A JOYFUL MISTAKE…
I grew up in a single-parent familywithout a father. My mother and grandmother raised me.
And that longing for a father, I began feeling even back when I was at nursery.
But in primary school! Oh, how I envied my classmates! They would proudly stride along, hand in hand with their tall, strong fathers, playing, riding bicycles and driving in cars.
What hurt most was seeing fathers kiss their sons or daughters, lifting them up, their laughter echoing through the park.
Heavens, watching all that from a distance, I thought, What a blessing that must be!
I had only ever seen my father in a single photographsmiling as all the other dads did. But never at me.
Mother told me he was an explorer up North. He lived far, far away, somewhere in the highlands, so distant he couldnt possibly visit. Hed left for work there, but like clockwork, every birthday, a present would arrive.
In Year Three, I painfully realised there was no explorer father at all. There never had been.
By chance, I overheard my mother tell grandma that she couldnt bear the deceit any longersending gifts in the name of a father who had abandoned us. He was well-off, she said, but never called his son, never wished him a happy birthday or Merry Christmas.
James loves those holidays so much! Theyre the only days he feels any sense of supporteven if its from a distant, mythical, but familiar figure.
That birthday, I told mother and grandma: I didnt want gifts sent from a non-existent father.
Just bake my favourite cakeVictoria Spongeand that will do.
We lived very modestly on two small wagesmy mothers and my grandmothers.
So, as a student, I took odd jobs loading parcels at the railway station and in shops.
One day, my friend Tom from next door suggested I stand in for him as Father Christmas at nurseries and for private home visits during the festive season.
I turned down the nursery visits at oncetoo daunting, with entire plays to put on, and you had to work with a Snow Maiden sidekick.
But the solo Christmas Day visits to peoples homes, those I accepted.
Tom handed me a notebook filled with rhymes, riddles, and client addresses.
The script was simple and easy to learnnothing like passing an engineering exam! Still, the fear of making a fool of myself weighed on me.
But, to my surprise, my first attempt was a success.
After visiting all the children on my list, I came home tired but proud, and when I counted my earnings, I nearly danced for joy. In one evening, Id made more than I usually would from half a year of weekend shifts!
Since then, every winter, I donned the Father Christmas costume, and in summer, I worked on construction sites with student crews.
During university, my love life didnt prospertoo busy studying and working when I could.
There were girls, naturally, but no one led to marriage.
Ill finish my studies, get a reputable job with decent pay, set up my home… then Ill think of starting a family, I would dream.
After graduation, when I was working as an engineeralbeit still juniorI decided to buy a second-hand car.
Our family income was modest, cars were pricey, but I wanted my own set of wheels.
I opted once again for Father Christmas duties.
Mother dug out my old costume, took it from its plastic cover and decided to spruce it up with plenty of glitter. It sparkled splendidly, and the fluffy white beard covered my face perfectly.
I stuck on bushy eyebrows, and, admiring myself in the mirror, was content.
Then, mother sighed and softly remarked, James, you ought to have children of your own by now, instead of entertaining everyone elses.
Theres time yet, I brushed off. Well, wish me luck, Mum! Cheerio! I kissed her cheek and went out to earn.
A week before Christmas, I placed an advert in the local paper and received fifteen bookings.
After ticking off six addresses, I glanced at the next one: 6 Garden Lane, Flat 19.
I stepped off the bus and headed towards the house.
Garden Lane lay almost at the edge of townpoorly lit, a bit gloomy.
It didnt take long to find Number 6. I climbed to the second floor and rang the bell.
A little lad of about five or six opened the door.
In a wood by a clearing, I live in a cozy cottage… I began, as per the script.
But the boy interrupted, We didnt invite Father Christmas!
I dont need an invitationgood children always get a visit! I replied, catching myself but still feeling a bit thrown. Your mum or dad home?
No. Mums gone next door to Grandma Bettys for her medication. Shell be back soon.
Whats your name, son?
James.
Well, thats a coincidence, I thought, startled.
But I stopped myselfno point telling the boy that I was James too. After all, I was Father Christmas!
James, wheres your tree?
In my room.
He took my hand and led me inside. The whole flat was modestly furnished.
On the coffee table by his bed, instead of a Christmas tree, there was just a sprig of pine in a three-litre jar, decorated with tiny ornaments and a garland of coloured lights.
Two photos in matching frames sat beside the lampone of a woman, and one of a man.
I peered closer and my heart frozestaring back at me in one frame was myself!
This cant possibly be… I thought, stunned.
Looking closer, it was true. The left frame held my university photo, the other, a womanSarah Warner.
Id met her one summer on a student building site.
Her frame showed not the girl I remembered, but a woman, beautiful, yet with a sad gazeso like the young, cheerful Sarah I once knew.
Whos this? I asked, my voice trembling with emotion.
My mum.
Your mum?
Mine.
Is her name… Sarah? the words escaped me.
Yes! You guessed! So you really are Father Christmas? I thought he wasnt real!
And this one? I pointed to my own face, already suspecting what it meant.
Thats my dad! A real explorer! Mum said he lives and works up on a huge iceberg! He left ages agowhen I was a babyso Ive never seen him and cant remember. But he always sends me presents for my birthday and Christmas. This year, Ill find his gift under my pillow. Father Christmas loves to hide them there!
I was dumbfounded, remembering my own legend about a father-explorer.
So thats itdo all mothers send cruel fathers off to the North and call them explorers of the Arctic?
It turned out I was one of those men.
My heart ached, as if fate had stabbed me. I thought of how Sarah and I had shared a brief, intense romance… Wed exchanged numbers, but I never called her when I returned home, and days later my phone was stolen.
I often recalled her, but studies, friends, and fleeting romances all but pushed her from my mind.
Turns out, she was living in the same town, never forgot me, raising our son and keeping my photo close to hers.
I was about to tell James I was his father when Sarah walked in:
Sorry Im late, darling. We had to call an ambulance for Grandma Betty, and take her to hospital.
Seeing me, she exclaimed in surprise, Oh! We didnt book Father Christmas!
Joy and tears eruptedI pulled off my hat and beard, tossed aside the fluffy eyebrows…
James?! Sarah gasped.
She dropped onto the hallway stool, tears flowing so loudly that even little James was startled.
In moments, she composed herself, looking at our boy.
I told him Id flown down from the North Pole and dressed as Father Christmas to surprise him and his mum.
James was beside himself with delight, laughing, singing, reciting poems while holding our hands, afraid Id leave him again.
He didnt even mention a presentFather Christmas would, after all, slip dads gift under his pillow.
James fell asleep, and Sarah and I talked till dawn, as if those years apart had been but a day.
In the morning, I dashed out to buy another presentand only then realised Id come to the wrong address by mistake. Id visited Number 6A, but my list said Number 6. In the night, Id missed that little Aand walked into the wrong flat.
But truly it was the right homethe home fate meant for me!
What a joyous, fateful mistake! I thought, smiling.
Now there are three of us! Were happy beyond words.
And Mother and Grandma dote on their grandson and great-grandsonJames Jameson!
