...Lifting her head Esme sniffed the air and stepped onto the tail of a wind. Moments later her tiny form
hovered above the hearth of number 52.
“Hmm, it's very
quiet here,” murmured Esme as she let herself drift gently onto the brass fire
surround. She glanced around the
room. In the large bay window was an
empty pot, but no tree or lights. The
boxes of decorations were stacked unopened on the floor around it. Raising herself and hovering above the
coffee table she saw some cards haphazardly discarded. She turned and looked up, the corners of the
room held no decorations. The only
display of Christmas was the red and white shine of the foil uniforms of a few
of the chocolate soldiers that had spilled from the open box on the
windowsill. Esme frowned and decided to
investigate further.
Wishing herself
dust she disappeared under the door and into the hallway. There were no signs of Christmas there
either, just the sobbing of the mother in the kitchen and disregarded mail on
the doormat. Esme caught a draught of
air from the front door that took her upstairs. Crouched outside the child's bedroom door was the fully-grown
Labrador. The dog opened one eye and
stared. Esme retreated to the room
downstairs.
“Mrs Claus,” she whispered up
the chimney. “Mrs Claus, there's
something so very wrong here.”
“Look to the future, Esme,”
came the echo of the reply.
Esme circled her finger in the
air and watched as images moved across the space. At the final picture tears welled in her eyes and she batted the
circle away. As dust she willed herself
out of the room, the house and on to the forests of Norway.
“I need one of you to
sacrifice yourselves for a little girl who is very ill.” On again to a goose farm. “I need your feathers,” she said. “For a very good cause.” On and on she travelled until she arrived
safely at number 52 and slipped down the chimney again.
Exhausted, Esme rested for a
few moments on the cold marble of the hearth.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck four. Esme started at the sound.
“Oh no!” She jumped up. “There's so little time!”
She upended her rucksack and emptied the contents. A wave of her finger and the Norwegian
spruce settled itself in the container in the centre of the bay window.
“Lieutenant Sweeting,” she
shouted. “Get all of your men out of
that box and get that tree decorated.
I've got Santa's trousers to mend.”
A rustle of card and a soldier hopped down.
Raising his hand to his
forehead, “Yes Ma’m,” he said.
“Platoon, arise!” The small army
of red and white clad soldiers marched out of the box, down the wall and across
to the pile of decorations. Esme
smiled. They'll be done in no time, she
thought.
With a sigh she pulled out
Santa's trousers and looked at the damage.
“If it was just the seam, this would be easy.” Her brow furrowed as she examined the extent of the damage to the
torn material. “I’m going to need a
rather large patch to cover that!” A
wave of her finger and her workbox slid across the marble to her side and
opened. Esme searched through the
contents. Sequins were chucked onto the
hearth, red material, green ribbons, white lace, pink chiffon… soon the white
marble hearth was a rainbow of colour and Esme was intent on her task to repair
Santa's trousers.
“Excuse me Ma’m,” said
Lieutenant Sweeting as he saluted and presented the fairy for Esme to see. “I think this is a problem that needs your
expertise.”
Esme took the doll from
him. “Oh yes,” she said as she fingered
the clumsily attached crepe paper that had been used as a replacement skirt the
year before. “That will never do.” Esme ripped the crumpled paper from the
fairy's body and threw it into the cold and lifeless fireplace.
“And that's something else we
need, Lieutenant Sweeting,” she nodded at the empty grate. “Wood and a warm fire.” The soldier saluted, turned and marshalled
his men.
Alone with her task Esme cut
away great swathes of red cloth, fixed the patch and, completed the
repair. Satisfied with her handiwork
she then began sorting through the pile of fabrics and haberdashery on the
hearth.
“Perfect! That is absolutely perfect,” she said
handling a piece of white satin which she set against some gold coloured lace
and the red cloth cut from Santa’s trousers.
Grabbing some white netting she laid everything out on the floor. A wave of her finger and the scissors began
cutting and shaping as Esme threaded her needle with gold coloured cotton and
started to sew.
***
In the twinkle of the lights
on the tree and the warm orange glow of the last embers of the fire Esme heard
the rustle of a fall of soot onto the hearth.
A moment later a large red sack landed followed by Santa still sporting
his hairy legs. Esme let the wings she
had made from the goose feathers carry her from the top of the tree to the
hearth.
“My trousers, are they ready?”
“Yes,” said Esme pulling the
garment from behind the fire irons where she had hidden it from human view.
“Marvellous!” Santa grabbed
the trousers and turned them round. His
face fell as he saw the repair. “What
is the meaning of this?”
Esme hung her head. At that moment, her newly stitched white
satin slippers peeping out from under the gold lace edge of her newly created
fairy dress were of more interest.
“Esme,” bellowed Santa.
Esme straightened her
shoulders and ran her hands down the soft bright red overdress she had
made. “I’m sorry Santa,” she said. “But making Christmas the best ever here at
number 52 was my only thought,” she blurted out the flurry of words. “And the gash in your trousers was so big
and ragged I had to cut away more to make a patch possible and it seemed such a
shame not to use the extra material and the fairy for the tree was in such a
state and—”
“Enough,” said Santa. The old man pulled at his beard as he cast
his eyes over the patch. “The stitching
is of your finest, Esme. As I would
expect, but Lurex? Did you really have
to use purple Lurex for the patch?”
“It was the only piece I had
that was big enough.”
Santa, hands behind his back,
paced the hearth. “I see,” he
said. “Misappropriating company
property for your own personal use is a very serious matter, Esme. I shall have to consult Mrs C about this.”
“But the little girl—”
Santa held up his hand. “I know you did this with the best of
intentions, but misappropriation is still misappropriation. I cannot ignore it. As for the little girl, she needs a miracle
of medical science. We can’t help with
that, so you must make sure tomorrow is a very special time for this family.”
“Yes, Mr C.”
Santa nodded and stacked the presents under the tree. Still in his shorts, but wearing his
displeasure on his face, the old man disappeared up the chimney. Esme smiled and took her place at the top of
the tree with her heart torn and a tear in her eye.
No comments:
Post a Comment