Tom Tom Turnaround (7) (i)

      The street lay still and empty in the pale, windless sanctity of a winter Sunday afternoon.  There was a church-like silence and secrecy about the houses at such times: doors and windows firmly shut against the cold, curtains drawn to, living rooms lit with fire-glow as the inhabitants sat reading, knitting, model-making, doing puzzles; chatting sleepily in the clock-ticking suspension, as if anything louder would break the spell.

      Tom stands by the window, under the curtain, looking out.  In a few windows he sees odd spectre-flickers of grey light where they had the telly on. The sky now the grainy slate colour of dusk - a street lamp flickering purple-pink-orange to life.

      A chair spring creaking. Cinders settling in the grate.  The rustle of a newspaper.

      "Nights are drawing in fast."

      "Hm.  Have to start thinking about Christmas soon."

      Tom's turns his head at the word.

      "When's Christmas, mum?"

      "Someone's got big ears."

      "Not yet.  Soon."

      "Can we put the decorations up soon?"

      "It's not December yet.  When it's December."

      "When's December?"

      "A couple more weeks."

      "Can we go up and see Father Christmas?"

      "When it's Christmas.  He won't be there yet."

      "How long until he's there?"

      "What did I say? When it's Christmas."

 

      And so on and around it went.

 

      Downstairs, the old lady dozed in her chair by the fire, her lips pupping with tiny puffs of breath, like whispers to the dead in her dreams.  The wireless, tuned to the Home Service, droned quietly in the background.

      The ever-shortening days now, like a gathering in.  A preparing.

 

      And then it was there, coming up like a fast-moving train in the night, growing from a distant pin-prick of light to a candle flame, then a fire, then a blaze that raced through and devoured the dark.

      Christmas.

      They put the decorations up one Friday evening, two weeks before the day itself.  The chains that Russell had made, looping the coloured strips of paper together and licking the flaps to make each ring.  The crepe paper garlands, bunched in rolls in their box like so many multi-coloured roses - unfurled, then twisted and looped around the picture rails, and across the ceiling to the small wooden chandelier in the middle. 

      The Christmas tree went up in the bay window, rooted in its tub on a bar stool, the lights winking like fireflies in the depths of its branches, the smell like disinfectant soap, the fairy up on top in her white lace dress and silver cardboard wings.  Snakes of tinsel around the pictures and mirror, and along the edge of the mantelpiece.  With the light off, the room glowed like a treasure cave.  The sense and heat of it flowed through those rooms.  Christmas - the end of the story, the culmination of the year.  The time that everything else - every other day - seemed focused on and heading towards.  Every day that passed now was a new excitement, a gathering anticipation, an adventure building to a climax.

 

      On the Saturday before Christmas week, mum dressed Tom in his best clothes, his duffel coat and scarf, his woollen mittens, and the two of them and Russell went up to the bridge and caught the bus into the City.  It rained on the way, planishing the upstairs windows with dots of coloured light - a light that seemed wired into everything, humming through the day as if from some giant engine hidden somewhere under the puddled pavements. 

      It had stopped by the time they got to Piccadilly, and the streets and shops seemed fresh and vibrant with life and colour. They spent the morning wandering the aisles of the massive stores, assailed by the din of excited voices and jingling tills, the music and bluster and brightness.  The jostling forests of legs and coats.  The window displays - boxes of all shapes and sizes wrapped in coloured paper, and everything covered in artificial snow and ribbons.  It was like nothing Tom had seen before - not like the year before, which he couldn't remember so well now, so smothered was the memory in the whole huge carnival cacophony of this day, now, here. It was an overload and he felt it, hardly able to contain his excitement - pulling mum's hand this way and that as he clung onto her, like a Maypole dancer, not knowing where to go or what to look at next, so many places there were, so much to see.

      "Where's Father Christmas?  I want to see Father Christmas."

      "We'll see him this afternoon.  We'll have something to eat first, then go and see him when he arrives."

      "Where is he?"

      "He's on his way, don't worry.  He's flying down on his sleigh with his reindeer.  Come on.  Let's go get something to eat."

      They found a café and the boys sat and had beans on toast and Pepsi while mum smoked a cigarette and looked at a list she had in her purse.  She licked a corner of her hankie and dabbed at Tom's mouth when he'd finished.

      "Can't have you seeing Father Christmas with sauce all over your face."

      He looked up at her as she did it - her face framed in her headscarf with the horseshoe pattern, the brown ringlets of her fringe showing through, her red lips, the crinkles at the corners of her smiling eyes.

      "You'll do," she said.

      They walked from the café to the dazzle of Regent's Street - bigger and brighter than anything else he'd seen that day, the lights like huge pearl necklaces strung across between the lamp posts, shimmering and swaying as the lines of traffic inched through underneath, the toots and shouts rising sharply from the hubbub of engines and crowds.  Russell stopped to look at some models in a shop window.  Jet planes like the ones that flew over the house.  Big grey battleships with tiny sailors frozen on the decks.  A train line winding through a landscape of tunnels and fields, and tiny cottages where painted children stood waving over a fence. He kept pointing to ones he wanted.

      "You'll have to save up your money," mum said.

      "You could ask Father Christmas," Tom told him.

      Mum pulled at his arm.

      "Come on.  He should be there now."

      And they swung off down the clamouring street.

 

      The store was bustling when they got there.  They joined the queue to Santa's Grotto - hidden away inside a cave with tinsel curtains draped over the mouth.

      The queue wasn't moving very quickly. 

      "Why do we have to wait, mum?" 

      "Because there are lots of other children who want to see Father Christmas.  You have to learn to be patient."

      He looked at the other children - some bigger than he was, some smaller, dressed the same in their winter coats and shoes and balaclavas and gloves.  Long socks pulled up to their knees.  A couple pulled faces at him and he looked away again, burying his own face in the folds of mum's coat. 

      Then they all started moving at once.  The mouth of the cave got closer, and they slipped in under the tinsel.  Inside, a grinning elf in a red suit and green cap directed them to the Santa Train waiting by the wall - two little carriages, glowing in the dimness of the cave.  They clambered in and took their seats - Tom by the window, Russell next to him. Through the window, Tom could see a painted view across snowy hills, with tiny houses in the distance and snowmen, and stars in the inky sky above.

      "All aboard the Santa Express!" cried the elf.  "Hold tight!"

      There was a toot-toot from the train engine, then the sound of smoke puffing as the train got going.  The scenery outside the window started to roll by slowly - the rise and fall of the hills, the huge white moon in the sky, the trees and animals and little houses, the snowmen, a ring of children playing.  It all came around again and again as they kept going - the puff-puff sound of the engine, the same snowy scene rolling by, the chatter on board getting more and more excited.  Finally, the puffing and the passing scenery began to slow down... slower and slower.  Then it all stopped at once and the whistle blew, and the little elf was there again, holding his hands up to direct them all off.

      "Here we are at the North Pole, boys and girls. And Father Christmas is waiting for you."

      He pulled back a huge dark curtain at the end of the cave, revealing a brightly-lit doorway.  They could hear jolly laughter and the sound of sleigh bells coming from it.  The walls inside were covered in twinkling lights, like on the Christmas tree at home.  The children bustled towards the doorway, their eyes shining, the excitement pitching their voices.  Tom felt nervous all of a sudden as they got closer.  He pulled at Russell's sleeve.

      "Are you coming in with me?"

      "You can go in on your own, can't you?"

      "I don't know what to do."

      Russell nudged his arm.

      "Just go up to him.  And don't forget to say 'please' and 'thank you'."

      They reached the doorway and could see Father Christmas sitting there in a big chair - round and jolly in his red and white suit and hat and his wispy beard and whiskers.  A large brown sack sat on the floor beside him, and he dipped into it and took out a present each time a child went up. 

      Finally it was Tom's turn.  Father Christmas beamed at him and beckoned him over with his hand.

      He felt Russell push at his shoulder.

      "Go on!  Go!"

      Tom ran towards Father Christmas, then looked away as he reached the chair.

      "Merry Christmas!" Father Christmas said, plunging his hand into the sack.  "And what would you like for Christmas?"

      Tom couldn't answer.  He felt terrified now.  He just wanted to get away.  Father Christmas pulled something out of the sack - a square-shaped something, wrapped in blue paper, just like the Lucky Dip prizes in the sweet shop on the corner at home.  He gave it to Tom, who took it in both hands and ran back to the doorway, where Russell was just coming in.  He grimaced at Tom in passing.

      Then Tom was in the cave again, surrounded by all the other children - tearing the paper from their own presents, laughing and cooing when they saw what was inside.  A little doll.  A plastic car or aeroplane.  A water pistol.  He was tearing at the paper of his own present when Russell came up beside him.

      "What was the matter with you?  What did I tell you to say?"

      Tom dipped his head down and began to sniffle.

      "Come on, cry-baby," Russell said.  "Let's get back in the train."

 

      They emerged from the cave into the blaze and bustle of the store again, and mum was there waiting for them.  A big smile spread across her face as they ran up to her.

      "Did you see Father Christmas?" she said.

      Tom nodded his head, but she could see his tears starting.

      "What's the matter, love?  Didn't you like it?"

      Russell glared at him.  "He didn't even say thank you."

      "Yes I did," Tom blurted at him.  "You didn't hear me."

      "He couldn't wait to get out again," Russell went on.

      Russell had opened his own present and held it up.

      "Wow!"

      It was a silver cap gun in its own little holster, just like in the cowboy films.  'Cisco Kid' it said on the holster. He swung it around, pulling the trigger

      click-click-click

      "Pow! Pow! Pow!"

      He aimed it at Tom.

      "POW!"

      Tom started to snivel more then.  Mum took a hankie from her coat pocket and got him to blow his nose into it.

      "Come on, love.  Don't cry."

      She lifted his hands up.  He was still clutching his half-opened present, a strip of blue paper dangling at one corner.  It was about the size of a book.

      "Let's see what Father Christmas has given you."

      Sniffing, Tom tore off the rest of the paper.  It was a small jigsaw puzzle.  The picture on the box showed a huge ship with three big funnels, steaming across a green sea against a cloudless blue sky. He held it to show mum and she smiled.

      "Oh, it's the Queen Mary.  That's lovely.  We can try making it when we get home, if you like."

      He just looked at the picture.  The ship.  The tiny people on deck.  The steam puffing from the funnels.  The brilliant sky.  The vast, empty sea beyond.

      "Come on," mum said, turning them towards the doors, where everyone now seemed to be heading.  "Let's go catch a bus and get home."

(continued)  https://www.abctales.com/story/harryc/tom-tom-turnaround-7-ii