He didn’t think it would affect him, he said. He knew it was happening of course, knew that the ice caps were receding and the world was getting hotter, but he never thought that it would go that far north.
What bothered him, instead, were the polar bears. He liked polar bears. Apparently he used to see them, occasionally, round by the house. They’re desperate creatures polar bears— had to be, to survive in that kind of harsh environment— they used to say, if one started following you, you’d have to shoot it. That was the only way, because otherwise it would just keep following you until you died. He liked them. They never bothered him, or the elves, or the reindeer. Mrs Claus used to leave out gingerbread for them apparently, and sausages. She thought they were sweet.
And then, suddenly, they weren’t there anymore. He didn’t know what had happened to them. He used to sit sometimes, gazing out of the window, even though now he was thousands of miles away from the Arctic, as if waiting for a white furry shape to appear on the horizon.
You wondered about telling him the day the last polar bear died in captivity. ‘Kissimi’, they called him, after a character from a series of childrens’ books. Apparently it was supposed to mean: ‘alone’. You decided against it, but you sometimes wonder if he knows. He seems to have stopped looking out for them, anyway, if that was ever what he was doing.
“You don’t get penguins at the North Pole!” you protested.
He just shrugged. “The children like penguins.” he said with a smile, “We used to throw them fish scraps.” and then they were gone.
At least over there. The penguins were luckier than the polar bears. They were hardier, and they had bigger populations in captivity. You still have penguins, in the zoos, and of course some species prefered hot weather anyway. The penguins are still around, but not at the North Pole. Probably never again.
You were in bed when you heard the knock at the door. You pulled on your dressing gown, though really it was too hot to wear it, and came down the stairs, half ready to get annoyed— because what kind of person knocks at this time of night?— half a bit scared— because what kind of person knocks at this time of night?
You couldn’t believe it when you saw it was him. At first, you thought it was just one of your mates playing silly buggers— let’s face it, fat old men in red suits aren’t exactly rare as hen’s teeth at that time of year, and you knew some people, Jake for example, who’d think it a right laugh to pay one of them to knock on your door to see what you’d do. You didn’t slam the door in his face though, even though by this point you were convinced that Jake or Chloe or someone was hiding behind a bush and filming you on their phone, you didn’t slam the door and go back to bed because, for some reason, he seemed familiar.
So you just stood there staring at him, and he stared at you back and you probably both looked like a pair of twats, until finally he smiled a bit sheepishly, reached inside his coat and pulled out a letter. And that was when you stopped being weirded out and started being genuinely amazed, because, and here’s the thing, you recognised the letter.
The paper had come from a stationery set you got for your eighth birthday. It was pale pink and had flower fairies on it, one in each corner, waving glittery wands and flapping glittery wings. The letter itself was written in pink sparkly gel pen, in big, careful, child’s handwriting. It must be decades old and yet, suddenly, unnacountably, you could remember exactly what it said:
“Dear Santa. I have been very good this year. I ate all my vegtibles and let Tom have a go on my bike and didn’t copy Chrissie’s answers on the speling test even thow she’s a beter speler than me. So can I pleas pleas pleas have a kiten and a astran astroan astr space girl Barbie and som jellybeans and paints. Thank you and I hop you have a nice tim at Crismas. If you get tired off the North Pol you can hav a sleepover with me if you want. Thank you for the presents! Lov from Allie aged 6 ½”
A pause. “I know it’s a bit sudden.” he said, apologetically, “But I’ve got nowhere else to go. Is the offer of a sleepover still open?”
So you invited him in. You didn’t know what else to do.
It had been happening for a long while now, he explained. The snow had been getting slushier, the sun warmer, the icicles around the door had started to drip. They’d ignored it. Put buckets under the drips, had a go at sunbathing— in scarves and coats and hats, since back then it was still cold enough to need them— joked that soon they’d have to start handing out ice cream instead of chocolate bars. Pretended that the penguins and the polar bears were just hiding, or wandering farther afield.
Then, one day, he’d woken to find half the house gone. Cut right down the middle, as cleanly as if somebody had done it with a knife, the missing half leaving only a pool of tepid water, with the odd book or broken ornament floating in it. That was when he knew it was time to leave.
You gave him a glass of sherry and a mince pie— “you remember,” he said, sounding touched and a little whistful, “people never seem to remember, these days"— and listened quietly as he told his story.
You pretended not to notice the way his voice broke as he described how he went to the reindeer shed the day he left, intending to set them free, only to find their stalls empty. You didn’t ask where he thinks they went, or what happened to Mrs Claus.
He’s a quiet guest, and no trouble at all. He just sits in the corner and stares at the wall— most of the time, you forget he’s even there, except when the bright red of his coat and his hat catch your eye. He won’t take them off, no matter how many times you suggest it, just sits there and sweats, even on the hottest days.
You decide to make an effort this Christmas, for a change. People don’t, these days— don’t seem to see the point. There’s an exchange of presents, perhaps a family meal, but there’s no point going around sending glittery cards with snowmen on the cover anymore. Most younger kids don’t even know what a snowman is, and you’d be hard pressed to find one who still believes in Father Christmas (though, of course, you don’t tell him that).
You don’t really have much to do with your family, and were planning on spending Christmas alone, but instead you go out and buy a chicken (a turkey is still a bit much for two of you), some potatoes and veggies and, on a sudden festive impulse, a Christmas pudding.
It doesn’t really feel Christmassy when it’s 20°C outside, and you’ve got fans going in every room, but he still tears up when you proudly show him the spread and present him with a new scarf, clumsily wrapped with some old birthday paper you found at the back of the cupboard. “Thank you! Thank you!” he says, over and over, and you notice that his voice sounds weaker than it did before. He eats three helpings, and you realise that his bright red coat— once barely stretched over his big round belly— is how hanging off him. And it’s not that bright a red now, either.
He’s gone in the morning. You don’t know where. Off to wherever the penguins and polar bears went. The reindeer and Mrs Claus and the North Pole and the snowmen— leaving only his hat behind.
You keep it on a hook in the hall, until one day you look up and it’s also gone, and there’s a small puddle beneath where it used to hang.
