Page 54 of A Not So Quiet Christmas
Thrown back to when I was young, I recalled all the library visits mum and I had made. Books took me to imaginary places inhabited by the most wonderful of characters. I’d have lived amongst those library shelves if I could. Sometimes mum would read the stories to me, but mostly I’d lose myself in page after page of enchanted fairy tales. Glancing around this place, it was as if I’d landed in one of my childhood reads.
Oliver took my hand in his and as we began walking, I couldn’t stop smiling. We followed the path through the forest, until we came to another door. “What now?” I asked, intrigued.
“We knock,” Oliver said.
He rapped hard on the wood and after a moment the door slowly opened as if by itself and, leaving the trees behind, we entered the most opulent room I’d ever seen. Large traditional tapestry rugs covered its old wooden floor and while rich timber panelling adorned its lower walls, numerous old paintings and portraits hung above. Raising my gaze, I couldn’t help but admire the original plaster cornicing that framed the ceiling, and I marvelled at the enormous ornate chandelier that lit up the room from a carved central rose. “This is beautiful,” I said.
My gaze turned to the open fire that danced in an Adam style fireplace. A high-backed armchair with a side table positioned next to it faced the flames and being so wrapped up in the grandeur of the room, it took me a moment to realise a figure was seated enjoying the warmth. I turned to Oliver, hoping that wasn’t who I thought it was. “Please tell me that’s not…”
“Father Christmas?” Oliver said, interrupting. “Oh, yes.” His smile grew, as if a pretend Santa’s presence was a good thing.
The seated figure rose to his feet. “It seems I have visitors,” he said. His voice boomed. He was taking his role very seriously.
I couldn’t deny he looked every bit the part. He was tall and well-built, and a wreath made from berries, leaves and twigs sat on his head of thick white hair. His beard, also pure white, reached his chest, and he wore a long grey coat just like the travelling Santa that hung from the tree at Number 3, Bluebell Row. Under that, I saw a golden tunic, while his red trousers were tucked into black boots. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have sworn I was looking at the real thing.
Santa threw his arms out. “Merry Christmas,” he said, his voice bellowing again. “Come.” He turned the armchair round, while Oliver rummaged in his pocket and produced his mobile phone.
I looked from Oliver to Santa Claus, my eyes widening in horror as the latter sat down and tapped his knee. Surely no one really expected me to take part in a photo opportunity.
Oliver held up his camera in readiness, while I looked from one man to the other once more. Taking in their expectant expressions it seemed, yes, they blooming well did.
