Page 71 of The Twelve Days of Christian
The trousers tailored to Ollie’s lanky frame pool a little over my feet, but not so much they’ll trip me. Just as well—we don’t want Santa going down. The leather toes of my boots peeking out beneath the scarlet fabric actually look quite good, almost what the real Santa might choose for leaping in and out of a sleigh and clomping across rooftops.
I’m not sure the cabbie is so impressed when, after opening the door and ushering Haley into one side, I heave my bulky body into the other. He surveys me in the rear-view mirror with a shake of his head, a dramatic eye roll, his mouth twisted in a wry grin. Must be new to the job—surely any seasoned London cabbie has ferried a few Santas in his time.
“I feel like I’m missing something important here.” I spread my empty hands wide. Haley arches a brow from beneath her pointy green elf hat that exaggerates the colour of her eyes. “Presents?” I say.
“Oh, don’t worry about that. All organised. They’ll be there.”
“So we’re going to the place where you work?” To my shame, I haven’t asked nearly enough questions about the job she loves, or the rescue I hoped to help.
She shakes her head. “No. The rescue has four sites in London. The Trust works out of what we call HQ, over in Marylebone. Offices for the Trustees, the manager and her admin assistant, and the main vet clinic too.”
“Mine is one of two satellite clinics, a little further out in residential areas. All the clinics treat our own rescue dogs, and offer small animal services for the public at affordable prices. They found locations where they thought it might be appreciated. Even though our charges are reasonable, the clinics are their biggest income apart from donations and fundraisers. It’s part of what I love about the job, that I’m making a difference in more ways than one.”
I feel a stab of guilt knowing the prize I was supposed to win for them, an amount that would also make a difference, is heading someone else’s way.
“Then there’s the kennel facility where we’re going tonight. The adult dogs usually live there till they’re adopted. A few with high needs and all the puppies go to our foster families out in the community. The little ones need more socialisation than they can get in kennels. We’ve got the foster party on Saturday.” She hesitates a moment. “Would you be Santa again for that one, too?”
Saturday seems a lifetime away with the show’s recorded final tomorrow night—I suppose we’ll watch—and the live ‘reunion’ show the day after. Both stand between me and the end of the nightmare.
I have no choice about the live show. Like an ex-prisoner reporting to my parole officer, I must endure a seat on that studio stage with the world watching. If I survive what will probably be an emotional bloodbath, by Saturday I can be back with Haley, doing good in the world, even if it means dressing up in a silly Santa suit.
“Sure,” I agree, resolving to keep my mind fixed firmly on what happens beyond the next two days.
The cab glides into a park outside a large warehouse style building. An older woman stands on the steps, dressed in a conservativesuit, two large red sacks balanced beside her feet. Her face lights up as Haley hops out, while I pay the driver.
The sight of my girl, in her Santa’s helper outfit, the short green skirt edged in white fur swirling around her thighs, the jaunty hat on top of shiny dark hair falling loose down her shoulders, her face glowing, grabs at my chest, my heart clenching at how beautiful she is, like a Christmas dream come true. I take my place by her side, as the woman stretches out elegant manicured fingers towards me.
“I’m Eloise,” she says and I take her hand. “Thank you so much for coming…”
“Alistair,” I say, giving my brother’s name. This whole thing is risky enough without chancing my real name. Even hiding behind the convenient disguise, that might be enough for someone to connect the dots between Haley, Ollie, and me.
“These are for you, Alistair, or I should say, Santa.” She points at the sacks. I hoist the larger one over my shoulder, and Haley snatches up the other. “Come on in,” Eloise says, swinging open one of the tall double doors.
She ushers us into a wide reception area. At the counter, people are gathered around plates of food, drinks in hand. A buzz of conversation drifts between them but lowers to silence as they notice our arrival. All eyes are upon us.
“It’s that time,” Eloise sing-songs, and everyone breaks into enthusiastic applause. “That sack first, please, Haley. For the volunteers.”
The group seems to know what’s expected and falls into a line, facing me expectantly like kids at a department store waiting to see Santa. At least I’m not expected to offer them a seat on my knee. There’s only one person here who I’d like to do that—the womanhanding me the sack in her hand, eyes twinkling with anticipation. But I wouldn’t dare do that in company. The sight of Santa with a tent in his red trousers wouldn’t be a good look.
Inside the sack I find identical-sized boxes, all beautifully wrapped in Christmas paper and shiny bows. We move along the line, and I press a gift into each pair of waiting hands, offering a gruff ‘Merry Christmas’.
Eloise follows behind me, murmuring personal messages of thanks. To her credit, she knows them all by name. Haley follows, a basket in hand, distributing giant candy canes, each with a small envelope attached.
Once we’re done, we stand aside as they unwrap their gifts—boxes of Christmas chocolates—and peek inside the envelopes, grateful smiles creasing their faces.
“Gift cards,” Eloise explains. “Somehow even that doesn’t seem enough to thank these people properly for the hours they put in here, picking up poo, and hosing out kennels, walking unruly dogs who’ve never had the experience before. It’s hard work and they do it without complaint.”
“They’re amazing,” Haley agrees.
“Couldn’t do it without them.” Eloise smiles. “Right. Shall we head down to see the dogs? You’ll need the other sack.”
As I pick up the second red fabric bag, bursting with soft lumpy shapes, one of the volunteers peels off from the group with a smile.
“This way, Santa,” she says.
We enter a long corridor and I can’t help but get the feeling of a prison, except these inmates sound very pleased to see us. With so many dog voices in unison,there’s no hope of conversation.
We stop at the first pen. The lower half of the gate is solid with wire mesh above. A tiny dog appears in mid-air, leaping higher than the barrier, giving a joyful bark at the top of the arc while suspended in mid-flight, then disappearing from sight below. Seconds later, it appears again, like a bouncing ball. Laughter spills out from the four of us, but it can’t compete with the raucous barking echoing all around.
