Secret Santa

Geraldine tells me I look nothing like Santa, so I’m not allowed to dress up as him for the grandkids. But at two in the morning on Christmas day, I wake up to a bang. Then another one, and a smash, outside of the house. In bed, Geraldine whips round and looks at me from under her wooly hat.

‘What was that?’

I jog into the office, wipe the misty window with my sleeve and look out. There’s a smashed slate tile on the floor. Geraldine pushes me into the window as she tries to get a closer look, and I see it, up by the guttering. There’s a foot thrashing about.

‘Someone’s on the roof.’

‘Shhh, you’ll wake the kids.’ Geraldine nudges me.

‘They’re after the slate. Call the police. I’ll go outside and have a look.’ 

Geraldine picks up the spare-mobile, the only one with battery, and turns it on, and I go downstairs. I pull my wellies on. I’m already wearing gloves and a hat, so I throw my coat on and go outside – holding a crowbar of course. As soon as I gaze up, I can see him, dangling.

‘Oh. piss off, you’ve got to be kidding me.’ I blow my lips out because he’s dressed as fecking Santa. Would you believe it? Santa. Red and white, black boots; hat and all. He’s still scrambling, but luckily for him he’s caught on the waste-pipe vent. I bang on the front door.

‘ ’ere, Geraldine, come see this.’

She opens the door, and her eyes are a lit-fuse ready to go off. ‘Kids, Brian.’ She points upstairs. 

I pull her out. ‘Look, he’s dressed as bloody Santa.’

‘I don’t Adam-and-Eve it. What a nerve. Oh, now look, they’re awake.’

Both grandkids are looking out of the window at us. They push each other out of sight and pull at the curtains when they see that we’re looking at them. I follow Geraldine and send up my loudest whisper.

‘They can’t see it, otherwise they’ll think we’ve banged up Santa.’

‘Nanny?’

‘Go back to bed now, Amy,’ says Geraldine.

‘Is it Christmas yet?’

‘No, now go back to bed and no peeking, you hear?’

The police arrive after that and borrow our ladder. I want to offer them a cup of tea, but the electric is off, and we’re saving the last of our coins for the meter tomorrow. Geraldine, the quick thinker, offers milk. A policeman, with more beard and moustache than a bear, sits down with a glass while the others get the man down.

‘Well, what an eventful night,’ says the milk-drinker. ‘You should hear this bloke.’

‘What’s he saying?’

‘Says he’s Santa. The man himself.’

I blow a raspberry. ‘Scum, he is. He was going to take the roof from above our heads – why don’t he target rich people?’

‘Ah, it’s a just a stupid way to not give us his name. He’s been caught, and he’s obviously played this game before. But we’ll run his prints at the station, and we’ll have him in no time.’

‘It’s right mean to do it to us at Christmas, though.’ Geraldine rubs her arms.

‘That it is. These people, they see an opportunity and they go for it. Doesn’t matter who you are.’

‘Do you know if he got any of our tiles off?’

‘Oh God. What if it rains?’ says Geraldine.

‘I’ll go check.’

The policeman goes out front and looks at the roof. ‘You’re OK this side, apart from that one smashed tile. Pete? Do you know if he took any others?’

Pete, who’s about to climb into the police car, stops. ‘Didn’t see any in his bag.’ 

‘Well,’ says the policeman, ‘If you see anything else, give us a call. So Merry Christmas and all that. We can’t charge him with robbery, but we can charge him with property damage. We’ll come and get a statement another time.’

‘Brian,’ says Geraldine, coming up from behind me. ‘Look at this. It was hanging down in the chimney.’

In her hand was a velvet drawstring bag with pound coins in it and a note: 

Sorry for not making it all the way down. I would have brought presents but needs must – and a warm house is a must! And sorry for the tile. I’ll reimburse you next year. Santa.

‘But…’ I stare at Geraldine. 

‘What is it?’ The policeman takes the note from me.

‘How did he get it down the chimney?’

We all look over to the back of the car, to the man who doesn’t really look like Santa.

Geraldine tilts her head to one side. ‘Well, he does have a beard.’

 


This story was chosen for our Christmas countdown and the author wins 3 Retreat West paperbacks

About the author: FJ Morris is an award-winning writer and Director of the Oxford Flash Fiction Prize. Freya’s collection ‘This is (not about) David Bowie’ received a special mention in the Saboteur Awards for Best Short Story Collection in 2019.