The Elf Service, Episode 14

In which Maddie Sharp learns some interesting things about charity

All over the city children post letters to Santa Claus and they go undelivered and unanswered. Until Irving Jefferson founds the Elf Service, that is. The Elf Service is the story of charity, journalism and mayhem, the extraordinary story of an extraordinary young man, his extraordinary plan to make Christmas happen for the children of his city and all the extraordinary ways in which that plan goes extraordinarily wrong.

“Sharp!”

The newsroom at the Argus was very much of the opinion that Walter Burns kept Madeleine Sharp around because her name was so well suited to be shouted. You got to start with sibilant hiss, like the sea withdrawing over pebbles and then you could put some real power and range into that long ‘a’ before landing on a nice, explosive ‘p’.

“Sharp!”

Walter Burns liked shouting and Madeleine Sharp’s was a good name to shout. Partly because it was just a nice sound, partly because it was a fair bet she was up to something worth shouting at.

“Do you know where she is? Have you read this?”

Burns shook a sheaf of papers at the nearest journalist.

“No and no,” said the man, “And I see no reason to amend either state.”

“Well, let me amend you,” said Burns, “You’re fired.” The man shrugged and went back to typing.

“Sharp!” said Burns, “Where is she?”

Where she was was down in the Argus library. The Argus building, from top to bottom, provided everything a newspaper could need. Not just the floors of journalists and the basements of printing presses, but canteens and washrooms and changing rooms. Up on the roof there was a radio room where reports came in from over the world, down in cellar there was a phone switchboard full of stenographers. There was a sanatorium for patching up the reporters and a lawyer for getting the charges dropped, a pet physicist for complicated explanations and an ex-police chemist for mixing cocktails. There was a photographers studio and a cartoonists bullpen, there was a lecture hall for public talks and meeting rooms for private shouting.

And there was a library. Not just a collection of past issues of the Argus, though it had that, but the most comprehensive reference library a journalist could want. Every encyclopedia and dictionary there was, a history of local crime that rivalled the police’s and a gazetteer of the city that outdid the post office.

Anything you could want to know in the course of writing a story, the library could tell you or knew where to find it out. Even if it was, say, about obscure charities.

For that was what Maddie Sharp was after, of course. The Society for the Support of Distressed Gentlewomen, The Association for the Saving and Supervision of Historical and Outstanding Landmarks, they were all these and more, a charity for every conceivable challenge, a mutual aid for every possible problem, numerous and indistinguishable.

Slightly too indistinguishable, she began to feel. Everywhere she looked, the same names started to appear on the lists of trustees. You might expect it of the great and good, Felix Savoir or Otto Krampus, but there were names here that you couldn’t quite picture on the board of Dr Isaish Van Jaaf’s Exhausted Horse Hospital, or the Home for Weathered Seamen. Hector Dowdy, the Post Master General or Walter Burns.

Walter Burns? The Editor of the Argus, a trustee of The Friends of Truncated Military Men? He’d rather truncate himself, surely?

Well, if she was going to get shouted at again, it might as well be for a good reason.

This was obviously Maddie Sharp’s week for sightseeing. She had already spent the day before pursuing Krimble and Jefferson about town and now she was out hunting charities.

The head offices of the Benevolent Fund for the Home for Weathered Seamen were, appropriately enough, down by the docks, in a pokey attic above a bar. Inside she found an affable old tar becalmed behind a desk in an unmoving fog of pipe smoke. He puffed away happily like a little steamer as he talked.

Oh, all doing very well, the auction had been a significant success, apparently. No, he hadn’t seen Captain Irker since. The trustees? Oh, yes, they were very proud of having the Admiral on board, as it were. Yes that was a nautical witticism. And the Postmaster, of course. Paperwork? Well, he thought the Captain was probably the best man for that.

The young lady at The Association for the Saving and Supervision of Historical and Outstanding Landmarks thought the same about Professor Ewing. He was definitely the man for paperwork.

She sat at her narrow desk in her narrow office at the top of a narrow building in the New Town and pulled open drawers half-heartedly, as if the Professor might be found in one. She found, instead, a piece of headed notepaper and held it up to Maddie. Founder: Professor Jasper Ewing, it said across the bottom, Trustees: Mr Hector Dowdy, Mr Walter Burns, Doctor Isaiah Van Jaafs.

“Van Jaafs ?” said Maddie, “Of the Exhausted Horse Hospital?”

“Is he?” said the lady, “Well, I’m sure he’s very important. We only put the most important trustees on the notepaper. Well, the Professor does. He’d know all about it, the Professor.”

The sour young man at The Anti-Christmas League knew about as much about his charity’s trustees as the nervous lady at the Association did about hers but was less forthcoming about who might know.

“People like to make fun of us,” he said, curling up a lip at the thought, “People take frivolity far too seriously and seriousness far too trivially. That’s what the Reverend says.”

“Reverend Jonke?” said Maddie, “The founder?”

“How do you know his name?” said the young man, suspiciously.

“It’s on the door,” said Maddie.

“Well, that’s his business,” said the young man, “Not that there’s anything to be ashamed of. There are many important people who back the League.”

“Like Councillor Krimble?” said Maddie.

“Where do you get your information?” said the young man.

“Your list of trustees there on the wall,” said Maddie, “Hector Dowdy, Mayor Linseed.”

“Well, they’re all very serious men,” said the young man, “Serious, important men.”

Maddie decided to go and see some serious men.

Hector Dowdy was always pleased to speak to a representative of the press, especially Miss Sharp of the Argus, apparently. Maddie suspected that this wasn’t true in the least, but Dowdy was no doubt basking in the reflected glory of the Elf Service and evidently saw her as the chief fanner of the flame. She wasn’t going to disabuse him of this. Not until she was in his office, anyway.

He came bustling across his office as soon as Maddie was shown in.

“Miss Sharp, how delightful to see you,” he said, shaking her hand, “I very much enjoyed your piece on Mr Jefferson’s scheme, and about his building, too. He is an energetic young man.”

“That second one wasn’t me,” said Maddie, “But always happy to take the credit for something someone liked.”

“Oh, do excuse me,” said Dowdy, “But we’re all very proud of Jefferson at the Post Office and are very much enjoying his new found fame. We see him as ours, you know. We found him - well, I found him. But you were there, of course, if I recall.”

“What excellent observational skills you have,” said Maddie, “I imagine it’s very useful in a public servant to always be aware of when there are reporters about.”

“Yes, well,” said Dowdy, not sure what to do with this, “We’re very proud. Very happy to support him. Both as an institution and, speaking personally, you understand, as an individual.”

“You’ve sent a letter to Santa?” said Maddie.

“Answered one,” said Dowdy, proudly, “Actually, three, in fact. I have my certificates, you see.”

He gestured at a shelf beside him where Maddie could see, propped up, three giant stamps, printed on card, each with a picture of Father Christmas on.

“What are these?” she took one down and looked at it more closely.

“The certificates from the Elf Service,” said Dowdy, “I believe everyone who takes a letter from the Service is given one. A clever idea, I think.”

“Your heart is as large as Santa’s sack,” read Maddie from the back of the card, “With all the thanks of the Elf Service and the children. Perfectly idiotic.”

She put it back on the shelf.

“If you say so,” said Dowdy, “Though I’m not afraid to say I’m proud of it. Proud of everything the Elf Service is doing to create a special Christmas for us all.”

“Are you as proud of the work of the Anti-Christmas League?” said Maddie.

“The who?” said Dowdy.

“The Anti-Christmas League,” said Maddie, “They’re an organisation devoted to ending Christmas - or at least the modern, commercial Christmas. They don’ t think people take it seriously enough or something. To be honest, I couldn’t quite muddle it all out, but they definitely don’t like gifts. Or the Elf Service, I would imagine.”

“Well, it is not the position of the Post Office to have an opinion of the personal beliefs of the users of the mails,” said Dowdy, “As long as what they send isn’t offensive or dangerous, of course,” he added, instinctively.

“And personally?” said Maddie.

“I’m a family man,” said Dowdy, “I have children. I am obliged to be in favour of gifts whether I like it or not.”

“Then why agree to be their trustee?” said Maddie.

“Well, I wouldn’t,” said Dowdy.

“Well, you have,” said Maddie, “Or at least they say you have.”

She pulled out a leaflet the serious young man had reluctantly given her. Dowdy’s name was prominent on the back, alongside Krimble’s and Burns’.

“Why this is…” Dowdy stared at the pamphlet in disbelief, “I’ve never heard of them. This is nonsense.”

“Never heard of the Reverend Iverson Jonke?” said Maddie.

“You have already remarked on my powers of observation, Miss Sharp,” said Dowdy, “I never forget a face, never forget a name. I have never heard of the Anti-Christmas League or this Reverend Jonke.”

“The Friends of Truncated Military Men?” said Maddie.

“The what?”

“The Movement for Municipal Modernisation?”

“I mean, it sounds not unworthy, but…”

“The Society for the Support of Distressed Gentlewomen?”

“Again, it sounds entirely laudable, but I am afraid…”

“You haven’t heard of any of these organisations?”

“I have not.”

“Despite the fact that they all list you as a trustee?”

“A fact that I shall be looking into, Miss Sharp,” said Dowdy, turning to his desk, “Immediately. I am a trustee of many charities, it’s true. The Elf Service, in fact, is one. It is not unheard of, I’m afraid, for unscrupulous charities to presume of the good nature and trusted reputation of high profile individuals and use their names to solicit donations.”

“And you think that that is what is happening here?” said Maddie.

“I am sure of it,” said Dowdy, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to make some fuss about this.”

“I bet you are,” said Maddie, and set out back to the Argus.

“Sharp!” Burns didn’t need to shout it, she was standing right there in his office, but he gave it another good bellow, just for the pleasure of it.

“Enjoying yourself, are you?” said Maddie.

“I want to talk to you, Sharp,” said Burns, “About this Jefferson piece.”

“Well, I want to talk to you about the Jefferson piece,” said Maddie, “It needs rewriting.”

“It needs rewri… what?” said Burns.

“I’ve got good news and I’ve got worse news,” said Maddie, and then she stopped, “What’s that there, on your shelf?”

“What?” said Burns, “Don’t try and distract me.”

“I’m not,” said Maddie, “What’s that? Is that one of those Elf Service certificates?”

“This?” said Burns, picking it up and spinning it over at her, “Mrs Burns made me sign up for it. I suppose it's all in a good cause.”

“Well, it is and it isn’t,” said Maddie, “I’m about to make you very happy and very angry, Burns old boy, because I’ve got a great story and you’re right at the centre of it.”

She wasn’t wrong. He was very angry, but Walter Burns, as we know, was never happier than when he was angry.