Snow Business by Richard Meredith

 

Read by Suzanne Goldberg

Season of goodwill? Don't get me started. Ho ho ho, as Santa might say.

I always suspected all that "naughty and nice" stuff was a racket. Aged eleven, I found out I was right. And trust me, the snow business is the dirtiest game in town.

It kicked off last Christmas Eve, when I woke to find my Dad sprawled on my bedroom floor, swearing. He'd tripped over my stocking, which I'd rigged with fishing-wire to make a Santa-trap. It was quite humane, but it was the last straw for him. He marched me downstairs and sat me at the kitchen table.

"Right, young lady," he growled, "I've had just about enough of this."

I sat there silently. I had a horrible feeling I'd really overstepped the mark this time.

"Sally, you know you could have seriously injured somebody?" he said.

"I wanted to catch Santa," I protested. "I didn't want to hurt him!"

"Like you didn't want to blow up the garage, I suppose?" said Dad.

Now that was unfair.

"I was making fireworks!"

He sighed. "I know, love. But you didn't think about the consequences. A tripwire, for goodness' sake!"

"It wasn't a tripwire," I muttered. "It was a trap. To see if he was real!"

Dad cleared his throat. "Yes, about that … I think you're old enough now to know what I do for a living."

"You work for the council." I said.

"Not exactly," Dad admitted. "I'm actually a SFO at Claus Industries. Santa's firm."

"What's a –?"

"Seasonal Franchise Officer," he said. "But the point is, you've been very naughty and I'm going to have to punish you."

I'd thought the point was that my Dad worked for Father frigging Christmas, but apparently not.

"They always need help at the Factory around now," mused Dad, wearing the thoughtful look I'd learned to dread.

"The Factory?"

This didn't sound good. We'd been reading Oliver Twist in English class, and Miss Gibson had told us how twelve-year-old Dickens going to work in a blacking-factory had traumatised him for life. I really didn't want first-hand experience. Nevertheless, Dad escorted me into the garden, where a morose-looking reindeer, already saddled-up, was chomping the rhododendrons.

"But it's midnight!" I protested. "It's already Christmas Day!"

"Not in Siberia it isn't," he said, lifting me onto the reindeer's back. "Plenty of time for you to lend a hand. Consider this a short, sharp shock."

"But this is child labour!" I whimpered.

"Don't be silly," said Dad. "It's only for a few hours. And if children in Asian sweatshops can handle it, so can you." He grinned grimly. "Be good now!"

The beast moved off. When I looked back, Dad was a tiny dot waving cheerfully through the snow.

                                    *

I woke with a gasp as the reindeer loped towards a huge concrete building lit up red, with smoke belching from towering chimneys. The reindeer stopped but I clung on, shivering and moaning.

"Oi," said the reindeer. "We're 'ere."

"What?"

"Factory, innit? Get off me, willya?"

"You're talking!" I said, amazed.

"Yeah. And," it added menacingly, "I'm telling ya to get off me back."

I rolled off and thudded into the snow.

"Is this the North Pole?" I asked.

"That information," said the reindeer, "is on a need-to-know basis, and you don't need to know."

"Did we fly here?"

He chuntered impatiently. "What d'you fink?"

He nodded at a black door marked "Staff".

"Go on, sunshine," he said, "in there."

Inside, the heat and noise hit me like a hammer. Industrial-scale machinery pounded and squealed, red-clad workers screamed instructions, and over this horrible din, Christmas songs played at ear-raping volume. The air was stifling and sickly with the scent of cinnamon, pine-needles and sweat. I couldn't decide whether to cry or throw up.

I was assigned to Boxing and Wrapping. An assembly-line stretched away, kids ranged along it. Toys dropped onto the conveyor-belt, were sorted and boxed, and then went to the wrapping-machine, a terrifying contraption involving a dozen giant rolls of paper, wickedly sharp blades and kilometres of gold ribbon. An older kid with white earmuffs seemed to be in charge. He looked up, caught my eye and jerked his thumb behind him, where a pile of flat-packed cardboard boxes lay awaiting assembly.

It was tough, boring work, hindered by my clumsiness and the sharp box-edges. I never knew you could get paper-cuts from cardboard. I glanced around, but every exit was guarded by a grown-up. The boss-kid caught me at it and grimly shook his head.

After a few hours, I entered a state of hysterical boredom. I decided this was probably just a very realistic nightmare. Then a foghorn blasted, and I nearly sliced my finger open on a box.

"What's that?" I yelled to the boy-foreman. He removed his earmuffs. His red overalls bore a sewn-on name-badge, like in a garage or the Army. Or prison.

SPENCER, it said.

"Tea-break," he said, and flicked a switch. The trundling, clanking assembly-line ground to a halt, and the kids either side leaned back and stretched their cramped bodies in relief. Spencer sprinted off, returning with a Thermos of tea and a tray of food. The kids all helped themselves. It was mostly Christmas fare: mince pies, fruit cake, turkey sandwiches – the sort of things people leave out for Santa.

"Is there anything else?" I asked.

He crossed his arms.

"You like carrots?"

I took a mince pie.

Even the Christmas music had stopped, thank God, and the only noises were the tick-crack-click of the machines as they cooled, and the howl of the Arctic wind outside.

Spencer broke the glum silence. "If you're wondering about the sherry, the guards swipe it all. Sorry."

"I wasn't."

"Well, I bloody am," he said morosely.

"How old are you?" I asked.

"Fifteen." He sounded posh. I wondered how he'd got himself into this.

"How long have you been here?"

"Since school holidays started."

"You're kidding."

"No, seriously. My parents were sick of me getting into trouble at home so they packed me off here. The music's the worst. Frosty the fucking Snowman, morning noon and night."

"You've been before?" I said.

"Last Christmas, for a few days. My Mum said it would be a short, sharp shock."

"That's what my Dad said!" I exclaimed.

"Santa brat too, eh? Well, we're the lucky ones. Most of the workforce is ordinary kids who've really been bad. They get sent here for a whole year to straighten them out. Their parents tell everyone they've gone to reform school."

"Why don't they say anything?"

Spencer levelled his world-weary gaze at me.

"What would you think if someone told you about this?"

I pondered.

"That they were nuts."

"Exactly."

"I see."

I saw all right. A perfect disciplinary system, backed up by a global conspiracy. I always knew there was something adults weren't telling us about Christmas.

                                         *

After twelve hours I ached everywhere, my fingers were shredded, and my back was killing me. And seeing those toys sailing past on the conveyor-belt, destined for all the well-behaved children, made my eleven-year-old heart crumple up inside me. In short, I never wanted to see the Factory (or a bloody Transformer) again in my life. Finally, we knocked off, and Spencer showed us out to the reindeer rank.

"Thanks for looking out for me," I said. "It was nice to meet you."

He grinned tiredly.

"You too. No offence, but I hope we don't meet again next year. For both our sakes."

I nodded. "You said it."

My beast ambled up finally, and I clambered on. It cantered for a while in silence, the stars needle-sharp in the lightening sky, the snow luminous beneath the fading moon.

"Do the trick, did it?" the reindeer grunted eventually.

"Sorry?"

"You ain't gonna be naughty again, are ya?"

I shook my head vehemently.

"Oh no. God, no."

But if I was, I thought to myself, I'd make bloody sure not to get caught.

"Good gel," he said approvingly. "They don' often come back for more."

"I'm not surprised."

"Darlin', you just keep yer nose clean," he said, "and you'll be OK."

                                  *

Dad was asleep when I got back, so I took the spare key from the flowerpot and let myself in. I put on my pyjamas and got into bed, but I couldn't rest. You see, Spencer had told me that if your parent's in the business and you catch on, you go on a watch-list. The real Santa delivers to you next time round, just to keep an eye on you; keep you in line. And I didn't like the sound of that one bit.

I got out my grid-paper and technical pens and worked until the sky outside was light. When I went downstairs, sleepy-eyed, presentless and very sorry for myself, I could tell Dad was impressed by the amazing effect the Factory had had.

What he didn't know, of course, was that upstairs in the secret drawer under my bed was a set of plans for a totally foolproof Santa-trap. I was going to confront the big man, and this was the best way I knew how.

This Christmas, I'll be ready for him.

I just can't wait.

 

--

 

Snow Business was read by Suzanne Goldberg at the Liars' League Santa & Satan event on Tuesday 11 December, 2007.

Richard Meredith is the proverbial Englishman in New York, where he complains about the coffee, loves the pizza, and finds the 'dating' scene downright disturbing. By day he works for a large corporation, and by night he likes to dress up as a woman (but only in the literary sense).