Just because it's Twixmas...

... I have a little story for you.  This first appeared on the Facebook page of the UK Crime Book Club on December 21st.  Read on...

The Tale of Santa's Trousers

Once upon a time, in a place so very far north from here, there was a large house made of ice that was owned by Mr and Mrs Claus.  The house had stables, a workshop and acres and acres of rooms.  Many people, throughout the whole of history, have tried to find the Claus’ house and workshop, but have failed.  Even great explorers like Ross, Scott and Shackleton failed in their quests to find the Claus' address.  And, to cover their own embarrassment, said they were looking for the North Pole instead.  Of course, I can’t let you know where the Claus’ live... that would be telling.  But I can say that there is something a little magical about Mr and Mrs Claus and their army of helpers.  Just like there is something a bit magical about their house.

Recently, when Mr and Mrs Claus were preparing for the culmination of the year’s work on Christmas Eve, one particular helper called Esme decided she needed a change.  Threading her needle, Esme applied the last of the sequins to the dress and carefully stitched it in place.  Tying off the golden coloured cotton, she smoothed out the full-length copy of a Givenchy gown and reached for the doll.  Pulling the dress over the inanimate body, Esme tugged at the tiny zip and then placed the toy on the stand in the box and sealed it.

“Wish I could have a dress like that,” she said to no one in particular.  Her co-helpers were equally busy with the rest of the wardrobe for the very last doll required for the night’s delivery.  Esme stretched and then rubbed her aching back. Getting up from her workbench, she waved her forefinger in a circle.  Her scissors, needles, and pins danced across to her workbox and settled into their appropriate trays.  The remnants of cotton, material, and sequins tidied themselves away, and, with a final flourish of red ribbon, the workbox lid slowly closed and the bow at the front tied itself.

Esme grinned, smoothed down her green pinafore dress, rolled down the sleeves of her white blouse, and collected her little red pompom hat.  It would never do to be improperly dressed when reporting to Mrs Claus.  As she walked the length of the workshop she glanced left and right, her fellow helpers were all busily working at their allotted tasks.  Esme tapped on the door of the office and waited.

“Come in dear,” said a voice from inside the room.  As Esme entered, Mrs Claus removed her spectacles to reveal bright blue eyes that were overshadowed by an unruly shock of thick white hair around a kind face.  Mrs Claus peered over her desk.  “Esme, well done.  Yet again you are one of the first to complete your—”

“Mrs C!”  Came a loud and frantic cry from the room next door.  Recognising the voice, Esme wondered if she should leave.  Just as she was about to step towards the open door, Mr Claus appeared, his broad shoulders and wide girth completely filling the doorway.

“Mrs C,” he whined.  “Look!  Look at my trousers!  They have split,” he said thrusting the offending garment at his wife, and, in his haste, almost knocking Esme to the ground.“My trousers! What about my trousers?”

His bleating temporarily abated, Mr Claus slumped on to an inadequately small stool in front of his wife's desk.  Esme turned away and covered her eyes.  Santa Claus in his bright red boxer shorts, his hairy white legs beneath, was not a sight often seen in the very far north.  Mrs Claus, lips pursed, stared at her husband.

“Shorts,” she intoned with an edge to her voice as she pulled the pile of red cloth towards her.  “Wear your shorts,” she said, her annoyance rising.  “And do not come into my office inappropriately dressed again.”

Santa frowned.  “Shorts... do I still have some of those?”

“Yes, you do.  Bottom drawer on the right.”  Mrs Claus donned her spectacles and began to examine the tear in the trousers.

“Oh, right.”  Santa paused in thought.  “But will they still fit?”

Mrs Claus sighed.  “Unlikely,” she said.  “Highly unlikely considering your year on year expanding waistline.  But it’s all you’ve got.”

“Oh.” At the door he turned.  “And my trousers will be ready for the evening deliveries won’t they, my dear?”

“We’ll do our best.”

Esme remained quite still close to the wall with her hands across her face.

“He's gone, my dear.  Now, where were we?”

When Esme stepped towards the desk Mrs Claus was examining her papers.

“Ah, yes,” she said.  “Your family are going to be the same as last year.”

“What?”  Esme flounced down on the stool.  “But last year you promised me a new family.”

Mrs Claus consulted her list.  “Hmm, yes I'm aware of that.  But, when they took down their tree last year, although they decided to buy a new fairy and some new decorations they haven't done so.  Number 52, it is for you.”

Esme crossed her arms and glared.  “Have they still got that damn puppy?”

“Yes dear, but it won't be quite as boisterous as last year, though.”

“Good.  That tree and me were crashed onto that cold hardwood floor three times on Christmas day alone.  My imitation fairy wings were all bent out of shape, my fairy crown fell into the fire and was thrown out, and my dress was chewed beyond recognition.  It was bloody cold at the top of that tree for half of Christmas last year.”

Mrs Claus nodded.  “I know dear, but you are just what this family needs and you can mend Mr C's trousers whilst you are there.”

The piercing stare that Esme felt running through her was enough.  There would be no point in presenting any further arguments for change.  She jumped off the stool, grabbed the clothes, collected a bale of hay from the pile in the corner and a bag of carrots and left the room.  Head bowed she trudged through the workroom until she reached her workspace.

“I’m heading back to number 52,” she said to her colleague across the bench.

“Have fun,” came the half-hearted reply.  Esme sighed and toed her battered rucksack out from under the bench.  A wave of her finger and the carrots and hay concertina'd themselves into the small space inside the backpack with Santa's trousers following neatly behind.  Hat firmly pulled over her ears Esme made her way through the workshop, down the stairs and out into the northern ice and snow.  The large ice door slipped shut behind her.  

Lifting her head Esme sniffed the air and stepped onto the tail of a wind...

...you can read the final part of the story here ...