The Elf Service, Episode 17

In which The Elf Service is quite wrapped up

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.

“Santa Building project collapses!”

The morning was dark. The sky was overcast and there was not yet any sign of dawn. Outside the Metropolitan Hotel a thin drizzle had slicked the streets and the pavement gleamed with reflected Christmas lights. Early risers and night shift workers scurried by with hats pulled down and collars turned up.

“Santa building in ruins!”

A newsboy stood by the coffee stall on the corner opposite the hotel, waving a first edition of the Argus at passersby crossing down over the bridge from the Old Town or trudging up the steps from the station.

“A building collapsed, is it?” said a woman passing, “In the Old Town, I expect.”

“No, it’ll be in the new business district, won’t it?” said the man next to her, “Insurance job, I expect.”

The woman stopped at the coffee stall.

“Where’s the building fallen down?” she said as she paid for her coffee.

“Building fallen down, has it,” said the man behind the counter, “Old town?”

“What the boy’s crying,” said the woman, “Building collapsed in ruins, he said.”

“Oh, not an actual building,” said the man, “That’s that Santa Claus man, said he was going to build a special building, for the kiddies, you know.”

“Fallen through, hasn’t it?” said another man waiting for a coffee.

“Oh, is that all,” said the woman and then, “What was that then?”

“It’s this Jefferson chap,” said the man waiting, who actually had a copy of the Argus and was now scanning the front page, “Answering those letters to Santa Claus, you know the one. Apparently he was planning a whole building for it, but it’s all fallen through.”

“Well, of course it has,” said the woman, “That’s just nonsense, isn’t it? No need for a whole building for that.”

“Never going to happen,” agreed the man making coffee, “Just a pipe dream, wasn’t it? Here you go, love.”

He handed the woman her coffee and she took it in both hands, warming them on it.

“What a daft idea, a whole building for Santa Claus,” she said, shaking her head, “People do say the daftest things.”

“People print the daftest things,” said the man waiting, waving his paper and they all laughed.

“Reuntied family ununited!”

The newsboy stood on the pavement outside the Alhambra Cafe in the New Town, the stream of office workers parting around him as he shouted at them.

“Orphan orphaned all over again!”

Inside the Alhambra, Roger D’Ascoyne, the young gentleman with whom Miss Saltadora had an understanding, was having a working breakfast with his old college friend Charles. They had one of these meetings every month. Very little work was done but an awful lot of breakfast was accomplished.

“Oh, that’s a shame,” said Roger through a mouthful of toast.

“What is?” said Charles, and “Shall I order more coffee?”

“Why not?’ said Roger, unfolding his copy of the Argus across the table, “That kid, you remember, from that Elf Service thing, who was reunited with her father. Turns out the chap was nothing of the sort, just a common conman.”

“What are you talking about?” said Charles, and “Butter?”

“Here,” said Roger, fishing the butter out from under the paper, “That place Eveline,” this was Miss Saltadora, “has been volunteering at, the chap who’s answering all the letters kids write to Santa Claus.”

“Oh, yes, I remember,” said Charles, “Make room for the sausages.”

“Anyway he - this chap - Jackson something - made a big fuss of reuniting some orphan with her long lost father, you know, as a Christmas present, only it turns out he was conned, man was an imposter,” Roger lifted a corner of the paper so a hovering waitress could deposit a platter of sausages on the table, “What a shame. Poor little kid. Eveline will be upset.”

“I tell you what’s a shame,” said Charles, “Is he should have expected it. Ah, coffee, yes, Roger get that damn paper out of the way. There’s always someone on the look out for something for free. Stands to reason. They just expect it now. Hand outs. If you ask me, he was asking for it, this chap of your Eveline’s. Asking for it.”

“Santa in disguise!”

Eleven o’clock in the Stockpot over in the Old Town and a small mid-morning rush is happening, the cafe filling up with people queuing for a little something to get them through the uphill struggle to lunch.

Outside on the pavement a small girl, standing on top of a pile of papers, is bellowing at the top of her voice.

“Master of disguise unmasked! Nobs duped by man of a thousand faces!”

“You hear about that?’ said the man in front of him in the queue to Paul Massie. Paul was just taking what he assured himself was a much-needed pause in staring at an as yet unwritten essay and had been entirely lost in thought.

“Hear about what?”

“That Jefferson fellow,” said the man, cheerily.

“What Jefferson fellow?” said Paul.

“Listen to this,” said the man, rattling the paper in his hands, “He’s been running round town in disguise, loads of them.”

“Wait,” said Paul, “This is the man from the Elf Service thing?”

“That’s him,” said the man with the paper, “All these different beards and costumes, Doctors, Professors, tricking all these rich, charity types. Incredible.”

“That’s,” Paul was struggling to understand what the man was talking about, “That’s terrible, isn’t it? He was tricking people out of money?”

“No, its like something from the movies,” said the man, “Like a detective story or something. All those rich folks, judge a person on their outfit, on their title, not on what they are, they deserved it, I reckon.”

“But what he was,” said Paul, “Was a conman.” But the man with the paper had stopped listening to him.

“Santa Claus given the sack!!”

The boy was standing at the main entrance of the New Basin Dock, outside the Ports building. It wasn’t the greatest pitch in the city by any means, but there were always people coming and going here, at least, officials and dock workers and ship hands. You could usually sell a decent stack of papers, especially to those who were only just arriving in town.

“Elf Service shuttered!”

“Now isn’t that a shame,” said an eldery man in a well worn pea-coat, a pipe sticking out of the side of his mouth, “I’ll take one.”

“Been closed down, hasn’t it?” said the newsboy, handing the old sailor a copy of the Argus, “Pending enquiries.” The phrase was new to the boy and he relished it.

“Hardly surprising,” said the sailor, tutting to himself, “The outlook was never fair.”

“Nonsense,” said the boy, “He’s good, that Jefferson. Clever, isn’t he? And fair, especially to us newsies. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” said the old man, apparently unperturbed by the newsboy’s opinions of his opinions, “In the charity line myself, you see.”

“You don’t say,” said the boy, losing interest, “Santa’s Elves laid off!”

“Homes for old sailors, you know,” said the old man, “Like me. Got a stake in it, you see, so I have to understand it. Charity has to be properly organised, doesn’t it? All shipshape. Trustees, fund raising. You can’t just haul anchor and sail into it with no map, just as you please. End up in a squall.”

“What are you talking about?” said the boy, “It’s presents for kids, not a ship.”

“Learn a lot from sailing a ship,” said the old sailor, “Got to be prepared, be careful, eye on the sky, eye on the sea.”

“You’ll go cross eyed,” said the boy.

“Whole voyage was doomed,” said the old man, “Not sea-worthy, take it from me. Was never going to work.”

“Suit yourself,” said the boy as the old sailor ambled away, “Doomed Elf Service founders!”

“Fraudulent charity scheme uncovered!”

Half-way up the hill from the docks, the new business district, where the new council offices were, began. Whole streets of terraced houses had been knocked down and replaced with larger mansions of apartments and raw red brick office buildings.

“Hundreds taken in by conman!”

Two council officials who would be back in five minutes, if you wouldn’t mind waiting, crossed the street from the new buildings on their way to find a cup of tea and a bun with which to build some kind of landmark to punctuate the howling wasteland between lunch and clocking off. There was tea trolley that came round the offices, but then you didn’t get to leave your desk, did you?

“Old Krimble will be delighted,” said one of them to other as they passed the girl selling newspapers on the corner, “He’s been saying the whole thing was a con all along.”

“Krimble says that about every charity,” said the other, with a laugh, “He had to be right eventually.”

“Well,” said the first, “You have to admit he has a point. I mean, this Elf Service business proves it. This city is full of people ready and willing to help others, to give to charity, and that means its also full of people ready and willing to take advantage of them.”

“Of course Krimble says that,” said the second man, “If there weren’t, he’d be out of a job, wouldn’t he?”

“Well, good things he's not, I say,” said the first.

“You would, you’re in his department.”

“I’m serious,” said the man, undeterred, “Someone’s got to look out for the donors, you know. The very act of being generous makes them vulnerable.”

“Nonsense,” said the other as they entered a cafe, “It’s the nature of business, even the charity business. Up to the consumer to look out for themselves, I say. Caveat donor, eh? Caveat donor.”

“Santa goes up in smoke!”

Night had fallen over the Market and the lights were lit. There were no Christmas lights down here, although there was a desultory piece of tinsel strung across the main entrance, but the Market didn’t need them. It blazed with colour. Apples as red as any bauble and silvery fresh fish that glittered like tinsel, barrels of burnished nuts and the deep jewel glow of preserved fruit in jars.

“Santa Claus Man disappears!”

All around the Market deliveries were still arriving, porters were still rushing back and forth, the crowd still hurried and jostled this way and that, but this was never a good time or place to try and sell papers. Everyone had already heard the news hours ago and anyway had more important things to be worrying about.

“Irving Jefferson escapes authorities!”

This was certainly not a time or place that you’d ever find Tin Lizzie trying to sell, but here she was, papers still under her arm, wandering round the Market. She barely even seemed to be trying to sell any, and no one was trying to buy any. Perhaps they could tell her heart wasn’t in it.

“Christmas over!” she said and then, “Forget it.”

She sat down heavily on the curb and said to no one.

“Forget it.”

She suddenly realised that someone was standing in the road, staring at her. Midge, the orphan.

“Hey, kid,” said Tin Lizzie, adopting a parental tone, “How are you doing?”

“Ok,” said Midge, “Want an apple?”

“Sure,” said Tin Lizzie, as if taking one out of charity, “Sorry to hear about your old man.”

“That’s alright,” said Midge, “He wasn’t my father anyway, and I didn’t like him. Is it true about the Santa Man, though?”

“Fraid so,” said Tin Lizzie, “He’s done a bunk, so I suppose that seals it. Must have been up to no good.”

“So there’s to be no doll, then, like I asked for?”

“No doll,” said Lizzie, “Not for anyone. No presents, no Christmas. No Christmas for any of us.”

“Just the same as usual, then” said Midge, “Just the same as usual.”