Chapter 4

Dear Santa,

Thank you for spreading joy and making so many people happy. Does anyone ever get you gifts? I made this bookmark for you because you look like the kind of person who enjoys reading, and maybe you can use it to keep your place in the naughty and nice list when you check it twice. My brother thinks you must get bored of reading it so many times, but I think you must enjoy it, like I enjoy reading my favourite books over and over again!

From,

Avery

‘See, now it’s even harder to go back out,’ Tav says as we step outside the door and he yanks his knitted hat down over his ears. ‘But I suppose I should say thank you for making me all warm and tingly.’

I choke on thin air and have to pretend the cold has got to the back of my throat. Maybe there is a language barrier after all, because that’s not the sort of thing a gorgeous guy can say to a woman and expect her not to choke.

There’s something nice about the idea of him being tingly as I zip up my wholly inadequate jacket and the air stings at my face again. I pull my hat down and my scarf up so there’s barely enough space to see where we’re going.

Tav picks up my suitcase with the same one-handed ease of earlier, and when I go to take it from him, he lifts it out of my reach and gives me a self-satisfied smile.

Dad presses a button on a remote control and the cabin at the very top of the hill is instantly illuminated with red and white fairy lights showing its outline in the darkness. The same Victorian-style streetlamps give out a warm orange glow at intervals up the hill, but not all of them are working.

Dad follows us out onto the decking and gives me another hug. ‘Thanks for coming, Sash. You’re going to love this place.’

His cherub-like face looks so innocent and hopeful that I don’t have the heart to protest. He releases me and waves us off as I rush to catch up with Tav who is already halfway along the snowy road with my suitcase.

He waits for me at the bottom of the hillside where the cabins are. It looks steeper than it did from the house. A lot steeper. I should have twigged when Dad said he couldn’t make it to the top, really. When a man who’s climbed the biggest mountains in the world has trouble with a hillside, then is the time you should figure out a cabin at the top of said hillside probably isn’t the best place to stay.

One of the streetlamps flickers as if to reflect my feelings of horror. ‘Oh, holy sh—’

‘Night.’ Tav frowns at me. ‘No swearing at the North Pole. There might be children around, and it’s a scientifically proven fact that an elf falls down dead every time they hear a swearword. “Oh, holy night” is what you meant to say, right?’

Just when you think things can’t get much worse, you find out a good swearword is forbidden. ‘I don’t think “scientific fact” and “elf” are words that belong in the same sentence.’

He ignores me.

‘Fine,’ I mutter. ‘Holy night, that is one heck of a hill.’

‘Do you want me to carry you?’

‘Good God, no!’ I recoil so fast that my foot slips in the snow and I struggle to keep my balance.

‘Steps, that side.’ He points across the hill to the right-hand side. ‘But I haven’t had a chance to shovel them off lately, so they’re too dangerous. Path, this side. Let’s go because my tingle is rapidly decreasing.’

It makes me laugh again, so much that it takes my mind off the climb as we start walking up, and he doesn’t rush this time, but stays beside me on the path that’s barely wide enough for one person.

‘This isn’t really the North Pole,’ I say, annoyed because a lady should be allowed to swear if necessary. ‘The North Pole is much further north.’ I point in a random direction.

‘That’s west. North is that way.’ He points behind him, and then stops long enough to pull a compass from his pocket, looks at it for a few seconds, and holds it up to show me. ‘See?’

Who walks around with a compass in their pocket? I give the contraption in his hand a cursory glance. ‘I didn’t mean it literally. No one has any clue which direction is which, nor do they care.’

‘You should care. It’s easy to get turned around and lose your way in these woods, but if you know which direction you came from, it’s easy to find your way back. Besides, you’ll need to know if you see a bear. Polar bears are more likely to come from the north.’

‘If I see a bear, anywhere, believe me, my first thought will not be to determine which direction it’s coming from.’

He laughs, which is all well and good until I realise what he’s said.

‘Wait … you have bears here?’

‘Give me a shout if you see one; I’ll shoot at it for you.’

‘Shoot at it?’

‘Well, I’m not going to shoot it, am I? That would be murder, and I’m in the business of saving animals, not hurting them.’ He glances down at me and rolls his eyes. ‘Generally if you fire a shot into the air, any bear will run away. No animal is going to stick around to find out if you’re going to fire another one. Bears are more scared of—’

‘Don’t tell me bears are more scared of us than we are of them. They say that about spiders and, believe me, it’s not true.’

He laughs again, and I’m so glad he finds my terror amusing. ‘Generally it’s very safe. Polar bears rarely venture this far south, brown bears hibernate through winter so they won’t bother you at this time of year, and lynx almost never attack humans.’

‘Comforting,’ I mutter.

All this talk of bears has distracted me so much that I’ve barely noticed the incline changing as we climb higher. As I stop to look back at our progress, my foot slips in the snow and I squeal and squeeze my eyes shut as I envision plummeting back down to the bottom again, and I brace myself for the fall, but something as solid as concrete grips my upper arm and I open my eyes and realise Tav is holding me up. With one hand.

I feel like a kitten when the mother cat moves them by the scruff of the neck, just sort of dangling in mid-air, and I shuffle to get my feet back under me.

‘What size are you?’

‘Excuse me?’ I go to give him an earful about being polite enough not to swear but not polite enough to not ask a woman her dress size and that I know I need to eat a few less mince pies, and so far this evening I’ve consumed three calorific hot chocolates and God knows how many Christmas cookies but I lost count at seven, when he nods towards my feet.

‘You can’t come here in trainers.’

‘Oh! Shoe size!’ I go red in embarrassment even though I only scolded him in my head. ‘Six. I’m a six.’

‘We have plenty of spare boots because there’s always at least one idiot who comes unprepared. A guest turned up in flip-flops once, if you can believe that.’

I laugh at the absurdity of the mental image and look down at his feet – he’s got on sensible black boots that go up to under his knees with a thick line of cream faux fur around the top. No doubt his feet are a lot warmer than mine.

Tav holds his arm out without a word, and it takes a few moments for me to realise what he’s getting at.

‘Oh, that’s okay, tha—’ As I’m about to refuse his offer and carry on walking, my foot skids again and I grab his arm gratefully, and the burnt almond and cedar scent of his cologne surrounds me.

I want to protest and tell him I’m not a damsel in distress who needs an arm to hold, and despite how pathetic I must look, my level of fitness is actually much better than it seems because I do a lot of walking with the dogs at Debra’s grooming parlour, but I can’t tell him that because I’m supposed to be a fancy hotel manager, and holding his arm is actually quite … nice. In a reassuring way. He seems to know exactly where to put his feet, and his boots have got thick treads to get a good grip on the snow.

‘I didn’t think you spoke English at the airport.’

‘Just because you can doesn’t mean you should,’ he says simply.

‘Indeed.’ I’m surprised by the amused tone in his voice. ‘The world would be a better place if some people didn’t speak English. The prime minister, for one …’

‘I was not aware that the British prime minister did speak English. It certainly doesn’t seem like it in most speeches.’

I have no idea if he’s trying to be funny or not, but I let out such a howl of laughter that it’ll make the inhabitants of this forest think they’ve gained an extra wolf. Oh God, wolves. I hope there aren’t wolves here. ‘Never has a more accurate judgement of our country been spoken.’

He’s laughing when I look up, and his scarf has slipped down enough that his breath appears in the cold night air. He must sense me looking because he meets my eyes and his full lips form into a smile.

‘You were good with Rudolph Number Three tonight.’ He sounds begrudgingly impressed. ‘He’s a bit tetchier than the others.’

‘How come?’

He looks around and then cups a hand around the side of his mouth like he’s whispering a secret. ‘Between you and me, I think it’s because he’s never allowed to join in the others’ reindeer games.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘No!’ he says incredulously. ‘I was quoting the song.’

‘I know, that’s why I said it.’ I roll my eyes. ‘Only I wondered if it was because the others always laugh at him and call him names?’

He lets out an unexpected laugh. ‘It’s got to be one of those things, right?’

The laugh warms something in my chest. ‘I like animals. A hell of a lot more than I like humans, anyway.’

‘I hear you there.’ The hint of bitterness in his voice makes me look up at him again. ‘You don’t live in a forest surrounded by reindeer if you like people.’

‘No, I suppose you don’t.’ I hesitate for a moment. ‘I was thinking of a remote island, possibly with a cannon to shoot anything that considers approaching.’

He laughs, a warm rumbling sound. ‘Sounds ideal to me.’

I’m thinking about his laugh too much and have to distract myself. ‘What’s with Rudolph Number Three? What happened to Rudolphs One and Two?’

‘They’re still with us, but you haven’t met them yet because they’re not as naughty as Rudolph Number Three.’ His voice rises on the last part of the sentence and he turns to the left, like the reindeer are still listening out in the forest and he’s letting them know of his disappointment.

‘How many Rudolphs are there?’

He looks up to the sky as he thinks about it, like he’s mentally counting. ‘Four.’

‘Can you not call them something other than Rudolph?’

He shrugs. ‘I don’t have time for thinking up reindeer names. Once you’ve used the obvious ones of Santa’s nine, you cycle round and start again.’

‘Could you not just call them all Clive?’

‘Clive?’ He lets out that burst of laughter again.

I have to force myself not to think about his hearty laugh and look across at one of the log cabins on the opposite side of the hill. There’s a wooden gingerbread man sign outside, but it’s fallen over so its head is buried in the snow. ‘Is that the one you’ve got to get ready for guests?’

‘Yep. Fix the sign, fix the big hole in the roof, fix the electricity supply because that’s gone dead as well, and there’s a broken floorboard in the kitchen.’

‘And you can really fix all that? You can’t rely on other people so you do literally everything yourself?’

‘Yes.’

That simple. No explanation, no need to call anyone in. There’s a lot to be said for independence, but that seems overboard even to me.

‘Are all the cabins themed?’ I ask, instead of pushing him because that one-word answer doesn’t make it seem like he’s going to elaborate.

‘They are. We’ve got a nutcracker one, a mistletoe one, a snowman one, a reindeer one, a Christmas tree one, a Mr and Mrs Claus one, and a Twelve Days of Christmas one.’ He points out each themed cabin as he speaks. ‘You name it, I’ve themed a cabin after it.’

‘Why?’

‘Fun? Guests like it?’ He gives me a look that suggests it’s a stupid question. ‘I thought it was festive to name them, and then when it came to decorating, it was easy to play into the theme.’

I suppose it’s a nice idea, really. And staying in a place called the Candy Cane Cabin in the North Pole Forest does sound idealistic and have a twee ring to it, if you’re a person who likes Christmas, that is.

We’re not far from the top of the hill now, and what I thought would be an impossible climb has actually been quite easy with Tav’s arm to hang on to. The twinkling of red and white lights is tantalisingly close, and the exertion has warmed me up enough that my face can move again because it was frozen solid earlier, like Botox but cheaper. People should give up fillers completely and just walk around in minus-fifteen for a bit.

Tav nods to the middle part of the hill that looks like an icy ski slope. ‘There’s a snow saucer in the cabin if you want to slide down in the morning.’

‘No, thanks. I like my limbs in the same number of pieces they’re currently in.’

It makes him laugh again. ‘Kids love it when they stay here.’

‘I’m too old for that sort of thing.’

‘You’re never too old for fun.’

I go to protest, but he’s got a point. I can’t remember the last time I had fun.

We come to a plateau on the incline where the cabin stands, trees towering over it from behind and extending further up the mountain. Tav extracts his arm from my hand and goes up a few wooden steps to the small deck area surrounding the cabin while I glance down the hill doubtfully. There might be a distinct lack of fun in my life, but getting on a saucer and sliding down that is never going to end well.

‘Welcome to the Candy Cane Cabin.’ He opens the door and ducks inside to flick a switch, and the little building is filled with warm white light, illuminating the waist-high candy cane sign, striped with lines of darker wood and the words “Candy Cane Cabin” wood-burned in a semi-circle across the hook of the cane.

Tav stands back and holds a hand out, inviting me to go in first, and that feeling of him being a gentleman makes me smile again. I can’t remember the last time a man held a door open for me.

I let my hand push snow off the wooden railings as I climb the steps, tread across the decking and peer in cautiously.

I expected it to be like a giant candy cane inside, but it’s not. The walls are smooth wood with plenty of rustic knots giving it a natural look. There’s a raised stone hearth with a black grate hiding an open fireplace. At one end, there’s a double bed with a candy cane duvet cover, but even that is a tasteful dark red with tiny white and green striped candy canes all over it.

Tav ducks in behind me, sets my suitcase down by the door, and closes the door quickly, rubbing his hands together. He pulls off his gloves and drops them on a table. ‘Let me make a fire for you.’

I look around as he goes to the hearth and sits on the grey brick edge, takes a couple of logs from the basket beside it and lights the fire.

There’s a red sofa with a white throw over it, patterned with red candy canes, and a cushion on either end, red-knit with a fluffy candy cane in the middle, a dining table and chairs not far from the fire, and in one corner is a six-foot Christmas tree with a sparkling glass topper. It has a red skirt patterned with candy canes and red and white striped boxes stacked underneath it, and it’s decorated with glittering candy cane baubles and red and white lights. A candy-cane-shaped wax warmer is plugged into the wall which is creating the pepperminty scent in the air. A candy-cane-shaped china lamp sits on the bedside table, and the window to the side has candy-cane-patterned curtains in the windows.

I want to make a sarcastic comment about overkill, but it’s exactly what Christmas décor should be like. Understated, tasteful, and festive without being over the top.

‘Bathroom, kitchen.’

I’m so busy looking around that don’t realise the fire is crackling away behind the grate, and Tav is still sitting on the hearth but pointing out two doors, disguised as part of the wooden wall apart from the nameplates wood-burned into them. ‘Minimal facilities; the main kitchen is down in the house, but you have a kettle, mini fridge, sink.’

‘Thank you.’ I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. After seeing Santa’s House in its all-singing, all-dancing, all-twinkling glory, I thought the log cabins would be the same, but this is gorgeous.

‘That’s for you.’ Tav points to a wicker basket on the dining table. It’s large and has got a big curved handle that’s wrapped with intertwined red and white tinsel and finished with an oversized striped bow.

‘What is it?’

‘A gift basket. We welcome all guests to the cabins with one matching the theme.’

I go over eagerly and my hands part the never-ending goodies that are so nicely displayed in it. There are candy canes and peppermint swirl sweets, candy-cane-flavoured teabags and a jar of candy cane coffee, peppermint-flavoured popcorn, and a box of candy cane artisan chocolates. Then there are red and white striped fluffy socks, hand-knitted striped gloves and a matching hat, candy cane lip balm, scented shower gel, hand cream, soaps, and bubble bath.

‘Thank you. You didn’t have to do that for me – I’m not a proper guest.’

‘All part of the service.’

‘You didn’t make these, did you?’ I ask. It’s a distinct possibility seeing as he seems to do everything else around here.

‘All handmade by local sellers in the nearby village. We’re proud to support local businesses and they support us in return. You’ll find business cards and discount coupons in the bottom of the basket if you like anything and want to go Christmas shopping while you’re here.’

It’s a nice touch, something that gives a community feel and makes me realise there must be a village nearby and we’re not completely isolated out here.

There’s a framed painting on the wall behind the bed, depicting a little wooden cabin with smoke coming out of its chimney, in a forest full of snow-covered trees with the Northern Lights in the sky.

‘It’s beautiful. The whole cabin is perfect.’ I wander around the little room, letting my fingers trail over smooth wood and candy cane accessories. It’s so much larger inside than it looked from outside. The window at the right-hand side of the bed looks onto the forest, and when I look out, I have an uninhibited view of the sky.

‘Does it meet your very high standards of the exceedingly posh hotel business?’

His voice is quiet but it still makes me jump in the silence of the night, and then cringe again at the idea of him thinking I’m a fancy hotel manager. I don’t know why I thought Dad was the only one who’d know about my supposed job. I hadn’t considered he’d tell other people.

I look around to see him still sitting on the edge of the hearth. He looks exhausted. He’s so tall that he doesn’t really fit there, and I’m not sure if the hunched shoulders are because of that, or because he’s too tired to stay upright.

‘If Dad can’t get up here, that means you did all this? By yourself?’ I ask, skirting his question.

He shrugs. ‘It’s a pleasure. I like having guests in and we haven’t had many this year, and I love Christmas … Who doesn’t, right? It’s the most magical time of the year.’

‘Yeah, if you’re six. I’ve missed that by thirty years.’

‘That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. You’re never too old to believe in magic.’

I frown at him, but he grins up at me. ‘Don’t forget your wishing jar.’

‘My what?’

He inclines his head towards the basket on the table, and I go back over and root through it until I pull out a tiny glass jar that’s full of iridescent fake snow that reflects a rainbow of colours as I twist it under the light. The metal lid is also a lock, and the neck is wound with red and white striped twine tying on a tiny metal key. I unlock it, and inside, buried in the fake snow, is a strip of white cardboard. I hold it up in confusion.

‘You write your Christmas wish on the cardboard, lock it and keep the key, and stand it by the fire. When it disappears, you’ll know Santa has granted the wish.’

‘Seriously?’

‘We don’t joke about Christmas wishes.’

‘When it disappears, what I’ll know is that you’ve got a key to the cabin and you’ve let yourself in and taken it.’

He grins and points towards the door. On the back of it, a key is hanging on a hook with a large wooden candy cane keyring. ‘Firstly, that’s the only key – I don’t have copies. And secondly, the jar itself doesn’t disappear – the wish does. When you get a magical feeling, open the jar and see. If the cardboard is blank, the wish has been granted.’

‘So you give me a special pen to write it in erasable ink that fades over time?’

‘Nope.’ He gives me that self-satisfied smile again. ‘Write it in whatever you like. Your own pen. Permanent marker, if you want.’

I hold the jar up again and shake it, dispersing the snow inside. ‘So there’s some chemical in this that dissolves ink?’

‘How did you get to be so cynical?’ He meets my eyes and the smile he gives me this time is soft. ‘It’s magic, Sash.’

It’s the first time he’s called me that, and I know it’s probably because it’s what my dad calls me, but there’s something quite nice about him being so overfamiliar. ‘There’s no such thing.’

‘Anyone who thinks that will never see it.’

I bite my lip as I try to think of a suitable comeback, but typically, my mind is blank. It’s a nice sentiment and kids must love it, and I wish I was young enough to believe in magic and go sliding down hills on a saucer, but I’m not.

There’s something about a man in his late thirties talking about magic like it’s real though. And yet, he doesn’t seem insane. It just seems like he’s forgotten I’m not a four-year-old guest here to visit Santa and his flying reindeer and enquire about my positioning on the naughty and nice list.

‘I should go.’ He pushes himself up off the hearth with a long groan and a few noises of pain that he probably doesn’t realise are audible. ‘See? That’s the problem with sitting down – it makes it so much harder to get up afterwards, like going inside to warm up when you have to go outside and get cold again.’

He pulls his hat down and his gloves back on and points to the right. ‘Shout if you need anything. I live in a cabin out there, but I’m never far away. Enjoy your first night at the North Pole.’

‘It’s not the North Pole,’ I say again as he opens the door and steps outside, but I can’t help smiling this time.

He turns around and grins at me. ‘Isn’t it?’

Of course it isn’t, but I don’t have the heart to say it. There’s something nice about thinking it might be. Something that makes me feel like a kid again, giddy and unable to ignore just the tiniest fizzle of excitement.

‘Come down to the house for breakfast in the morning,’ Tav calls as he starts walking down the hill we came up, and I’m half-disappointed that he didn’t grab the saucer that’s stashed beside the kitchen sink and slide down on that. ‘It’ll be worth the trek, I promise.’

I go back inside and my eyes are drawn to the Christmas wish jar on the table. It’s bollocks, of course. If it works at all, it’ll be some kind of clever trickery, but I’ve got a biro out of my bag and I’ve sat down in one of the chairs before I’ve even thought about it.

If nothing else, I can prove Tav wrong about it being magic.

The bottle is only the size of my thumb and the cardboard strip is tiny when I pull it out. At first I don’t know what to write, so I close my eyes and think about it. If there were any such thing as Christmas wishes, and any hope of mine being granted, I’d wish for the one thing I’ve wanted again since I was twelve.

I write “a happy family Christmas” in small letters on the cardboard, push it into the snow inside the bottle and lock it. I tie a knot in the twine holding the key and wrap it back around the bottleneck, and leave it on the edge of the hearth.

I wander around the cabin again, appreciating the attention to detail and consideration that’s gone into every inch of it. It feels warm and cosy and safe, safer than I thought I’d feel in the middle of a forest inside the Arctic Circle anyway. The fire is going to dwindle before long, and there’s a little space heater tucked under the table so I plug that into a socket on the wall, and when I pull the bed covers back, I’m glad to see there’s a hot water bottle waiting for me – with a candy cane cover, obviously. I have a hot shower and make a cup of tea with the box of PG Tips I find in the kitchen cupboard and the milk in the fridge, which is a really nice touch. Probably Dad’s influence. He used to take British teabags with him wherever he went. I re-boil the kettle to fill the hot water bottle, and while I’m drinking my cuppa, I have the urge to see outside again.

I get the oversized snuggly soft dressing gown I found hanging in the bathroom and shrug it on over the pyjamas I’d never been so grateful to change into when I dug them out of my suitcase, and I open the door.

The snow on the deck area has started to melt with the heat coming from inside, and I rest my cup on the wooden railing surrounding the cabin and lean on my arms as I look out across the land.

This far up, there are snowy treetops surrounding me from the wooded areas below. I’ve got a direct view down to Santa’s House, and the multitude of multicoloured Christmas lights that illuminate it in the darkness.

In the distance in one direction, I can see the bend of the road we came in on that curves around the house and continues out of sight in the other direction, the way Tav went when he returned the dogs, and I get the impression that Dad’s land goes a lot further than I’m imagining.

I watch the lights all over Santa’s House chasing each other as they flash in ever-changing formations, and it makes me feel more Christmassy than I have in years. The red nutcrackers on either side of the door look back at me. I’ve always liked nutcrackers. They’re comforting somehow, reassuring in the way they stand like sentries. Mum used to say they brought good luck and protected a house from harm.

It’s idyllic here. The other cabins are spaced out and none block the view of the ones above. If they were all lit up like mine is, it would be a perfect little alpine Christmas village. If you have to spend a December somewhere, there are definitely worse places you could spend it.

The owl hoots from somewhere in the trees behind the cabin, sounding much closer than it did earlier. He must agree. Or be warning me that a wolf is on the way.

I ignore that thought, wrap both hands around my mug and sip my tea. There isn’t a sound to be heard, the air is clean and fresh and smells of the evergreen trees all around, and the silence is like a blanket wrapping around me, and making me feel more peaceful than I can ever remember feeling.

Maybe this Christmas won’t be so bad after all.