A piece of flash fiction fun, written for
Bare Books podcast and aired on Christmas Day
One minute past midnight.
Christmas Day.
Barry nudges his wife. “You ready, Cheryl?”
No answer. Snoring gently, Cheryl is fast asleep.
“Oh well,” says Barry. “Looks like it’s up to me. As usual.”
Reluctantly, he gets out of the warm bed, pulls on his dressing gown and makes his way downstairs. In the living room, he retrieves the gaily wrapped Christmas parcels from a high cupboard. He and Cheryl haven’t gone mad this year. Their three-year-old twins, Petal and Peter, have only a hazy idea of what Christmas is all about, anyway, and things have been tight since Barry lost his job.
The Christmas tree twinkles brightly, their one bit of extra expense as the twins love to watch the lights flash on and off. He arranges the parcels, smiling as he envisages the twins’ faces as their little fingers rip the wrapping paper off the carefully selected toys..
In the kitchen, he fills a glass with milk, places a mince pie on a plate and finds a carrot in the vegetable rack for Rudolph. He doesn’t see the sense of doing this, as the twins are so small, but Cheryl is insistent that they begin building traditions immediately.
“We don’t even have a chimney,” he mutters to himself as he looks around the living room searching for a place to leave Santa his goodies. He settles on a small table and then, yawning, hugely, he turns to retrace the steps upstairs.
“Nice tree,” says a voice behind him – a deep voice that rumbles gently through the room – and he freezes.
A few seconds pass with no sound and he tells himself, “Overtired, or else those pickled onions.”
He reaches for the door knob and the voice says, “Could do with a few more lights, though.”
Slowly, very slowly, Barry turns … and looks up into the face of – no, he definitely is overtired. He is not looking at Santa Claus. This is not happening. He closes his eyes tightly, waits a few seconds and opens them again. Santa Claus is still there, resplendent in red velvet, white fur and a hat with a bell that jingles softly.
“You’re not here.” Barry speaks firmly. Whatever is happening, he’s not having it. “It was the pickled onions, that’s all. You do not exist.”
Santa Claus smiles, just a smile, not the hearty chuckle one would expect from the spirit of Christmas, and sits down on the sofa, its springs protesting beneath his considerable weight. “That’s better,” he says. “It’s been non-stop for nine months. I don’t suppose you’ve got a drink?”
“A drink?” stutters Barry. “Er, yes, a glass of milk? Mince pie?”
“God, no. I’m lactose intolerant. Everybody leaves milk and I have to drink it. The rules, you know. And don’t even get me started on how Rudolph suffers after eating all those carrots.”
“A beer?” suggests Barry.
“As long as it’s not that alcohol free rubbish.”
Two minutes later, Barry finds himself sitting beside his strange guest, each with a freshly opened beer.
“I see you’ve gone easy on the presents this year,” Santa observes. “I wish everybody would do the same. My job would be a lot easier.”
“Well, yes, er –” Barry flounders. “What am I supposed to call you?”
“Nigel, Nige, for short if you like.”
“Nigel. Right.” Barry wonders briefly if he’s lost his mind, sitting here talking to a figment of his own imagination, but he can taste the cold beer and his toes are growing cold as the room slowly cools. He gulps his beer and continues, “As it happens, I got laid off a couple of months ago so…” His voice tails off.
“I wish I’d known.” Nigel chucks his empty beer can on the floor and waits while Barry fetches him another one. “I could’ve done with a bit of extra help this year. This new wage increase means I had to lay off a couple of elves. I’d have paid you in toys and maybe a little something for Cheryl.”
“Yeah, the budget was a stinker this year,” says Barry, finishing his own beer and exploding into laughter, bubbles shooting down his nose. This is not happening. He’s not sitting here discussing economics with Santa Claus, or Nigel, or whoever he is.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got a cigarette?” Nigel asks hopefully.
“No, Cheryl made me give them up, said it was bad for my health.”
“Tell me about it. I’ve not had a ciggy since 1894.”
Nige looks at a sparkly watch, pinned to his red coat. “Go on, just one more, and then I’d better get off. I should have been over the Isle of Man by now.”
As they sink their final beers, Nigel belches and the Christmas tree shivers in the shockwaves.
Barry glances at the mince pie, gets to his feet and walks to the table. “You’d better have something to eat,” he says. “Soak up the beer.” He picks up the plate but, when he turns back, Nigel is gone, leaving only an indentation of gigantic proportions on the sofa cushion.
“Nigel?” Barry rubs his eyes and looks round the empty room before laughing self consciously. “What a weird dream,” he mutters, turning off the Christmas tree lights and making his way back to bed.
Christmas morning is bright and clear. Cheryl and Barry creep downstairs for a quick coffee before the twins wake up.
“What’s this?” Cheryl calls from the living room.
Barry joins her and stares down at the litter of beer cans surrounding the sofa.
“I, uh …” A smile spreads over his face, broad enough to make his jaw ache. “Sorry, love. My mate, Nigel, came round for a few bevvies after you went to bed. I’ll clear it up.”
“See you do.” As she leaves the room, Cheryl turns on the Christmas tree lights and Barry breathes in sharply.
“Thanks, Nige,” he says as the increased number of lights blaze across the room. “Merry Christmas.”
JJ Grafton 