Pulling Out All The Stops

certain carriage width.

‘I’ve got a different costume in mind,’ says

Stuart smoothly when I voice this concern. ‘I think you’re going to love it. I’ve arranged for you to have a fitting this afternoon.’

I don’t know what to say. What can I say? He’s the boss, ‘needs must’ and I don’t want to jeopardise my job or let down the team.

So after lunch, I toddle along to Mrs Malcolm, who’s in charge of all things Santa’s grotto — and gaze in silent horror at the costume picked out for me. I’m to be a penguin. The reasons are: a) Santa’s grotto is located inside a papier-mâché igloo chosen to represent the North Pole and b) it’s the only costume left that I’ll fit into.

Before I can point out that there are no penguins at the North Pole, Mrs Malcolm is showing me how to zip myself into a black and white costume made of some thick, rubbery material, complete with a hot, rubbery head with only my eyes showing.

As I peer out over my sleek penguin beak (nose?), Mrs M says: ‘The great thing is, you can go incognito in this outfit and still enjoy the buzz of the grotto.’

‘Don’t bother trying to sell it to me,’ I murmur churlishly. ‘Stuart’s already tried.’

The suit is not only boiling, it’s also a trifle whiffy and my flappy arms (flippers?) are all but unmanageable.

Mrs Malcolm gives me matching black and white ankle boots and then asks me to do a ‘penguin walk’, by channeling ‘my inner Charlie Chaplin’.

I’m supposed to do my little walk at intervals to amuse the children and parents in the queue.

Mrs Malcolm declares me ‘a natural’, which is just another way of saying I’m lumbered with the role. And

I’m to start the very next day — my office duties suspended forthwith.

I go home and tell Graham how humiliated I feel, but he says mildly: ‘It might be fun, Liz.’

‘How do you work that one out?’ I frown. ‘I can’t be seen in the caff with my head unzipped, because I have to stay in character, so I’ll have to take all my breaks in the office.

‘And I’ve seen what some of those little darlings are like,’ I add with a shudder. ‘Last week a boy stomped on the chief elf’s curly slipper to see where his toes ended. What will they do to a penguin?’

I’m about to find out…

Actually, it turns out the kids aren’t as bad as I’ve feared or been led to believe (some of the elves may have been exaggerating for effect).

The worst incident I have in the next three days is a little girl parking her half-chewed gum on one of my flippers. Her mum is mortified and scrapes it off for me.

For the most part, everyone is patient, if sometimes overexcited, about seeing Santa and getting a present.

I perfect my ‘penguin walk’ to delighted acclaim and learn to move about in the suit. At one point I even try a moon walk, which gets wild applause. And so, to

Saturday.

This is a red-letter day — a live baby reindeer is going to be in the grotto with his handler. Children will be able to pet him as they queue nearby, without getting too close.

I chat to the handler before the grotto opens (and before I’ve zipped up my head) and he says: ‘Rather you than me’, and I say: ‘Ditto’, because the baby reindeer is tossing its head and pawing the straw in its little paddock, and looks quite a handful.

All goes well for the first couple of hours. And then — pandemonium!

Someone screams: ‘Stop

that dog!’ and a ball of barking fur comes racing towards the grotto, trailing a string of fairy lights and pursued by a very familiar figure.

‘Hector?’ I gasp, swivelling to add: ‘Fran?’

Luckily, she doesn’t hear me, as she’s too busy chasing her madly careering dog.

Hector is making straight for the reindeer paddock. He’ll easily be able to slip between its bars.

The reindeer is already agitated and kicking at the bars, and now the children are screaming and backing

away in fear.

Instinctively, I step into Hector’s path and block his way. He skedaddles to a halt, confused.

Thankfully, now I’ve got the hang of my flippers, I’m able to reach down and scoop him up. He squirms but I keep a firm hold, even when he sneezes loudly into my black and white costume and then tries to bite through it.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ pants Fran, bustling up, hair askew and holding a wicker bicycle basket. ‘I don’t know how he got away from me! Hector, you naughty boy, come here and get back in your basket. You know the nice man only allowed you in as long as you behaved yourself!’

The ‘nice man’ is Stuart, who’s now descended on the scene.

‘Ah — Mrs Talbot,’ he nods, gaze moving from her to Hector, still in my arms and now gazing up at me curiously, wagging his tail. ‘No harm done, that’s the main thing. Perhaps one of our staff could look after the little chap while you finish your shopping?’

Then he calls to a passing retail assistant: ‘Andrea, could you take Mrs Talbot’s canine companion to my office and see he’s made comfortable? Let a member of staff know when you’ve finished your shopping,’ he adds to Fran, ‘and they’ll be happy to fetch — Hector, is it? — back for you.’

‘Most kind,’ says Fran, plucking Hector from my arms and bundling him into Andrea’s. ‘He’s only overstimulated by the presence of a larger animal.’

And off she goes, led away from the scene by Stuart, while Andrea heads to the office to ensure Hector’s made comfy — probably on my swivel chair, come to think.

Fran knows I work here, of course, but she’d expect me to be in a back office. Plus, I’ve never worked weekends before, and I’ve sworn Graham to secrecy about my penguin suit gig.

Luckily, she doesn’t have a clue who’s actually inside this suit.

The excitement has died down by the time Stuart returns, rolling his eyes at me and giving a wry smile.

He takes me to one side by my flipper and murmurs: ‘Well done, Liz, quick thinking. I gave Mrs Talbot the benefit when she rang and asked to bring her dog along next time she came to do a bit of shopping. But head office wouldn’t have been pleased if it had got out of hand.’

‘You know her, then?’ I ask cautiously.

‘Well, she doesn’t come here for all her Christmas shopping like she used to, and she doesn’t have an account with us,’ he explained. ‘But Mrs Talbot is still a bit of a ledge in these parts. That’s why I said she could bring her dog in today, as long as she kept him in that basket.’

My ears prick up. ‘She used to buy all of her Christmas ingredients from the food court here?’

‘Bit more to it than that,’ he snorts. ‘She bought everything! From the turkey to the stuffing, the cranberry sauce to the honey-glazed parsnips. I remember, one year, she heard about our gingerbread Wendy house, which our Paris branch was selling. We weren’t actually offering it in this country, but for Mrs Talbot, we had one ordered from the Paris store and shipped over.’

‘Did she buy her

Christmas cake here too?’ I ask faintly.

‘Of course! And the tree, the decorations… you name it,’ he laughs with a sigh of nostalgia. ‘She had what she called her “Christmas account” with us. Those were the days!’ He shakes his head. ‘Remarkable woman, Mrs Talbot.’

Yes, I think to myself. And remarkably economical with the truth!

She’d managed to fool Graham all those years, never mind the rest of us!

Her husband must’ve been in on it, I suppose, once he and Graham stopped going on that fishing trip together when Brian got too old for it.

I can’t wait to see her face when I confront her with my discovery… maybe on Christmas Day itself when she’s finding fault with the turkey or the crackers or…

And then, suddenly, as I turn away to lift the velvet rope and admit more shufflers in the queue, I think how unfestive that would be, how positively

‘I’ve got a di erent costume in mind. I think you’re going to love it’

mean. Because, yes, she’s overbearing and bossy and has been pulling the wool for goodness knows how long, but there’s more to it than that.

Maybe it was her way of showing how much she loved her family. Or perhaps it was her way of being queen for a day in a ‘traditional’ household with a husband who dispensed housekeeping money.

For that one time a year, she was in control and could sit back and accept the plaudits for the fairy-tale fantasy she’d laid on.

Would it have made any difference to Graham to know she’d bought everything in?

Not a bit of it, I feel sure. But keeping her secret speaks to Fran’s insecurity too, and makes her all the more human.

I trudge back to my queue of excited children, looking at their shining faces as they pet the baby reindeer.

There is one thing I’ll do, though, before the big day comes. I’ll forget about the cheap Christmas cake I bought and splurge out on an Ashby’s cake instead.

And as I cut into it, I’ll say: ‘Fran, I think you’ll agree that there’s an equal distribution of mixed fruit and nuts. And I’m pretty sure there’s a sixpence hidden in there as well!’