Story 24: ’Twas the Night Before Christmas

Marisa Mackle

It was the night before Christmas. And not a creature was stirring. Well, nobody besides me of course. You see, I was determined to see Santa. I didn’t care how long I had to stay awake. I just had to see him this year. The previous year my younger sister had seen him. So she told me anyway. Not only had she seen him, but she had engaged in a lengthy chat with him. She related all this to me with her big blue eyes full of genuine sincerity. Who was I to doubt my sweet little six-year-old sibling?

But deep down I couldn’t help feeling a teeny-weeny bit jealous. I mean, yes, I was pleased for her. I was definitely pleased. However, I myself had been a very good girl all year also, and yet Santa had just left my present, a toy safari, at the end of the bed without even bothering to say hello. The least he could have done was tap me on the shoulder and give me a quick “How’s it going?” Yes, I understood he was busy. Run off his feet in fact, along with all the elves and Rudolf. And of course I knew that he had to deliver thousands and thousands of presents to kids all around the world in just one single night. But surely he could have had just a two-minute chat with me? Or even a thirty-second chat? Why had he chosen my sister over me? What did she have that I didn’t have?

Of course these days, if I met a big celebrity like Santa, I know I’d be whipping out my mobile phone to take a photo with him. Just to prove to everyone that I had actually met him. I’m sure a photo of the two of us could even be my profile photo on Facebook! But back then, when my prize possession was a second-hand cassette player, and there was just one heavy black phone in the hall under the stairs, and everybody smoked in the cinema and on airplanes, and it was the seventies, all I wanted was a face-to-face chat with the big man himself.

Okay, so I was fairly familiar with the essence of Mister Claus. I mean, I had met Santa myself a couple of times in the now long-gone Switzers department store after queuing for several hours to meet him. I had even been presented with a badge to wear that read, “I met Santa at Switzers”. But I knew that he wasn’t the real Santa. The real Santa lived in the North Pole with his wife and Rudolph and all his little helpers. He didn’t need to be wasting time in shopping centres handing out cheap plastic toys and going, “Ho, ho, ho!” That’s why he had representatives in shops. They were only men who looked like him. They were large and jolly with red suits and black boots and long white beards. And sometimes they invited you to sit on their knee. But they weren’t him.

I was envious of my sister for having met Santa personally. She seemed to have all the luck when meeting kiddie “celebs”. Not only had she met and spoken to the great man himself, but she had also met the Tooth Fairy several times and the Easter Bunny on occasion. It just wasn’t fair. I had met nobody except Bosco, the puppet from RTÉ with the annoying voice.

Anyway, this one year, I had made up my mind. I was going to meet Santa in person no matter what it took. Of course, I loved everything about Christmas. I loved the fact that we made Christmas lanterns at school, and that Mum made the cake weeks and weeks in advance, and that she also started buying the presents as early as October because, as she always said, Christmas came upon you too fast. I looked forward to hanging up my advent calendar above my bed and opening a window every day until it was Christmas Eve. I enjoyed learning the Christmas hymns in the classroom and picking out what I was going to wear on Christmas morning to Mass with my family. But of course meeting Santa would top all this. It was the ultimate goal.

I made out many lists to Santa. I would write out a list of things I wanted and then scrunch the piece of paper in a ball and throw it in the bin. Then I would write another list and another one. I kept changing my mind about what I wanted.

I felt bad about messing Santa around with my endless lists being left up the chimney but, in all honesty, I didn’t want to ask him for too much. I knew that he had to get presents for kids all around the world, and although he had a whole year to source everything, it must have been quite a challenge. Of course, he had all his helpers but, still, he was old and he wasn’t in the best of shape with that big belly on him. I for one could never figure out how he managed to squeeze down our narrow chimney. And didn’t all the soot dirty his snowy white beard?

A toy that was very popular at the time was an Etch-A-Sketch, on which you could do your own drawings and then erase them. I had seen ads for them on TV and had decided I wanted one for myself. When Mum asked me whether I had yet decided what I wanted from Santa, I told her I’d made up my mind. I wanted an Etch-A-Sketch.

“What’s that?”

“It doesn’t matter. Santa will know exactly what it is. He knows everything about toys.”

Poor Mum. If I was a child again I would tell my mum exactly what I had asked Santa to bring me. I wouldn’t keep it such a big secret!

Mum also asked my sister what she wanted from Santa.

“I want it to be a surprise,” she stated firmly. “I only want Santa to know, so it will be a surprise for everyone on the day. Even you, Mummy.”

The night before Christmas was terribly exciting. We stood outside on the porch and looked up at all the stars on that cold frosty night. A few of the stars were twinkling furiously in the sky.

“I wonder which one is Santa’s sleigh?” I said.

I thought I saw it moving across the sky. Then again it might have been a plane. The sky is always full of planes bringing people home for Christmas. I hoped Santa would remember to bring my Etch-A-Sketch. I didn’t want him to mix it up with another kid’s present and leave it in the wrong home. It must have been difficult to remember which presents belonged in which house. How did he even know where he was supposed to leave everything?

In our house he always left the presents at the end of the beds. But in the house next door he left the presents under the tree. In our house he always had a whiskey and large slice of Christmas cake. Next door he never failed to enjoy some milk and biscuits. No wonder he was a bit fat. Everywhere he went Santa seemed to eat and drink. In our house he always came down the chimney but a friend of mine lived in an apartment that didn’t have a chimney, so in her home he always took the lift up to her floor and let himself in the door. It really was amazing how he remembered what was what and who was who. No wonder he didn’t have time for frivolous chats with people! In fact, apart from my little sister, I hadn’t met anyone else who had spoken to Santa in real life.

The night before Christmas I was wide awake. My mum and dad had kissed me goodnight and had told me they’d see me in the morning. As they turned out the light I smiled to myself. Sleep? As if! I didn’t care how long it would take, there was no way on earth I was dozing off and missing my big chance to chat with Santa.

The minutes passed. So did the hours. It was so dark and quiet, but my eyes were open, and my ears were cocked. I was looking out for shadows. Or the sound of Rudolph’s bell tinkling. But there was still no sign. I told myself to be patient. Santa would be arriving no matter what. He didn’t come on any night other than Christmas Eve. Soon enough I’d hear his footsteps on the carpet of my bedroom floor.

Suddenly the door opened. Just a tiny bit, but enough to allow the light from the hallway to flood my room. My heart almost stopped. Oh God, was it him? Was it really him at last? The excitement was overwhelming.

“Santa? Is that you?” My voice quivered.

But it wasn’t Santa. It was Dad. He sounded tired.

“Go to sleep now, Marisa. He’s not here yet.”

“Is he on his way?”

“Yes.”

An hour later I thought I heard his footsteps on my bedroom floor.

“Santa?”

“No, love.”

It was Mum. I was beyond disappointed. Why did my parents keep coming into my room? They were probably putting Santa off! Maybe Santa didn’t want to feel forced to enjoy a whiskey with Dad down in the kitchen? Or get into a boring conversation with Mum? I didn’t want to hurt their feelings but I just wished they would go off to bed and leave me in peace.

I waited and I waited. And every now and then I would sneak to the window, pull back the curtain and gaze at the sky. Where was he? I was so tired. I didn’t know how much longer I could keep awake without succumbing to my yawns.

Sometime later sleep took over. I drifted off. But I must have been just dozing lightly because suddenly I heard my bedroom door shut and I bolted upright in the bed. My feet hit something heavy. There was a present. Oh God, he was here! I jumped up and ran to the bedroom door, flinging it open. I raced down the stairs and burst into the kitchen.

Mum and Dad were standing at the sliding doors, waving out at the night.

“Bye, Santa!” they shouted in unison.

I was gobsmacked. I just stared at my parents in disbelief. Mum was wearing a nightie and Dad had his pyjamas and a dressing gown on. They both looked exhausted.

“He was here?” I was incredulous.

“Yes, he’s just gone,” Mum said. “He said he had to fly.”

“You mean you spoke to him?”

They both nodded. I rushed to look out the doors but there wasn’t a sign of Santa’s sleigh anywhere in the starry night.

Then I glanced down at the Christmas cake. It was untouched. Santa hadn’t taken his usual slice? But he always had cake in our house!

“He wasn’t all that hungry,” Dad explained gently. “Too many people offered him a slice of cake this year. Now let’s all go to bed.”

“Do you want to see my presents?”

“We can see them later,” Mum insisted. “We all need to get some sleep now.”

Dad looked at his watch – it was now five o’clock in the morning – and nodded in agreement. He’d had enough of the drama.

Marisa Mackle is the author of seventeen books including Along Came a Stork and The Secret Nanny Club. She has published two children’s books illustrated by former Miss World, Rosanna Davison, called Girl in the Yellow Dress and Lucy Goes to Hollywood. She is also a columnist for the Evening Herald and Enterprise magazine. She has a son, Gary, and two and a half cats (one cat divides her time between Marisa and a neighbour). She has a degree in English literature from UCD and now guest-lectures herself at universities. She is currently published in fourteen different languages, including Japanese and Russian, and is a number one bestseller in Ireland and Germany. Her favourite pastimes are shopping, travel, water sports, and of course, reading! She loves everything to do with Christmas and always puts up her (artificial!) tree the day after Halloween. For more information see www.marisamackle.ie.