Bel was surprised to see that Santa had a real beard. She knew this because of the yellowing of the whiskers around his mouth; his belly was also real, as the buttons on his red Father Christmas outfit were so strained they looked ready to ping off.
Lucille had tight hold of her mammy’s hand. They had been waiting in the queue for a long time to see Santa Claus and she had been able to inspect him from tip to toe. He was exactly what she’d expected. Just like in the pictures in the books from the library.
‘Ho! Ho! Ho!’ Santa Claus slapped both hands down on his knees and leant forward to look at the next child waiting in the never-ending queue. It was eleven o’clock and he was gasping for a cuppa.
‘And who do we have here?’ he asked, his tone rhythmic. He had ‘jolly’ down to perfection. He stuck out a big, gnarly hand.
‘Lucille,’ she replied, tentatively taking hold of his hand.
‘Lucille!’ the old man said. ‘Now isn’t that the bonniest of names?’ He looked from the little girl up to the woman who was obviously her mother. They were both blonde. Both had the same heart-shaped faces. Both stunners.
‘And has Lucille been a good girl this year?’ Father Christmas creased his brow at the bright-eyed little girl and her mam, who, he thought, looked a bit jaded – then again what mother didn’t these days. Especially the day before Christmas. They were all going to have some explaining to do in the morning as to why Santa hadn’t been able to bring their children what they wanted.
Santa slapped his leg. ‘Come on, take a pew and tell Mr Claus what you want.’ He gently lifted Lucille up and perched her on his leg so that her feet were dangling just short of the ground.
‘Now, whisper in my ear what it is you want from Santa this year.’ He turned the side of his head towards Lucille’s angelic face.
Lifting her hand and cupping it to Santa’s ear, Lucille whispered her Christmas wish.
Bel couldn’t hear what Lucille said, but she saw that whatever it was it had made Santa smile. She caught his eye and gave him a quizzical look.
Santa laughed.
‘This little girl says she wants a baby sister or brother – preferably both,’ he said, raising his eyebrows at Bel, then looking back down at Lucille. ‘And is your daddy at home?’
Lucille shook her head slowly from side to side. ‘No, he’s buried in a place called Africa.’ She took her time over the pronunciation. Her mammy had shown her on a map where it was.
The smile left Santa’s face and he looked up at Bel.
‘But I have another daddy,’ Lucille suddenly piped up, gazing up into Santa’s milky blue eyes.
‘Ah!’ Santa said, the beginnings of a smile returning.
‘They were brothers.’ Lucille had decided she liked Santa and he wasn’t as frightening as she had first thought.
‘Twins,’ she added.
The old man worked hard not to show his surprise, or judgement.
‘Well then,’ Santa said, ‘I’m sure you’ll get what you want, Lucille.’
Bel felt her anger resurface. She had been trying to keep it weighed down – it was Christmas after all, time to be happy and carefree, not moody and resentful.
‘Sometimes, Santa,’ Bel said, glowering at the old man, ‘sometimes we don’t always get what we want, do we?’
Santa gave Bel an apologetic look. He understood. Who would want to bring any more children into this world at this time?
Lucille looked from her mammy to Santa.
‘But Baby Jesus was given as a gift at Christmas!’ she said adamantly.
Realising he had to back-pedal and fast, Santa looked at the little girl on his lap and asked, ‘Tell me, Lucille, what else do you want?’
‘Don’t want anything else!’ Lucille declared, hopping off Santa’s knee.
She looked up at Father Christmas and gave him a wide smile.
‘That’s all I want, thank you.’
When Lucille burst through the front door, she ran down the hallway and into the kitchen, where she found Artie in his Moses basket in front of the range. The dogs were in their own basket but were keeping an eye on the baby. Lucille dropped down next to her cousin and smothered him in kisses. She then started telling him all about Santa Claus. Artie gurgled and reached up to the smiley face beaming down at him.
‘How was it?’ Polly asked. She was putting out a plate of sandwiches next to the pot of tea on the kitchen table, being careful not to move the central display: a candle surrounded by holly and tinsel. Lucille had made it at school, along with the paper chains that were hanging around the mirror above the mantelpiece.
Bel looked at Polly and then at her daughter.
‘Lucille told Santa,’ she said quietly, ‘that she wants a brother or a sister, ideally one of each.’ Her face was sombre. As if it wasn’t bad enough that she was desperate for another child, her daughter was too.
Polly grimaced. They had all pooled together to get Lucille some toys as well as some chocolate – a rarity these days. Polly hoped the bar of Cadbury’s they had managed to acquire, and the toys – both the ones bought and the ones made by Joe – would take Lucille’s mind off her growing demands for Mammy to have another baby.
‘You all prepared for the christening?’ Bel asked.
‘More or less,’ Polly said, pouring their tea. ‘I just need to pop Artie into his gown before we leave.’
‘And how’re you feeling?’ Bel knew that her own need for a child equalled Polly’s need for Tommy to come back home.
‘I’m all right,’ she said, fishing a letter out of the pinny she was wearing over her best dress. ‘A letter came this morning.’
‘Perfectly timed,’ Bel said.
Polly gave it to her.
‘It’s to Artie,’ she said, ‘telling him how much he would love to have been here, but that he will be thinking about him all day.’
Bel supped her tea and read the letter.
She wiped tears from her eyes.
God, if she wasn’t feeling like snapping people’s heads off, she was trying to stop herself sobbing her eyes out.