Page 1 of In Stockings
1
Astrid
The linefor Santa’s grotto trails from the little wooden cabin set up in the foyer of the hospital, through the cafeteria, into the gift store, around the Christmas display of decorations and holiday gifts, and all the way to the hospital entrance, curling around the building itself.
This means by the time the queue weaves its way to where I’m standing – about a half hour's wait from the main guy – there are a lot of pissed-off parents and whiny kids.
My job, which Margerie had failed to mention when I volunteered to do overtime as a Christmas Elf, is to keep everyone happy.
Last year, there was an actual fistfight between two mums in the queue, and one toddler became so distressed he went on a rampage, tearing apart the carefully constructed Christmas tree formed of soft toys. Bears had been torn apart, and children had cried. This year the hospital is taking no chances.
I’m armed with sweets and a box of different tools to keep these kids amused. I’m rotating through this box of tricks to try and keep things fresh, and at the moment, I’m on bubble-blowing. Things are starting to get angsty, though. Earlier children were eagerly chasing bubbles and clapping every time I blew an especially big one. Now they are hunched on the floor, and one pre-teen heckles me from the sidelines.
Tucking the almost-empty bottle of bubble mixture back into the box, I tear open a bag of lollipops and start along the queue. The lollipops are meant for the children, but several adults dip their hands inside the bags, scowling at me as if to dare me to challenge them. No chance. I want to make it home from my shift in one piece, where I intend to run a long hot bath and soak until my next shift, ignoring the angry knocks of my roommate.
Our Santa Claus is the best in the city of Studworth by a clear country mile. No fake beard or pillow stuffed under his coat. He is the real deal, and he’s the reason we draw such mega crowds – that and the fact that we’re raising money for the children’s department of the hospital. Parents want their children to experience authenticity, and this is the closest they will come to it.
I walk along the line handing out lollipops as I go until I feel a pair of small hands tug on my stripy stockings. I peer down and find a little girl staring up at me with a pair of emerald-green eyes. Her auburn hair has been drawn up into pigtails, and a sprinkling of freckles dust the bow of her cheeks.
“Please, can I have a lollipop?”
“Sure you can.” I smile and crouch down, the bells on the end of my ridiculous shoes chiming as I do. “Which flavour would you like?”
She screws up her mouth as if she’s giving this thought.
I dip my hand in the bag and pull a few out. “We’ve got strawberry, cola, bubblegum …”
“Go for strawberry, Lyra,” a deep, growly voice says from above us. “You won’t like the others."
I look up … and up … and up, and, holy shit, my eyes land on Craig Hart. My heart stops, and I’m sure my jaw must fall open.
“Daddy says strawberry,” the little girl says, examining the lollipops in my hand as I examine her daddy.
Craig Hart.
It really is him. Slightly taller and somehow even broader, the line of his jaw stronger, but those damn eyes – green like early spring – just the same. And his scent, like fresh pine, hasn't altered a bit. Still making every nerve in my body tingle.
How long has it been?
Ten years.
“Which one is strawberry?” Lyra asks me, jolting me out of my staring escapades.
“This one. Are you going to eat it now?”
“Yes.”
“You’d better check with your daddy and mummy first.” Ok, I’m fishing for information here, but can you blame me?Craig Hart. The boy I crushed on hard at school. The boyeveryonecrushed on.
“Oh, I don’t have a mummy.” The little girl steps closer, reaching up to waggle the end of my hat, making the bell tinkle.
“You don’t?”
“No. I have three daddies instead.”
Huh?
Three?
