Christmas, children, isn’t a date. It’s a state of mind

I wrote two tales for the Post Apocalyptic Book Club Christmas Short Story Competition.  The first was Tommo & The General; this is the second.  

The title is a quote by American educator Mary Ellen Chase.  The protagonist in this story - an actor called Nick - would probably agree with its sentiment.

                                                                                                

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick…

--

“Where’s Nick?  Has anyone seen Nick?”

“He must still be in his dressing room.  I’ll go and get him.”

The runner sprinted from the studio floor to the dressing room.  He knocked on the door – no response.  He carefully opened the door.  Sprawled across the dressing room table was a portly, white haired and bearded man in his late sixties, dressed in a Santa Claus costume.  He was in considerable pain; even with the stage makeup his skin looked almost yellow.

“Are you okay, Nick?”

“No…  Please, I need a doctor!”

--

"Here’s the next one."

“Who was he?"

“Don’t you remember?”

--

Holly:    “For the past thirty years my guest tonight has appeared on television and in the movies and he is known –and loved – by generations of children.   He has played many roles, but he is best known for playing Santa Claus.  For many he is that character.  Put your hands together, Ladies and Gentlemen, for Nicolas Christmas!”

Nick:    “Thanks for inviting me onto the show, Holly.”

Holly:   “You’re welcome.  So, Nicolas…  Or can I call you Nick? “

Nick:    “Yes, that’s fine.  I prefer it.”

Holly:   “So Nick, tell us about Santa Claus and how you came to play him.”

Nick:    “I’m sure you know, Holly…  I’ve told this story many, many times before.  Too many times, perhaps!  …But it helps people to understand why I have devoted myself to this role, why my portrayal is the one that people associate with the character.  I’m fortunate that I look a lot like an archetypal Santa.  There’s my stocky build, plus my Scandinavian ancestry, my cheerful demeanour, naturally white hair and bushy beard.  Then there is my name…  Nicolas was my maternal grandfather’s name.  And my surname, is… appropriately festive too, if sometimes... yes.   So I’m ideal Santa material.  …But it’s only when I put on that suit that I feel like I am him.  Suddenly I’m more…  I don’t know…  Jolly?  My grandfather was exactly the same.  One of my earliest memories was sitting on his knee wondering where he kept his reindeer.  I suppose it’s the family business.”

Holly:   “On the screen we have a photo of you and your grandfather at the start of your career, both dressed as Santa Claus.  Both of you looked very convincing!  So, when did you start working as a Santa?”

Nick:    “It started off small – local kids’ parties, school and church Christmas Fairs, seasonal work in department stores.  Then, some thirty-three years ago in a branch of Debenhams on a typically gloomy December afternoon, a young mum came in with her four year old son.  I gave them my usual jolly Santa, but there was something special there; a connection.  Yes, the child was initially shy but they usually are at first.  …And then suddenly he was smiling, laughing and hugging me.  His mother was in tears.   Later I found out why; the child and his father had been in a car accident the previous year and the father had been killed.  Since then the child had not talked, smiled, laughed or any of the things you would expect a four year old to do.  Somehow I had managed to bring joy back into the life of this little boy.  The mother called it a ‘Christmas Miracle.’ 

This incident reached the local news and I was suddenly in demand – I became the local ‘Go-To Santa’.  Then I met a young, beautiful and vivacious woman from a television production company and one thing led to another…  I was given a seasonal special and she became my wife.  Her name is Mary, though for obvious reasons I’ve always called her by her second name - Teresa.  That combination of her first name and my surname really is… too much.”

Holly:   “What happened next?”

Nick:    “Well, as you know, if anyone has needed a big jolly man with a beard in a red suit then I’ve been there.  There have been pantomimes, television shows, film contracts, charity events, merchandise deals and so on.  I’ve met politicians, royalty, the famous and infamous – everyone.   Of course I’m known for my Long John Silver and Shakespearian roles too, but it is Santa that I keep coming back to – he was my first role after all.   And Holly, I’ve never lost sight of what that role represents.  Yes, I’ve lived well, but most of the money I’ve put into a charitable trust to help the less fortunate.  I know all this makes me sound a bit sappy and mawkish but that’s who I am. I know I’ve been very fortunate.” 

Holly:   “I understand that you have some important news, Nick.”

Nick:    “Yes. I have.  As you know, I was ill while recording my televised Christmas message a couple of months ago.  I’ve tried to keep my health problems quiet but…. I guess I need to get them out in the open now.  You see, Holly…  I have been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.  The prognosis isn’t good…  I have only a few months left.   …But I would like some good to come of my situation.   Please…  If you are watching this – on television, your mobile, online, wherever - I want you to help.   On the screen now there are contact details.  Use them – tell everyone you know about my campaign to find a cure, donate whatever you can.  I know it is already too late for me.  …But please - let us give some hope to others also facing an uncertain future.”

--

“Mr Christmas to see you, Dr. Frobisher.”

“Ah, yes…  Thank you Miss Wright.  Show him in, will you?”

--

Nick walked into Dr. Frobisher’s office.  Behind the leather desk stood a tall, thin and very well-dressed man in his mid-forties.  He was wearing a pin-striped suit with a pair of spectacles perched on the end of his long nose.

”Ah yes, Mr. Christmas.  Take a seat, will you?  And how are you today?  I understand it’s been two years since your diagnosis.”

“Please… Call me Nick.  Well Doctor, I’m fine I guess…  I’ve kept busy, kept my mind off of things.  …Though I realise I’ve been very lucky; I wasn’t expecting to still be here.”

“Quite.  Yours is unfortunately a particularly unforgiving condition.  As you know Nick, there have been many advances in the field of cryopreservation over the past twenty years.  Even ten years ago a client who had undergone the process probably wouldn’t have made it out the other end with their mental faculties intact.  Nowadays a client at my clinic can be revived after several years without experiencing any major side effects.

Obviously it’s not a cure for your condition - it’s more a way of making you comfortable while you wait for one. 

Are you interested in finding out more?”

--

A bright light shone into Nick’s face.

"Mr. Christmas? “

"...Huh?"

"Are you awake, Mr. Christmas?"

"Yes, yes...  Who are you?"

"My name is Dr. Frobisher.   Do you remember me?  Don’t worry if you can’t.  Disorientation is quite normal following revival."

“Yes…  Yes, now I remember you.  Hello again.”

“So, how do you feel?”

”Groggy...  Like I have been asleep for a long time.” 

"You have.  Eleven years to be precise."

"Dear God...  Really?  Oh, my head..."

"The revival process isn't exactly pleasant.  Drink this - you should start to feel better soon."

"Okay…  Wait... You've woken me up!  Did they find a cure? "

"All in good time...  For now have a drink, make yourself comfortable and try to rest.  I'll be back shortly; I'll answer any questions you might have then."

The bed was comfortable and Nick felt sleepy.  He closed his eyes...

--

Nick awoke on a gurney in a small empty hospital ward.  Everything there seemed scuffed and worn:  the tiles and the paintwork were cracked, the flickering strip lights were slightly discoloured and there was a strong smell of bleach that didn't quite disguise the odour of urine and vomit. 

He saw Frobisher sitting beside him in a red plastic chair, reading.  He didn’t seem the same confident, almost bullish man he remembered.  This Frobisher had a rough beard and smelt of stale sweat; his clothes had not been clean for some time.  He looked exhausted. 

“Doctor?”

“Ah yes, Mr Christmas.  Did you enjoy your nap? Be careful moving – you might feel a bit stiff for a day or so, but don’t worry you’ll be fine.  And I imagine your appetite must have returned by now so let’s get you something to eat.  Here, let’s get you into a wheelchair and we’ll go to the canteen. "

Nick shuffled to the edge of the bed then transferred into the wheelchair.  Frobisher wrapped a blanket around Nick’s shoulders, wheeled him out of the ward and into a small, grimy canteen.  Shortly some people arrived, shuffling slowly.  Most were dressed in pyjamas and dressing gowns with plastic slippers; a smaller number wore white coats over crumpled jeans and sweat-shirts.  All looked thin-faced, grey skinned and tired.  Some were losing their hair; others had sores on their faces.  They sat down at the tables; Frobisher and Nick joined them.  A few minutes later a couple of white-coated men arrived from an adjacent room.  One was carrying white plastic dinner trays and a box of cutlery; the other a large dixie containing a grey, lumpy stew.  They served the food then sat down with the others.

Everyone ate in silence.

--

After the meal Frobisher showed Nick a small re-enforced glass window.  He cleaned it with the sleeve of his white coat. 

“Mr Christmas, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.  There isn't a cure for your condition.”

“So… why did you wake me up?”

“Please, look outside.  Tell me…  What can you see? “

Nick peered out.  Outside was a grey mist.  Immediately in front of him there were a couple of weatherworn bicycles, still padlocked to a rack.  Behind that he could make out a few stunted trees and the shadows of some nearby buildings.  There were street lights; none of them were illuminated.    

“It’s so gloomy - I can’t really see that much.  Is it evening?”

“No…  It’s about one o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Really?  …I don’t understand.  What happened?”

“Six weeks ago there was a …brief nuclear exchange.  Everyone came to their senses and peace was declared almost immediately, but it was already too late.  The fallout fell, the skies darkened...  and it’s been like this since.  Fortunately we have our own generator and sufficient supplies for a few months, though the clinic really hasn’t been as much protection as we hoped and…”

Frobisher looked at the ground, took a deep breath then continued.   

“I’m sorry but we are dying, Mr Christmas - all of us.  Radiation poisoning, you see.  When we realised this we decided to revive our cryonic clients.  We thought, admittedly a bit selfishly, that they would like to spend the time they had left with us.  As expected, most of them opted for… a way out.  A few decided to remain and we were hoping that you would like to join us.  If you do stay you can change your mind at any time.“

“I see.”

Nick stared out of the window.

“What’s the date today, Doctor?”

“25^th December.”

Nick paused then smiled weakly.

“So let’s celebrate.  There is still time.”