An Absolutely Brilliant Christmas!

 

                    
                                           

Sylvie felt sad, and a little angry.  She sat at the steamed up window that overlooked the backyard and drew hard straight lines on the foggy panes.  Her Mother was 'slaving over a hot stove,' at least that is what she said she was doing, Sylvie had always thought it was called 'cooking dinner.'

"Sylvie!"  Her Mother's voice cut through her sad thoughts, "What?" replied Sylvie, not really wanting to know 'what.'

Her Mother sighed and shook her head, her voice was now kind, in a conciliatory way, "You're seven years old, a big girl now, only babies believe in Santa Claus, come on love, come help me set the table."

Sylvie, without looking at her Mother, shrugged her shoulders, hoping this would convey that she was still upset and miffed at the betrayal she had suffered earlier that day.

It was Christmas Eve, and Sylvie had arisen with the almost knicker-wetting excitement that tonight, yes tonight, Santa would be up there, in his sleigh, driving his reindeer, and he would deliver presents to all the good boys and girls in the whole wide world ... the very thought made her breathless.

She had voiced her excitement to her big brother Jon.  His reaction had been cruel.  It had started with a sneer, but she was used to that, since he had turned thirteen he did a lot of sneering, mainly at her, but not exclusively.  It was his words that had cut her to the bone.  "You're really stupid!" He had said, and before she had a chance to reply that she would tell Mum what he had said, because calling someone 'stupid' was a big no-no in their Mum's eyes, he had gone on, shouted in fact, "Santa doesn't exist!"  He had followed this with a triumphant smile.

Sylvie knew that 'exist' meant to be 'real, alive,' if something, or someone, didn't exist, then it meant they must either be not real ... or dead!  Jon was telling her that Santa wasn't real because he was dead.

"YOU LIAR!"  Sylvie screamed at her brother.  Jon just laughed, and as he strutted out of the room he said over his shoulder, "If you don't believe me, just ask Mum." 

And she had.

Mum had spoken quietly and gently to her, but the words were still as hurtful, she had sort of agreed with Jon.  The only difference being was that Santa wasn't dead, he couldn't be, because he wasn't a real person, he never had been, he was just a fairy story.  Sylvie found this beyond reason, beyond sense, but her Mother had never lied to her, never ever.  However, in Sylvie's mind there was the slim hope that Mum had been told a wrong, bad, naughty thing about Santa and she didn't know she was telling a lie.  Dad would be home soon, and Dad knew everything, he had all the right answers, the answers that counted, no matter what anyone else said, and this must be true, because he always said he did, and he never lied to her either.

Later that evening, just before bedtime, Sylvie had clambered onto her Father's lap and wrapped her little arms around his neck, snuggling up close, she had whispered in his ear, "Santa is real, isn't he Daddy?"  With a quick glance at his wife, who was scowling at him, her Daddy had whispered back, "Do you believe in him Sylvie?"   "Ohhh yes Daddy, yes, I really do," Sylvie gasped back, "Then," replied her clever Daddy, "He is real for you."

Sleep wouldn't come for Sylvie, she was so happy that Daddy had said that Santa was real, and that meant he was on his way, to her house, with her presents, (secretly she hoped he wouldn't have any for Jon, she knew it was a horrid thing to hope for, but he didn't deserve any presents!)

She had heard her parents come to bed ages ago, but there was someone down stairs, she could hear them moving about.  She knew it wasn't Jon, she could hear him snoring in the next room, she could hear Daddy snoring too.  Could it be Mummy, but why would Mummy be downstairs?  Or, or, or, could it be ....?!

Sylvie slid out of bed and went downstairs to the living room.

A fat gentleman that Sylvie had never seen before was sitting in her Daddy's big comfy chair.  His clothing didn't look like the clothing he wore on Christmas cards, or the Co-cola adverts, but it was familiar, it was right, it was exactly what he should be wearing.

"Santa!" exclaimed Sylvie.

Santa placed a finger over his lips by way of warning her to be quiet, and he waved her to sit on the footstool in front of him.

"So, Sylvie,"  Santa said, "You haven't stopped believing in me?"  "No Santa," whispered Sylvie, "and I always will."

The next day, Christmas Day, was wonderful, everything it should be, absolutely marvellously, brilliantly, wonderful!

Sylvie had barely noticed the tension in her Mother's jaw when she triumphantly told her of her encounter with Santa the night before, and she successfully assured her that no, it was not a dream, it really was Santa.

That night Sylvie's Mother turned to her husband and sharply said, "You really shouldn't encourage the girl by dressing up, she has to stop her baby ways sometime."  Sylvie's Father was full of good food and good booze, a lot of good booze, he was teetering on the very edge of sleep, so he gave the stock husbandly answer of, "No dear, I shan't do it again."  That seemed to do the trick for no more was said, which is just as well as Sylvie's Father hadn't a clue what Sylvie's Mother was talking about!