Page 102 of The Secret Christmas Bookshop
‘This is your thing, though.’ His frown didn’t last long. ‘Though it is Christmas Eve, and everyone’s got stuff to do. I’ve been paranoid about having all Lucy’s presents ready, and I’d forgotten where I’d put that scarf I bought her. I remembered where it was just now, so I thought I’d nip home and arrange it with everything else.’
Sophie opened her mouth.
‘It’s OK, Birdie’s with her,’ Dexter said. ‘Probably buying my daughter her third ice-cream dessert of the evening.’
‘She must be excited.’
‘Oh yeah, she’s off the scale. Extra sugar is not necessary, but what can you do?’ He laughed, and Sophie thought how lucky Lucy was to have such a warm, loving father, who worked so hard to make her life as good as possible.
‘I hope you have a lovely Christmas,’ she said.
‘What are you up to?’ Dexter glanced towards the green when there was a raucous shout.
‘Oh, I’m … travelling.’
‘To see friends?’ The furrow appeared between Dexter’s eyebrows again, because surely it was common knowledge that Sophie had no family to go and see. But at least it seemed that news of her departure hadn’t made its way around the whole of Mistingham.
‘Sure,’ she said, not wanting to lie, wishing she hadn’t walked the minefield of coming out into the village one final time. ‘Have a wonderful Christmas, Dex.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘Say Happy Christmas to Lucy for me.’
‘Come round when you’re back, if you like? We’ll be at home – Birdie’s coming, and who knows who else? It’s always a bit of a free-for-all round here, and you’d be very welcome.’
‘I’ll … I’ll see. Thank you.’
‘Merry Christmas, Sophie.’ He strode off in the direction of his house.
She waited until he’d gone, and then she took the narrow, less-trodden road that branched off Perpendicular Street, walking up it and emerging at the side of the village hall. She was careful to keep to the shadows, not wanting the lit windows to give her away.
The noise got louder as she got closer, and she felt camouflaged by it, everyone’s attention on the games, stalls and food. Jason and Simon stood together at the mobile bar, cheers-ing each other with plastic pint glasses, clearly having relinquished the running of their food stands to their staff. Vea was holding up beautiful felt baubles, offering them as last-minute additions to Christmas trees, and Jazz was standing with Natasha’s son, Indigo, at the Carnival Toss, laughing over his attempts to get two balls into the holes at once.
Then Sophie heard a familiar, joyful sound, a happy bleat, and Clifton strained on his lead towards it. She stayed where she was, holding him back, pressed against the outside wall of the village hall so the darkness hid her from view, and felt her heart ache in a way it never had before.
Because there was Santa Claus, without a grotto because it had been destroyed in the storm, but commanding all the attention anyway. He was tall and wide-shouldered, his black boots impossibly shiny, his eyes hazel – though she couldn’t actually tell that from where she was; she just knew it was true. She knew every little bit of him. She could see how his left arm was hanging limply at his side, and how tired he was, despite his deep ‘ho ho ho’ and the way he was engaging with the children around him. And there were a lot of children around him tonight, because he had an assistant with him: a small, furry assistant with floppy ears and tiny horns, and a green and red jumper with little gold bells that jingled when he moved. He was wearing a harness underneath it, tethered to his master by a lead.
‘Who’s that?’ a little boy pointed.
Santa crouched down and encouraged the boy forward to stroke the furry nose of the goat, who was, for once, being entirely compliant. ‘This is my elf,’ Santa said. ‘He’s called Felix.’
‘And that one,’ a girl asked, pointing to the plastic, glowing goat that Sophie had insisted on getting the day they went to Norwich.
‘This is …’ his voice trailed off. ‘He doesn’t have a name. What do you think he should be called?’
The suggestions came thick and fast.
‘Pudding!’
‘Elfy!’
‘Flora.’
‘Poo head!’
And then an older voice, one Sophie recognized, said, ‘How about Sophie?’ and Fiona stepped into view, looking down at Santa and the two goats, the cluster of excited children.
‘Sophie,’ Santa repeated. ‘She said Felix would love it, and look.’ He gestured to where Felix was butting his head against his plastic counterpart, bleating gently. ‘She was right,’ he said with a laugh. It sounded sad, defeated.
‘She might have been right about a plastic goat,’ Fiona said, managing to sound sensitive and stern all at once, ‘but there were other things, much more important things, that she got completely wrong.’
‘Can I touch the goat?’ a boy shouted, and Santa beckoned him over.
