view. Reluctantly he closed the doors, and turned back into the workshop; at a nod from him, the waiting elves began to clean the room, ready for next year’s Christmas, and the new Santa.

He shook his head and gave a sad half smile. He was going to miss the old fellow. He had been a good Santa, kind and conscientious, he even gave toys to children who didn’t deserve them. This had caused arguments in the village at times, but Santa had always insisted, that all children deserved at least one present, or the magic and the spirit of Christmas would be lost.

‘Funny to see him leave for the last time,’ the Union Elf said sliding up to the Chief. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m going to miss the old fellow.’

‘Me too Cedric, me too,’ the Chief replied with a small tear beginning to form in his eye. ‘He’s been a good Santa, I only hope the next one is half as good.’

‘Yes,’ Cedric enthused, ‘new Santa’s are usually good with the chocolate allocations before they get to know any better,’ he smiled.

‘One day Cedric, a Santa is going to reduce your allowances,’ he quipped, ‘what are you going to do then?’

Stupefaction hit Cedric like a sledgehammer. The very thought of losing a chocolate allowance sent shock waves shuddering through his four-foot frame, sending him crashing to the cold floor, twitching and moaning in what humans called a fit.

‘What happened?’ asked the Solicitor Elf, running up to see what the commotion was all about. Seeing Cedric on the floor in the middle of a convulsion, he asked in a very serious manner, ‘He’s not going to be looking for compensation again is he?’

‘No,’ smiled Oswald, ‘I do this to him every year; after 600 years, you’d think by now he would see the joke coming, but he says he forgets. He’ll come out of it in a couple of minutes without even realising something has happened.’

‘Are you sure,’ Arnold said screwing his face up at the body positions the Union Official was contorting into. ‘The last time he decided to sue someone, he had me tearing my hair out for six years.’

‘Why what happened?’ the Chief asked, ‘I never heard about that, when was it?’

‘Nearly four hundred years ago,’ Arnold replied. ‘He was in the outside world with Santa when a cart ran over his big toe. Well, he tried to sue Santa for the wholesale and distribution rights to the chocolate, but after six years arguing back and forth, it eventually went to arbitration and the IHTC, (Independent Hobgoblin Trade Council), threw it out stating what happened was in the outside world, and therefore not under Santa’s direct control. He still goes on about it to it to this day, convinced the Hobgoblins cheated him out of a lake of hot chocolate.’

‘What happened?’ Cedric asked when his senses returned.

‘You fainted,’ Oswald replied with a smirk.

‘My blood sugar must be low.’ Cedric stated. ‘I need a triple mixed, hot chocolate drink to get it up.’

‘Sorry Cedric,’ Arnold said without thinking, ‘but until Santa returns, hot chocolate drinks, candy canes, and Yule logs are unavailable; we have some figs and dates if you care for those?’

Cedric didn’t hear about the figs, he only heard up to unavailable, before once more crashing to the floor in another fit.

‘Nice one Arnold,’ Oswald retorted sarcastically. ‘If he remembers what you said, he’s going to start screaming he needs a compensation chocolate before he gets withdrawal symptoms. Please, can anyone send him into the human world before he stops twitching, and for pity sake, get him out of those reindeer droppings, he’s spreading them everywhere?’

On his sleigh, Santa quickly gathered speed as the reindeer soared into the dark night sky. He felt the magic in him begin to build as Christmas Eve came to an end, and the clock ticked slowly over to herald the birth of Christmas Day. Santa smiled to himself. This was the part of the job he loved the most; flying through the air, with the sound of sleigh bells ringing in his ears as he soared high in the sky, over farms, villages, towns, and cities. As he emptied one bag of presents to find their way under Christmas trees and into children’s stockings, it refilled to overflowing, with gaily wrapped presents bulging out of the top. He tossed sack load after sack load, into the cold dark night sky, watching them with never-ceasing amazement as the magic of Christmas whisked them away and into the homes of the world’s sleeping children.

All too soon Santa’s magical night ended. Sadly, he watched as his last sack of presents tumbled through the sky towards the bedrooms of the children peacefully sleeping in the small town of Nome in the State of Alaska. As mortals measure time, little over three hours had passed, but for Santa, it was the end of a long, hard and tiring twenty-four-hour day. A day like so many in the past filled with satisfaction at a job well done. Finished with his deliveries, he sat back with contentment thinking about the job he loved but was about to leave. Sadness tinged his satisfaction, and he slowly turned the head of Rudolph back to his soon to be ex-home deep in the Arctic. After two hundred years, he was out of a job, and while the Santa pension fund would support him and his wife, he could not help but wonder where the years had gone, and what they would do now.

He also had the problem of finding his successor and training him in the use of the magic. After so long in the job, magic came easy to him, but he remembered with a wry smile the effort he had to put in, and problems he had the first time he tried to use it. Looking back, it was a wonder the children of 1821 had received any presents; but alas, that was for another to worry about now. His worries would be nothing compared to what the Elves would have to endure next year.

Back at his Arctic home, he patted each of the reindeer in turn while the Chief Elf looked silently on. He had a small tear in his eye as he patted and hugged them, lovingly whispering their name in the ear of each animal as he passed them by; the Elf stood quietly aside not wanting to intrude. Finished, he left the care of the reindeer to the Elves, he and the Chief quietly proceeding towards his study and his last Christmas report. It was a sad occasion for him and his wife, and he supposed the Chief Elf, but next Christmas had to be planned for, and another Santa found without delay.

At noon on the 26th of December the Elves Council, chaired by the outgoing and retiring Santa, met to discuss his replacement and retirement. The room was warm, a hearty log fire burnt merrily away in the huge ornate fireplace. Mince pies, fruit cake, hot chocolate, Yule Logs, and milk had been served by Santa’s helpers from his Northern Grotto; much to the annoyance of the village elves, who had a distinct dislike for the Northern interlopers. Santa ignored the murderous looks they gave each other, it was the same every year and would all be forgotten once they had half a mug of Cocoa inside them. “Although” Santa thought, “This year was different, what was normally a joyous occasion, was filed with sadness at Santa’s last official meeting.”

‘Florida would be nice,’ Santa replied to the question of where he would like to retire. ‘I think Mrs Claus and I have seen enough snow, we would like to go somewhere nice and sunny, and somewhere near to the children we have been privileged to serve. Florida has an abundance of children visiting Disney, and while we don’t need the money, both Mrs Claus and I intend to seek employment there to be near the little dears.’

‘Florida it is,’ the Chief Elf replied with a smile, ‘now, what about a name for you? I’m sorry Santa, but the name Claus can’t be used by civilians.’

‘Our original names will be fine,’ Santa replied, ‘John and Mary Farmer.’

‘Thank you, from now on you will forever be known to us here as Santa John, I will ensure all paperwork and documents will be ready in those names.’

‘Thank you Oswald,’ Santa replied to the Chief. ‘Next order of business is my replacement.’

‘Already in hand Santa,’ the Solicitor Elf said standing to his feet. ‘Advertisements will be placed in all national newspapers across the western world on the sixth day of January. Christmas magic will be used, so only suitable candidates will actually see the advert, unsuitable candidates will see an advert for soap.’

‘Saves us a lot of time in interviews,’ the Chief Elf said to Santa’s raised eyebrows.

‘The time scale is for applicants to respond is before the end of January,’ the Solicitor finished speaking and sat down again.

‘Then we can only wait,’ Santa replied as he noted the sad nodding heads of the Elves seated around the huge oak table.

On the morning of Saturday, January the 6th, Travis McGee, a.k.a. Macca woke up with a pounding headache. His stomach was in turmoil and he felt nauseous to the point of being afraid to move in case he was violently ill. He groaned and rolled cautiously onto his back, a huge mistake as the contents of his stomach threatened to erupt from his mouth in a fountain of vile smelling, half consumed and partially digested Chinese curry, mixed with copious amounts of lager from the night before. He quickly rolled back onto his side moaning and groaning as he did so. Unfortunately, this action had an unplanned and highly dangerous side effect that made him shudder with frightened anticipation ; it woke his wife.

‘Be quiet and lie still you drunken bloody sod,’ she said violently poking him in the ribs with her elbow. ‘Let me sleep, you’ve kept me up half the night with your moaning, groaning and never ending twitching, you’re nothing but a drunken bloody horror.’

‘Please girl,’ Macca mumbled. ‘I feel bad; I think I must have had a bad pint.’

‘A bad pint,’ Mrs McGee screamed in his ear as she suddenly sat bolt upright and wide awake, her foul temper fuelled by a lack of sleep, beginning to fill her mouth with many a word of wisdom she thought Macca deserved to hear. ’Nothing to do I suppose with the twenty pints you had before the bad one. I’ve no sympathy; you made a right holy show of me last night and you embarrassed your poor daughter no end. God alone knows what Phil’s family thought of you. You hogged that karaoke all night. No one was impressed by your rendition of My Way using an empty pint glass as an echo chamber. And if that wasn’t bad enough you were sick as a dog all the way from the club back home. Cost me fifty bloody quid to have that taxi cleaned out, which I want back! you ruined your best suit, and the hall carpet needs cleaning. Well that’s your job as soon as you get up, I’m not having that evil smelling pile of vomit you deposited at the foot of the stairs stinking the house out all day; do it as soon as you get down those stairs because if it’s still there when I get up I’ll rub your nose in it.’

‘Rosie, please girl, I’m dying here. Don’t shout my heads banging.’ Macca cried at her.

‘Shout!’ she screamed in his ear before pushing him out of the bed. ‘You ain’t heard me shout yet,’ she screamed again in an even higher and shriller pitch, as Macca lay on the floor wincing and retching. Thankfully for him, nothing came up, it seems he had lost his stomach contents the night before, a situation he would be forever grateful for given Rosie’s mood. If he had been sick on the bedroom carpet, he would never of have heard the last of it. ‘Get your lazy backside down the stairs, get that carpet, and the mess you made on the garden path cleaned. Believe me Travis, if I come down and have to do it myself, I will hurt you.’

His head and stomach complained about the movement; still in his pyjama’s Travis hauled himself out of the bedroom and down the stairs. The smell in the hall made him retch again, and he counted four places within the hall where he had been sick the night before. Fearing the wrath of his wife, Travis slowly began to clean the mess. He felt physically drained by the time he had finished, and sat, slumped back in a kitchen chair as his body protested the effort he had put it through.

The hall still smelled, not as bad, but water and kitchen towel will only do so much. He needed disinfectant but feared the results on his body the smell would inflict. Groaning even louder than before, he retrieved the mop from the yard and filled the bucket with hot water and disinfectant. Quickly he went over the areas he had already cleaned, his head pounding and his stomach wanting to violently erupt. Satisfied the smell of vomit had been eradicated, he finished with the mop and bucket, carelessly discarding it in the yard after swilling the path. With a deep sigh, he slumped in the kitchen chair to await the arrival of his erstwhile loving wife, hoping against hope she would stay in bed all morning.

He sat slumped and unmoving for half an hour feeling thoroughly sorry for himself. Footsteps sounded on the stairs and he braced himself for the tirade of abuse that would follow when Rosie came into the kitchen, letting out a long sigh of relief as his eldest daughter entered instead, then held his breath as she gave him a long hard look of pure evil before she spoke.

‘I hope you’re satisfied,’ her voice dripped sarcasm and her face sneered at him.

‘Not you too,’ he groaned, ‘please love, I’ve just had it off your mother, don’t you start on me.’

‘Me, start on you!’ she snapped at him. ‘The least you could do is say you’re sorry.’

‘What for?’ he whined, ‘A couple of drinks and anyone would think my name was Adolph bloody Hitler the way you lot are acting.’

‘No Dad,’ she said tears welling in her eyes. ‘Hitler wouldn’t have wrecked his daughters’ life the way you tried last night.’

‘Stop exaggerating,’ he replied, ‘Just how did I wreck your life?’

‘Tried to I said,’ she countered. ‘You remember trying to sell Phil’s dad a fire extinguisher? The one you took off the wall in the club? You remember asking his mother to show you her boob job? That was after you kicked her off the karaoke because according to you, she couldn’t sing; all because you thought you were Elvis bloody Presley. It was disgusting the way you thrust your hips at Mrs Turner down the road, no wonder she left early.’

‘Struth,’ Travis groaned, ‘does your mother know?’

‘My mother is the least of your worries.’ She snapped at him.

‘Why?’ he asked

‘What do you know about that wagon load of cigarettes that went missing in Kirkby before Christmas?’

‘Erm, nothing,’ he stammered, ‘why?’

‘Because father,’ she said taking a lungful of air and drawing herself up to her full height of 5 foot 2 inches. ‘You tried to sell a few thousand to Phil’s Uncle Jack.’

‘Well,’ he said, his brain working overtime at the prospect of making some money. ‘What did he say, did he want any?’

‘He didn’t, but he said his friends would be interested in getting their hands on them. He said he’d send them around today.’

‘I’ll talk to them when they get here,’ he said with a straight face and an inward smile.

‘Yeah, you will,’ she smiled at him with that evil look on her face once more. ‘Uncle Jack is a Copper dad, so if you have any stashed around here I suggest you get rid of them and quick.’

‘Geeze, no, honest Sue, I was just wondering where I could lay my hands on some if he wanted any. You know me girl, I might turn a blind eye to things but I wouldn’t get involved in thieving off wagons,’ he said panic rising in his voice.

‘Well serves you right,’ she smiled her wicked smile of triumph, ‘but it’s not me you’re going have to convince is it, it’s the police, and after what you did to me and Phil last night, don’t be looking at me for help.’

Before he could answer, he heard the steps of his wife descending the stairs and inwardly winced at the tirade of abuse he knew was on its way. The tales Sue had told was bad enough to think about, God alone knows what eagle-eyed Rosie saw, and was about to confront him with.

‘Still awake are you?’ was her first words, quickly followed by ‘feeling any better? I hope not, you’re a complete waste of space. You’ve brought some misery to me over the years Travis McGee, but last night was your crowning glory. You made a holy bloody show of me, I felt ashamed to call myself your wife, and after what you did to poor Ivy Turner you’re nothing but a lecherous old windbag.’

‘Oh come on Rosie,’ he whined at her, ‘I couldn’t have been that bad.’

‘Bad, bad!’ she sounded hysterical. ‘Thank your lucky stars it was me that stopped you putting your hands down Jenny Thompson’s blouse and not her husband, and God help you if she tells him cos I won’t stop him putting you in the hospital.’

‘I’m sorry Rosie,’ he said hanging his head in shame, but more if the truth was known, to try and stop the blood banging away inside his skull. ‘I honestly don’t remember doing anything like that, I don’t know what made me do it, I don’t even think the woman is nice looking.’

‘The state you were in last night a pig would have looked nice, and besides, it wasn’t her ugly face you were interested in.’

‘Mam!’ Sue snapped, ‘It wasn’t her fault, and be careful what you say, Phil’s still in the front room, asleep.’

‘You hang on to that lad Sue,’ Rosie said to her. ‘It’s a wonder you’re still engaged to him after last night’s performance from your father.’

‘Come on Rosie,’ Travis near begged her, ‘I didn’t do that much harm, besides everyone else was half cut, they won’t remember what I was up to, and I’ve cleaned the hall. Please Rosie, give it a rest me heads throbbing.’

‘Rest, that’s all you ever do you lazy sod,’ Rosie blazed at him. ‘Well, it stops here Travis. I want you out of this house instead of under my feet all day. God knows how much money you spent at Sue’s engagement last night, and I hope you remember who you borrowed money off. You owe me twenty quid, plus fifty for the taxi, and your Peter gave you fifty that I know of. Knowing you, you put the arm on more than us two.’

‘Yeah dad,’ Sue smiled, ‘you owe me thirty and Phil said he gave you twenty.’

‘No way,’ Travis said. ‘I wasn’t that drunk that I don’t remember who I borrowed off and you Sue was not one of them.’

‘Oh yes she was,’ Rosie interjected before Sue could take her father to task. ‘I was there when you asked her. It’s your own fault Travis. You, like the idiot you are, was buying drinks for anyone that came near you. That hanger on Terry Phillips never left your side all night, he was in a worse state than you; and the scrounging scum bag never put his hand in his pocket once. You’ll pay her back Travis, and Phil and anyone else you borrowed off. You’re not making me walk around the neighbourhood with me head hung in shame.’

‘Rosie, I don’t remember girl,’ Travis whined. ‘I remember asking you and Peter, but…’

‘But nothing,’ Rosie sneered. ‘You find out who you owe and pay it back. As I said, I’m not having you lazing about all day. I’ve had enough; no more. I’m fed up trying to stretch my money to keep you in smokes and beer while you do nothing. You don’t even lift a cup in this house yet we all run around after you. Get yourself washed Travis, get out and find a job, and don’t come home till you get one.’

‘A job!’ Travis shuddered, the very mention of the word sent shock waves through his body, clearing his head from last night’s alcohol abuse; the panic of being told he had to work, threatened the early onset of rigor mortis. ‘Come on Rosie, that’s a bit drastic, isn’t it? Think of the money we’d lose if I went to work.’

‘I don’t care Travis,’ Rosie said in an even voice, ice dripping from every word. ‘You find a job, or get the hell out of here; I’m not waiting on you any longer. I’ve just about run out of patience. You’re lazy, shiftless and a con man. Well, you’ve conned me for the last time mate. Work or out, it’s your choice. Let me know when you decide, either way, I don’t care any more.’ She turned on her heel and bounced out of the kitchen, quickly followed by a mortified Sue, who after giving her father a contemptuous, withering glare, followed her mother to try and comfort her.

Travis sat stunned. At the sprightly age of forty-five, his only job since he left school at sixteen had been serving and cleaning tables in a burger bar. The job had lasted for a whole two weeks before the strain of getting up in the morning had placed him on the sick list for two years. Travis McGee and work did not mix. Travis knew this, and he thought Rosie knew it too. ‘Maybe she did’ he thought, ‘and this is her way of revenge.’

His best ploy for the day would be to get dressed and out of the house while she hopefully calmed down. There was a full race card today, and he could happily spend the day in the bookies while Rosie regained her sanity, especially as the bookies was next door to the Rose ‘n’ Crown, and a hair of the dog was suddenly very appealing, besides, out of the house and he wouldn’t be there if what Sue said about the police was true and not a wind up to have him worry all day. He quickly dressed with a cat’s lick for a wash, checked his pockets for money, found a crumpled twenty-pound note in his jacket pocket, and a ton of loose change in his discarded trousers from the night before. He counted fifteen pounds in change which brought the first smile of the day to his face. He slipped on his coat and silently left the house before Rosie could collar him.

Travis might be lazy and shiftless as Rosie had said, but one thing Travis excelled in was luck, especially when it concerned horses. He had an intuition that let him know which horse would win a race. Not all races and not every day of the week, but enough for Travis over the years to hone the intuition into a fine art. When he was younger and less wise, he had been banned from every bookie shop for miles around for winning too much and never losing. It had taught him to give a little back, not a lot, but enough to make others think he had nothing more than the odd winning streak like most punters.

He never bet large amounts keeping his stake low and made accumulator bets to maximise the size of his winnings. The only time he made large bets was at the annual Aintree race meeting on Grand National day; his winnings on the days races rarely less than a few thousand pounds. He never used the same bookies two days running and would always ensure he left the shop in the care of a losing bet, making a point of asking the assistant to check it for him next time he went in, and pulling a face when she told him it had ‘nothing coming back’.

All he wanted today was to win enough to repay Rosie, Sue, and Peter. With those three paid off, he assumed he would be able to go home and relax without Rosie getting overly excited again. Only three horses made an impression on him, so he decided on a ten-pound treble. If it came in he would get about two hundred pounds back, enough to repay his debts with more than enough left over to take Rosie for a nice meal later, and hopefully, sweet talk his way back into her good graces. Besides, in a restaurant and over a meal she would be less inclined to scream at him.

The rest of the day however, was made for relaxation and armed with the paper and his last twenty-pound note he sat in the bar of the Rose ‘n’ Crown. One thing was nagging at him; Rosie and her declaration that he find a job and find one soon. He knew Rosie well enough to know that in two weeks she would give up on the job thing, but for those two weeks, she would make his life hell as she constantly nagged at him, and badgered him to get out and find work.

Like a revelation from the good Lord, the answer stared him in the face as he casually turned the pages of his newspaper. A half page advert below the Ripon and Exeter race cards burnt into his numbed brain.

Job Vacancy

Due to retirement, a Vacancy now exists in the

Southern And Northern Territories Agency.

Successful applicant will take control of Item Distribution

No Previous experience is required as full training will be given

Applicants must be good with Children, and be prepared to travel

Unusual anti-social hours accompany the position.

Attractive Salary negotiable within budget considerations

Light Duties that involve no heavy lifting.

Local Interviews

Apply in writing to

Southern And Northern Territories Agency.

P.O. Box 2512

The Village.

Or by Telephone to 0151 849 7653

Applications by 31st January 2001

If he could go home with a job application Rosie would be putty in his hands, no nagging or shouting, he could even say he had taken her comments to heart and realised the error of his ways. It was too good to be true, and he could always fluff the interview if he got one, an interview didn’t mean he had to work, did it? Travis was on cloud nine, what started out to be such a bad day now promised to be a such a good one. ’Work,’ he laughed to himself, ‘you must be joking’, as he dialed the number on his mobile phone.