The air of the toy department in Bromley’s Store was thick with the sound of fractious children demanding presents their parents could not afford. One alcove was festooned with coloured lights which winked, and guarded on each side by two giant elves. How elves could be both elvish and enormous, only Mr Bromley knew, and he obviously hadn’t told his set designers because the effect was both garish and terrifying. They gurned, gap-toothed, at the girls and boys below them, and the faint-hearted ones drew back, fearful, while their mummies and daddies lugged them towards the entrance.

‘For God’s sake, Hector. It’s Santa’s Grotto,’ pleaded one father, wishing he’d had custody for any weekend but this. Hector wasn’t having any of it, but hesitated, unable to decide whether to scream or burst into tears.

‘You always like Santa’s Grotto. Remember? You got a model car last year …’ Hector had broken the car within a day and forgotten all about it; though he remembered a large fat man with cotton wool round his face which tickled, who smelt of Cyprus sherry. He also remembered a hand stroking his thigh in a way which was not unpleasant but somehow wrong, because it was furtive.

The queue to Santa’s Grotto stretched across the store, past plastic toys, Disney and Warner Brothers franchises, board games, Star Wars outfits and scooters. In the queue parents exchanged long-suffering glances with other parents, to the effect that, yes, it was hellish, but it was only once a year, and it would soon be over. Then they pacified their restless offspring with yet more sweets, which made them even more hyper.

He was self-effacing in the queue, a solemn boy of eight who stood out for his stillness as he held his father’s hand. He looked around the store with an air of disinterested interest; a natural observer, a potential writer like his dad. Dad himself was in his mid-thirties, slight, mid-brown hair, the beginnings of laugh lines round the eyes. A stylish pink cashmere sweater over some ironed high-rise jeans and expensive brown sneakers. He crouched down to get eye-level with his son.

‘You OK, Jake?’ Jake nodded. ‘You look sad.’ Jake shook his head. ‘Are you looking forward to Santa?’ His son nodded again, but not enthusiastically. 

Thomas frowned. Jake was speaking less and less since his dad had split up with Bryan. It had been perfectly amicable on the surface. Bryan was promoted to Area Manager in Belfast, and while they had tried to keep things going with Bryan commuting back to London by air every weekend, it was clear that this was not sustainable in the long term, as Thomas put it. After a few months he demanded Bryan choose between his family and his job. The taste of Bryan’s choice was bitter in his mouth, though he didn’t argue about it. 

However, Jake started wetting the bed again, and his marks at school nose-dived. However much Thomas tried to reassure him that he still loved him, that Bryan still loved him really, the boy withdrew more and more into himself. He sat in a corner reading much of the time or drew in waxed crayons on large sheets of poster paper. His pictures were always of two men doing things together, though you couldn’t always tell that from looking. He also filled the page around them with animals. Thomas was thinking about getting Jake a dog but couldn’t work out what to do with it during the weekdays.

The queue shuffled forward. Santa was obviously someone who gave each child his full attention. The result was the same as in doctors’ waiting rooms. The better the doctor, the greater the queue that built up. This Santa was not sticking to his allotted two minutes per child. The children came out clutching their cheap store presents – dolls or games or magic tricks – but beaming because Santa really loved them and was going to make everything right.

As they passed the giant elves, Thomas and Jake could see a raised dais and round it a curtain which opened and closed. When it was open, Santa waved and smiled, picking out those who looked shy or nervous for a special nod or sign. When the next child came up and sat in the chair next to him – he had a large plush armchair festooned with paper chains and sprigs of holly, and behind it a generous sack of toys – he would talk for a moment to children and parents. Then he would beckon the children to his side and draw the curtain, so they could whisper their secret wishes to him. They would get one of the standard items from the sack, but Santa had a knack of reassuring them that they would get what they wanted – if not this year, then eventually – if they worked hard and were good. When he opened the curtain, he set the child to one side while he had a word with the adults about the more reasonable expectations he had heard.

Jake, who was quite a small child, looked up in awe at the mighty man enthroned in red. He could see, observant child that he was, that he was dressed up, and not nearly as old as his hair and beard suggested. His skin was smooth, and he had very kind eyes. Thomas and Santa exchanged glances and smiled. ‘And what’s your name?’ Santa asked the boy without a trace of patronage. 

‘Jacob Vivian Lomax,’ the boy reeled off. ‘Jake is short for Jacob, but I didn’t like Jacob. Vivian is my grandad’s name.’ Thomas looked at him, astonished at this outburst.

‘That’s very interesting,’ said Santa. ‘And have you been a good boy recently?’

‘You’ll have to ask my dad. Have I been a good boy, Thomas?’

Santa looked at Thomas with respect. ‘He calls you by your first name?’

‘Sure. Why not?’

The two men smiled at each other. ‘That’s the kind of dad I wish I’d had,’ said Santa. He turned to Thomas. ‘And has he? Been behaving?’

‘I couldn’t ask for a better son,’ said Thomas, and scooped Jake up to hug him.

‘You’d better step outside for a moment – er – Thomas. Jake and I have important things to discuss. Come and sit here, Jake.’

He perched on the arm of the throne as his father slipped through the curtain. 

‘Jake, this is a very important question, so think carefully. What would you really like for Christmas? It doesn’t have to be a present, it could be you want something nice to happen. So – what would make you happy over Christmas? What do you want?’

 Jake thought for a second, and then whispered, ‘You.’

‘Me?’ Santa was astonished.

‘Yes, you. You see, I had two dads, but my other dad had to go away, a long way away, and he came to see us sometimes but not very often and then Thomas told him he had to choose whether to stay or go away and he chose to go away, and I miss him so much.’ His voice tailed off. ‘We used to play games … and make things … and go out in the country …’ 

He was about to cry. Santa said, ‘So what you really want for Christmas is a new dad?’ Jake nodded and wiped the snot from his nose. ‘Come here,’ said Santa, and, defying all protocols, hugged the slight child between his legs and rocked him gently. To Jake he felt warm and comforting; he knew somehow that things were going to be all right.

‘I’m not really Santa, you know.’

‘I know that,’ said Jake impatiently. He hated to be thought stupid.

‘I’m really Alex; I’m an out-of-work actor.’ And he took off his red hat and whiskers to reveal an open face and a boyish grin. ‘This stomach’s all padding.’ He held the boy at arm’s length. ‘Do you still want me to be your dad?’

‘I think so. But only if you promise to stay for ever and ever.’

‘Well, I think Thomas might have something to say about that … Shall we get him back in?’

 Jake nodded again and opened the curtain. Alex stood up. Thomas started when he saw Santa out of costume. He shrugged apologetically. Jake took Alex’s hand in his own left hand, and his father’s in his right. He stood jigging with delight and swinging his arms back and forth.

Alex shrugged. ‘Well, it’s the time of year for miracles, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t be soppy,’ said Jake, letting go of them both. 

‘What time do you finish work?’ asked Thomas. 

‘We close at seven.’

‘Here’s my number,’ said Thomas, as he fished a business card out of his back pocket and left it on the arm of the throne. Alex put back his beard and hat with a sigh, tucked the card into his sleeve and hitched up his stomach. Jake ran to him, hugged him and kissed him on the cheek. Thomas, more hesitantly, did likewise.

As they left, they heard Santa ask the next child what her name was.

And that’s how both Thomas and Jake got their Christmas wishes granted. Now Santa lives at 472, Coldharbour Lane. And the only chimney he ever comes down is Thomas's.

Peter Scott-Presland