The Christmas List
by Michael Smith

 

 

‘Twas the night before the night before Christmas … and all through the house, the creatures, even the mice, were taking the opportunity to do a bit of last-minute stirring.

Shadows, created by the yellowing glow of a log fire, danced around the room, their rhythm augmented by the flickering of drizzled candles. Warm rugs lay on the dark wooden floor and fine hand-carved furniture added to the cozy, lived-in feel of the master’s study. An upright chair, upholstered in a manner found only in the most exclusive of gentlemen’s clubs, sat welcomingly by the fire hearth. A charred toasting fork hung on the brickwork chimney breast above a well-stocked pipe-stand sitting invitingly on the small occasional table adjacent to the chair. A golf bag lounged enigmatically in one corner.

Noel (aka Santa) could no longer resist the luring comfort of his surroundings. For the past few hours he’d been concentrating hard on this year’s Christmas List; not A Christmas list, but THE Christmas List. But now it was approaching completion. He sank back in his chair and exhaled a meaningful sigh. It wasn’t long, however, before his reverie was disturbed by a polite and high-pitched cough. Immediately Noel recognized the interruption as belonging to the elf, Raymond.  Noel stretched out his arms, causing his back to crack. Raymond noticed how his master’s beard, normally the traditional pure while, now wore a ghostly greenish hue.

“Your cocoa, master.”

“What, is it that time already? Gosh, it’s dark outside!”

“Yes, it has been for months. Remember where we live, master.”

“Oh, er, yes, right you are.”

“Drink it while it’s hot, master.”

Noel used his left hand to press the voluminous beard to his chest, while his right hand raised the whimsical Yuletide mug to his lips. After savouring the smooth taste, Noel leant back in his office chair, smacked his lips and, for the first time since the elf had entered, looked at his little worker.

“Why on earth did your parents name you Raymond? I’ve always wondered. Most of the elves working here have proper elvish names, Peregrin, Gildor, Aegnor, but … Raymond?”

“My parents had high aspirations for me, master. To their chagrin, the family tree consisted almost exclusively of Santa’s-Little-Helpers. You know, my father, his father, his father’s fa…”

“Yes, I get the picture. But why the name Raymond?”

“They didn’t want me to continue the family tradition. They wished for something,…” Raymond faltered, lowered his head, and was about to continue when Noel sternly completed the sentence for him, “… better.”

Raymond nodded in a forlorn, embarrassed way. Speaking to the floor, he explained, “They wanted me to become an accountant.”

“Ho, ho, ho.”

“Don’t laugh, please, master. My parents have made it abundantly clear to me over the years just how much of a disappointment I have been to them.”

“What, even when I promoted you to chief elf in charge of Christmas arrangements?”

“Yes, master; they just couldn’t let go of the accountancy thing. A nice, steady profession, they said. Good prospects, they said. A pension, they said. But that wasn’t the life for me. I love my job here at the North Pole, especially as it’s …”

“… a long way from home? A long way from your parents, eh?”

“Yes, master.”

“Oh well, run along now, Raymond, I’ve nearly finished the list,” said Noel in the tone used by bosses everywhere to indicate that the exchange with an underling was over, and that the junior party should leave. He turned back to the computer screen, which continued to cast its peculiar green light over the face recognized the world over as Father Christmas.

However, Raymond had never been very fluent in body language (maybe, as an elf, he’d had so little body to practice with), and hints dropped in his direction usually remained unnoticed wherever they landed, “So, is the cocoa to your liking, master?”

“Yes.” Noel remained fixated on the computer screen while tapping at the keyboard.

“I bet you’re glad I suggested streamlining the, er … business?”

“Yes.”

“That spreadsheet I suggested after last Christmas has been a real boon for organizing all those gifts the little kiddos request, hasn’t it?”

“Yes.” Noel heaved a heavy sigh, his fingers now motionless over the keyboard.

“It means, I suspect, that you can deliver all the presents to the right people in the right order?”

“… Yes,” growled Noel abruptly through gritted teeth, while thinking that he’d done perfectly well before the computer age, thank you very much.

“But now you’ve got it all saved on that spreadsheet. It’ll be so much easier next year. You can just copy and paste most of the stuff from this year.”

“Yes!” Noel snatched at the cocoa mug Raymond had placed next to the computer. “Yes, yes, yes! Now, will you just leave me alo…”

Noel’s right hand failed to make proper contact with the cocoa mug. He knew immediately what was going to happen, but was powerless to prevent the accident.

In the film version of this story, the next part would probably happen in slow-motion.

The cocoa mug rocked back and forth a couple of times before deciding that falling benignly onto the desk top would do little to advance the narrative. The mug, clearly having a good grasp of the dramatic, chose instead to follow a parabolic path in the direction of the computer. Noel’s inadequate reaction time, while adding a comedic element to the scene, caused his left hand to give the mug a further knock, propelling both mug and cocoa into an arc of destruction wider than would have been the case had Noel just watched the scene unfold. These slow-motion cinematic images would also include a close-up of Noel opening his mouth ever wider, as a deep-throated moan provided the film’s only soundtrack, “N - o - o - o - o - o …” Finally, to ensure both a dramatic finale and full cocoa coverage, the mug shattered on impact.

“Blast! Now look what you’ve made me do,” shouted Noel.

“Er, master,” said Raymond hesitantly, as the sparks emanating from the computer distracted him from his master’s admonishment.

“What?” snapped Noel.

“Er, … look!”

Noel now saw the electronic fireworks exploding from his computer.

“Quick, do something! I’ll lose the list. We must save the list!”

Raymond was very good at many things. He liked organizing things. Even more, he liked suggesting how other people could organize their own things. He liked being useful … and helpful. But what he was really, really good at, was panicking. Small flames were now crackling nicely out of the computer keyboard, and the screen had suddenly decided to take up smoking. Raymond grabbed the vase master kept by the window, ejected the rather tasteful arrangement of mistletoe, holly and ivy, and launched the remaining contents in the general direction of the conflagration. The water had the desired effect, extinguishing the flames. It also extinguished the screen and the jolly, little green light that had flashed happily every time master worked on the precious spreadsheet.

Silence ensued.

But only briefly.

“Blast! You fool, look what you’ve done!”

“Er, er,” dithered Raymond.

“The list,” continued Noel, his voice melting from anger to despair.

“You did make a back-up, didn’t you master?”

“Back-up?”

“Oh, … er, well, … not to worry. I’m sure it’ll be fine, master” smoothed Raymond, with the pointless optimism of an experienced simpleton.

“Fine?” bellowed Noel, “Fine?! How will this turn out to be fine?”

“I’ll just get a towel from the kitchen, master.” And off he went, oblivious to his master’s distraught state.

Noel stared at the mess. Knowing inactivity was the wrong course of action, but at a loss to know what to do next, he began picking shards of cracked mug from his keyboard. Raymond returned, in possession of a towel and a frustratingly jolly disposition.

“Here we are, master. I’ll have it all cleaned up in a jiffy.”

Noel had already resigned himself to the worst case scenario, and readily acquiesced to Raymond’s domestic bustle. While stroking his white beard, Noel watched Raymond dab enthusiastically at the brown sludge covering most of the computer.

“Soon have it looking as good as new, master; all spick and span.”

Noel watched in silence. What was there he could say?

Eventually, Raymond stood back, “There, master. No harm done, I expect. Shall I make you a fresh mug of cocoa?”

“No,” snapped Noel, “let’s just see what damage has been done, shall we?”

Low on expectation, Noel pressed the computer’s on/off button. He’d heard that this act, despite its apparent simplicity, was frequently successful. From deep within the bowels of the computer, a low humming brought the first light of dawning optimism.

“That’s the fan starting up, master.”

“Is it?”

“Oh, yes, master.”


“Seems a little sluggish to my ear; as if it were turning through some thick liquid.”

“Hmm, that could be because …” Raymond preferred not to compete the sentence.

“I … know,” replied Noel.

The humming grew in volume, speed and hope, before stopping briefly to cough up some brown liquid, rather like an old smoker trying to evacuate quantities of phlegm from his lungs. The machine then burst into life, the screen changed from an ominous black to an encouraging light green. Lights flashed. The monster was awakening.

“There we are, master, right as rain, good as new.”

“Yes,” replied Noel, without conviction.

“Soon have your list back, don’t you worry.”

Noel’s brow furrowed with worry; he still had to be convinced all would be well with the Christmas list.

“Are you sure I can’t get you another cocoa, master. It would be no trouble at all.”

“All I want now is that list back. Without it, Christmas might not happen this year. Do you understand the enormity of this, Raymond?”

“Oh, yes, master,” chirped Raymond. He’s repressing reality, thought Noel, in an angry, yet envious, way.

“Why are you so sure we’ll retrieve the list?”

“Computers are my thing, master.”

“You did a two-week beginners’ course before dropping out of accountancy school a few years ago. That hardly qualifies you.”

“Still, eh, the fan has started, the screen has lit up,” beamed Raymond. His cheery outlook could really be most annoying.

“Just get me the list, Raymond.”

“Patience, master.”

“Oh, and Raymond, when you do retrieve the list, I want you to print me a copy … on paper. I know that might sound old-fashioned but I am, after all, Father Christmas. Tradition is my middle name.”

“I thought it was Nick?”

Noel stared at Raymond before growling, “The list. Now!”

Raymond tapped happily at several keys while Noel mumbled and grumbled under his breath, “Don’t know why I let myself be talked into buying the blasted thing. Much better when we used just paper and pen. I had a nice quill one year, I remember. Wrote beautifully, it did. It was almost enough to make me want to take up calligra…”

“There we are, master, your list.”

Noel stared in disbelief at the computer screen, while Raymond smirked quietly.

“Oh, er,” Noel began, while squinting at the long list of names, addresses and gifts as Raymond scrolled quickly through them.

“They all seem to be here, master.”

“Quite.”

“Look, here’s line eight billion, one hundred and twelve thousand, and seventy-three. They’re all here.”

“Jolly good. Er, … I think I will have that cocoa after all.”

“Yes, master.”

“With maybe a drop of brandy in.”

“Of course, master. It is a little chilly out today.”

“Quite.”

“Shall I press ‘Print’ now, master?”

“Yes,” said Noel, in a defeated tone, “before anything else goes wrong.”

As Raymond skipped off to remake the cocoa, Noel called after him, “Er, … thank you.” And added, to himself, ‘I think’.

The printer spent the night before the night before Christmas spewing out reams of paper containing Noel’s necessary list. Lesser elves dealt promptly and efficiently with the inevitable paper jams, and by morning the Christmas list was complete.

More elves carried the list to the sleigh, which was now fully laden with presents for this latest Christmas. Noel had changed into what he liked to call his uniform. Normally, he would be as excited as the little children he visited, but on this occasion, something was nagging at him. Something was amiss. He couldn’t identify the problem but felt sure it almost certainly had something to do with Raymond and the cocoa incident.

Those elves with responsibility for the stables were now attaching the reindeer to the sleigh, ready for ‘take off’.

“Here you are,” called Raymond, as he handed Noel a flask. “There’s a little drop of something in there to keep you warm, master,” he added with a wink.

“I’m in uniform now, Raymond.”

“Oh, sorry, ma… Santa.”

“That’s better. Now stand back.”

Santa cracked the reins on the backs of the deer, “Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donner and Blitzen!”

Every year, the sight of Santa’s ascent into the swirling snow of a winter’s night brought a tear to the eye of even the most experienced of elves, and none more so than Raymond. They had all done their best. They had all played their part. And now, another Christmas was underway.

 

 

Falling asleep had been difficult. It always was on Christmas Eve. Heeding the warning from her parents, Gretchen had kept her eyelids tight shut until exhaustion had sent her to sleep. Now, several hours later, she felt it might be safe to tentatively open one eyelid to see if HE had been. Through the dim light of a winter’s dawn, Gretchen could discern several wrapped boxes by the foot of her bed. The clock told her that, with a stretch of the imagination, it was nearly 6 am (5:23 to be precise). She slid out from under the sheets and cautiously approached the gifts. Surely that large box at the bottom, that must be it, the one she’d been anticipating all year. And, surely, a little peek through one edge of the paper, just to confirm the contents, you understand, would not be breaking the promise she’d made to her parents the night before. It wouldn’t be opening the gift; no, that could be done later with the rest of the family. This would just be a little, exploratory look to check it hadn’t been damaged. She slid her finger as carefully and silently as possible under that part of the sellotape which, from experience, looked most likely to yield to her persuasions. The paper eased apart revealing … what was that?! No, that’s not right!

Gretchen’s indignation got the better of her and she began ripping at the wrapping paper, little caring for her promise. Several seconds later, her exploration of the package revealed her worst fears, this was not the present she had requested. She stared in disbelief. Seriously?!

Sitting forlornly on her bedroom floor, Gretchen was close to tears as she looked at the box containing an official NFL Action Figure - Quarterback Edition! (the one with the spring-loaded arm).

Suddenly, light burst from overhead. “What’s all this?! You promised young lady that you’d not repeat the early morning present-opening we had last year.”

“But, mum,”

“No buts, young lady. Back to bed.”

“But, mum. Why?”

“Because it’s still the middle of the night. And you promised.”

“No. I mean why this?” She raised the unwanted gift for her mother to see.

“Oh.”

Mother and daughter stared at each other, neither knowing what to say.

“I’ll get your father.”

A minute or so later, Gretchen’s bleary-eyed father entered the bedroom to see what all the fuss was about. He picked up the Action Figure, thought for a moment, and then asked, “But you didn’t ask for one of these, did you, Gretchen?”

“Well, duh.”

“Gretchen!” admonished her mother.

“Of course I didn’t ask for a stupid football player. S’not fair.” And with that Gretchen stormed from her bedroom, stomped downstairs to the living room, collapsed on the sofa facing the Christmas tree, and had a good sulk. Her mother tried to console her, while father went back to bed.

 

 

Winston P. Goodbody III, stood at the foot of his parents’ bed. He looked like thunder. He glowered at the quilted outlines of his parents’ recumbent figures. He was seething. He knew his silent presence in the room would, eventually, be sufficient to awake at least one of his parents. He’d once caught part of a late-night horror movie about a couple being gradually terrorized by their young son. He’d been impressed by that, especially the control the young son had gradually been able to exert over his stupid parents. He’d been influenced to try something similar himself, so he just stood at the bottom of their bed, waiting for one of them, preferably mother, to awake, see his staring figure in the half light, and scream. They deserved it this time. This time they’d gone too far. What had they been thinking?

“Oh, hello, Winston, darling. Can’t you sleep? Too excited about Santa coming?”

Winston continued to glare in as evil a manner as he could manage.

“Are you all right, honey? Is your tummy bothering you again?”

Winston raised his shoulders, lowered his head slightly, forced his eyebrows as close together as possible and continued to glower.

“Winston, darling. Whatever’s the matter? John, John wake up!”

Winston began to emit what he hoped would be a deep, threatening growl.

“John, are you awake? I think Winston is suffering from toothache.”

Winston’s father began to stir.

“Tell us, Winston,” continued his mother, “what’s the matter, darling?”

In answer, Winston raised a small, carved wooden horse, and demanded, “What is the meaning of this?”

“Winston, darling, what are you talking about?”

“You know very well, what I’m talking about.”

“Winston, do you know what time it is?” This was the first contribution made to the conversation by Winston’s father, John.

“I don’t care what time it is. I want to know what is meant by this outrage.”

John was momentarily distracted by his six-year-old son’s vocabulary, ‘That,’ he thought to himself, ‘is what a top-notch private education will get you; worth every dollar.’ His pride swelled momentarily, until he realized he had a more pressing problem right in front of him. He had a rebellious son glaring at him, and what’s more, an intelligent and articulate rebellious son.

“Look, Winston, what is going on? It’s five thirty in the morning, we’re all tired and you seem to be upset by some wooden toy.”

“Upset? Upset?!” Winston’s face was beginning to redden with the effort of attempting to be as evil as possible. And he was getting a headache.

“Calm down, darling, tell mummy what the problem is.”

“The problem is that this,” he held up the small wooden animal again, “this, is the only present for me under the tree! Where’s the rest of them?”

“What?” said his parents simultaneously.

“I sent to Santa a long, detailed and, quite frankly, well researched list of the presents I wanted to have this year. I even divided the list into three categories for the old fool. There was ‘Essentials’, ‘Desirables’ and ‘Optionals’.”

“Optionals?”

“Yes, I didn’t want to seem too pushy.”

“Oh.”

“And then this … this … abomination turns up.”

Once more John was truly proud of the very selective and, one must acknowledge, very expensive, private school his only son attended. They really were turning out a very bright young man. The word ‘senator’ drifted teasingly through his mind before reality once again kicked in.

“It’s just not good enough, father. I demand a proper Christmas!”

And with that, Winston P. Goodbody III stormed out of his parents’ bedroom, trying unsuccessfully to slam the door on the way out. He headed for the wing containing the servants’ quarters where he could raise hell with them, and ruin their Christmas in the same manner that stupid wooden horse had ruined his.

 

 

Astrid sat on the end of her bed. She was bemused. She’d seen things like this in that cupboard dad used on special occasions. She knew he drank the liquid in only small amounts … and slowly. She could read the label as being ‘Irish Malt Whiskey’. But why was this her Christmas present? It didn’t make any sense. Maybe her father had received the pair of junior skis she’d requested? She returned the whiskey bottle to the box, and tried as best she could to retie the shiny string around the equally shiny wrapping paper.

 

 

Alexei had opened his present by torchlight so as not to disturb his parents and grandparents. So far, he’d opened at least five packages containing pairs of socks. And socks that were clearly too large for his seven-year-old feet. Socks? Wasn’t that the sort of present only adults received? Where was the model spaceship for which he’d been longing ever since he’d seen the latest Russian moonshot on television?

 

 

Santa continued his merry way, ho-ho-ho-ing around the world, always just an hour or two behind the sunset. But this year he was unable to shrug off a nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right.

 

 

Monica gazed lovingly at the small, beautifully wrapped box sitting invitingly under the perfect Christmas Tree. As a twenty-something year-old she no longer believed in Santa Claus, but she did enjoy the magic of the season. And Todd, her long-standing boyfriend, had been made aware of this. Throughout the autumn she’d been dropping hints about the romance of a betrothal at Christmas. And now he’d gone and done it. She just knew the delicate box would contain the ring she had so tactfully pointed out to him only two weeks ago.  She was torn; she wanted to wait until he got down on one knee and offered her the ring, but she also wanted to know if the diamond was big enough. Surely a little peek wouldn’t hurt?

An hour later, Monica had still not stopped sobbing. How could he have been so mean?  A diamond engagement ring, that was all she’d wanted. Was that too much to ask from the love of her life? But this! A miniature snow globe from Boston! She’d never even been to Boston. Had Todd been there? Did he have another woman there? The sobbing continued. Todd was in for a rough Christmas.

 

 

Fatima gazed at the night sky from her bedroom window. Her parents had always told her just how lucky she was to have such a view. Bright stars glistening like jewels against that black velvet of the sky, with the moon illuminating the great pyramids rising regally out of the vast expanse of desert sand. She had grown to appreciate her location in the world; she knew she would be the envy of most young girls.

At present, however, she was perplexed. Sitting on her bed in the warm night air, she’d spent several minutes alternating her attention between the familiar, yet beautiful, vista of moonlight over the pyramids outside her window, and the badly wrapped present standing propped in the corner of her bedroom. She’d only seen skis before on television. She knew snow was needed to use them. Skis? Really?

 

 

Christmas morning is a time for children to marvel at the gifts they have received, a time for parents to enjoy the enthusiasm of their young ones, while recalling their own childhood memories. It is a time for diverse family traditions. But central to all is the unwrapping of presents.

This year, something was different. The jollity was missing, replaced by confusion, shrugged shoulders, raised voices, finger-pointing and, ultimately, arguments. Fraught parents battled with their disgruntled offspring, trying desperately to defend their apparent choice of gift. Mothers were asking fathers, “Did you get him that?” To which fathers replied, “No, I thought you’d bought it for him.”

This unseasonal conflict spread around the globe. Peace on Earth? Forget it; not this year!

 

 

Once Santa had guided the reindeer back to base, the elves took control, and led the exhausted beasts to the stables for nourishment, pampering and a well-deserved rest on a freshly made bed of hay. Santa was met by Raymond, who handed him a large mug of steaming hot cocoa (with a nip of brandy).

“I trust all went well, Santa, following out little mishap earlier?”

“Hmm, I think so,” replied Santa, with a furrowed brow.

“Your bed awaits you. I suspect you’ll want a good long rest?”

Santa yawned his obvious reply.

Reaching the bedroom, Santa removed his uniform, threw it across the room in the general direction of the laundry basket, yawned some more, and then collapsed onto his bed. Within only a few seconds, the whiskers of his snow-white beard were wafting gracefully to the rhythmic snoring now echoing throughout the house. The job had been completed for yet another year. The presents had been delivered.

Christmas morning was the one day of the year Noel insisted on a lie-in. After all, he argued, he’d earned it. Raymond and the kitchen elves had spent an hour preparing a sumptuous celebratory breakfast. Noel couldn’t work out later if it had been the coffee or the bacon that had first alerted his sense of smell.

After washing and dressing, Noel now sat at his dining table, facing a vast array of breakfast goodies. Through the gloom outside his window he saw the white expanse of the North Pole. He always had a White Christmas.

It was during his third waffle with maple syrup that Noel first really began to take notice of the radio playing quietly in the background. He replaced the coffee cup on its saucer, and returned the fork to the plate, next to a half-eaten waffle. What did the newsreader just say? Only his subconscious registered something, but his conscious was too tired to go searching for answers to the nagging questions that were brewing somewhere in his mind. He shrugged his shoulders and finished the waffle.

The night’s work had exhausted Noel, and it wasn’t long before he drifted into a post-breakfast snooze. This reverie was broken by the tinny clanging of a distant gong. Noel soon remembered that this was Raymond’s whimsical method of announcing the commencement of any important meal, and no meal was more important than Christmas Dinner. As he entered the dining room, Noel couldn’t help but be impressed by the lengths to which Raymond and the kitchen elves had gone to prepare this enormous annual spread.

Tradition dictated the turkey should take center-stage, its crisp, suntan-brown skin promising succulent white meat within. The backdrop to this delicious vista was a mountain range of vegetables. Butter melted over glistening sprouts, crisp fat-roasted potatoes sat invitingly in a large bowl, carrots and parsnips lay side-by-side, and a mix of green vegetables had been included to ease the conscience of the serious eater. Augmenting the ‘meat and many veg’ were cranberry sauce, stuffing, bread sauce and, of course, steaming gravy made from boiled turkey giblets. For Noel, all this created the aroma of Christmas. He noted with anticipation the spherical plum pudding, almost black in hue, resting on a side table. He knew later it would be generously soaked with brandy and flambéed, before becoming a rich island in a sea of warm, white sauce. To satisfy his thirst, a bottle of blood-red wine had been opened and allowed to breathe.

Noel sat down, ready to assault the feast, his fingertips stroked unconsciously the cool linen tablecloth. He paused momentarily to savour the anticipation, before carving himself a generous slice of turkey breast. Next, he separated a turkey drumstick from the perfectly roasted bird. A hillock of potatoes and other vegetables were added, and soon contained rivulets of rich gravy cascading down to the wide brown sea bounded by the rim of the plate. To conclude, Noel set a colourful paper hat on his head at a jaunty angle, tasted the wine, and momentarily considered the redundancy of the napkin tucked into his collar yet under his beard. Raymond fussed around his master, offering more gravy, more wine, and slightly admonishing reminders about ‘leaving room for dessert’.

The radio had been the auditory accompaniment to his breakfast, but for the main meal, Noel chose to view the television, occasionally glancing at the usual pre-recorded entertainment from around the world; it seemed the only live programmes on Christmas Day were the news bulletins. Noel had just added a second helping of vegetables to his plate when his attention was caught by the newsreader’s voice. Was this the same message he’d nearly heard over breakfast?

“And finally this morning, children all over the world have been receiving very unusual and unexpected presents.”

Noel’s fork stopped, the attached sprout caught midway between plate and mouth. His head remained motionless, while his eyes rotated to view the screen. He concentrated on the continuing report. “It seems there has been some sort of Christmas mix-up,” To the reporter’s smooth voice-over was added a collage of video images depicting confused children. He saw a young, well-dressed girl, sitting outside her parents’ mansion, trying unsuccessfully to tie knots in a rope clearly intended for skipping; and he saw a lanky, pimply youth looking with some confusion at a certificate offering him a year’s membership for a pony club located several hundred miles away. After several similar images, the report concluded with, “And we are hearing of more and more such instances by the hour.”

Noel slammed down his fork (sending the sprout tumbling across the dinner table), and bellowed “Ray-mond!!!”

The elf arrived, trying desperately to hide behind the tea towel he’d been using moments earlier in the kitchen.

“What’s all this?” demanded Noel, pointing at the television, “Something about Christmas morning confusion, mixed up presents, distraught children, angry parents.”

He rose quickly from the table, switched off the television, and glared at Raymond.

“Well?!”

“Er, master, er, as far as I know the list was correct.”

“It was that infernal cocoa!”

Raymond raised the tea towel in a pathetic attempt to shield himself from Noel’s anger.

“You and that blasted machine have ruined Christmas for everyone in the world.”

Raymond’s dampening eyes stared at the floor as he whispered, “Sorry, master.”

Noel was caught between full-blown anger and feeling sorry for the elf. After all, he had only been trying to help. And Noel had been glad of the help; in the beginning, at least.

The tension in the room began to subside until Raymond felt sufficiently confident to ask, “What are we going to do?”

Noel took a deep breath, turned to the window and stared through the gloom at the wide expanse of snow for what, to Raymond, seemed like a very long time. Noel turned once more and faced the elf, “I don’t know. I don’t think there is much we can do. They are going to have to sort out this mess on their own.”

“Can they do that, master? Are they capable?”

“I don’t know. They don’t have a good track record so far. Only time will tell.”

“Er, can I get you any more dinner, master?”

“No, I’ve lost my appetite.”

 

 

Despite the exhaustion brought on by his worldwide gift deliveries, Noel did not sleep well that night. Images of disappointed children and irate parents made sleep an impossibility. Not even a second bedtime cocoa could induce rest. His bed sheets wrapped and folded themselves, it seemed, in a most uncomfortable manner. The wind whistled through slivered cracks to produce an unsettling cacophony. His stomach churned; was it over-indulgence at the dinner table, or was it simply anxiety at the havoc he had wreaked?

He gave up any hope of sleep well before his alarm was due to awaken him. He arose, paced his bedroom without purpose, muttering to himself ceaselessly. He couldn’t even wait for Raymond to bring him his early morning coffee, so he sought out the kitchen, and made his own. Shuffling back to his bedroom in his new slippers (a present from Raymond), Noel realized sitting in his study would be preferable to lying in bed staring at the ceiling. Once there, he stoked the dying embers of yesterday’s fire, added coal, and sank back in his leather chair to drink his early morning coffee.

Once the drink had been finished, he gazed at the blank television screen taunting him from across the room. Dare he turn it on? Twenty-four hours after his most humiliating error, would the world still be mad at him for delivering gifts incorrectly? Would an expert panel be giving their smug opinions on ‘Where Santa Went Wrong!’ Would further images of weeping children tug at him from the screen? Would increasing threats from parents, tired from pacifying their distraught sons and daughters, lead to more anxiety? Could he bear a continuation of the bleating protests that had played in his mind throughout the night? In the end, he knew he had to face the music. With a weary sigh and remote control in hand, he switched on the television, and selected a news channel.

Wars, economic woes, celebrity marriages were all present, but no mention of Santa’s mishap. Strange; did he dream it all? Even the weather was void of any Santa reference. He’d fully expected his story to be climbing high in the newsfeed hierarchy, but its absence was totally unexpected. His finger hovered above the ‘off’ button, when … “And, finally … it seems communities, concerned yesterday about the mix up of gifts, have spontaneously come together to form gift-sharing schemes. Rather than sitting at home on Christmas Day, families met and mingled throughout the day in streets, local churches, and community centers to discuss the situation. And, almost universally, they decided to arrange a local gift-swap.”

Noel’s finger moved from above the ‘off’ button to the ‘increase volume’ switch. He leant forward in his chair.

“A few hours ago we reported, right here on this channel, about the mistakes made by Santa. But since then we’ve been hearing some wonderfully warming stories from around the globe. For example, we’ve been informed that our earlier news report even saved a young couple’s wedding engagement.”

Noel chuckled. It seemed the computer error had actually brought communities closer. He was pleased to see people were learning that Christmas is about neither giving nor receiving, but sharing. He spent the rest of the day channel-hopping, catching the latest gift-exchange schemes from around the world. Tears had been transformed into laughter by the generous actions of local communities eager to ‘Save Christmas’. The television crews were keen to broadcast images of smiling children swapping gifts.

Once again, Raymond quietly entered Noel’s office and coughed as politely as possible. And, once again, Noel jumped. “I do wish you’d stop doing that, Raymond!”

“Sorry, master,” replied the elf, while joining Noel in viewing the television news, “I just came to see if you would like anything else to eat or drink.”

“Oh, er, thank you. A brandy, I think.”

“It looks like they’ve managed to get themselves sorted out, doesn’t it, master?”

“Yes, Raymond, it does.”

“So, there’s hope for them yet?”

“Yes, definitely. Well, most of them, anyway.”

 

 

Winston P. Goodbody III stomped along the deserted corridors connecting the many rooms of his parent’s mansion. He muttered to himself about his own disastrous Christmas and the evil he’d wreak on those responsible. Where were they? Hiding from him, no doubt. He wanted to complain to family and servants alike about the distinct lack of Christmas spirit in the world of which he was the absolute center. Poor Winston!

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