There hadn’t been a specific moment when Ben had stopped believing in Santa Claus. One Christmas he’d thought that a fat man in red travelling the world in a sleigh was credible—the next, he hadn’t. There’d been no trauma that had disillusioned him. Indeed, it had been a good year, that year; his parents were still smiling back then, every day there were so many smiles. “Listen,” said his Daddy, and sitting him on his knee, and holding him there steady, “listen, it’s okay for you not to go believing in Santa, okay? But just don’t go spoiling it for anybody else. Let your friends hang on to Santa as long as they can. Once he’s gone, he’s gone forever.” Ben hadn’t thought of it that way before, that he’d never get that innocence back, and it gave him a little pang, and for one awful moment he thought he might even cry—but it was all right, Daddy wasn’t cross with him, Daddy was holding him on his knee, Daddy was holding him safe. “Is it a deal, old chap?” And Ben liked it when Daddy called him “old chap”, and he assured him, cub’s honour, he’d keep his scepticism to himself.
Not that the existence or non-existence of Santa Claus was the sort of topic that was often discussed in the school playground. It was all talk about football and techno battle rangers and whether breathing in close to girls would give you spots. Actually, Ben’s belief in Santa Claus had outlived his belief in God. He could more easily conceive of a man who’d spend his time giving presents to strangers whilst flown about by reindeer, than he could a being who’d get stuck up on a cross to save those strangers’ sins. The inconvenience to Santa Claus alone must have been immense, and his generosity overwhelming. But Jesus? There had to be limits.
So, yes, I suppose it’s true—seeing Jesus Christ there, in his bedroom that Christmas Eve, his body cast into strange shadow by the dazzling white of the snow falling outside the window, holding in his hand not a sack of toys but, I don’t know, a cross maybe, a cross on the road to Calvary—yes, I suppose that would have been the greater shock. But seeing Santa Claus there was still quite surprising.
“Hello, Ben,” said Santa Claus. “Did I wake you?”
“Yes,” said Ben.
“Oh, good,” said Santa.
Ben knew it was Santa right away. He was the perfect synthesis of all the Santas he had ever seen, on Christmas cards, on TV cartoons, on Coca Cola bottles. “Some children sleep very soundly,” Santa went on. “You wouldn’t believe how hard it can be sometimes, to wake up a child that just doesn’t want to be woken. It’s the hardest part of the job.”
“Really?” asked Ben.
Santa thought about it for a moment. “No, not really,” he said. “Flying around the world in one night, that’s from the North Pole to the South and back, and zigzagging to all the countries in between, it’s not a straight line, you know—now, that’s hard. To be honest, waking children hardly compares. To be honest, waking children is comparatively a cinch. But, you know.” He smiled at Ben. “I’m glad you were easy to wake, just the same.”
“Are you real?” said Ben.
“Yes,” said Santa.
“Okay.”
“Do you want to touch me? You can touch me if you want.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll come closer,” said Santa, and shifted his bulk towards the bed so that it wobbled in a very real way, and Ben could see that Santa was real perfectly well now, and he didn’t need to touch him, actually, he had proof enough. But, “Go on, touch that,” said Santa, and Ben thought it’d be rude not to, so as Santa offered him his hand, he brushed one of the fingers, just for a second, “no, harder than that, if you want to know if I’m real,” and Ben grasped it, actually grasped it, the finger as fat as a sausage.
“There we go,” said Santa. “There, you see.” And this close Ben could see that Santa really was very fat, and very red, and very bearded, and his eyes were twinkling.
“Your finger’s very cold,” said Ben.
“The snow’s coming down thick out there,” said Santa. “Cold enough to freeze your blood. Do you have anything to eat?”
Ben thought, tried to remember what his Daddy and Mum used to leave out for Santa back when he’d believed. “We’ve got some mince pies downstairs.”
“I mean, anything warm?”
“I could put one in the microwave.”
Santa considered this. “Okay,” he said.
So they went down to the kitchen, the little boy in blue pyjamas, the fat man in red following politely behind. “Try and walk where I walk,” said Ben, “walk to the edge of the stairs, they creak in the middle.” “Okay,” said Santa, but he was so fat, and his feet were so big, that try as he might he couldn’t avoid the creaks altogether. And Ben winced, thinking that at any moment his Daddy might be woken up. In the kitchen Ben turned on the lights, and saw that Santa’s beard was not all that white, that was just the snow, Santa’s beard looked very grey, and very old. “I’ll get you a mince pie,” said Ben, and opened the cupboard, and took out a box of Mr Kipling’s own.
“Something warm,” said Santa. “Can I have a soup?” And he pointed into the cupboard, and at all the tins of soup. “I’m not allowed to cook things, not with a flame, not without Daddy,” said Ben. “It’s okay,” said Santa, “I’ll do it, I’m old enough.” And he took from the cupboard the first three tins his hand could claw—pea and ham, and minestrone, and chicken noodle, he all but ripped off the lids with the can opener at such ferocious speed, and poured the contents into one saucepan. He put the saucepan on the gas ring, lit it. Santa stood over the meal as it cooked, and Ben could see that Santa was drooling a little, there was spit running out of Santa’s mouth and mixing with the melting snow in his beard, “I’m so hungry,” said Santa, and winked, almost apologetically—and even though the soup couldn’t be warm enough yet, he hadn’t let it stand for long enough, “that’ll have to do,” he said, and took a large wooden spoon from the shelf just beside the spice rack, the spice rack Daddy never even bothered to use, Mum had used spices but not Daddy, Daddy’s cooking was much simpler—and stuck the spoon into the pan, and scooped up the mix of soups, and ate.
“Would you like to sit down?” asked Ben. He’d even put out a place mat. Santa waved the invitation away, stood over the cooker, and shovelled lukewarm soup into his face. He didn’t come up for breath for a good five minutes. “Thanks,” he said, and smiled at Ben, and wiped bits of noodle and green pea from his beard with the back of his hand, “yeah, I’ll have that mince pie now.” And he took one, and popped it into his mouth whole.
Ben wrinkled his nose. “If you’re Santa—and you are,” he added hastily, he really didn’t want to go through all that weird finger touching again, “then why have I never seen you before?”
“I only visit when it snows. London hasn’t had a white Christmas in years.”
“Oh,” said Ben. An intelligent boy, he wondered why, whether this was to do with needing the right reindeer conditions, something like that. Instead he said, “Do I get a present, then?”
“What?”
“A present. I mean, that’s why you’re here, right?”
“Right,” said Santa. “It’s waiting for you, right now, under the tree. Shall we go and look?” And Santa grinned soup-spattered teeth, and led Ben into the sitting room, as if it were his sitting room, as if this had been his house all along. Ben recognised the tree that he and his father had bought and decorated together a couple of weeks ago—but it looked a bit taller now, as if it were standing up straight, as if it were a soldier on parade saluting the arrival of its commanding officer. And the fairy lights were on, and they were flashing, and what’s more they were flashing different colours, and Ben had been quite sure they hadn’t done that before. And underneath the tree, in front of all the other presents, in front of all the ordinary presents, was the one from Santa. The wrapping paper couldn’t disguise what it was.
“How did you know?” breathed Ben.
“It’s what you want, isn’t it? It’s what you most want.”
“Yes,” said Ben.
“I got your letter,” said Santa, and chuckled. “And you’ve been a particularly good boy this year.”
“I didn’t write a letter,” said Ben. “I don’t believe in you any more.”
Santa frowned at that. “I certainly got a letter,” he said, a little huffily. “I don’t come to homes where I’m not invited. What do you think I am?”
“Sorry,” said Ben, and Santa smiled, and opened his arms for a hug. And Ben didn’t really want to hug Santa, but he thought he better had, he didn’t want Santa to be hurt, and the present was just what he wanted, the second thing he most wanted in all the world. Ben couldn’t get his arms around Santa, they barely stretched around the midriff, and there was a peculiar smell to Santa’s coat, something animal, something Ben thought probably was reindeer.
“Can I open my present now?” said Ben.
“Just a formality to get out of the way first,” said Santa. And suddenly in one of his hands was a piece of old parchment, so long it unrolled down to his knees, and in the other a biro. “Proof of receipt,” he said, “sign on the dotted line.” And Ben signed, and then went to the present, and now that he got to it he saw that even the wrapping paper was flashing and changing colour, and he looked at Santa in wonder. Santa laughed. “Boys like you don’t care about fancy paper,” he said, “it’s the present underneath that counts. Rip it open, Ben, rip it apart!” And Ben laughed at that, he couldn’t help himself, and he tore into the wrapping paper, and found that there was still more wrapping paper beneath, flashing away. Santa laughed too, “Deeper than that! Come on, Ben, chop chop!” And Ben tore deeper. “I love this bit,” said Santa, “really, this is the best bit, seeing all the kids’ faces light up when they get their toys. I always make sure I stay for this.” And Ben touched spokes, and chains, and handlebars, and tyres, and soon enough all the wrapping paper lay upon the carpet, flashing more feebly now, like a dying animal, and then it flashed no more, and then it was dead. And Ben marvelled at his shiny new bicycle.
“It’s got eight gears,” said Santa, helpfully. “It’s one of the good ones. Brand new, too, I never deal in second hand goods. And stabilisers, you know, until you get your balance.”
“Keep away from him,” said Daddy, standing in the doorway.
He was holding a knife, and Ben’s first thought was that meant Daddy must have been to the kitchen to fetch it, and he’d have seen all the mess caused by the soup, he hadn’t had a chance to clean it up yet—he was in so much trouble.
“Well, now,” said Santa.
“Keep away from him,” said Daddy again.
“I’m nowhere near him,” said Santa, perfectly reasonably. “He’s by the tree.”
“Don’t sign the contract, Ben, whatever you do.”
“Put the knife down, Davey,” said Santa.
“No.”
“Davey, come on, put the knife down. You’re scaring the boy.” And at that Ben realised that yes, he was scared, he hadn’t had time to think of it til now. His Daddy didn’t look like his Daddy, so wild-eyed, shaking. And his name was David, although his friends called him Dave, and his Mum used to call him Day—not all the time, just when she was really happy, I love you, big Day, she’d say, and kiss him—but not for a while now, not a long while, most of the time she called him Dave. No one ever called him Davey.
Daddy licked his lips.
“We both know that you’re not going to use the knife,” said Santa.
“You have no idea what I can do,” said Daddy.
“I know precisely what you can do,” said Santa. “I’ve got you on my list. Remember? I’ve got you on my list.” Santa walked towards Daddy. “Keep back,” said Daddy. “No,” said Santa. “I’m warning you,” said Daddy, but he was the one backing out of the way. “Go on then,” said Santa, opening his arms out wide, just as he had to Ben earlier, as if he wanted a hug. “Go on. Stick me with your knife. It’s not a very big knife. And I have so much fat to cut through, so much flesh, centuries of it. Go on, see if you can slice deep enough to hurt me.” “Keep back,” said Daddy, but Santa wasn’t. “Go on,” said Santa, “if that’s what you want Ben to see. If that’s what you want him to remember.” Daddy gave a noise that might have been a sob, and Santa took the knife, and it vanished into a big red pocket. “You silly boy,” Santa said, “you silly boy.” Ben thought that Santa must be very cross, and thought that Daddy thought so too, because he flinched when Santa raised his hand to him—but then Santa smiled, and ruffled Daddy’s hair affectionately.
“Don’t sign the contract,” said Daddy weakly.
“Don’t worry about Ben’s contract, just you worry about yours,” said Santa. And at that Daddy went pale.
“No,” he said. “Please.” And Santa just smiled, not without sympathy. “Can’t you…?” and Daddy licked his lips once more. “Can’t you just go next door? Can’t you go somewhere else instead?”
“I could,” said Santa. “But I came here, didn’t I?” And Daddy made a little gulp like a hiccup, and Santa said, “Now, now, none of that. You’ll scare Ben. Don’t scare Ben.”
“I’ve got a bike,” said Ben.
“So I see,” said Daddy.
“It’s good, isn’t it?”
“It’s good,” said Daddy.
“It is good, actually,” said Santa. “Eight gears, stabilisers. Not just any old rubbish.”
“Please,” said Daddy softly.
“No,” said Santa, and that was that. “You’d better get your clothes on,” he added. “Both of you.”
“Ben doesn’t have to come,” said Daddy.
“You’re not going to leave him alone in the house, surely? Not on Christmas Eve. Not when anyone could get in.”
“No,” said Daddy, dully. “You’re right.”
“It’ll be an adventure for him.”
Ben liked the sound of that. “Please, Daddy, can I have an adventure?”
“Of course,” Santa said. “And you can bring your bike.”
“Can I, Daddy? Can I bring my bike?”
“Leave the bicycle here, Ben,” said Daddy. “You don’t want to take the bike.”
“I do,” said Ben.
“He does,” said Santa.
“It’s slippery out there.”
“It’s got stabilisers,” said Santa.
“Stabilisers,” said Ben.
“Please, Ben,” said Daddy.
“Let him take it,” said Santa. “Let him get to ride it with you. Share his bike with his Daddy. Give him that pleasure at least.”
Daddy said, “All right.”
Ben said, “Hurray!”
Daddy said, “You’d better go and dress up warm, though. Go and put on your warmest clothes.”
“The very warmest,” Santa said to both of them. “It’s so cold out there, it’ll freeze your blood.” And he clapped his hands together. “No time to waste, come on. Chop chop!”
The weather reports said there was going to be a cold snap. No one was prepared. Industry would be affected, said the news, public transport would be at a standstill. Daddy told Ben that for school the next morning he’d have to wear his very warmest clothes. He’d have to put on his thickest sweater and his thickest gloves, and wear the stripy scarf. Ben didn’t like the scarf, it made his neck itch, but Daddy didn’t care. “You’re not going down with any bug, not on my watch,” he said. “Your Mum’ll kill me.” Ben laughed at the thought, and said Mum wouldn’t kill him. “Yes, she would,” said Daddy.
Ben made it to school and back again through the cold snap quite intact, the scratchy stripy scarf had beaten off all the germs. Daddy was pleased. “There you go, old chap. You’re okay. You’re safe.”
And that evening Ben stood with his Daddy by the window, watching from the street lamps how the rain seemed to be slowing down, how it had begun to drift lazily in the wind, as if in no particular hurry to hit the ground.
“It’s snowing!” said Ben.
“Yes,” said Daddy.
“I love snow,” said Ben.
“Yes,” said Daddy. “Still. It won’t settle.”
But it did settle. The next morning there was a thin blanket of white over everything. Daddy made Ben wear his scarf to school all the more tightly. “Still. It won’t last,” said Daddy. But it did last.
Ben didn’t know why the adults didn’t like the snow. It was like rain, but fun rain. They seemed almost frightened of it—the weather forecaster kept giving updates about snow conditions with due gravity, and Daddy listened with gravity too, unsmiling, tense. Ben didn’t get it. Snow was all over Christmas cards, it was in every Christmas song (well, the good ones, not the religious ones), it was Christmas. Pictures of Santa Claus everywhere, beaming out at him, standing knee deep in the white stuff. “Do you think we’ll have a white Christmas?” Ben asked. “I shouldn’t have thought so,” said Daddy, “it’s weeks off, I’m sure it’ll have blown over by then. Don’t you worry.” Ben wasn’t worried. “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas,” he sung. It was the only line of the song he knew. “I’ve got the video somewhere,” said Daddy. “White Christmas. Would you like to watch it with me?” “Okay.” “This weekend?” “Okay.” So that Saturday they watched White Christmas together; they cuddled up close on the sofa, Ben liked to do that when they watched telly, in case there were scary bits. There were no scary bits in White Christmas. “Daddy, the song wasn’t in it,” said Ben, at the end. “No,” said Daddy. And then, “I’m sorry,” as if he’d let his son down.
And still the snow fell.
“Can we have a little chat, old chap?” asked Daddy one evening. And he looked serious, even a bit stern, and Ben felt a little scared. “Up here on my knee,” said Daddy, and Ben felt better, he knew up on the knee meant it was going to be all right.
“I know Christmas is going to be a little odd this year,” said Daddy. “Different.”
“I know,” said Ben.
“But I just want you to know. That we’ll have a good Christmas. Don’t you worry. Don’t you worry about that.”
“Okay,” said Ben.
“Do you believe me?”
“Yes,” said Ben.
“The way to look at it,” said Daddy. “Is that you’ll get two Christmases this year. One with me, one with Mum.”
“Yes.”
“Double the fun!”
“We don’t have to. We could still have one together.”
“I’m sorry, old chap.”
“We could talk to Mum about it.”
“I’m sorry, old chap, I don’t think so.”
“Okay.”
“But whatever you want, goes. Whatever else. This will be the best Christmas ever. I promise you. Hey. Hey, look at me. Hey, Ben. Do I ever break my promise?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have I ever broken my promise?”
“No.”
“I do my best. I do my best, you know.”
“Can we have Christmas dinner?” asked Ben.
“Of course we’ll have Christmas dinner!”
“I mean, properly. With turkey. And gravy. And those little sausages.”
“Absolutely we will.”
“The way Mum makes it.”
“I’ll make the very best Christmas dinner I can. You can help me if you want. Turkey and chipolata sausages, roast potatoes. Stuffing, you like stuffing, don’t you?”
“And can we have a Christmas tree?”
Daddy gave him a hug. “There’s no way,” he said, “that a son of mine isn’t going to have the best Christmas tree there is.” And he hugged his son tight, so tight. “Just as soon as the snow eases off, we’ll go and get one. You can help me if you want. You can help, would you like that?”
But the snow didn’t ease off. Still the snow fell.
“Daddy,” said Ben that weekend, “are we going to get a Christmas tree soon? Because all my friends have trees.” “Yes, Ben.” “And Mum’s got one, she’s got her tree.” “I said yes! Yes, Ben. Sorry. Yes. We’ll go and get a tree. We’ll go this afternoon.” So they drove into the town centre in the car. “Look at the speed these people are driving,” said Daddy, “they’re maniacs. In these conditions!” Ben could feel the car slide a little on the road. He thought it was fun. “You’re okay, you’re safe,” said Daddy, and Ben knew he was. They bought a Christmas tree from a man selling them on the pavement outside that cinema that had closed. “Not much left,” the man said, “the best ones are gone.” It’s true, there wasn’t much to pick from; on one or two the pines had half fallen off, and yet the man was still charging thirty-five quid. “That’s scandalous,” said Daddy, and the man just shrugged. “I like this one!” said Ben. “Can we have this one?” The tree was a bit on the stumpy side, and at the top the stem split into two on either side, it looked as if it had a pair of mutant ears. “Look at the ears, Daddy!” laughed Ben. “I’m sure we can find you a better tree than that one, old chap,” said Daddy, “what would your mother say?” “No, I want Big Ears!” said Ben. “Forty-five quid,” said the man, “you’ve got yourself a bargain there,” and he even helped Daddy lug it out to the car, he took one ear and Daddy took the other, “thank you,” he said with a big grin as he pocketed the cash, “and merry Christmas!”
The tree wouldn’t stand up straight in the living room, it lolled to the right like a drunkard. “What we need to do,” said Daddy thoughtfully, “is put all the decorations on the left, to weigh it down a bit.” Ben asked whether they could do the decorations today, and Daddy said of course they could, no time like the present! Where were the decorations kept? Where did Mummy put them? And Ben said he thought Mum might keep them in a cupboard under the stairs. So Daddy went and had a look in the cupboard, he pulled all sorts of things out. “No luck, old chap,” he said, “any other ideas?” Ben thought maybe the tinsel and the fairy lights and the balls were all in the spare bedroom, then, in one of the cupboards there, and Daddy asked him if he knew which cupboard might be most likely, but Ben didn’t. “Okay,” said Daddy. He emptied the contents of each cupboard on to the bed, putting them all back in again neatly before opening another one—it was quite a good system, but after an hour or so he tired of it, and just stuck back everything into any cupboard any which way. “She wouldn’t have taken the decorations with her, would she?” asked Daddy. Ben didn’t know. Daddy went on, “I mean, what would be the point? She has, though. She bloody has.” Daddy tried phoning her; she was out; he didn’t leave a message. Daddy fumed for a bit, “I can’t believe she’d do that,” he said. “To me, yes, okay. But not to her own son.” He phoned her again, and this time left a message that was very terse. “Let’s have some dinner, old chap,” said Daddy to Ben, “there’s nothing for it.” Ben asked whether they were going to decorate the tree, and Daddy looked a bit helpless, and said they’d have to buy some more decorations first—no, they couldn’t go out today, they’d already been out the once—no, look, it was snowing, look at all the snow. Ben ate fish fingers and chips; Daddy had pea and ham soup, he always had soup, he said it was the least bother. Mum phoned back. Daddy listened to what she had to say. “Oh. Right. But we’ve… Right. No, I’ll go and check. Right. Sorry. Thanks for… thanks for calling back.” The decorations were in the cupboard under the stairs after all, Ben had been right the first time; they were all kept within a box for an old vacuum cleaner. They decorated the tree, they got out all the tinsel and the fairy lights and the balls. They put a star on the tip of one of the ears, and an angel on the other. Ben loved it. “Sorry, Ben,” said Daddy.
Still, the snow fell. Ben’s school closed a few days early. “Lucky you!” said Daddy. “I still have to make it into work!” Ben was disappointed, though. There wasn’t much work to be done at school this close to the holidays, and now he’d never find out how that advent calendar would turn out, that had been getting quite exciting.
The Saturday before Christmas Daddy took Ben back out into the snow. “Christmas shopping!” he said. “It’ll be fun!” The snow was falling thick now; each day, it seemed to Ben, a mass of adults outside the window were doing their best to wreck the snow, driving over it and walking on it and turning it to mush—but each night the snow fell again, and by morning had brought back the blanket, unbroken, pure. Ben knew he was as much to blame, though—he loved crunching his footprints into the snow, crunch, crunch. Knowing that within an hour of his doing so fresh flakes would cover up any trace he had ever been there.
“I want you to get a really nice present for your mother,” Daddy said, and gave to Ben more money than he had ever seen. “Can you hold on to that?” Ben could. Ben had no idea what to get Mum, so Daddy and Ben looked around the department stores together.
“What are you going to get Mum?” asked Ben.
“Oh,” said Daddy. “Well. We’ve agreed not to buy each other any presents this year.”
“Oh,” said Ben. “Okay.”
“It’s just easier that way.”
“Okay.”
“We agreed,” chuckled Daddy, “that this way we’d have more money to spend on you, old chap! So you come out of this rather well! It’s all for you!” And then, “Ben, I’m sorry, what is it, what’s wrong?” And Ben said he didn’t want the extra presents, he didn’t want any of this to be his fault. And Daddy hugged him right there, he stooped down and hugged him, and assured him that none of this was anything to do with him. It was adult stuff, just silly adult stuff. “The truth is,” he said, “the reason Mummy and Daddy aren’t buying each other presents… is that we just don’t like each other very much at the moment.” And in spite of himself, Ben brightened at that.
Ben bought his Mum a couple of gift baskets of bubble bath from the Body Shop.
On the bottom level of the department store, on the concourse between a Poundstretcher and a British Home Stores, there was a Santa’s Grotto. Surrounding the grotto was a little garden, decorated with fake snow, and tinsel.
“Would you like to see Santa, Ben?” There was quite a long queue, and an unsmiling woman in a booth was selling tickets.
“No.”
“Oh. Are you sure?”
“I don’t believe in Santa Claus. I didn’t believe in him last year either.” Ben put his head to one side, and considered. “I probably did the year before.”
“What a funny little chap you are.”
“Don’t you remember? You told me. You told me not to tell anyone, in case I spoiled the fun.”
“That’s true,” said Daddy idly, “we mustn’t spoil anyone’s fun. Shall we go home then?”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
The snow was falling in thick clumps. Ben laughed at the sight of it. “Come on, Ben,” said Daddy. “Let’s get to the car.”
“No, Daddy,” said Ben. “Look!”
And he tilted his head back. He opened his mouth, and stuck out his tongue. And the snow rained on him, it rained all over his face—and some of the flakes too, they landed on his tongue. He turned to Daddy. Eyes gleaming. “You try it!”
Daddy nearly said no, he so nearly did. But he too put back his head, the tongue came out, he pulled a funny face. “Gurr,” he said. Ben giggled.
“What does it taste like?” said Ben.
“I don’t know. Water. It doesn’t taste of anything.”
“No,” said Ben. “You’re not trying hard enough.” He caught a few more flakes, and then smacked his lips appreciatively. “Delicious!”
“Delicious!” said Daddy. “Apple pie!”
“Chocolate cake!”
“Ice-cream!”
“Um. Peanuts!”
“Old socks!”
Ben laughed aloud at this one. And they stood there in the car park, as the Christmas shoppers fought their way around them, catching snow on their tongues, and Daddy laughed too. They were both laughing. Ben found Daddy’s hand, just as Daddy was reaching for his.
“It’s going to be a white Christmas, isn’t it?” said Ben.
“Yes,” said Daddy. “Oh God.” He squeezed Ben’s hand a little tighter.
The next day was a Sunday, so that meant Ben got to spend it with his Mum. Some Sundays Richard was there too, some Sundays he wasn’t. This Sunday Richard was there. “Come on,” said Mum. “We’re going Christmas shopping, it’ll be fun!”
Ben had given up asking his mother why she preferred Richard to Daddy. “It’s not as simple as that,” she’d said. “But why, Mummy?” “It’s not something I want to talk about.” “Mummy, why?” And then she’d told him that she didn’t want to be called Mummy any more, he was too old for Mummy now, surely? He wasn’t a baby. She’d rather be called Mum, from now on, Mum. And that had surprised Ben, and he tried to call her Mum ever afterwards. Even if sometimes he forgot.
Richard had a son, but Ben had never met him. He was a few years older. Richard wasn’t going to spend Christmas Day with his son either.
“I want you to buy something for your Dad,” said Mummy. And she gave Ben some money, and he thought it was at least as much as Daddy had given for her present, and he was pleased.
“What shall I get him?” asked Ben.
“That’s up to you, isn’t it?”
Ben was dressed in his warm clothes, thick sweater, thick gloves, stripy scarf. Mum wore a faded fake fur coat Daddy had bought her years ago. As they walked in the town centre snow settled on their hair. “You look like abominable snowmen!” joked Richard. Ben said he was the abominable snowman, but Mum was the abominable snowwoman, and Richard loved that, “Good one, sport. Lisa’s an abominable snowwoman, all right!” Ben didn’t like the way Richard called his Mum Lisa, so easy, as if he somehow owned the name. He called Lisa an abominable snowwoman on and off throughout the day, and Lisa always laughed, long after the time it had stopped being funny.
They shopped together for another couple of hours or so. Mum said, “Richard’s got a treat for you, Ben!” And Richard laughed, and said it was only a little thing. He’d bought Ben a ticket for Santa’s Grotto. Would Ben like to go to Santa’s Grotto? He’d queued all this time to buy a ticket from the unsmiling woman at the booth, and now all Ben had to do was join another queue to see Santa. Would Ben like to see Santa? In Santa’s Grotto?
“No, thank you,” said Ben.
“Oh,” said Richard. “I have already bought the ticket, though.”
“Come on,” said Mum. “You’d like to see Santa, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t believe in Santa.”
“Don’t believe in Santa? But he’s in that grotto over there!” Richard joked.
“You’re going to see Santa,” said Mum. “Richard’s spent all that money.”
“It’s only a little thing,” said Richard, “only seven pounds fifty.”
“Seven pounds fifty! And you didn’t even say thank you!”
“I did say thank you,” said Ben.
Mum marched Ben out of Richard’s earshot—but not so far, Ben thought, that Richard couldn’t hear if he really wanted to. “Now, listen, mister,” she said. “I’ve had enough of this. Sulking all day in front of Richard, when he’s trying, can’t you see how hard he’s trying? Okay, you don’t like him. Tough. Because I do like him. In fact, I love him. So you’d better bloody well get used to him. Because he’s not going anywhere, not if I can help it.” And then she marched him back to where Richard was smiling, still smiling. “What do you say, sport?” he said, holding out the ticket. “Want to see Santa after all?”
The queue to see Santa lasted a good forty-five minutes, and Ben suspected his mother regretted making such a fuss because she’d clearly lost patience after waiting only ten. “What is Santa doing to them in there?” she muttered. Richard joked, “Well, they’re certainly getting their seven pounds fifty’s worth!” At last an elf took Ben away; Mum and Richard waved as he went.
Santa Claus was too young, and he wore padded clothes and a stuck-on beard. “Ho ho ho!” he said.
“Hi,” said Ben.
“Want to sit on my knee?”
Ben shrugged, and did. He perched there a little precariously, and Santa wasn’t allowed to hold him fast the way his Daddy could.
“What do you want for Christmas?” asked Santa.
“Nothing.”
“Come on. You must want something. What’s your favourite toy?”
Ben shrugged again.
“Do you want an action figure?”
“No.”
“A computer game?”
“No.”
“An—I don’t know—what do you call them, one of those Lego things? Come on, kid, help me out here.”
Ben couldn’t get what he really wanted, and certainly not from a man in a shopping centre. He’d tried asking Jesus for it, and he hadn’t believed in Jesus for years, but he’d asked him anyway. “If you fix this,” he’d said, “if you can just make them love each other again, I’ll believe in you. I’ll go right on believing in you.” But Jesus hadn’t listened. Not even when he’d offered the deal. “If you make them love each other,” and Ben had hesitated over this, then just—hell with it—gone straight ahead and said it, “they don’t even have to love me. They don’t have to love me. It’s okay. I’ll be okay.” But Jesus hadn’t done a thing, he didn’t exist, and nor did Santa Claus, it was all such rubbish, it was shit.
“A bike?” said Santa Claus. Now a little desperate. “How about a bike?”
And actually, a bike didn’t sound so bad. “Yeah, go on then, a bike.”
“Great,” said Santa. “Merry Christmas!” And gave him a present from his sack, something small and square and in shiny paper, that very definitely wasn’t one. When Ben came out of the grotto, his Mum and Richard were talking closely, and giggling. “Oh, there you are,” said Mum. “That was quick!”
It was agreed that Ben would spend the night at his Mum’s; now school was finished, he could be simply dropped back to Daddy’s later the next day. Christmas Day with his father, Boxing Day with his mother and Richard, then New Year’s Eve with his mother and Richard, New Year’s Day with his Daddy. That was the plan, it was a good plan, everyone was happy with that. “Let’s get home,” said Mum, meaning her home, although her house still didn’t feel like home to Ben, it had the wrong smell, it had the smell of visiting all over it. Richard settled down in front of the television, Mum made herself and Richard a cup of tea. “What would you like to do?” she asked Ben.
Ben didn’t know.
“How about writing a letter to Santa? It’s not too late to reach the Pole, not if we get it to the post box quick!”
Ben said he didn’t believe in Santa any more.
“I used to help you to write letters to Santa. Do you remember? Every Christmas?” He did remember, actually, but he wasn’t going to admit to it. She looked at him, for a moment she looked almost afraid of him—a very adult sort of afraid, the afraid that comes when you simply don’t know what to say any more. “I love you, Ben. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I love you very much.”
“Yes.”
“All right then.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll fix you some dinner. All right. Something nice and warm. And then we’re going to sit down, just the two of us, and write a letter to Santa.”
“Oh, Mum…”
“Just the two of us, no Richard, all right?”
“But, Mum…”
“No buts. What would you like Santa to bring you?”
“A bike,” said Ben.
“All right then,” she said. “A bike, that’s what we’ll say.”
They had dinner that evening, all three of them, and Richard made jokes, and then they watched television, like a family. And Ben was pleased his Mum forgot all about the letter to Santa Claus, though he supposed he wouldn’t have minded writing one with her really, not if it made her happy.
And still—the snow fell.
Only a few months after they were married, David and Lisa Noakes bought themselves a small house in South London. It was ideally situated. It was just a street away from an underground station, they could be in the city within half an hour. There were lots of local shops nearby, even a little supermarket on the corner. And in walking distance there was a school. “That might be handy,” said David, “you know, just in case you still want to have any kids.” David was still a little shy of marriage, he still couldn’t quite believe Lisa had agreed to become his wife in the first place. “Of course I still want kids!” laughed Lisa. “Silly!” And she kissed him, and he hugged her, and they put a down payment on the mortgage, and that was that.
It was a few years, however, before David and Lisa got around to having that kid. And by then the house wasn’t as ideally situated as it had been. The little supermarket had closed down, but nothing had come along to replace it. And Lisa didn’t like the other local shops, they were either too expensive, or she got funny looks in there, she said, after one funny look she refused to step inside one particular newsagent’s for years. However convenient the underground station, it was also very noisy, and it seemed to attract drunken youths at weekends, they gathered around it at all times of night shouting and flinging bottles. Lisa wondered whether they shouldn’t move. “At least there’s the school,” said David. Lisa agreed; but it wasn’t an especially good school. And David said yes, they really ought to give young Ben the best start in life they could. But they didn’t move.
Or, at least, David and Ben didn’t.
Step outside David and Ben’s semi-detached, and you’d see: cars, all piled up high on the kerbs. The offending newsagent’s. A unisex hairdressing salon. A skip, placed down the road months ago, it now seemed to be a permanent fixture. An off licence. Houses crammed tight together in both directions, as far as the eye could see.
What you wouldn’t normally see would be a forest. Surrounding the house entirely, as if this thing of bricks and glass were some strange alien imposition upon a landscape so wild that all the trees looked animal, somehow, angry and untamed: the branches jutting out at any angles they wanted to, no matter how sharp, no matter how impossible: the very bark bulged. There was no checking these trees, they were the kings here—and yet they seemed to defer to something, because they still shied away from a natural path, and flanked it on both sides. A winding path that stretched on into the distance.
Ben, bundled up in his warmest sweater and warmest gloves and stripy scarf, was surprised to see the forest there. But Santa wasn’t surprised, this was clearly what he’d been expecting. And the look on Daddy’s face wasn’t surprise either. He looked tense, a little resigned maybe, but there was nothing there to suggest he hadn’t been expecting this as much as Santa. So Ben decided not to be surprised either.
“Come on, Ben,” said Santa. “Let’s get these stabilisers on your bike. Just until you get your balance!” They clipped right on. “All right, you’re set to go!”
“Are you still sure you want to ride the bike, Ben?” asked Daddy.
“Would you push me, Daddy?”
“… Of course I will.”
“You don’t need to push him,” said Santa. “He’s got stabilisers.”
“I’ll push my son’s bike if he wants me to.”
“No, it’s okay, Daddy. I forgot, the stabilisers will take care of it.”
“Oh. Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. This is fun. Look at me! I’m riding a bike!”
“Are we walking far?” Daddy asked Santa.
Santa shrugged. Maybe he was being unhelpful. Maybe he just didn’t know.
And off they set, crunching the snow down the path the trees had left them. The two men, and the little boy on his bike, sometimes racing ahead excitedly, sometimes ringing them. “Try to walk where I walk,” Santa told Daddy.
“Why, is the ground slippery?”
“No. But let’s not leave more footprints than we have to. Let’s not spoil the beauty of this.” And it was easy for Daddy to do that, Santa’s footprints were so big. Daddy looked behind from time to time, and soon he couldn’t see the house, only that single pair of footprints, and the thin grooves where Ben’s tyres had cut into the snow. And as the snow fell more heavily, he soon couldn’t even see those. All around them was the snow, now a blinding white, Daddy and Ben had to shield their eyes from the glare. Santa put on a pair of sunglasses. “Here,” he said, and handed Daddy and Ben sunglasses too.
Neither Daddy nor Santa spoke for another hour. On they both trudged, faces grim—except once in a while Santa would catch Ben’s eye, and give him a friendly wink. As if to say, this is only a game! Don’t let on! And Ben would wink back, when he was sure his Daddy couldn’t see. The snow continued to fall, but there was no wind to disturb the silence. “Please,” said Daddy at last. He said it so softly, but it broke right through that silence—and Ben and Santa both stopped, turned to look at him.
“Please,” he said again.
“No,” said Santa. Not unkindly. But firm.
“But I’m all he’s got.”
“He’s got his mother.”
“His mother and I… it’s difficult… we might sort things out one day, I don’t…” Santa watched Daddy sympathetically. Ben looked away, suddenly embarrassed. “I’ve tried so hard to hold on to him,” said Daddy.
“I know,” said Santa.
“How do you know?”
“I can tell.”
“Daddy, it’s okay,” said Ben.
“I’ve tried so hard,” said Daddy.
“I know. Daddy.”
“I know. I can tell. We can both tell, can’t we, Ben?”
“I’m not going a step further,” said Daddy.
“Now, come on,” said Santa. “None of that. Chop chop!”
“Daddy, don’t,” said Ben. Don’t what? Spoil the fun for the rest of us?
“Why the bloody hell did you write him a letter, Ben?” said Daddy. He wasn’t shouting, not really, but it still seemed awfully loud in the still of that forest. “He wouldn’t have come if you hadn’t written.”
“I didn’t write to him.”
From his pocket Santa took a letter. He handed it to Ben’s Daddy. Daddy recognised the handwriting, and it wasn’t Ben’s. And he slumped, it seemed he suddenly got very tired. He handed the letter back to Santa.
“Okay,” said Daddy.
“We can walk on?” asked Santa.
“Okay,” said Daddy.
And on they walked.
Soon Ben couldn’t ride his bike through the ever thickening snow, he had to push it. “Walk where I walk,” said Daddy. “Why?” “You know. What he said. The beauty of it all. Let’s keep the beauty of it all.” Ben tilted his head back at one point. “Look, Daddy!” he said, and caught the snowflakes on his tongue. “You do it too.”
Daddy stopped. Daddy caught snowflakes on his tongue too. Santa stopped too, but he didn’t try to force the pace, he looked indulgent, smiled at them both, he looked like Santa on a Christmas card.
“Delicious!” said Ben.
“What do you taste?”
“Chocolate cake,” said Ben.
“Marzipan,” said Daddy.
“Apple pie!”
“I can fix that for you,” said Santa. And he did, with just one snap of his fingers. “There,” he said. And the snow that melted in their mouths tasted of pies, of cakes, of hot fudge, all sweet and creamy. “No,” said Daddy, gently. “This is our moment. This is ours.” And Santa nodded, a little ashamed, and the snow went back to tasting of bland water. Daddy and Ben held hands and drank the snowflakes until they could drink no more. Then, with just a glance shared, they both agreed to walk on—Daddy’s feet dwarfed in Santa’s footprints, Ben’s dwarfed in his Daddy’s.
“Not much further now,” said Santa, kindly.
The sleigh was a bit rusted. It had seen better days. So too had the reindeer. They huddled together for warmth. On seeing their master return, the fitter of the pack tried to stand to attention. “No, no, at ease, boys,” and the reindeer relaxed into their harnesses gratefully.
“Well, then,” said Santa to Daddy, awkwardly.
“Well,” said Daddy.
There was quiet for a few seconds. “You needn’t look at me like that,” said Santa. “I gave you a good toy, didn’t I? I only ever give the best toys.”
“I don’t remember what it was.”
“It was probably a bike. I give a lot of bikes.”
“No, it wasn’t a bike.”
“Let’s just say it was a bike,” said Santa.
Daddy thought about that. “Okay,” he said.
“I remember your little face lighting up when you got it,” said Santa. “That’s always the best bit. Watching the faces light up.” And Ben was surprised to see that Santa was crying.
Daddy gave Ben a hug. “I tried very hard,” he said. “I tried my hardest.”
And Ben now knew he should have been pleading for his father. But he’d been too busy riding his bike, spinning about, cutting those grooves into the snow. He’d been too busy for months, going to school, eating his fish fingers, pretending it was all okay, that it was all going to be okay. And it was now too late for him to plead. “Will I see my Daddy again?” Ben asked Santa.
Santa looked genuinely surprised that he’d asked. “Oh,” he said. “Maybe. But never like this. Never again like this.”
One more hug. “That’s nice,” said Santa Claus. “Strip.”
Daddy had put on all his warmest clothes—two layers!—so it took him a while. He made a pile on the ground, sweaters, shirt, vest, then shoes, then trousers, underpants. He remembered the sunglasses, actually snorted in amusement he’d done so, put them on the pile, squinting at the bright white. The last clothes he took off were his socks; he could now delay it no longer, and Daddy winced as his bare feet now sank deep into the snow.
Ben wasn’t sure he’d seen his father naked before. He looked so fragile. Daddy clapped his arms around his sides to keep warm, but soon stopped, there wasn’t any point. He stood there, shivering, his balls fluffed up with hairs standing on end, his willy shrunk to a cork. He looked so young. Ben had never thought of his Daddy being young before.
“It won’t take long, I promise,” said Santa.
And sure enough, the feet were already hooves, better protection against the cold, and Ben could see Daddy sigh gratefully for that. The hide stole over his body, thick and strong, not strong enough, maybe, not in this weather, it could freeze your blood—but warmer than his man skin, that was a comfort at any rate. He pitched forwards when his hands became hooves as well; his head bowed down beneath antler weight.
“That’s it,” said Santa. “There you are. You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.” He smiled at Ben. “Isn’t he beautiful?” And Ben couldn’t deny it.
Santa turned to the other reindeer. “This is your new brother!” he said. They were too weary to do much more than shrug their heads, non-committal. “You all try so hard for me,” he said. “For me, you fly the skies. You’re the best.” He stroked their heads, one by one. He reached one near the back. “And you, you’re so very tired, aren’t you? Such a long journey. So many long journeys. But you’ve always tried so hard.” The reindeer turned its human eyes to Santa, and nuzzled his hand. Santa laughed. “Thank you. Thank you. I love you.” And so tenderly, he caressed its head. And broke its neck.
In that silence the snap of bone sounded louder than it probably was. It had been such a gentle twist, really, and so quick, the reindeer wouldn’t have felt a thing. But it couldn’t have been that gentle—one of the bones had ripped through the skin (“rip it open, rip it apart!”), Ben could see it jutting out, sharp and white. The harness kept the reindeer in place, slumped in death as it was; when Santa released it, the body fell to the ground. The snow that caught it was so soft.
Santa harnessed his new reindeer into place.
“I’ll give you the bike back,” said Ben.
Santa stopped.
“I want my Daddy,” said Ben.
He hoped he sounded bold and defiant. He hoped he wasn’t crying.
Santa stroked his beard.
“So, what’s the deal here?” he said. “You give me the bike back, I give you back your father? And we’re quits? Fair exchange, no robbery?”
“Yes,” said Ben.
“And what, I give the bike to some other kid instead?”
“Yes,” said Ben.
“Interesting,” said Santa.
He went to the bicycle. Looked it over thoughtfully. Ran his finger critically over the frame.
“But see, here’s the problem,” said Santa. “It’s been used. Hasn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Ben.
“You’ve been riding it in the snow. Your choice. Remember, your choice.”
“Yes,” Ben breathed.
“I only give the best toys. Nothing second hand.”
“I know,” said Ben.
“Well then,” said Santa Claus. And gave him a grin that was meant to be reassuring. Ben saw that the teeth were somehow still stained green with pea and ham soup.
Santa got into his sleigh. “You’ll be all right,” he said. “Your mother loves you very much. It moved me, how much. And I’ll be seeing you again. Whenever there’s a white Christmas.” He gave the reins a single flick. “Yee-hah, git!” he said. “On, Donner and Blitzen! Come on, chop chop!” And off he flew into the night sky, so fast that Ben’s eyes couldn’t follow him.
And this is how the story could end. With a little boy lost. By his side a used bicycle, and a dead reindeer whose blood was now staining the white snow red.
Ben wheeled his bike home. It didn’t take long. The forest was gone; there was the underground station, though. There were no youths outside it now, the trains didn’t run on Christmas Day. He had to cross the road, and looked left, then right, then left again, just as his Daddy had taught him. He took the bicycle indoors. He went to bed.
The next morning Ben went down to the kitchen. His Daddy was sitting there, eating a bowl of cornflakes. Ben yelped, gave him a hug. “Not now, Ben, I’m having breakfast. Pull up a chair, you have your breakfast too.” Ben poured himself some cornflakes. They ate together. “After breakfast, we can open our presents,” said Daddy. “Yeah!” said Ben, “happy Christmas!” “Happy Christmas,” said Daddy.
In the hallway Daddy saw Ben’s new bike, propped up against the front door. It had dripped melted snow on to the carpet. Daddy looked at Ben, then tutted, just the once. Then without a word he picked up the bicycle and carried it to the back door, put it out into the garden.
Christmas Day was fine. Really, fine. The presents were fine. Ben opened his presents, taking them from beneath the lopsided tree with the ears. He’d got lots of toys, and a book about boats. (“You like boats, don’t you?” said Daddy. “Yes,” said Ben.) Daddy liked his present from Ben, a range of male toiletries from the Body Shop. “Thanks.” Ben wanted to tell him that Mum had bought it for him mostly, it was Mum he should thank, but he knew somehow it wouldn’t be the right thing to say. “I’ll go and make dinner,” said Daddy at last. “Can I help?” “No,” said Daddy, “play with your toys, read about boats.” The dinner was fine. The gravy was more solid than liquid, and the turkey was too dry. But the stuffing and the chipolata sausages were great. “They’re the best bits anyway,” said Daddy, and Ben readily agreed. After dinner, they watched television, they watched Doctor Who and then Eastenders. Ben cuddled up to his father. “Not too close, Ben, you’re being too clingy,” said Daddy. So Ben got off the sofa, and played with his toys a bit more, read a bit more of his boat book. “Time for bed,” said Daddy.
Daddy tucked Ben in to bed. “I promised you the best Christmas ever,” he said.
“Yes.”
“That wasn’t it.”
“No.”
“But it was okay, wasn’t it?”
“It was okay.”
On Boxing Day Mum came to pick up Ben bright and early. “Merry Christmas!” she said when Ben opened the front door to her, and gave him a huge hug. “Dave, I know we’d agreed I’d bring him back tomorrow morning, but would the afternoon…” “That’s fine,” Dave interrupted.
Richard didn’t come to the front door, he was waiting in the car. He never came to the door. “Merry Christmas!” he said to Ben. He was wearing a Santa hat, he looked like a cretin. Ben opened lots of presents, he got lots of toys. Richard had bought him a present too. “I hope you like this, sport,” he’d said, and looked really rather nervous as Ben unwrapped it. Ben had already decided not to like it, but it was actually pretty good—it wasn’t his best toy, but it was definitely in the top five, it was good. They all had Christmas dinner, and that was lovely—“Delicious!” said Ben—and they all pulled crackers—Daddy had forgotten the crackers!—and they all put on paper hats, even Richard put on a paper hat, he put it over the top of his Santa hat, and he looked even more like a cretin than before, but it still made Ben laugh. They all played some board games. Ben won the first two, Richard won one—“I’m catching up with you now!” he joked, and picked up the dice, “fancy another?” “I’m rubbish at games,” said Mum, “I just don’t have the right sort of brain! I never win anything!” And Richard kissed her, and Ben didn’t mind much.
On New Year’s Eve, Richard was wearing the Santa hat again. Ben wondered if he’d ever taken it off. Mum let Ben stay up til midnight, and have a sip of champagne. “But don’t tell your father,” she said, “your father will kill me,” and Ben promised. They sang Auld Lang Syne, and did the arm crossing thing, even though Richard got it wrong, Ben thought he got it wrong deliberately, but it was a bit funny. “Happy New Year, darling,” said Richard to Lisa. “Can’t be worse than the old one,” Lisa replied.
The snow stopped falling. The snow melted.
Ben had bad dreams. And one night in February, as lay in bed, he suddenly got it into his head that he was all alone in the house. His Daddy wasn’t there any more. Anybody could come into his bedroom and get him, and Daddy wouldn’t be there to stop them. He got up. He listened at his father’s door for any reassuring sounds of snoring. He couldn’t hear anything. He began to cry, but as quietly as he could—and then he went downstairs, walking only at the sides to avoid the creaks. All so that he wouldn’t wake Daddy, he mustn’t wake Daddy, and it was ridiculous, because Daddy wasn’t there to be woken, was he? He wanted to scream out his name. But he was terrified to hear his own voice that loud in the dark, he was terrified that his Daddy wouldn’t answer. The door to Daddy’s study was shut. Ben pushed it open.
His Daddy sat by the computer, completely naked. Ben didn’t think he’d ever seen his Daddy naked before, he wasn’t sure.
It took a moment for Daddy to realise his son was standing there, and then his face flushed. “Ben! Can’t you knock?”
“I can’t sleep…”
“Go to bed!”
“I can’t sleep!”
“Go to bed, I’ll be upstairs in a moment! Go to bed this instant!”
And Ben ran back to his room. By the time Daddy joined him, he’d found time to put some trousers on. Daddy was still a bit angry, but he’d calmed down. “You can’t just go opening doors,” he said. “It’s just not on, is it? What’s the matter?”
“I can’t sleep,” said Ben. “I’m frightened.”
Daddy sighed. “Well, think of something happy.”
“I can’t.”
“Of course you can. Don’t be ridiculous.”
Ben nodded. “Okay, I’ll try.”
“Good boy.”
“Daddy, on Christmas Eve…” And it was hard to tell in the darkened room, but Daddy seemed to stiffen at that. “I’m sorry,” said Ben. “I’m sorry about… I’m sorry.”
Daddy didn’t say anything for a long while. And Ben wanted to go on. He wanted to say he’d betrayed his father, that was why he’d lost him. And he wanted him back. And he wished Daddy would call him ‘old chap’ again; he did it once in a while, but only without thinking, and then Daddy would look guilty as if he’d been caught in a lie.
But Ben had said too much as it was, he knew it, far too much. Daddy said at last, “Go to sleep.” And so Ben did.
It was wholly a coincidence that only two weeks later Daddy told Ben he had something serious to discuss with him. He sat stern behind the kitchen table, and Ben wished he’d invite him on to his knee, he could take anything he said if it were knee-given. “You like Uncle Richard, don’t you?” Daddy and Mummy had been talking, and it seemed only fair that Mummy got to live with Ben for a while. Instead, even. And the schools were better in Mummy’s area, it was more practical. So.
Ben was confused, he couldn’t work out who’d betrayed whom any more. “You still love me, don’t you?” asked Ben. “Of course I love you, you’re my son,” said Daddy. And he could have left it like that, but he didn’t, he didn’t, he said, “But I just can’t reach you any more.”
Ben still visited his Dad most Sundays. One day Daddy said, “I’ve found a girlfriend. Her name’s Rachel.” Ben asked if he had to meet Rachel, and Daddy looked a bit awkward, and said not yet, Rachel didn’t like children very much. And Ben was glad. “But I’ve got a picture of her on the computer, would you like to see?” Daddy was posing with his arms around a woman, and they were both smiling, but it seemed to Ben Daddy was smiling too wide, the way he smiled whenever he saw Mum on the doorstep. Rachel looked very young. Daddy looked old. Ben had never thought of his Daddy being old before.
“Let’s get those stabilisers off!” laughed Richard. “You’re not a baby any more!” He took Ben to the park, and there they practised balancing on the bike. “It’s all a question of not wobbling,” said Richard. Richard held the back of his saddle for a while, and then it took Ben a few seconds to realise he’d let go, that Ben was riding the bike, he was doing it all by himself. “Yeah!” said Ben. “Yeah, you did it!” said Richard. Richard said he’d taught his own son to ride a bike a few years ago; Ben had met him now, but he didn’t have anything to say to him, Justin was fourteen, what was there to say to someone so old? “We did it!” said Richard. “Didn’t we? Give me a hug.” So Ben did. “You’ll be able to ride that bike everywhere now!” said Richard. Ben agreed. But he didn’t ride the bike much after that, it’d been more fun with the stabilisers.
Richard and his Mum never got around to marrying. Which meant it was much smoother altogether when Richard dumped her for someone else. Ben listened to his Mum cry over the phone at his university halls. “I’ve tried so hard, Ben,” she said. “But he just didn’t try at all.” “He just didn’t love you enough,” said Ben. He played with the phone wires. He hated these phone calls with his mother, he never knew what to say. “You’ll find someone else,” Ben went on, “you deserve someone better, Lisa.” “I don’t want anyone else,” said Lisa. “Okay.” “I want Richard, don’t I?” “Okay. Well, then.” “You’re a good boy, Ben.” “Okay. I’ve got to get off the phone soon, there’s a queue.” “I wish you would call me Mum.”
Ben invited his father to his graduation ceremony, but he wasn’t able to make it. Four years later, when he married Sophie, he invited him to the wedding. Daddy did make that one. But Ben didn’t put him up on top table with his mother, he put him on table twelve with some of the minor guests. If his father were offended, he didn’t show it. After the reception, before Daddy drove home alone, he found Ben. He shook Ben by the hand. “Well done,” he said. “Thanks for coming,” said Ben.
Right from the beginning Ben and Sophie had discussed children. “I don’t want any,” said Sophie. “Nor do I,” said Ben. “I’m not sure what I’d say to one!” Sophie laughed, and agreed—better to get a cat instead. When Sophie turned forty, she told Ben she was leaving him. She’d found someone else, someone she thought she could mother babies for. “It’s not you,” she said, “it’s my biological clock ticking.” Ben had thought for some time that maybe the cats weren’t enough, that maybe cracking out a baby or two wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all. But he really hadn’t wanted to pressure Sophie with his doubts, he’d kept them to himself. He told her at last how he felt. She looked torn, genuinely torn. “But I’ve already found a new boyfriend and everything,” she said, and left.
He and his father sent Christmas cards to each other, and on Christmas Day itself Ben would always phone. One year he forgot to send the card, and apologised for that during the annual call. “Oh, don’t worry,” said Daddy, “I don’t like Christmas cards anyway!” Ben laughed; nor did he; they agreed they were a waste of money; they never bothered sending any to each other ever again. Pretty soon after that the phone calls dried up as well. “I love you, Dad,” said Ben, quite unexpectedly that last year. There was a baffled silence on the other end, and then Daddy said, “And I love you too.” But still, the phone calls dried up.
His mother died first, and Ben thought that was wrong, it should have been his Dad, it should have been the other way round. He knew it was a cruel thing to think, but that didn’t stop it from being just what he felt.
The weather reports said there was going to be a cold snap. But Ben was prepared. The snow began to fall, and the experts said it wouldn’t settle, but it did settle; then they said it wouldn’t last, and it did. People began to talk about the possibility of a white Christmas. London hadn’t had a white Christmas in over forty years. Probably global warming was to blame.
Christmas Eve. When Ben looked out of his window, he saw the usual view, a building site and Budgen’s. If he opened the front door, he saw a forest. He went to the kitchen. He took out some mince pies. He took out some soup, too. Then he went to the living room, sat on the sofa, and waited for midnight.
Midnight came, and midnight went. Ben got bored. He turned on his television. White Christmas was playing. A part of the TV schedules for a hundred years, and still going strong. Ben couldn’t concentrate on it, switched it off. He let himself doze for a bit. He found he could doze quite easily, now he had no one to talk to.
One in the morning. Then two.
Ben sighed heavily.
He put on all his warmest clothes. Sweater, gloves. Not a scarf, though. Scarves made his neck get scratchy, and he’d long ago realised the joy of being an adult is that no-one can make you wear scarves if you don’t want to.
He went out into the cold. He walked through those animal trees, down that winding path, crunching through the snow. Half a mile along he realised he’d forgotten to bring sunglasses, he’d forgotten how bright the white was. He considered going back to fetch them. Then, “Oh sod it,” he said, out loud, and marched onwards.
Eventually he found Santa Claus. Santa was leaning, winded, against a tree. “I’ve been waiting for ages,” said Ben.
“Yes. Sorry. I’m a bit… oof… I’m a bit out of puff.” Santa Claus looked old and cold. “It’s so hard to keep going, Ben,” he said. “They don’t believe any more. They don’t believe in anything.”
“Come on,” said Ben. “Rest on me.” And he took Santa by the arm, and gratefully Santa leaned into him. And together they hobbled onwards down the path, back the way Santa had come.
They didn’t talk for all those hours. Except for just the once. When Ben asked, “How much further?” and Santa replied, “I don’t know. I’ve never known.” And then added, as an afterthought, and it didn’t seem connected at all, “I tried so hard. I tried so hard.”
At last they reached the sleigh and the reindeer.
“Well, then,” said Santa.
“Well.”
And then nothing. “Oh, for God’s sake,” said Ben impatiently. And he began to strip.
He made a pile of clothes on the forest floor. He took off his socks last, and his feet burned against the ice. He liked that. He wanted them to burn.
“And now you,” he said to Santa.
For a moment Santa looked surprised. And then there was the flutter of a smile, gone in an instant; it might have been nothing more than a grimace against the falling snow. Santa took off his big red coat, his great black boots. He took off his beard. The beard was fake, it had always been fake.
And there both men stood shivering in the snow. Ben looked Santa over, and Santa gave an apologetic smile, acknowledging the poor figure he cut. He wasn’t fat any more. He looked as if he hadn’t been fed in weeks. Ben could see Santa’s ribs pushing underneath his skin, and that in the cold the ribs were turning blue.
Ben put on Santa’s suit. He put on the beard.
Santa licked his lips. “Are you going to break my neck?” he asked. But Ben told him to get dressed. Into all the warmest clothes Ben had, Santa was too thin for them, they hung baggy, he looked as if he were drowning in them.
“Go home,” said Ben. “There’s mince pies waiting. And hot soup. Go home, into the warm.” And the man who had been Santa Claus nodded, and without saying another word, turned and went.
Ben inspected his reindeer. One of them nuzzled at his hand, turned to him with those all too human eyes. And Ben didn’t know for sure, but he believed. That his father had been with Santa all the time. That he’d once betrayed him, but now he’d won him back. That they’d been lost, both of them—but were now found.
And the snow continued to fall.