A Ghost of Christmas Past
In a snug little town where winter draped the streets in soft snow and lamplights cast a golden glow, Evelyn had everything ready for the New Year. Her daughter, Poppy, buzzed around the kitchen, deftly chopping veggies for salads, pausing every so often to ask:
“Mum, when’s Father Christmas coming?”
“This evening, love,” Evelyn smiled, hiding her nerves.
She’d dressed Poppy in a sparkly party frock, slipped into her own favourite navy-blue dress, and by nine, Grandma and Grandpa arrived—dressed to the nines, bearing a homemade pie and brightly wrapped gifts. They gathered around the table, laughing, clinking glasses of juice and tea. Right at ten, the doorbell rang. Poppy, eyes alight, dashed to the hallway. It was Father Christmas! Evelyn exhaled in relief—the entertainer she’d scoured the earth to find had actually shown up. Poppy was over the moon, but as Evelyn walked him to the landing to slip him his fee, her breath hitched when he tugged off his hat. Her heart skipped a beat. She recognised him.
—
December had been chaos in Evelyn’s house. But the real trouble started with a morning call that upended her plans and soured her mood for the day.
“Bit of a snag,” the agency said briskly. “Your Father Christmas booking came in too late. No entertainers free, and your postcode’s a trek. We’ll have to cancel. Sorry.”
Evelyn seethed, but panic quickly overtook her. She’d already bought the doll Poppy had been begging for and promised Father Christmas would deliver it personally if she sang him a carol. Poppy had been practising the words, twirling around the room, waiting for magic.
“Mum, when are we getting my dress?” Poppy had bounded onto the bed earlier. “The blue one, like the princess mannequin at the shop, remember?”
“That was a display, sweetheart,” Evelyn chuckled, squeezing her. “We’ll pick one after breakfast.”
But the agency’s call gnawed at her. Where on earth would she find a last-minute Father Christmas? Her sister, Gemma, rang next, inviting herself along to the shopping centre. The three of them set off, Poppy trailing glittery mittens.
Poppy, however, proved fussy. Upon learning the blue dress was sold out, she crossed her arms and refused to try anything else. Gemma, ever the mediator with her earbuds and gum, took charge:
“None of that! No blue dress? We’ll find a better one. Chop-chop!”
After much searching, Poppy settled on a blue frock with a tulle skirt—and tights to match. Evelyn then remembered she needed a gift for a colleague—office tradition demanded festive swaps.
“Wait here on the bench, I’ll be quick,” she said, nudging Poppy and Gemma down.
“Don’t dawdle—I’ve a date in half an hour,” Gemma muttered, glued to her phone.
Evelyn promised fifteen minutes max and dashed off. The colleague was picky, and gift-hunting proved a nightmare. She scoured shops until spotting a self-warming mug—perfect for someone who always forgot their coffee before it went cold. Paid and wrapped, she sprinted back, five minutes late.
Approaching the bench, she saw Gemma still scrolling—but no Poppy.
“Where’s Poppy?!” Evelyn’s blood ran cold.
“She was right here!” Gemma floundered, scanning the crowd. “I only looked away for a second!”
“Stay here!” Evelyn tore through the crowd, visions of worst-case scenarios flashing. She accosted a guard, shoving her phone forward. “Have you seen this girl?”
“Try the info desk,” he suggested.
She bolted for the escalator—then remembered the play area Poppy had begged to visit earlier. “Later, love, shopping first,” she’d dismissed. Now, her heart hammered: info desk or play zone? Her feet chose the latter.
A familiar pink coat and blonde curls popped into view. Poppy! Safe! Evelyn barrelled into the play area. Poppy sat colouring at a table while a man laid out markers. His smile struck Evelyn as oddly… practised.
“Step away from my daughter!” she barked, snatching Poppy’s hand.
Poppy jumped, markers scattering. The man stayed calm. “Easy there, little one.”
A guard approached. “Everything alright?”
“Sort him out! Why’s he lurking round kids?” Evelyn spat.
But then a boy bounded over. “Dad! I’m done! Let’s get ice cream!” He began gathering markers.
Flushing, Evelyn whisked Poppy away. The guard exchanged a glance with the man and left. Poppy, skipping beside her, said, “Mum, why’d you shout? He was nice. Asked why I was alone. His son, Alfie, wanted to play.”
Evelyn cringed. She ought to apologise, but Gemma was waiting. They returned to find Gemma hugging Poppy. “Told you she wouldn’t vanish!”
Gemma dashed to her date, while Evelyn and Poppy circled back—but the man was gone. The guard eyed her. “Back again?”
“I wanted to apologise,” Evelyn admitted. “Overreacted.”
“Keep a closer eye next time,” he grunted. “They’ve left. Too late.”
Evelyn told herself she’d done her best, and they headed home.
The next day, she rang every agency for a Father Christmas. Prices were ludicrous, slots nonexistent—until finally:
“Got one, but only at ten p.m. Take it or leave it.”
“That’s late for a child!” Evelyn protested.
“Last offer.”
She relented. Gemma’s boyfriend was skiing, so options were nil. She dropped Poppy’s gift at the agency, pacified. Ten p.m. wasn’t *that* late. Practically magical.
New Year’s Eve. The house sparkled, the table groaned with food. Poppy helped frost cupcakes, peppering Evelyn with questions:
“Mum, is Father Christmas soon?”
“Tonight,” Evelyn said, eyeing the clock.
By nine, her parents arrived—bearing mince pies, gifts, and warm hugs. They feasted, traded stories, while Evelyn fretted. But at ten sharp, the doorbell chimed. Poppy squealed and raced ahead.
Father Christmas was flawless: crimson coat, snow-white beard, straight from a storybook. Poppy sang, danced, recited rhymes, while Evelyn noted his odd glances. “After a tip,” she guessed, folding a twenty.
After the gift handoff, as Poppy beamed, Evelyn’s dad offered him champagne, but he declined politely. On the landing, she pressed the cash into his palm.
He doffed his hat. “Last gig of the night!”
Evelyn gasped. It was *him*—the play-area man! She stammered apologies, shoved the money, but he gently waved it off.
“Your daughter’s a delight. Happy New Year!”
With a swirl of his coat, he vanished downstairs.
A week later, Evelyn found the agency’s site and left a glowing review. On impulse, she added her number. Two days later, her phone trilled. She knew his voice instantly.
“Cheers for the kind words,” he said. “Rare to get feedback.”
They chatted. Evelyn apologised again; he laughed.
“I’d have done the same if Alfie were with a stranger. No harm done.”
His name was Oliver. A widower, three years past losing his wife and newborn. He worked as an engineer by day, moonlighted as Father Christmas—for joy and pocket money.
Soon, Evelyn and Oliver began dating. Poppy and Alfie became fast friends. And as for them? Well, their happiness, like a New Year’s miracle, had begun with a very awkward meet-cute.
