A Christmas Tale – David Craine Tells A Seasonal Yarn

Santa was busy; so much to do and so little time. His transport was ready, a huffing and puffing outside, hooves stamping on frozen cobbles. Puddles had formed in the cobbles where much walking had taken place over probably a couple of hundred years, and these puddles were now slowly taking on the look of white pancakes as the ice particles formed on the surface. It was very cold.

He grunted as he loaded the last cattle-feed sack onto the wooden platform behind his seat. This was getting no easier; year upon year he had done the same thing and he was getting old, and fat. His red trousers were biting into his ample midriff, his not so shiny, black, work boots were becoming thinner in the sole and his jacket had a couple of badly repaired tears to the sleeves. The white trimmings were now somewhat threadbare and the white beard had by now some very loose elastic; it was actually now more grey than white and washing it was not on his to do list. 

He did not look good, certainly not what the boys and girls in the village would expect. It would have to do though, just one last time.

And so his journey started.

Shouting: “Come on Kip!” his faithful companion, an ageing border collie, jumped up onto the cart next to him. Santa whistled, shook the leather reins and said: “Walk on.” Slowly the wheels under the ageing cart creaked as the two ponies pulled it forwards. Santa’s head was full of thoughts and worries, they would not leave him be.

Santa was a local farmer who had done this very trip for more years than he cared to remember. His father before him had done the same and he was just another willing volunteer wearing the same clothes, same pantomime beard and hat which had never been washed or ironed. Every year they were put on and after the event were just pushed into an old suitcase until the next twelve months had passed and they were pressed into service again. 

Who would follow him on was anybody’s guess. Santa was not married, an only child and had inherited his father’s farm. When his parents had passed on the farm had come before his few personal pleasures and as the years passed so did any chance of him finding a partner to share his life. He grew old and alone, the farm was becoming too great a burden for him and now he saw this as his last act before selling up. He did not know what the future held. 

Selling up was almost a relief to him. The livestock had all been sold on. This had been hard but it had to be done. All he had left were his companion Kip and the two faithful ponies which were more pets than farm animals. They spent their time in the paddock or barn, occasionally being harnessed and given an outing by pulling this very cart. Soon they would have to go as well. If the farm sold, he would be financially well off but what would he do with a full bank balance and no direction? Farming was all he knew; well, that and being Santa every year.

As the cart slowly made its way to the village hall Santa mused over the last years. He had become something of a recluse; not by choice, it had just happened and he rarely visited the village much apart from a weekly trip to the grocers where he caught up with the local gossip.As the years passed he had noticed new houses being built, new roads appearing. Indeed, he had been approached himself by property developers wanting to purchase some of his land. They had met with short shrift, especially when they wanted to buy and fill in the one thing he had ever had, a thing which had become his short but welcome relief from the daily grind of farming alone. 

Santa had a pond, well, it was larger than a pond, it was a mere. It had been there as long as he could remember, right on the edge of the farm. It was about the size of a football pitch, maybe bigger, but of an irregular shape and had been used as a watering hole for his cattle. The mere had no name and did not seem to appear on any map and it was not visible from any road, being surrounded on all sides by trees and bushes. The only access was via a track that wound its way between the fields. The mere was in a valley but had a very varied bank; in some places it was steep, some places weeded.The mere was a peaceful place; it had bankside vegetation, reed beds, isolated and enticing bays with water-lilies dotting the surface.

There were even the remains of an old punt, rotting and barely alive, resting on the leaf-mould in one of the bays.

Santa had never used the punt but had watched it slowly deteriorate over the many years he had visited the mere. He had no idea who had put it there as it had been there as long as he could remember. Maybe his father had used it? He would never know.

The farm’s livestock had access to part of the mere and in the warm summer months could be seen standing in the cooling waters, taking the opportunity to slake their thirst at the same time. 

In winter it was a much more different place; the trees, standing bare of their summer garments, were gaunt andtheir branches like so many bony fingers, pointing the way to an uncertain future.

Ice formed and there was little in the way of wildlife in this cold place in winter, except for the resident bewick swans circling and keeping their patch of bankside water clear of Ice.

Out in the centre of the mere would be the resident group of Canada geese. They did not seem feel the frozen claws of winter at all and would wander the bank of the mere without any fear whatsoever, such was the solitude of the place.

Santa had first seen the mere when he was a child with his father. His father had spent happy hours with him there, pointing out the beauty of nature, butterflies, birdsand insects. There was as much life in a square yard of the banks of the mere as in the whole village. It was just so much smaller and so much more fascinating, a place that forever would be in his heart.

The rest of the mere was only accessible at a few places. There were the remains of a track that sloped down to the water between the trees and the track seemed to vanish in the woodland above and so it became a mystery. There were a couple of places where Santa had spent time cutting back branches and bushes. In these places he had spent many quiet and happy hours, just sat with his dog at his side, watching the wildlife. In the summer there were coots, moorhens, the occasional heron, ducks with the odd kite or buzzard circling above.

On quiet warm mornings or evenings he had seen deer, badgers and, of course, that scoundrel the fox who was always stalking the waterfowl. Even when seeing the fox, Santa held no grudges; after all, everyone of nature’s creatures needed to eat, to feed their offspring and the fox was no different. There was an area where the meadow grass sloped gracefully down to the water’s edge. The geese had grazed it to a near bowling-green cut and guarded it against all-comers. Even wily Mr Fox could not get near them; they were nature’s best at keeping lookout and were away well before any danger threatened. All taken together, the mere had a great variety of land and bankside vegetation which seemed to attract the wildlife.

While Santa had spent many happy hours at the mere, he had never so much as considered that its inhabitants should be fished for. He had on countless occasions watched as large carp had basked in the quiet bays, the warm sunlight lighting up their golden scales. Occasionally he would even throw pieces of bread from his farmer’s lunch to them. They would circle the floating crusts, nudge them, swim away, seemingly uninterested, then suddenly the water would ‘bulge’ and a hole quickly appeared on the surface; the crust was gone with a loud glooping noise.

Santa liked to see the large groups of fry in the margins, showing that the mere was a healthy place. Even when the electric-blue kingfisher picked off the odd one with the speed of light, it did not upset him. Santa had watched large pike waiting in the shadows, still but alert for any potential meal which should pass their way. Yes, every creature had to eat, uncomfortable fact as it sometimes was. He had watched nature red in tooth and claw in all its forms for many years. The mere and its inhabitants had been there long before Santa himself and would be there long after he had departed.

Such dark thoughts had entered Santa’s head increasingly. The future of the farm was in his hands but he would not be there forever and he had worries as to how it should continue after his passing. It was not a large place but had supported his mother, father and himself since he was born. It had supported his grandfather and grandmother before that and, perhaps went even further back than that. He wanted it to continue as such but realised that it would have to go to new owners.

All these thoughts had played upon his mind increasingly whilst sat on the uncomfortable plank-seat of the cart; he had paid little attention to the journey. The ponies had made their own way into the village with no direction from Santa

Soon he arrived at the village hall. It was lit and decorated both outside and in with coloured fairy-lights and festive cheer. As he pulled up outside the doors they suddenly burst open and a horde of children ran out to greet him; he was overrun by small people shouting:“Santa, Santa! Come in Santa!” Seasonal songs were being played inside and there were tables loaded with all sorts of good things to eat, bottles of wine and beer aplenty. The village had once again put on an event fit for a king or, as he preferred, fit for an ageing Santa Claus.

Santa creaked down from the plank-seat on the cart, picked up a couple of the feed sacks full of presents that had been delivered to the farm in the past weeks and struggled up the steps and into the hall, followed by Kip who was unused to such excitement and hid behind Santa’s ample outline. Santa was paraded to a seating area where he gratefully sat down and gave out the customary: “Ho, Ho, Ho! Come and sit here to see what is in my feed-bags for all you children.” The children suddenly became quiet and sat eagerly awaiting their names to be called out. One by one they took the gifts offered and soon Santa was done. He was offered a hot toddy and plate of goodies by one of the parents, a local man named Mr Crabtree. As he sipped the welcome warm drink Mr Crabtree said: “I have lived here all my life but have never seen anybody fishing in the mere at your farm.” Santa replied with a smile: “And so you should not have done so. It is, and has always been,private there.”

Mr Crabtree smiled himself as he replied: “It’s almost impossible to keep inquisitive children away from somewhere they want to see. For years we used to sneak into the copse and watch the cows paddling and even see you, occasionally sitting watching the birds. Did you ever wonder what fish were in the mere? I know there are some big ones.”

Santa just shook his head and said: “It was always my private place, somewhere I could get away from the farm for an hour. Soon it will be somebody else’s.” Santa did not want to disclose his knowledge of the carp that he had watched for so long. He had spent hours reading countless books about the carp and he was fairly sure they must be special, because nobody had had access to the lake for as long as he could remember. His father had been even more protective than he was and the farm had been in the family for generations so in all likelihood the mere held at least some quite rare specimens. Exactly what specimens they were he did not know but they had to be cared for.

Mr Crabtree stood for a moment and then said quietly:“The whole village knows the farm is for sale and we hope it does not go to a developer because you and the farm are as much a part of the village as this hall is.” Santa nodded his head in agreement. It seemed that Mr Crabtree was of the same opinion as he was regarding the farm and he seemed a nice chap. The welfare of the village and the mere seemed to be important to him. Sipping his hot toddy, Santa continued the conversation with Mr Crabtree and about an hour later Santa, with Kip at his side, left the village hall.

Santa slowly led his ponies, still pulling the cart, back to the farm. After stabling the ponies in their loose boxes and making sure they were fed, watered, warm and comfortable he went indoors. There, as he sat with another hot cocoa drink in his hand and his faithful dog at his side, he was thinking, thinking about the future. He had an idea…

The farm had moved on to new owners who wanted to keep it running the way it had over the years. There may have to be more modern methods used to make it viable but essentially it was still the same place, with cows, sheep, chickens and some new residents; a family of alpacas who looked comical with their woolly legs and inquisitive faces. The alpacas now lived in the paddock previously occupied by the two ponies. Santa approved.

Santa himself had moved into an old cottage in the village and was now much less of a recluse. He visited the farm regularly and was always made welcome, happy to see it continuing as he had hoped. His regular visits to the grocers were not so much of a journey and when he walked the short distance from his home he was always recognised. The children waved to him and their parents always stopped to pass the time of day. Santa visited the ponies daily, making sure they were comfortable. His arrangements had included the ponies and he was happy the way things had eventually worked out.

He was still alone, but not lonely.

Summer had arrived and Santa had received an invitation to go to the village hall. As he entered he was applauded by the crowd inside and greeted by the same adults and the children he had given the presents to.Santa had an idea what the invitation was for but did not let on and his surprise seemed genuine. Mr Crabtree was there and made a short speech and Santa was presented with a watercolour painting of the mere with a short endorsement on a brass plate on the lower edge of the frame. The picture was given pride of place on Santa’s wall, above the fireplace and next to the few keepsakes and memories he had from his 70-plus years at the farm.

September that year was a warm month and although the farm had moved on the mere still belonged to Santa. There was a new access track to it but it was gated and locked. There were no signs to say what was beyond the gate and any passer-by would think it was just a locked field gate but the residents of the village knew what was beyond the track and woods. Standing quietly you might have heard the squeals of surprise and laughter. The children from the village could now access the mere without having to sneak in through the wood. In fact,they had been encouraged to visit via an unmarked and virtually invisible path. The mere was slowly gaining a new but peaceful zest for life. It was a secluded and private sanctuary, partly managed and looked after by the village.

Stood to one side, but watching and smiling to himself,was Santa with his faithful companion Kip at his side.Santa liked to see the village children exploring, searching the water’s edge with a dip-net and bucket. The older boys and girls had had strict instructions and were now becoming more accomplished, giving their time to help the younger ones explore and discover the secrets of the mere. The watery occupants of the mere were protected and safe, with places to go that were out of bounds to all but themselves. Indeed, the mere itself was safe and under no threat of being filled in. There was no chance that the creatures which made it their home would be displaced.

The mere now had red-and-white life rings and floats discreetly placed here and there, hopefully never to be needed. Still further back and in the shelter of the trees, a small paddock had been created with a brand new loose box, a new home for Santa’s ponies. Parked alongside was the creaky old cart covered in a tarpaulin, its wheels and axles lubricated; it might be old but it still had life in its timbers yet.

Away from the Children and accessible banks, the cattle still waded in up to their ample stomachs and on the warm summer days drank the cooling waters of the mere. Most importantly the mere had people visitingwho loved the place and cared for it. Santa had ensured his plans were safely in place for the continued ownership of the mere.

Thinking back to last Christmas he realised that he had had the best present he could have wished for.

For the present, as winter once again surrounded the village and mere in its cold embrace, on the 24th of December Santa knew that for one last time he would open the suitcase and dress in the faded, patched Red suit. He would once again pull on his weathered work boots and the greying old beard, harness his ponies and with his faithful companion Kip at his side make the journey to the village hall as he had done for so many years. There was coming a time for a new Santa but this year he was the one that the village children wanted, in his faded suit, greying beard and grubby boots and all; he was happy to oblige.

Season’s Greetings to All, 

All Writing & Images David Craine – Winter 2023