Santa's Little Helper
Β© 2016 Bad Hobbit
Author's Note: I wrote this back in 2016, when I'd been working with some Social Care professionals. It dates back to a time before everything was outsourced to for-profit companies, and when there were department stores that had "Santa's Grottos" every Christmas. I've just revisited it and found it was more complete than I'd remembered. Here are a few chapters; more to come if it's popular.
In the Grotto
"Have you ever been Santa before?" An unusual question, but not unexpected under the circumstances.
"Yes - every year," I replied.
"So do you have a place in Lapland where you keep your flying reindeer?" she asked.
I smiled. "I managed children's homes for most of the past 20 years. I was often the only male member of staff, so someone had to do it."
"Why did you leave?" Yes, always the same question. I suppose it's natural if they're offering a job where you'll be around kids. The implication is always 'Were you sacked for doing something you shouldn't?' I sighed.
"My wife died. It hit me hard, and I couldn't concentrate on the job as much as it needed. I loved the kids but they weren't getting my best and I knew it. When a chance of redundancy came up, I took it."
"I see. So why do you want this job?"
"The redundancy money doesn't last forever, and I miss being around kids. And anyway," I said, trying to lighten the mood, "I've got the voice for it." I was proud of my bass-baritone.
"But not exactly the figure," she replied. That was true. The word most often applied to my body shape was 'wiry'. I was quite fit, and I certainly didn't have the belly required for the role.
"I use a lot of padding. And I have my own suit," I added, trying to be helpful. I could see she wasn't that impressed.
"Look," I continued, "I've had 20 years of working with kids of all ages, and I understand them very well. A lot of them will come into your grotto either nervous, overexcited, or downright bloody belligerent and demanding all sorts of stuff. I can deal with all of those. I've also been a financial manager and a bit of a salesman, so I understand how to maximise value out of each contact with your customers - if you can call five-year-olds 'customers'. Oh, and I'm CRB checked, which will save you the cost and the time."
To be honest, I think that the last point carried more weight than the rest. Anyway, long story short, I got the job, which was good because I needed it. The money wasn't great - four weeks' work at not a lot more than the minimum wage, plus a bit of commission from what the kids' parents subsequently bought - but it would help refill the coffers. But as I said, my redundancy money was getting eroded and Job Seekers' Allowance didn't do much to help.
But most importantly, I needed the job psychologically. I'd had six months of sitting on my arse at home, completing job applications that were unsuccessful and often seemed to be for jobs that didn't exist. The fortnightly trip to the Job Centre to stand in line with the Special Brew mob, who'd never held down a job in their lives are were unlikely to start now, was deeply depressing. What I needed was something to give me a sense of self-worth again - and to be with kids.
See, what really floats my boat is seeing a kid happy and excited. Often, when they came to me, they were damaged by neglect or abuse. Sometimes they wanted to just lash out to pass on some of the punishment they'd received. More frequently, they just shrank into themselves and trusted nobody. Getting an excited smile out of a child was probably the main source of satisfaction in what wasn't exactly the best-paid job in the world.
Some people seem to think that if you're male and you like kids, you must be a paedophile. I just love seeing that look of excitement on the face of a child who feels safe and loved, possibly for the first time in their short lives. I remember one little girl; her parents were druggies. Her mum's boyfriend burned the child with cigarettes, and the mum was too stoned most of the time to stop him. When the kid came to me, she was terrified. I made a point of sitting with her for ten or fifteen minutes each day, talking to her, trying to get her to talk back. Gradually a bond built between us and she began to open up. Then one day, she ran into my office, crying. She climbed onto my lap and snuggled up against me. Ten minutes later, when the care assistant who'd been looking for her came in, the kid was asleep in my arms, sucking her thumb. It's moments like that when you feel your career has been worthwhile.
So I started at the end of November in this big toy department in a very large store in London. I had a small band of 'elves' to help me, mostly kids just out of sixth form or college unable to find a proper job. They were alright, I suppose, but one or two of them were cocky little sods who were either too full of themselves because mummy and daddy had treated them like demigods, or because they felt abused by a system that denied them meaningful employment after getting the qualifications they'd been told were so important. Most of them worked part-time, some because they were finishing their A-levels, some because they had 'internships' on rubbish money that promised them a chance of a job at the end.
Of all of them, I took to Nina in particular. She was the one who most fitted the bill of an 'elf'. She was quite petite - not much above five foot - though she carried a bit more puppy-fat than some of her fellow 'elves'; not that she was fat as such, just a little bit more rounded that the usual teenage stick insect. She had a cute, pixie face, which looked much nicer once the boss had got her to remove the eyebrow piercing and nose stud. Her hair was an untidy, lank black with green highlights - seemingly the standard uniform for a Goth - which she tucked inside her elf cap so as not to scare the kids. I was surprised that the manager was enlightened enough to give her the job. Perhaps he saw in her the qualities I'd identified; she was kind, sweet-natured - despite the spiky appearance - and was great with the kids.
As soon as I'd met Nina, I recognised her as being like many of the kids I'd seen in the homes. She didn't seem neglected or abused, but she found it hard to fit in and form friendships with her peers, and her Goth look was part of her personal rebellion. She had three younger siblings, two of them much younger, part of a second family after her mum remarried. Inevitably, she became her mum's helper and almost a surrogate mum in her own right. She understood how to manage small kids, to deal with their tantrums but also to get them excited about Christmas and the chance to meet Santa in the flesh.
Our job was to sell toys. Not directly, you understand, but by helping feed the child's avarice and capture what it was that they most wanted from Santa. An 'elf' would show a child into the grotto, and I'd find out what it was they were hoping for this Christmas. Sometimes I'd have to plant a few ideas if the kiddy's wishes were modest. Another elf would note down the toys that the child had requested on a special voucher that gave the parent 10% off the items listed and 5% off anything else. It was a neat idea. Mummy or daddy would be encouraged to give the voucher to an assistant, who would send someone off to collect and package the goods while the parent was presented with a bill and a wireless card machine. Some of the other elves ran a little train ride and a ball-pond to keep the kids occupied while mummy or daddy completed the transaction.
Nina and I worked very well as a double act. Whether the child was nervous, screaming, throwing a tantrum or bouncing off the walls with excitement, she'd get them into the right mood to sit on Santa's knee. I'd get them into an acquisitive frame of mind, and Nina would capture the child's aspirations in lovely clear handwriting. She also had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the current toy fads and seemed to be able to interpret exactly what the kid wanted and specify it with precision. We were a good team, and the resulting commission was higher than we'd expected.