Father Christmas and Me. Matt Haig

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      Mary was the kindest and loveliest woman I had ever met. Her cheeks were as rosy as apples and her smile could warm a room. I had first known her when I was in London, when the very worst thing of all happened. My mother caught a horrible illness from cleaning chimneys. I did all I could to look after her, but in the end the illness was too powerful. I couldn’t stop her dying. My father had left us when I was very little, so after that I was sent to Mr Jeremiah Creeper’s workhouse. I was utterly miserable, but Mary – who worked in the kitchens there – was always nice to me. She would secretly add a spoonful of honey to the watery gruel we had to eat. I’ll never forget that.

      She’d had a tough life. Before she had gone to the workhouse she had been homeless and slept on a bench next to Tower Bridge, surrounded by pigeons.

      Anyway, when Captain Soot and I eventually escaped the workhouse, thanks to Father Christmas, Mary came with us. And, like me, she was very pleased to be here.

      We arrived in Elfhelm on Christmas Day, when every human child in the world was opening their presents, and we ate the biggest Christmas dinner I had ever seen and listened to the most brilliant and happy music played by an elf band called the Sleigh Belles. We laughed and sang and spickle danced. Spickle dancing is a very complicated type of elf dancing which involves a lot of energetic leg work, a lot of twisting, and some floating magically in the air.

      ‘I think you are going to like it here,’ Father Christmas told me later, as we went ice skating on a frozen lake.

      ‘Yes, I think I will,’ I said.

      And I did. I did like it there. Well for a while. Before I managed to smash my own happiness into a million pieces.

       Hope Toffee

       o get anywhere in Elfhelm you had to walk along a big street called the Main Path. Elves weren’t always very original with their names. For instance, there was another street with seven curves that they called the Street of Seven Curves.

      Anyway, as we walked along the Main Path the whole street was bustling with elves. There were clog shops, tunic shops, belt shops. There was something called the School of Sleighcraft on the Main Path too. All kinds of sleighs were there, though none looked as impressive as the one I had ridden on my journey to Elfhelm – the one Father Christmas kept parked in Reindeer Field.

      Father Christmas waved at a tall (by elf standards), skinny elf who was polishing a small white sleigh. The sleigh gleamed and looked quite beautiful.

      ‘Hello, Kip! Is that the new sleigh I’ve been hearing about?’

      The elf smiled. It was a small smile. The kind of smile that was surprised to be there. ‘Yes, Father Christmas. The Blizzard 360.’

      ‘She looks a beauty. Single-reindeer?’

      ‘Yes, single-reindeer.’

      And then Father Christmas started on a long and technical conversation about speedometers and harnesses and altitude gauges and compasses.

      He finished their discussion with a question: ‘So you’ll be letting the children ride in it when the school term starts?’

      Kip looked worried suddenly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘This isn’t a child’s sleigh. Look at the size of it. This is for bigger elves – grown-ups only.’

      Then Mary joined in. ‘Well,’ she said, putting her arm around me, ‘the school is getting a new child this year. A child who is bigger than an elf child. A child СКАЧАТЬ