A HAPPY ACCIDENT…
I grew up in what people like to call a single-parent householdjust Mum and Granny raising me. The lack of a dad made itself known as soon as I could understand what a Fathers Day card was supposed to be for.
By primary school, the struggle was real. Id watch my mates saunter into the gates, holding hands with their tall, heroic-looking fathers, off to kick a football around or share a whizzy spin on their bikes. Especially gutting were those moments when a dad would scoop up his giggling child for a hug, maybe ruffle their hair, and theyd dissolve into fits of laughter. From my side of the fence, I thought, Now that is pure happiness
I had seen my own fatherat least, in a single photograph. In that picture, he was grinning just like all those other dadsbut not at me.
Mum said he was an explorer, working all the way up in the northernmost tip of Scotland. So northern, in fact, that even Father Christmas would need a satnav update to pop by. Hed gone, was working there, couldnt visitbut made sure to send birthday presents every year without fail.
By Year 3, to my bitter disappointment, I eavesdropped on Mum telling Granny she couldnt keep up the charade: giving me presents from a father whod left both of us. The man lived comfortably somewhere, but had never called, never even sent me a card at Christmas or my birthday.
Sam just loves those holidays! Mum said. Its the only time he feels a little bit of supporthowever distant or fictionalfrom someone whos supposed to be family.
After that, for my next birthday, I told Mum and Granny: No need for any gifts from Dad, seeing as he doesnt really exist. Just bake me my favourite cakeVictoria spongeand all is forgiven.
We were hardly rolling in pound notesMum and Granny kept us afloat on two modest wages. So once I got to university, I started picking up shifts as a porter at the train station and in local shops.
One day, my neighbour, Steve, suggested I fill in for him as Father Christmas during the festive season at nursery schoolsand, for private gigs, at peoples homes. The nursery job involved singing, dancing, and working with a Snow Maidenfar too complicated for me. But darting around town solo, popping up as Father Christmas in people’s front rooms, seemed manageable.
Steve handed me his notebook, filled with silly poems and riddles, plus a list of festive addresses. The routine was easy to pick upno advanced trigonometry required. All I worried about was making a right fool of myself.
Turned out, my first go was oddly brilliant. Id entertained kids all over town, got back homeexhausted, but chuffed I’d kept my dignityand counted up my pay. Reader, I nearly took up Morris dancing in the kitchen. Six months of weekend lugging wouldnt have earned me as much as one week in a Santa suit.
That became my winter gig, every year. Summers were spent swinging hammers on student work crews. As for my personal lifewell, not much time for romance, all things considered. Women appeared, sure, but marriage was way off. Once I finish uni, land a posh job, earn decent dosh, sort my own flatthen Ill think about starting a family, Id daydream.
After university, working as a junior engineer, I decided it was time to buy myself a second-hand car. Our family was pretty comfortable, but there still wasnt enough saved up, so once again, I dusted off the Santa routine.
Mum found my old Father Christmas outfit at the back of the wardrobe, gave it a good shake, and added enough glitter to blind Heathrows runway crew. The fluffy white beard was positively majestichiding my face better than any disguise from the MI6 surplus bin.
I stuck on a pair of wild eyebrows, took a long look in the mirror, and nodded approvingly. Mum sighed.
Sam, its high time you found your own children, not just entertained everyone elses, she said.
Theres no rush, I replied. Wish me luckand save me some cake! Pecked her on the cheek, and off I went to make my fortune.
A week before Christmas, I put an ad in the local paper; fifteen bookings came flooding in.
After ticking off six addresses, I read the next one: 6 Garden Close, flat 19. Hopped off the bus and found the housebit gloomy round those parts; street lighting had clearly taken the night off.
Up to the second floor, rang the bell. A little lad, about five, opened the door.
At the edge of the woods, from my snowy abode I come I started in Santa voice.
He interrupted, We didnt invite Father Christmas!
I dont wait for invitationsgood kids get a visit anyway! I improvised, though I was thrown. Is your Mum or Dad home?
No. Mums left to help Granny Joan next door. Shell be back soon.
And whats your name?
Sam.
Oddly enoughmy own name. I nearly laughed. But no point confusing the child. After all, I was Father Christmas tonight.
Sam, wheres your tree?
In my room.
He grabbed my hand, pulled me to his bedroomlike the rest of the tiny flat, it was humbly furnished.
Instead of a tree, a three-litre jar held a single pine branch, decked out with small baubles and a wonky string of coloured lights. Two photos stood side by side in identical framesa man and a woman.
Looking closer, I nearly dropped my sack. The man in the photo wasme.
Surely not. I peered at the frame. My old uni photo, in the left frame. On the right, the woman: Helen Evans.
Wed met ages ago on a summer student build. Her photo was no longer a student snapher eyes were kind, but sad; her smile gentle, and all the more striking for it.
Whos this? I asked, voice gone wobbly.
Thats Mum.
Your Mum?
Yep.
Shes calledHelen? I blurted.
Oh wow! You guessed right! You really are Father Christmas, arent you? Mum said they dont actually exist.
And him?pointing at my own mug.
Thats my Dad! Hes a real explorer, you know, working on an enormous iceberg somewhere up North! Mum says he left ages ago, when I was still little, so I dont really remember him. He always sends me presents for my birthday and Christmas. This year, Ill find his present under my pillowFather Christmas hides them there, you see.
It hit meflashbacks of my own childhood and phantom explorer father.
So this is what mothers do: declare all absentee dads explorers and ship them off to the North Pole.
Turns out, I was now one of those dads.
A heavy feeling gripped me, as though fate had tripped me up at the worst moment.
My mind spun back to my whirlwind, short-lived romance with Helen
Wed swapped numbers before parting, but I never called herand, days later, my mobile was nicked on the bus. I thought of her now and then, but studies, mates, and fleeting love interests pushed her out of sight.
And shed been living right here, not only remembering me but raising our son on her own, with my photo beside hers.
I wanted to tell Sam I was his father, when the door opened and Helen walked in:
Sorry, poppet, I got delayed. Granny Joan needed the ambulance, rushed to hospital.
Spying me, she said, surprised, We didnt book Father Christmas!
Happy tears rushed down my cheeksoff came the hat, beard, eyebrows
Sam?! Helen gasped, slumping down on the hallway pouffe.
She broke down sobbingloud enough to startle little Sam. But the sight of her son revived her.
I explained that Id hurried down from the north, playing Father Christmas for a surprise visit.
Sam bounced off the wallslaughing, singing, clutching our hands while reciting poems. He practically glued himself to us, afraid I might vanish for another eternity.
He didnt even mention his present, certain that Father Christmas would stash Dads gift under his pillow.
He drifted off, and Helen and I talked until dawn, as if those lost years never happened.
Next morning, I dashed out for a second present, only then realising Id completely botched the addressId gone to number 6A, not plain old number 6. Missed the letter in the dark.
But truly, Id landed at the right placethe exact home I needed!
What a glorious, life-changing mistake, I mused, grinning at the sky.
Now there are three of us. And we are remarkably happy.
Mum and Granny practically trip over themselves with joy at their new grandson and great-grandsonSam Samuelson!
