December 8

Jigger's Journal, Part 8

Five minutes later we were at the top of the queue, and Leroy was back on all fours, pretending to be a regular dog. I was sitting very quietly in Kate's arms, pretending to be a doll and not very happy about it. Kate had a grin on her face wide enough to drive a sledge through.

“What's Santa like?” she asked.

“Fat,” I replied. I wasn't in the mood for chatting, what with pretending to be a doll and all.

Finally it was our turn and an elf opened the door for us. She was a very tall elf, and her ears were so ugly – all round like a person. Then I looked more closely. It was a person. Just a person dressed as an elf.

“You're not an elf!” I hissed at her.

“What did you say, dear?” she smiled at Kate.

“I didn't say anything,” said Kate.

“Oh dear. I thought I heard you say I wasn't an elf.”

“I said that, you... you... you not elf,” I shouted.

“There, you said it again,” she said.

“No I didn't,” said Kate. “I heard nothing.”

“I think I need a break,” said the non-elf.

“You need to stop pretending to be an elf,” I hissed.

“What was that, dear?” said the non-elf. But we were through the door by that stage and didn't answer her.

We walked down a long dark corridor to a small hallway, where another non-elf was standing with a book. The book was bright red with a gold embossed title: Naughty or Nice List. What a cheek. The real book looks nothing like that. In fact, it isn't a book at all. It's been a computer file for the past fifteen years, stored on a memory stick kept in a bell around Rudolph's neck. Only Santa, Mrs Claus, and a few key elves have access to it. Other elves can make changes but they can't read the list. If Jack has been a bad lad and left his room in a mess, one of my elves can make a note, and I can approve the note, and Mrs Claus can add it to the list. Or if Emma has been a good girl and eaten all her fish heads, or whatever children eat today, then we can make a note that Mrs Claus adds – you get the idea. But no book. I was disgusted. I snorted.

The non-elf looked at Kate, who said: “It wasn't me.”

The non-elf smiled uncertainly, then said to someone in the inner room: “Family of three.”

“Five,” I said, but I was ignored.

“I'm so excited,” said Kate. “I've never seen Santa. Well, not since last year.”

“Believe me, you get used to it when you see him every day.”

“I don't think I could ever get used to seeing Santa,” gushed Kate, her eyes brimming with excitement. “He's the most special man in the world.”

Part of me agreed. But part of me remembered that the reason I was here in Bunratty being dragged through puddles by a mad dog was that I was on a mission for Santa, and if I didn't work for him, life would be a lot simpler. Elves like sitting around log fires in the snow, eating mince pies and drinking hot berry juice. We don't normally like hanging off the wing mirrors of speeding trucks or being clutched by little girls and having to pretend we are dolls. But I said nothing.

“Of course, it's not the real Santa,” said Kate. “It's only a man dressed up.”

I was shocked. I couldn't believe what my big pointy ears were hearing.

“Of course Santa is real,” I said indignantly. “Don't you believe?”

“Of course I believe, silly,” said Kate. “But this isn't Santa. Santa is too busy to go to every shopping centre and castle and petting farm in the world to meet all the children. That's why he gets helpers to do it for him. We'll be meeting one of his helpers.”

This shocked me. I hadn't thought about it before, but of course she was right. Santa has super magical powers. We all know that. He can drop down chimneys and get into houses with no chimneys and all the doors locked. He can fly around the world in a few hours. He can cram a million toys into one sac. But he can't be everywhere at once. And every time I had seen him he had been at the North Pole, or his big toy factory hidden in the snowy dales of Lapland. So he couldn't be here in Bunratty. That didn't make sense.

I felt a pang of disappointment. There was another black feather poking out of my boot. I took it out and flung it on the floor in disgust.

Leroy looked at it, then looked at me.

“We all know what that means,” he said wisely. Though by now I was beginning to feel that he didn't actually know what that meant.

Kate was still talking.

“Santa's helper today is an old man who works in a garden centre near me. He has his own beard and all, so that he looks real. Some of them have fake beards, that come off when you pull them hard enough. Wait till you see – when we get in with him I will pull it real hard to show you.”

“Doesn't he mind?” I asked.

“I never thought of that,” she said. “I'll pull it anyway.”

I wasn't sure of that. Pulling beards sounded suspiciously like the sort of stuff that got someone on the naughty list – not the naughty book! - and it was a bit close to Christmas for that. But I said nothing. I was beginning to see that Kate did what Kate wanted. I didn't think I could change her mind.

Then the door opened and the not-elf waved her hand and ushered us through. Leroy dropped to all fours, and I lay limp, pretending to be a doll. Then Kate picked me up and we followed the not-elf into the room to meet the not-Santa.