‘Jennifer,’ she replies. ‘I am three!’
‘And what would you like for Christmas?’
‘A Barbie house with the. . . ACHOOOO!’
Something slimy flies from her nose and lands squarely on my hand, making me gag. Horrified, I try and flick it off while her dad just laughs like it’s adorable. It’s not adorable, it’s fucking green.
‘Barbie house, gotcha,’ I reply, handing her a gift. ‘Merry Christmas.’
I don’t even smile as her dad takes a photo. I’ve had enough. I’m hot, sweating, bruised, covered in mucus, and I’m leaving. Geraldine can shove this job up her arse.
Shaking my head, I stand from my throne, ready to rip this stupid beard from my face. Even though the grotto is closed, there’s still a crowd admiring the Christmas display so unveiling my face right now would be a terrible idea. All I want to do is get home, shower and enjoy a cosy night in with Angela to celebrate my new job.
As I prepare to leave, I see a boy who looks around five sneak under the rope.
‘Little boy, we are closed,’ Izzy informs him, but he swerves around her and dashes straight for me.
‘Santa, I—’
‘Come back tomorrow,’ I say. ‘Santa is going home.’
‘But I won’t be here tomorrow,’ he replies, frantically. ‘And I haven’t told you what I want for Christmas!’
‘Sorry, little man.’
I reach into my sack and pull out a selection box. ‘Take this. Free chocolate is better than nothing.’
As he takes the gift, his huge brown eyes start to fill up with tears. ‘But if I don’t tell you my Christmas wish, it won’t come true! Please, Santa.’
‘I’m sorry but—’
‘Santa!’ Izzy snaps. ‘You can do one more, yes.’
I nod. Partly because Izzy scares the shit out of me, but also because I cannot be responsible for one more crying child today. Besides, I think he’s melted Izzy’s heart a little. That should be rewarded.
‘What’s your name, little boy?’
‘Alfie,’ he replies, following me back to my throne. I take a seat while he stands beside me. ‘Alfie O’Brien.’
‘Alfie. That’s a great name. And how old are you?’
‘I’m four.’
‘And what would you like for Christmas?’
Alfie takes a deep breath and quietly says, ‘I want my mum to be happy again.’
Yikes. I feel uncomfortable. I’m even less equipped to deal with selfless children than spoiled, selfish ones. The look of sincerity on his face is killing me.
‘I’m sure she’s very happy!’ I reply, cheerfully. ‘She has you, right?’
He looks at his feet. ‘She pretends to be, but she’s been sad since my dad died. I hear her crying sometimes.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, mate.’
He shrugs. ‘Please make her happy, Santa. That’s all I want for Christmas.’
Now my eyes are welling up. This sweet little boy thinks I can take away his mum’s grief and I have no idea how to respond.
