Of all the things I dreamed I would be doing on Christmas Day, standing on top of a farmer’s front-end grab (I believe that’s what you call it) at 1am certainly wasn’t on my radar.
The saga began during the run-up to the big day. Fionnuala had noticed that Imogen, who is in P4 – just turning eight – had been unusually quiet. Her temperature was fine and no sign of sore throat or tummy but she wore a tight-lipped, solemn demeanour.
Fionnuala was going through the to-do list with me when her eyebrows lifted. “I think I know what’s going on with Imogen.” Her eyes were grey. “Someone has told her Santa isn’t real.”
An anger stirred in me like I had never felt before. I wanted to speak to the school but Fionnuala was against it. “And say what? Could the person spreading lies about Santa please report to the principal’s office? They would think we were mad.”
She was right, but I was determined to identify the culprit. And when I was driving to the butcher’s the next day for the turkey, I took Imogen with me.
“So how much is my little petal looking forward to Santa coming? I know he knows you have been good as gold.”
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“Even though he mightn’t be able to get you everything, I know he’ll do his best.”
“I know.”
Though the little voice was quiet, I saw her eyes boring through the mirror at mine.
I upped the ante. “Has someone told you something that is making you sad, Imogen?”
“No,” she said, but her lips were beginning to bubble.
“Because some people tell fibs just to make them seem smarter than others and they don’t care if it makes you feel sad.”
There was Santa, standing beside a tractor with a bucket in the front
She started to cry and my heart sank. She told me that a boy in her class, Martin, told her Santa wasn’t real and that she was stupid.
I recognised the name. A confident fellow with a swagger and obviously those blasé, anything-goes parents that I despise.
It turned out he was the son of Rip McCool. I knew Rip was a big hard man locally – I had a run-in with his sister before when she accused me of not paying for diesel – but my indignation superseded my natural cowardice and I went over to him at the school gate and told him what happened.
“Is that so.” He had a strong Tyrone accent. “Well, deed’n that’s a good one. Our boy?”
His tone wasn’t unfriendly but I couldn’t read him.
“What’s you name anyway?”
“Fabien.”
“That French or something? I wanna tell you a thing, Fabien. I’m gonna call to your house Christmas Eve, and then you are gonna come to my house, with me. And we are gonna sort this bull-crap out once and for all.”
Fionnuala was slab-faced when I got home. I tried to lighten the mood by asking nervously why he’s called Rip (“Is it because he rips people’s heads off?”) but she was sullen.
Obviously, he was teasing me, having dared to question him. But then late on Christmas Eve, after all the children had fallen asleep, there came a knock on the door.
And there was Santa, standing beside a tractor with a bucket in the front.
“Right Fabien lad, you get in the yoke and rise me up and let the wee girl see Santy going past the window. That’ll make the magic come back for damn sures.”
I was agog, and so too was Fionnuala, who it turned out was much better at operating agricultural machinery than me and so it was I had the joyful job of waking Imogen and taking her to the window to see Santa flying past on Christmas night.
Peeking through the curtain, my heart ached as she hugged me close. “Santa is real!” Her eyes were blazing.
We of course returned the favour at the McCool house, and I was enthralled again by the practicality of these enigmatic country people.
Knowing that a child might never see the real Santa – he is, after all, moving swiftly on Christmas eve – they just start up the front-end grab.