Author: Jaimie Admans
Category: Humorous
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/jaimie-admans/page,8,600588-the_post_box_at_the_north_pole_the_perfect_cosy_and_uplifting_christmas_romance_to_curl_up_with_in_2021.html
I squeeze past Tav and go across to lift it off the hook. It is hand-knitted and my name is embroidered in glittering thread. ‘Why is there a stocking with my name on it?’
‘It’s your stocking.’ Dad is hovering in the hallway, looking like he’s waiting to make a quick getaway.
‘I only got here last night.’
‘The nisse made it for you. They’re fast workers.’
‘Dad …’
‘You’ll still be here for Christmas. Santa needs somewhere to put your presents.’
‘Okay, enough with the Santa stuff. I’ve not been here for twenty-four hours and I’m already fed up of hearing about Santa and elves. Do we need to have “The Conversation”?’
‘The birds and the bees? Your very existence should signify that I know all about the birds and the bees.’
I roll my eyes. ‘No, the Santa conversation. Usually reserved for children under the age of eight, but we can adapt.’
‘Well, this is a Christmas village. You’re going to hear Santa’s name a lot. He’s arguably the main attraction.’
Tav has stayed quiet until now, but he moves to step between us, effectively blocking the whole view from the living room. ‘We’re running late, Perce, we should go.’
‘You’re absolutely right, my friend. Have a good day, Sash. See you later.’
‘Dad, you’re not supposed to be—’
There’s the sound of the front door slamming and a “ho ho ho” from outside.
‘… working!’ I call after him.
‘He’s been playing Santa here for four years, you can’t expect him to stop now,’ Tav says gently.
I sigh. ‘He has to— Wait, four years? I thought he bought the place last year?’
‘He did, after playing Santa here for the previous four Christmases.’ He speaks slowly, like he’s explaining quantum physics to a pigeon.
‘He’s been coming here for the past four years? He never returns to the same place twice. It’s one of his things.’ I put on a deep voice. ‘There’s so much world to see, Sasha, and I want to see all of it. He’s even offended when he has to fly through an airport he’s been through before.’
‘There’s something special about this place,’ Tav says with a shrug, clearly not grasping the enormity of this.
‘I’m sure there is. I’m also sure it’s some sort of hallucinogenic in the water supply, but let’s not go there.’
‘The water supply is well filtered, I assure you. No hallucinogenic could get in there.’
‘I didn’t mean it literally.’ I groan, but his earnestness makes me start laughing. ‘I thought you said you’d only known him for a year?’
‘I’ve known him for four years – what I said was we’d become good friends in the year since he took over full-time. How come you didn’t know this?’
I shake my head in bewilderment. ‘He always says he’s going to come home for Christmas, but he never does. There’s always some outlandish excuse or another, but never once has he told me he’s playing Santa Claus in some Arctic alpine village.’
‘Have you ever considered that maybe, to him, he is home for Christmas, and where you live is not his home?’
I go to tell him not to be so stupid, but the words stop in my throat. There’s something about his gentle voice, something that wheedles under my skin and makes it impossible to snap at him.
‘I should …’ He points towards the door.
‘Tav, hang on.’ I take a step towards him. ‘Will you be honest with me? What have I walked into here? Is he just playing a part or does he genuinely think Santa exists? Because I thought he still had all his wits about him, but seeing this place, hearing him talk about Santa and elves and reindeer flying … He’s seen doctors about his heart – they would’ve noticed if something was off mentally, right?’
Tav thinks about it for a few serious moments. ‘Okay, answer me this – how do you know the nisse didn’t knit that stocking?’
I should’ve known that a word of sense was too much to hope for. I look around the room, giving him time to laugh and tell me he’s joking. He remains straight-faced.
‘Because elves are fictional?’ I say when I can’t stand it any longer. It comes out sounding like a question that I already know won’t be answered.
‘Because you haven’t personally seen something, that means it doesn’t exist? Have you ever held a million pounds? Enjoyed a cup of tea without being interrupted? Seen the Loch Ness monster?’
‘Also fictional.’
‘Are you kidding me? Nessie is fictional?’ This time he can’t keep a straight face, and seeing his lips twitch as he tries not to laugh makes me smile, even though I want to frown.
‘All right, you’re hilarious, but this isn’t funny. We’re both adults, Tav. Level with me, please?’
He’s quiet again, and I think I’m finally, finally going to get some sense out of him.
‘Why is it so impossible to believe that your childhood Christmases might be true? Has the world really been so cruel to you that you no longer have an imagination?’
I go to reply, but nothing comes out. The words hit me hard. I loved Christmas when I was younger. I believed in Santa for longer than most kids, and even when I knew the truth, I still wanted to believe that this magical man would come down my chimney on Christmas Eve, that there was some mythical being out there, watching over us all. Mum and Dad went out of their way to make Christmas feel magical, from when I was too young to understand it until I was far too old to appreciate their gestures.
‘Tav, hurry up! You’re the head elf and the class are supposed to be here at half past!’ Dad knocks on the living room window from outside and makes us both jump.
‘Aren’t you the only “elf”?’ I do the inverted quotes in case he was under any illusion that they’re getting to me.
‘I’m not an elf, I’m a human.’ He ducks out into the hallway and lifts a red and green striped hat from a hook by the door, complete with pointy elf ears on the sides, and an abnormally long tip with a bell that jingles. He pulls it on and tucks his hair in, and even wearing that, he still manages to look sophisticated and … sexy. I’ve never thought a man in an elf hat could be hot before.
‘Can I help with the school visit?’ I ask instead of trying to pursue the conversation any further. It seems futile.
‘No, thanks. I have it under control.’ He pulls on a pair of red and green striped elf gloves to match the hat.
‘What can I do? I’m supposed to be here to help.’
‘Don’t ask me, I don’t need any help. No matter what your dad says, I’m on top of it.’ There’s a defensiveness in his voice that intrigues me.
Eventually he sighs and seems to soften. ‘You can do whatever you want. Go and explore, look around, but be careful – we don’t get much daylight at this time of year. The sun rises around 10 a.m. and it’ll be dark by 2 p.m.’
It makes me feel a bit useless, and Tav seems offended by the implication that he might need help with anything.
‘See you later.’ He opens the door and turns back with a cheerful grin and a wink. ‘May your day be merry and bright!’
It makes me laugh despite the underlying worry that my dad is a little bit too dedicated to his role as Santa and is working too hard, and I watch from the living room window as the two men walk off down the road together.
I look at the stocking again. Elves, indeed. One of them must be able to knit. Or know someone who does. I didn’t think my dad was a knitter and Tav looks like he should be in the forest chopping down trees in a plaid shirt, not clicking needles together. They only knew I was coming forty-eight hours ago. Who has time to knit a stocking in forty-eight hours?
I wander into the kitchen and my eyes fall on the pile of washing up in the sink. I can’t get my head around stockings and nisse and magical wishing jars, but washing up is something normal, so I roll my sleeves up and make a start. No one refuses help with the washing up, not even Tav.
&n
bsp; Maybe he’ll think the elves did it.
I keep thinking about what he said about imagination. Is it that simple? Is Christmas just supposed to be about childlike wonder and believing in the impossible? Am I really so old that I can’t appreciate how much Christmas means when you’re a kid? I wish I could still look to the skies on Christmas Eve and expect to see a whoosh of light as Santa and his reindeer whizz by, but I can’t. The world takes that away as we grow up.
The window above the sink looks out onto Santa’s garden, and I look up when movement catches my eye, and there’s a reindeer looking in at me. The shock makes me laugh somewhat hysterically, but the reindeer carries on chewing whatever it’s eating and moseys on, not at all concerned by my presence in Santa’s House.
Only with my dad could you find a reindeer watching you do the washing up. I’m probably lucky he hasn’t given them the run of the house too. I wouldn’t be even vaguely surprised to turn around and find a reindeer watching TV in the living room.
When it’s done and mostly put away because there are so many cupboards that I can’t find where everything goes, I take Tav’s advice and go to explore because I still can’t imagine the scale of this place.
I step outside and onto the road, and glance in the direction they went and I’m surprised to see someone coming towards me. She raises a hand and waves enthusiastically.
It’s a postwoman! In a climate-appropriate red and grey uniform! I don’t know why I’m so excited by the prospect of seeing someone delivering the mail. I certainly don’t get excited at the thought of my postman at home coming – he usually only delivers bills and junk mail.
‘God morgen! You must be Sasha! Percy has told me all about you. I’m Freya.’ She shakes my hand vigorously when she reaches me. ‘It’s so good of you to leave such an important job and come to his aid.’
I’m so excited by the prospect of another human that I nearly hug her.
I’d half expected to run into an elf.
Or a reindeer, coming to critique my washing-up skills.
And I steadfastly ignore the part about my job. How can Dad have told more people? Half the population of Norway think I’m the manager of a prestigious hotel, and even if I tell Dad the truth now, he’ll be embarrassed about having told all his friends something that isn’t true.
‘It’s so nice to meet you. Someone with your skill and experience is exactly what this place needs to perk it up.’
I blush at that, even though she’s talking about my experience as a fancy hotel manager, which is limited to a short stint at the reception desk of a hotel before I got fired. ‘And between you and me, Percy and Tav really need the help.’
‘They do?’
She looks like she’s in her sixties, with a long fringe and greying blonde hair down to her waist. ‘It’s so good you’re here. Someone needs to stop lovely Tav working himself into an early grave.’
‘Tav?’ I say in confusion. Surely she means my dad?
‘He never stops, that man. When I heard an ambulance had been called up here, I was sure it was going to be for him. Every time I see him, I tell him he’s going to do himself a mischief by working so hard.’
‘But he’s like a giant untouchable giant,’ I say, thinking I should really have better descriptive words for him by now. Even as I say it, I think of his hunched shoulders when he sat on the hearth in the cabin, the way he had no intention of coming into the house last night, the way he ate breakfast on the go just now.
‘Look a bit closer – no matter how difficult he makes it,’ she says, cryptically. ‘He’s too much of a gentleman to accept help from someone old enough to be his grandmother, but someone young and vibrant like you is exactly what this place needs.’
I almost snort at the suggestion of me being young and vibrant. It’s not what most people would call me if they saw me snuggled up in my dressing gown in front of Netflix by seven o’clock most evenings. Young and vibrant suggests someone with rainbow-coloured hair who goes out partying every night and has a wide range of friends and a busy social life.
‘Oh, sorry. I’m so excited to meet you that I’m forgetting why I’m here. Today’s delivery!’
She hands me a bag with “Posten” printed on the red fabric and it’s a true comedy cartoon moment as I take it off her, expecting it to be lightweight, and it’s so heavy that it hits the ground, nearly taking my arm out of the socket with it. ‘What on earth is this?’
‘Santa mail.’
‘Letters children write to Santa?’ I hoist the bag up with both hands and heave the strap over my shoulder so the weight rests against my hip. I thought Dad was winding me up when he mentioned it last night.
‘Of course. I used to take them to the North Pole Forest post office, but the pile of unread mail in there is so big that it’s started posting them back out at me.’
The mental image makes me giggle.
‘I’ve been handing them to Tav lately, or leaving them in the box for him.’ She nods towards the post box on the roadside at the edge of the house.
I’ve flipped the top of the bag up and my fingers run across colourful envelopes in every shape and size imaginable. I pull one out and there’s a dinosaur sticker on the front, and the return address is to Argentina. My dad gets letters from Argentina. I put it back in the bag and pull out another one. New Zealand this time, and the address on the front reads “Santa Claus, the North Pole”. ‘It’s not even addressed here.’
‘It doesn’t matter what address is on it, the post office identify all Santa mail and it’s split between here and Finland.’
I put the New Zealand letter back in the bag and rifle further through the masses of envelopes. ‘There are hundreds of letters in here.’
‘Only 1,057 today and nineteen different countries – a quiet one.’
I give a loud laugh and quickly realise she isn’t joking. ‘My dad gets letters from nineteen countries?’
‘He gets letters from every country in the world, Sasha. There was even one from Mars once, although that might’ve been a joke, but who knows. Anything’s possible at Christmas – even aliens wanting presents.’
‘Every country in the world,’ I repeat, staring at the layers upon layers of colourful envelopes in the huge bag. ‘And this is a quiet day?’
‘It’s still early. Lots of children don’t write until the first half of December. Santa can get thirty thousand letters a day at peak Christmas season.’
My mouth drops open in shock. ‘He gets thirty thousand letters a day?’ All I seem to be doing is repeating her words in a more disbelieving tone. Dad has a tendency to exaggerate and I took what he said about Santa mail with a pinch of salt, but … really? Am I the only person who didn’t know writing to Santa was still a thing?
I did it myself when I was little, in the years between being old enough to write and still young enough to believe in Santa, but it was Mum who always took my letters and promised to stamp them and put them in the post box. In later years, I realised she never did. Those letters weren’t to Santa – they were so my parents knew what I wanted for Christmas. Surely all letters “to Santa” are the same? Kids write a list of what they want, parents read the list and know what to put under the Christmas tree. Job done.
And surely things are too modern for actual letters these days? What kid wants to write a letter when they could send Santa an email, or text him, add him to a WhatsApp chat, or take a photo of their list and tag him on Instagram?
‘Leave the empty bag tucked under here and I’ll collect it tomorrow.’ She backsteps to the post box at the edge of the house and retrieves yesterday’s empty mail bag that was folded underneath it.
‘Does my dad read all these letters?’ I ask her. He can’t do, can he? There aren’t enough hours in a day to read over a thousand letters. And what difference does it make anyway? These are going to be full of lists of presents children want – expensive technology and must-have toys and probably some Argos catalogue pages with items circl
ed on them. What’s the point in Dad reading them? He’s not going to buy stuff for these children and send it to them, is he? Despite his insistence, he isn’t actually Santa.
‘Probably not as many as he’d like to,’ she says. ‘He read every single one at first, but he and Tav have had too much on their hands lately, and when Tav had to let the staff go …’
There were staff here at some point then. It hasn’t always just been Dad and Tav. ‘Since then?’
‘Things went downhill quickly. It was on the brink of going under last year when your dad bought it. The whole community was so glad when he swept in and saved it. It’s unthinkable to imagine this area without the North Pole Forest.’
I get the impression she’s wondering if she’s said too much, and it doesn’t seem fair to prod for any more information when she’s clearly uncomfortable talking about friends behind their backs.
‘Do you know where Santa’s post office is?’ I ask instead. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with this huge bag of letters. The house is so crammed full of Christmas decorations that there’s no possible place it could fit in there, and I still can’t get my head around the idea of my dad having his own post office.
She points to our left, in the direction she’s come from. ‘There’s a whole load of cabins near each other – the older parts of the Santa village gone to ruin. It’s so sad. The post office was always their main attraction. People used to travel from all over to post their Christmas cards here with the “North Pole Mail” outgoing stamps on them. There’s a tourist map that should help you find your way around too. Keep on down this road – you can’t miss it.’
This place is big enough to warrant a “you are here” map. The thought almost makes me laugh. Of course it is.
‘I’d best get on. I always linger when I come here and make myself late for the rest of my round. I’ll see you again, no doubt, I’m here every day with the next delivery. Keeps me fit in my old age.’ She flexes a bicep. ‘Nice to finally meet you, Sasha. Percy’s said so much about you that I feel like I know you already!’