The Elf Service, Episode 24
In which Christmas, finally, arrives and wishes, finally, are answered
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.
“Elf Service still open for business!”
It was Christmas Eve and snow was falling, because of course it should. It fell on the spires and gargoyles of the old town, softening their jagged outlines into woolly lumps. It fell on the statues and porticos of the New Town, smoothing our their serious angles and faces. It fell on The Gardens, piling up in cushions on the seats of the swings, and it fell on the dark waters of the docks, disappearing as it landed.
It fell on the Argus building, where lights were lit and chimneys steamed, because Christmas or not, the news never stops. And neither did the Elf Service.
“Argus saves Christmas!”
It had been Maddie Sharp’s idea, but she had allowed Mrs Burns to think it was hers, and she, in turn, had allowed Mr Burns to think it was his. Along with its screaming headlines about Krimble, the Argus had campaigned for, and won, the opportunity to take over the running of the Elf Service.
Walter Burns took credit for the idea, of course, as a business opportunity. Good for circulation. And cost effective. The Argus already had a post room, well experienced in the sort of blizzard of mail a controversial headline could inspire, and, at its beck and call, an army of Newsies who knew the city intimately. And if it needed a front page for publicity, well there one was, to hand. And it used it: photos of Burns standing on a pile of envelopes, of Newsies on duty, of letters on the desks of the great and good of the city.
But while Walter Burns might like to pretend that he did not let sentiment get in the way of running a newspaper, he also did not let running a newspaper get in the way of sentiment. There was no need for him to keep the Elf Service running on Christmas Eve, to be giving himself paper cuts opening envelopes, to be cursing Newsies and shouting at the post room staff, but here he was, making himself angry, and, as we all know by now, Walter Burns was never happier than when he was angry.
“Last post for Santa!”
All over the city, Newsies called out the last headlines before the big day and they did this with dry feet, because Otto Krampus, owner of the Krampus department store, donated new boots to the Argus for the Elf Service. Some of them had to stuff their boots with newspaper to make them fit, but that was alright. It just made them warmer.
Down in the docks they sold papers to men thankfully back off ship in time for Christmas. In time for home, for family, with the parlour floor still rocking under them with the sway of brandy this time, not the sea.
In the New Town they sold them to office workers, leaving work a little early to make one last dash to the shops, because they had forgotten mustard, or that Aunt was coming tomorrow, because the stocking can always take one more present squeezed in the top, because it's Christmas Eve and you have to have something special, don’t you?
And in the Old Town. In the Old Town, Paul Massie opened the door to The Stockpot and called Midge over and bought a paper from her. No, two. Better make three. And one to read. Thank you.
“Aren’t you the little girl who found her father?” he said.
“He found me,” said Midge, “And he wasn’t my father.”
“Sorry to hear that,” said Paul.
“I’m not,” said Midge, cheerfully, “Here’s your change.”
“Keep it,” said Paul, “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you too,” said Midge.
Back in the Stockpot, Tamsin, a painter, took a front page of the Argus from Paul, folded it into a hat and put it on his head, which he thought was quite the best Christmas present he had had that year. Until she found the mistletoe and his season improved immeasurably.
They and their friends tore the paper into strips, painted them bright colours and looped them into chains, hanging them around the cafe. They cut them into snowflakes, they folded them into stars, they made hats and rosettes and quite covered the place. And then they got good and drunk, and sang songs and toasted the Elf Service, and they weren’t the only people doing any of those things that night.
“Krimble in crisis!”
One man wasn’t, however. One man stood, solid and round, behind the desk in his office, his back to his cabinet of trophies, staring out through the window at the city, massing up the hill away from him, as if trying to escape.
Snow fell on it all, and Marion Krimble’s gaze fell too, just as cold and deadening. He was judging it, and finding it wanting. If Irving Jefferson had been hoping to teach Krimble a lesson, he had failed. Or worse, taught him the wrong one.
His humiliation at the Christmas ball didn’t bother him. He was used to not being liked. In fact he now understood it as a marker of his correctness. His upright nature. His unwillingness to be bowed by popularity, or fashion or sentiment. What was it the reporter had said? “Doing the right thing isn’t always popular, but that doesn’t stop it being the right thing”. Then, perhaps, if he was terribly unpopular it could only be a sign he was terribly right.
He looked down on the city and vowed to do the right thing to it, whether it liked it or not. Especially if it didn’t like it.
“City closes up for the season.”
One place wasn’t closing and one man was carefully listening to it not close. Listening to all the people drink and sing and toast the Elf Service.
Up in his eyrie above The Metropolitan hotel, Felix Savoir, listened to his building murmur and hum beneath him. He listened to the rattle of the lifts in their shafts as people travelled up to the restaurant and listened to the complaining of the pipes as the taps were opened down in the bar. Music came swelling up from below and laughter came tinkling down from the roof garden.
Who could be up there in this weather?
He nimbly scrambled across the top of his desk and, grabbing a hat and scarf, slipped out of a side door and down the private steps to the terrace below. The doors to the cocktail bar were opened and the sound of chatter and music spilled out with the warm light. There, at the edge of the terrace, a young couple stood, warm with champagne, gazing out at the snow falling on the Old Town above them.
That’s the spirit. Savoir touched the brim of his hat to them and then crunched quietly through the snow behind them into the bar, pulling the door to - but not closed - behind him. The barman gave him a little bow as he handed him his hat and scarf.
“Put braziers out on the terrace,” said Savoir, “People should see the snow.”
He moved through the bar, nodding to those patrons who knew who he was, and then down the stairs. Down a floor, out into the empty hallways, across the width of the building and into the stairwell on the opposite side.
A party going on in one of the rooms. The low murmur of conversation from another. Couples leaving their rooms, dressed up for a night out, couples entering rooms, already disrobing. The city view bar on seventh, quiet and intimate, the fifth floor restaurant, full of life. An impromptu game of charades appeared to have broken out in the library, a sing song in the coffee room.
Down through his hotel went Felix Savoir, listening to Christmas Eve build itself around him.
“Krampus stays open an extra hour tonight!”
Krampus stays open, the Argus stays open. But not working, not all of it. The Elf Service had to close eventually. It was Christmas Eve, after all, and the big man was no doubt packing the sleigh and getting ready to head out. He was not going to have time to answer any more letters this year.
And so there was one last opportunity for Walter Burns to shout at the elves of the Elf Service, this time to get in line behind and follow him. Down the corridors and through the offices of the Argus, singing and dancing, gathering up stray reporters (all reporters are stray, when necessary) and the remaining staff, who had already been doing a little singing and dancing themselves, around their desks, down the cafeteria.
While Mr Burns had been busying himself all evening shouting at the elves, Mrs Burns had been busy preparing their Christmas. Not alone, of course. Miss Saltadora was there, and Mrs and Miss Reynarde, Mrs Fulmine and Miss Donner, all the volunteers from the original Service. All of them there to decorate the Argus staff canteen, ready for the Elf Service party.
Being put into a Santa Claus costume must have made Mr Burns furious, because he seemed extremely happy indeed as he handed out presents to the Newsies, each of them ushered up to his knee by his helper, Jack Frost, a tall, thin man in bright blue overalls, his face hung about with a beard of cardboard icicles.
A megaphone for Lizzie (whose idea had that been? Surely no one who had ever met her), a new hat for Captain Blood (never as good as his old), a boat for Wilson (received with stoic satisfaction) and a doll, at last, for Midge. One that talked, in fact. She tried to look as if she was too grown up for it now. But she wasn’t. She was delighted.
The presents had been given out, and argued over, and traded away, and as the party started to get properly raucous, Maddie Sharp looked about and realised that Jack Frost had disappeared.
There was a door in the corner of the dining hall that opened out onto a little corner terrace and there she found him, hanging over the railing, staring down into the streets below.
“If you’re going to jump, let me go and tell the children,” said Maddie, “They’ll want to watch.”
“I’d have the good manners,” said Jefferson, tugging at his icicles to get them on straight, “To wait for Boxing Day, make sure you had some good headlines for after Christmas.”
“Very thoughtful of you,” said Maddie, “You’re learning to think of others, among other things.”
“I meant what I said,” said Jefferson, “At the ball: I am grateful for the chance to redeem myself.”
“Well, don’t rest on your laurels yet,” said Maddie, “You’ve got an awful lot to redeem.”
“There’s an awful lot I can do,” said Jefferson.
“That sounds like a threat,” said Maddie, “What did you have in mind? You’d go down well in the music halls.”
“Something very similar,” said Jefferson, “I was thinking of politics.”
“Oh good, we’re doomed,” said Maddie, “I know politicians have a poor reputation, but the public generally frowns on people who have already committed fraud before running for office.”
“Oh, I’d probably have to use my real name, wouldn’t I?” said Jefferson.
“Your real name?”
“Christmas. Christmas Jefferson. On account of being born on the day.”
“Well,” said Maddie, “Aren’t you the gift that keeps on giving. Merry Christmas Jefferson, and Happy Birthday.”
“Merry Christmas to you, Sharp,” said Jefferson, “See you in the front pages.”
And he went back into the canteen. Maddie stood and watched the snow fall in the empty street. Moments later she heard the front doors open and Jack Frost went striding across the street, stopped at the corner, turned, waved and was gone.
“Merry Christmas,” she said again to the quiet city, muffled by snow, “Merry Christmas to you all.”