The Present

I know he's here somewhere on what I call my Restitution List. E, F, ah here we go the G's. Glockner, Gobomo, Gomez, Greengrass. Gerald Greengrass. Present wrapped all ready for transit. Special delivery. Job almost done.

Maybe I should explain what my Restitution List actually is for those of you less informed about the contractual obligations of my chosen profession. In some years it's kind of difficult to make a delivery to every boy and girl. Its okay for Postman bloody Pat but this is the real cut and thrust world of geographical upheavals', gross human ineptitude and social-political conflicts. In other words floods, famine and war.

And so it was the case with little Gerald Greengrass. Although he's probably not so little anymore. Actually he may not have much use for what I have in the back of my sleigh, but hey, a contract is a contract for all that. And I don't want to face the wrath of HR again, not after that rather unfortunate episode in Russia a few years ago. Well our Logistics department never informed me that the town of Chernobyl had been abandoned. There was I surrounded by empty tower blocks and abandoned cars for all the world feeling like a complete twit. And they usually look after me down in that part of the world, plenty of homemade vodka to keep the chill out. Poor people. Poor children. Many of them I shan't be visiting again. Makes you think doesn't it.

Now where was I? Ah yes, Greengrass, Gerald. That wasn't so much of a disaster, in the Chernobyl sense, more a matter of mistiming, in the Luftwaffe sense. I turned up at number twenty six Jubilee Terrace to find that the recipient had been evacuated a few weeks beforehand to some farm in South Wales, name almost unpronounceable. In fact Master Greengrass was one of hundreds who went without a special present that Christmas of 1940. Yes they all ended up on the Restitution List.

Right, its time I was off for I don't want to be late or run over schedule. The Chief Elf and his committee have come up with a Working Time Directive for me to adhere to. Seems as I'm getting older my performance is beginning to slip. Peaks and troughs, bell curves and convex functions, it's all there on a large graph on his office wall. I wonder what HR thinks of it all. Must have a word on the quiet when I get back. Sort things out.

*

Gerald Greengrass was eighty six years old. Gerald Greengrass was in Saint Clare Hospice. Gerald Greengrass was dying.

"Dad, Jackie and the kids are driving down from Newcastle today so you'll have a house full tomorrow," his youngest daughter Amy told him.

Gerald coughed and adjusted the pump that was feeding him regular doses of morphine. "Will we all fit in here?" he asked and took a look around his small private room where he had spent the last fortnight, but wouldn't see another.

"We'll make do, don't worry. And Nurse Jackson told me that we can all move into the dayroom for our lunch if you feel up to it."

Her dad shifted his emaciated frame on the wheelchair and reached for her hand. 'I'm not up to eating much,' he wheezed and raised a smile. "Kind of lost my appetite, I don't know why," he joked.

Amy squeezed his parchment thin fingers. 'I know dad. But your grandchildren are excited about seeing you.'

"Do they know?" he asked. "About . . . well my condition."

She closed her eyes and forced back tears. "Kirstie and Tom understand, mind you they are teenagers. Little James just thinks you have a broken leg or have had your appendix out. He wants to bring you a bunch of grapes."

A spasm of pain stiffened Gerald's body. He turned the dial on his pump. "Goodness me but I've been so lucky in life," he uttered hoarsely.

Amy stood up and went to fetch a glass of water. "Phew it's warm in here," she exclaimed in a bid to change the subject.