The Elf Service, Episode 23

In which Marion Krimble gives a speech. To a mixed reception.

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.

“It is Christmas. A time of generosity. A time of giving.”

The secretary of the Anti-Christmas League did not feel generous. He was keeping himself to himself. The only thing he was in a mood to give was the cold shoulder. He was feeling distinctly out of place.

When that nosy reporter and that mysterious Doctor Jericho had suggested a fund-raising event, he had been picturing a sober gathering: some improving speeches, perhaps the adoption of a rational manifesto, possibly a round of applause for the secretary if it was considered appropriate. Not a masked ball in The Metropolitan hotel.

He hadn’t brought a mask, for one thing. He didn’t even own a mask. And certainly not fancy dress. He looked down on such things as childish frivolities, although, to tell the truth, he hadn’t much liked them when he was himself a child anyway.

He had had to borrow a clown mask with a big red nose and a hideous grin which definitely didn’t suit him. The secretary never grinning. Although, had he done so, it would no doubt have been hideous.

At least his Mr Krimble was speaking. He thought of Krimble as his after the Councillor had saved the Anti-Christmas League from the awful taint of Irving Jefferson, although he would, if pressed, have had to admit that, if anything, he was Mr Krimble’s.

“And how do we show our generosity?” Krimble was up on stage, giving a speech, his round little head bobbing up and down behind a lectern like a target at a sideshow shooting gallery, “Many of you, I know, have been giving presents, because the task, for the present, of giving the presents, presenting the gifts to those who would get them, has been presented to me.”

The secretary scowled behind his lurid smile. He had gotten a little lost in the syntax of that last bit - the Councillor was not used to long sentences and didn’t quite know how to arrange them - but he wasn’t sure that it was quite promising the holiday reform that Doctor Jericho had been proposing. A lot of the crowd seemed happy with it, though, which was perhaps the main thing.

“Hey,” said someone, and the secretary started back at the sight of someone in a hairy goblin costume plucking at his sleeve, “You’re in charge here, right? I need to talk to someone in charge.”

Was that a costume?

“Me?” said the secretary, “No. Don’t know anything about it. Ask that woman there.” And he turned and scurried away into the shadows at the back of the hall.

“And who are those people? Who gets the presents?,” said Krimble, “Good little boys and girls. This is what we tell the children and we tell them it because it is true.”

Mrs Burns, who felt it her duty, as the putative host of the event, to actually listen to the speeches, nodded approvingly at this sentiment. She was of the opinion that it took a lot of talent and hard work to cultivate people like Krimble, people who were important but otherwise not the sort of people one would normally invite to dinner. Certainly not the sort of people one’s husbands would like to find there.

“Those who try hard, work well, do good, they are rewarded.” said Krimble, “Wealth and success are the reward for our effort. Those who have, have earned what they have. Those who have not, have not.”

Mrs Burns started nodding again, and then stopped. Was that right? She had always thought of the point of charity being to make up for the deficiencies of the world, after all. She had said as much to Walter Burns after his reporter had written that piece the other day about charity. She had explained it all quite carefully to him and she knew he had been listening attentively because he had closed his eyes in contemplation.

“Hey, Mrs,” said a voice, “I need to talk to someone about Krimble.”

The man wasn’t even in costume, although it would have undoubtedly improved his appearance if he had been. What an awful beard.

“Wouldn’t we all,” said Mrs Burns, “I suggest you find Miss Sharp, she invited him. I would imagine she’s in the bar. She is a reporter, after all.”

The man disappeared and Mrs Burns returned her attention to Councillor Krimble.

“Our city, our business, our society offers much,” said Krimble, “Too much, some say. But it must be worked for, and not all are willing to try.”

Mrs Burns’ husband was also in the bar, because he was a journalist, too, but also because he was going to need a stiff drink to get through this nonsense.

“Sharp,” he said as he came up beside her, deferring to the setting by not bellowing it, “Are you listening to this pill?”

“I am,” said Sharp, “That’s why I’m drinking. Getting harder to swallow, isn’t it?”

“Be generous to these people, we are told, but what does that generosity do?” said Krimble in the other room, “Why should people work and try when they can have charity? Why strive for success when you can do nothing and take presents?”

“You’re making me regret,” said Burns, “That front page you made me print about this nonsense.”

“Don’t you worry,” said Maddie, raising a glass, “The next front page will be a doozy.”

“Merry Christmas,” said Burns, downing his drink.

“Hey, Sharp,” said a voice. McNulty appeared at Maddie’s other shoulder. “Sharp, I have to talk to someone about Krimble.”

“Not now, Sorry McNulty,” said Maddie, tinkling her ice cubes at him, “I’m working. Try Jefferson. He appears to be able to bear you for reasons at which I cannot guess.”

“It is Christmas. A time of generosity.” said Krimble, as McNulty skulked back into the hall, “But what is generosity, truly? Is it to lull people into indolence with charity? Or is it to encourage them onto success?”

“Like the success you’ve made of the Elf Service,” came a voice from the dark rear of the hall. Jefferson was pacing there, tugging at his Santa Claus mask, “Is that your idea of success? Leaving letters unanswered and presents ungiven?” Other voices around him muttered in agreement. Krimble ploughed on.

“This is a time of giving. So let us give gifts. The gift of effort and the gift of work. No achievement earns no reward. We should not give gifts to those who have not earned them.”

“Shame!” said Jefferson and someone else joined in, “Shame!”

“The promise of reward,” said Krimble, starting to waver a little, he hadn’t been expecting anyone to talk back, “drives the achievement. The promise of the present encourages being good. The true Christmas present is no present at all.”

“That’s enough!” Jefferson came pushing through the masked throng, waving his arms, “Enough! Stop this immediately!”

He leapt up onto the stage.

“Sir,” said Krimble, backing away from the manic figure, “I must protest.”

“Sir,” said Jefferson, “We protest.” He swung out an arm at the audience and they broke into applause. Krimble quailed back from them.

“Generosity. Gifts. Christmas,” said Jefferson, “You pick away at these words like a scientist with a snowflake, describing all its parts and never once understanding the true beauty of the whole. And all the while it melts under his microscope.

“Let me enlighten you, you dreadful man,” another smattering of applause, “Gifts are not just geegaws dolled out in expectation of a return. Think of what we mean when we say someone is ‘gifted’. They are extraordinary, exalted. When we give a gift we give recognition, exalt each other, point out each other as extraordinary, regardless of station or title. A fellow on this perplexing, worrying, joyful journey from cradle to grave, all going the same way, to the same destination.

“Generosity is not just kindness. It is the will, the strength, the determination, to leave the world better than you found it. Not because you want some reward, not because you only want to help some individual and not others, but because you believe that the world could be better. That it is in our human power - because it is a human world - to make it so, did we just will it.

“Christmas… Christmas! Three cheers for Christmas!” And he got three cheers.

“Christmas is not just presents and baubles. It is not just,” he gestured at the crowd again, “Delightful parties and splendid feasts,” another cheer, “It is the greatest, most precious of our holidays. Christmas is, itself, our gift.

“At this, the darkest, coldest time of the year, when the spirit quivers and the flesh shivers and all is dull and wet and grim, we light lights and we kindle fires, we decorate and wrap and cover the whole world with glitter and shine and remind ourselves that it is a magical place, full of wonder.

“We stop. We are able to stop, in all the rush, even just for one day, and see that around us are our fellows, to whom we can be generous. That all of them are gathered there in that still moment. 

“I have been taught a lesson recently, ladies and gentlemen. I shan’t go into the details here as they are… personal,” he paused to adjust his mask and hat and make sure no one could see his face, “But I do want to share what I have learned. I have made mistakes, ladies and gentlemen. Oh, we have all made mistakes, but I think I can say without immodesty, that mine were… Are… significant. I have hurt some people, disappointed others, perhaps flouted some laws or other.

“My point is, ladies and gentlemen, that there are people, here, in this room, who might not like me, who would be justified in wishing me ill. But instead, they have - not forgiven me, no - rather they have given me. Given me a chance to make things right. To make Christmas right.

“The lesson is this, ladies and gentlemen. That Christmas comes, whether we like it or not, and it comes to everyone. Equally. Child and adult, rich and poor, man and woman. That day comes to us all, with the same gifts and the same meaning and we all deserve it. We don’t earn it, it isn’t conditional. We get it and we deserve it. We deserve the gifts, we deserve the generosity. We deserve Christmas.

“And we shall get it!”

The crowd applauded again, and cheered, and stamped its feet. It possibly whooped but because it was largely masked, this was somewhat muffled. But before it could get properly into its swing, another figure came clambering up onto the stage. A strange, ragged, hairy figure: McNulty.

“Will someone please listen!” he said and then, when the crowd quietened down at the sight of this peculiar apparition, “I’m sorry.”

“What are you doing?” said Jefferson under his breath, “Get down!”

“This man,” said McNulty, flinging out an accusatory finger, and Jefferson flinched back, “This man has fooled you all!”

The crowd gasped and Jefferson leapt forward at McNulty, trying to push him from the stage, but McNulty stood his ground, shouldering past Jefferson, his finger still outstretched, pointing, not at Jefferson, but at Krimble.

“This man,” said McNulty, “Paid me.”

“Wait a moment,” said Krimble in a small voice.

“He paid me to find out what Irving Jefferson was doing,” said McNulty, “He paid me to pretend to be that girl’s father, he paid me to bring down the Elf Service!”

The crowd’s gasps turned to outraged howls.

“Wait,” Jefferson grabbed hold of McNulty, “Krimble gave you money?”

“Well he said he would,” said McNulty, “But he never actually paid up, didn’t he?”

“A liar and a cheat!” said Jefferson, and, standing in the doorway of the bar, Maddie turned to her editor beside her and clinked her glass against his.

“What did I tell you?” she said, “A doozy.”