The Elf Service, Episode 19

In which The Newsies tell Maddie Sharp what they think of her

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.

“Argus cancels Christmas!”

Maddie Sharp liked to remind people that the Argus newspaper was named after the giant of Greek myth, the watchman of the gods, with a hundred eyes. Only a few of the eyes ever slept at any one time, so that he was always wakeful, ever vigilant.

That the paper never slept was true enough. There was no lock on the front door of the Argus building: it never closed. All day messengers came and went, all night the presses pounded. If the bars were closed, the journalists were in, if the restaurants were closed, the management.

But Maddie’s point was more metaphorical than that, of course. As one eye closed, as one story went to bed, another opened to scrutinise the world. The eyes of the paper peered everywhere, in every corner of the town, in every office, in every doings, ever-watchful for news.

“Woman reporter breaks story and hearts!”

She was, of course, entirely gratified that she had been right about the Elf Service being a bit of seasonal fluff, a nine day wonder. It hadn’t even lasted as long as Christmas. Come and gone in a couple of weeks. It had been a nice little story, some enjoyable little twists and turns, even an actual chase across the city, but it was more enjoyable to be right and to prove Walter Burns wrong.

And even as she was congratulating herself on her perspicacity, both on getting the story and realising how trivial a story it was, she was already looking out to see what was next.

If The Argus had a hundred eyes, Maddie Sharp was at least two of them, and it was her job to be on the lookout, to be that ever-vigilant watchman.

“Paper wraps presents!”

One fact about Argus of which Maddie was particularly fond was that he was killed by the god Hermes. She specifically liked repeating this fact to Walter Burns, who was obsessed with the rival paper The Mercury.

The Mercury was named after the Roman name for Hermes and, more importantly, was edited by an old friend of Burns who never failed to crow at her boss whenever they scooped the Argus.

More important to Maddie, however, was why The Mercury was named that. Because Hermes was the messenger of the gods, the god of communication, of news itself. He had killed Argus by lulling the giant to sleep with music. This, Maddie liked to maintain, particularly when a little drunk, was the important bit. It had been the seductive quality of news itself that had killed the watchman. It was all too easy to get distracted by whatever made headlines, whatever was popular or out there in public, in the light, and to stop peering into the shadows to find out what might be being hidden from you.

This was why Maddie had suspected Irving Jefferson from the start, simply because he was news. She just assumed that anyone trying to attract attention was actually trying to distract attention from something else. Anyone in the headlines was immediately suspicious.

Which was why she saw the pictures of Krimble on the front page and started to think.

“Sharp stabs children in the back!”

While Maddie liked to think of herself, like the paper, as ever watchful, all eyes, she was not all ears. She had long ago conditioned herself, for example, to ignore the shouts of the newsies in the streets. After all, she knew the headlines long before they ever came to be shouting them and it is a necessary part of city life that you learn to ignore distractions.

But even she, eventually, had to realise, as she walked around town, that every child on every corner with a pile of newspapers under their arm was specifically and determinedly insulting her every time she passed one.

This one she definitely noticed because she knew the Newsie in question: Tin Lizzie.

“Sharp stinks!”

“Alright, loud mouth, I hear you,” said Maddie, stopping finally, “Did my editor hire you?”

“I’m not talking to you,” said Lizzie.

“True, you’re shouting at me,” said Maddie, “What I want to know is why.”

“You know why, traitor.”

“Lizzie, you attacked him yourself,” said Maddie, “Jefferson was a crook. I didn’t betray anyone. Quite the opposite. Reporting that stuff is my job.”

“Is ruining Christmas your job, too?”

“That wasn’t Jefferson’s job, either, but he did it,” said Maddie, “In fact, his job was the opposite of that. There’s your traitor.”

“The Service was a good idea!” said Lizzie, “You said so yourself.” She shook her papers at Maddie in fury.

“It was and he ruined it,” said Maddie, “With all his other nonsense.”

“It was you that told everyone about it.”

“Which is, as we have established, my job,” said Maddie.

“What are you talking to her for?” Captain Blood appeared behind Maddie, Wilson and, she noticed, the little girl Midge, in tow.

“Traitor,” said Wilson.

“I have just been explaining to your general here how I am literally the opposite of a traitor,” said Maddie, “Don’t me explain it all again for the late edition.”

“You are a traitor,” said Lizzie, “‘Christmas must come to those that deserve it most’, that’s what you said.”

“I am constantly assured,” said Maddie, “That journalism is just tomorrow’s fish wrappers and yet everyone keeps quoting my own words to me like they’re Shakespeare. If I wanted my words to live forever I’d have become a stone carver.”

“Well, you said it didn’t you?” said Lizzie.

“If you say so,” said Maddie.

“And is it?” Lizzie waved her papers at Maddie again, shaking Krimble’s portrait in her face, “Is Christmas coming? Is it?”

“Not charioted by Krimble and his reindeer, no, I’ll grant you that,” said Maddie.

“Then you’re a traitor to yourself,” said Lizzie.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” said Maddie.

“So what are you going to do about it,” said The Captain.

“I’m going to drink to forget,” said Maddie, “What do you want me to do?”

“You just said it was your job to tell the truth about crooks,” said Lizzie, “What about this Krimble?”

“Wait,” said Maddie, suddenly remembering the Newsies’ reputation for knowing everything, “What do you know about Krimble?”

“He’s on the council, isn’t he?” said The Captain.

“Yeah,” said Lizzie, “They’re always up to something: mistresses and lying and corruption,” she shook the papers at Maddie again, “Always.”

“Embezzlement,” said Wilson, suddenly. They all turned and looked at him. He stared back at them. Maddie shrugged.

“I hate to tell you this, kids,” said Maddie, “But Krimble’s not any of those things. He’s so clean he makes my teeth itch. Rub him and he squeaks. Nothing on him but fresh linen and the smell of soap.”

“You’ve been investigating him, haven’t you?” said The Captain, “You’re thinking the same way we are.”

“I don’t think anyone thinks the same way you do,” said Maddie, “Look, you kids might not like it, I might not like it, but Councillor Krimble’s just doing his job, and doing it rather well too, sadly. It’s public money that’s going into the Elf Service now and that means both the public and the money need to be looked after. No more hobnobbing with hoteliers and glad-handing the great and good, no more handing out the largesse just how you like. Every ‘i’ has to be dotted and every ‘t’ signed for triplicate.”

“But,” said Lizzie, “There’s not a drop of Christmas in him.”

“Except that he does look like a particularly boring bauble,” said Maddie, “But no, there isn’t, and, frankly there shouldn’t be. He’s not paid to be Christmassy, he’s paid to be unpleasant, apparently, and we’re paying him to do it. Well, I am at any rate, I very much doubt any of you know what taxes are.”

“But it's not fair,” said Lizzie, insistently, “Is it? The Elf Service was a good idea. People like us, like Midge, were going to get a Christmas and now they’re not, and it’s not fair, is it?”

“Life is, I am told, famously not fair,” said Maddie.

“But Christmas should be, shouldn’t it?” said the Captain, “Shouldn’t it? Fair?”

“In both senses, I guess,” said Maddie, “Equitably beautiful and beautifully equitable.”

“You want to get Krimble too, don’t you?” said The Captain.

“You do want to, don’t you?” said Lizzie.

“Get him,” said Wilson.

Midge just stared at her. Maddie sighed.

“Sure, yes,” she said, “Petty though it may be, unprofessional though it definitely is, I want to get him, yes. But how? He’s ungettable.”

“We’ll think of something,” said Lizzie, “There’s nothing us newsies can’t find out.”

“Hang on, though, I think you already have,” said Maddie, “That thing you said about him not having any Christmas in him has given me an idea. There’s one last place I haven’t checked yet. Come with me.”

Madde had thought it was a long shot and was astonished to find that it paid off and that the secretary of the Anti-Christmas League was exactly where she had last seen him, in the offices of the Anti-Christmas League, being the secretary.

“What are you still doing here?” was all she could think to say when she found him.

“What business is it of yours?” said the suspicious young man, glaring at the Newsies who had insisted on accompanying her inside.

“Have you not heard about the Reverend Iverson Jonke?” said Maddie, “He turned out to be a set of false whiskers and a joke shop dog collar.”

“After much deliberation,” said the young man, as if repeating a much rehearsed speech, “The trustees of the League have decided that our work is too important to be forestalled by the regrettable behaviour of one deluded individual.”

“That’s very generous of Councillor Krimble,” said Maddie.

“How did you know it was him?” said the young man, stepping back, startled, and narrowing his eyes, “Who told you?”

“You just did,” said Maddie, “That was just a guess, but thank you for confirming it.”

“I confirmed nothing!” said the young man, in a panic, “I cannot confirm or deny the identity of any of our trustees, they have all requested anonymity.”

“I bet they have,” said Maddie, “I imagine none of your deluded individuals want anyone to know about their regrettable behaviour. Anyway, thank you for your help.”

“I haven’t been helpful!” said the young man, “I have rendered you no assistance!”

“Oh yes you have,” said Maddie, cheerfully, closing the door behind her “You’ve been very helpful indeed.”

She could hear the young man wailing all the way down the stairs.

“What’s an Anti-Christmas League anyway?” said the Captain as they emerged onto the street.

“A thing that I imagine Councillor Krimble would not want anyone to know he’s involved with,” said Maddie, “A thing that convinces me that he’s up to no good, although also a thing that might not be enough to convince anyone else.”

“What’s the use of it, then?” said the Captain.

“It is a loose end,” said Maddie, “And it’s made me think of another one. Get enough of them together and sometimes you can begin to weave.”

“You’ve got a plan, haven’t you?” said the Captain.

“A suspicion of a plan,” said Maddie, “Or perhaps a plan to have a suspicion. You kids told me you could find anyone in the city, right?”

“Name them,” said Lizzie.

“Well, at the risk of upsetting our little friend here,” said Maddie, gesturing at Midge, “The name is McNulty. I want you to find the man who’s not her father.”