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Santa Smith

“What have you got there, boy?” asked Winston of his 7-year-old grandson. He was sitting on his favourite chair on the porch of his daughter’s home, with whom he had been living since his mild heart attack four years earlier. The boy was studying something with more than his usual short-span attention.

 
“It’s an old picture, grandpa. See?” It was an old, sepia-coloured photograph, somewhat the worse for wear but still clear. It showed a strangely dressed, rather stout, older, white gentleman with a full white beard and whiskers. Long wispy tufts of white hair surrounded the balding top of his head. He was seated on a wooden bench, next to a rotund, bespectacled, white woman, wearing a long, white dress with a high collar and long sleeves. Her hair was dark and made up primly in an elaborate, plaited bun on top of her head. Behind them was a building, a typical Bermuda cottage. The photograph had captured part of the lapped slate roof at the top of the picture. Seated around the elderly couple were a number of young black boys, wearing clothing that appeared to be hand-me downs from previous generations. Some wore sandals, others were barefoot. The boys peered intently out of the picture – they had clearly given the camera their full attention, but like the elderly couple they all had a smile on their young faces – their bright white teeth shining out from the photograph even after all these years. If one looked carefully, the possible reason for their smiles could be discerned. Each boy carried in his hands a little toy; one a ball, another a small kite, a boat and other small objects not easily identifiable from the picture.

Winston stared at the picture in disbelief. “Lordy, Lord, if it isn’t Santa Smith! Where’d you get this boy?” he asked his grandson. The boy had gone back to playing with his Gameboy, and was busy pushing buttons, trying to keep the cyber forces of evil at bay. “I asked where you got this son!” asked Winston again, somewhat irritated. Kids these days never listen. “Yes, grandpa?” The boy realized his grandfather had addressed him. “I said, where did you get this?” repeated Winston for the third time, waving the photo so his grandson could see. “Mum gave it to me, she found it somewhere.”

Winston got up quickly. He could still move well despite his 78 years. He had married late after sowing his wild oats, but when he did, he was totally dedicated to his family, and now especially to his young grandson, particularly since the boy’s father had left them. His somewhat gruff manner was just a result of the way he was brought up – tough, in times that required toughness but that did not preclude kindness and devotion to family. He walked into the house looking for his daughter. He found her at the kitchen table, carefully putting a recent family picture in a nice, carved, old cedar frame. “Linda, where’d you get this?” he asked, photograph in hand.

“What?” Linda looked up and saw what her father meant. “Oh, that old thing. It was in this frame. I bought it at an auction in Shed Number One, last week. I’m putting our recent picture in it to give to Aunt Lucy as a Christmas present, next week. I know she’ll love it.” Lucy was Winston’s older sister, and he never really got along all that well with her.

“Girl!” thundered the old man, in a voice that surprised Linda, “you’ll do nothing of the sort. You’ll be putting this picture right back in that frame where it belongs, and giving it to me.” “But Pa, I already got your Christmas present – and anyway, what do you want with a picture of some white folk you don’t even know?”

“Ah! But you see, I do know them.” He put the photo on the table. Pointing at the bearded gentleman, he said, “This is none other than Santa Smith.”

“Santa Smith?” asked Linda, arching her eyebrows, a habit she picked up when she was young, and something Winston disliked. “Who the heck is Santa Smith?”

The old man paused. It had been such a long time ago now, maybe sixty-nine, seventy years ago. And yet the photograph had brought the memories back. “Who’s Santa Smith?” insisted Linda, snapping his reverie.

“Look, you make me a nice cuppa tea girl and come sit on the porch with me and I’ll tell you.” As Linda got up to put the kettle on she heard her father mumble on his way back to the porch, “Lordy, Lord. Santa Smith, after all these years.”

Winston was back in his favourite chair again, still looking at the photograph. His grandson, Matthew, who had followed the conversation in the kitchen, was seated on a bench facing him, intrigued. Linda soon came out carrying a tray with a steaming teapot, milk, sugar, cups, saucers, and a plate of scones and jam and cream. She set them down on a small table, poured her father and herself a cup, gave her son a scone, and sat down next to her son.

“Aah! Nothing like a warm cup of tea on a nice December afternoon,” said Winston reaching for his tea, as he made himself more comfortable in his chair. “O.K. papa, let’s hear it. Tell us the story of Santa Smith. And it better be good, because I’ve got things to do,” said Linda with a smile.

“It must be some sixty-nine years ago now, maybe seventy. I was eight or nine. We used to live in a small cottage off Middle Road in Flatts, close to where the Post Office is now, and to where your Aunt Lucy still lives. They were tough times. We had very little, like everyone else we knew, but since we never had much we never missed it. We grew our own vegetables, even had our own goat for milk. Clothes were always hand-me-downs, especially if you were the youngest of six children like I was.”

“Papa, we heard this before. Santa Smith – remember?” interrupted Linda.

“Yes, yes, I’m coming to that, but it’s important to realize that we never had all the things you have today. Christmas for us was a religious feast. Maybe we’d have some small treat for Christmas lunch, but we never received presents like you do today. None of us children had ever heard of Santa Claus, let alone got gifts that were supposed to come from him.”

“No presents?” said Matthew, “that sucks!”

“Matthew, I told you I don’t like that expression. Don’t let me hear it again.” chided his mother.

“No presents,” repeated Winston, “no real toys either. We just made do with whatever we found around us, sticks, coconut shells, old boxes, anything. You’d be amazed at what we did with some of the stuff.” Matthew made a face. He still thought a world without presents or toys “sucked.”

“There was a bunch of us those days, Jimmy Trott, Chesley Ingham, Joey Tucker, Johnny Ming, Alfie Squire and whatshisname who went to the States. Charlie Burrows, I think it was. All older than me. Many have passed on now. I wonder what happened to Charlie. I know his sister is still around. I must remember to ask her.”

“Papa, get back to the story.” Linda was getting impatient. Matthew looked around for his Gameboy.

“Oh, yes, yes. As I was saying, there was a bunch of us, thick as thieves as they say, always together. We used to roam the woodland up the hill all around Orange Grove. We liked it up there. We’d get lost in our own world. But there was one place we visited regularly – a flat piece of ground somebody had cleared out, where we used to kick around a coconut or a ball made out of old paper tied with string. There was a small cottage next to this place. We saw movement in the house on several occasions, but nobody came out to chase us away. In most other places they did. So we returned there often, it became our favourite playing place, especially in the winter, when we wouldn’t go to the sea.

One December afternoon, just a few days before Christmas, we were all up there, talking after our game of kickball. I wouldn’t call it football because most time we just kicked our paper ball aimlessly around. We were a hundred yards or so away from the house – most of us lying flat on the ground looking up at the sky. That’s when we heard this roaring, deep voice, “HO, HO, HO! HO, HO HO!”  I tell you it scared the heck out of us. We stood up in a hurry and looked back – I remember Jimmy just hightailed it and hid behind the nearest tree. The rest of us stood there and stared. Out of the house came this white-bearded, giant of a man, carrying a large sack. He wore a red jacket, with white fur trimmings around the cuffs, red pants over black boots. A belt with a huge bronze buckle held the jacket tight around his ample midriff. On his head he wore a red sleeping cap, also trimmed with fur with a large white pom-pom on the end. He walked slowly towards us, all the while HO-HOing. We didn’t know what to make of it. We just stood transfixed in the middle of that clearing, and Jimmy behind his tree.”

“Santa Claus, that was Santa Claus, grandpa!” said Matthew, his interest in the story now rekindled. The sack held promises of presents and toys.

“But who had ever heard of Santa Claus then. All we saw was a strangely dressed giant coming towards us with a sack that looked like it could hold us all. He walked slowly, and we made to run away, but he called out to us. He called us all by name – Jimmy, Charlie, Joey, Alfie, Johnny, Chesley, Winston. When we heard our names called we stopped. Despite his formidable appearance, there was friendliness to his voice that put us at ease – except Jimmy who still hid behind his tree.

“Don’t you know who I am?” he asked as he reached us. We just stood there shaking our heads, still too afraid to speak. The large sack in his hands still appeared ominous. “Well, boys, have you never heard of Santa Claus?” More head shaking. “Very well then, sit yourselves down and I’ll tell you his story”. We obeyed.”

“He lowered his considerable bulk onto a nearby tree stump and proceeded to tell us the legend of the Dutch Bishop Saint Nicholas – he pronounced it Sint Nicklaas. He told us how the good Bishop would drop bags of money down chimneys to provide dowries for needy young ladies. From Sint Nicklaas developed the character of Santa Claus. “And to this day,” he continued, “children around the world can expect Santa Claus to bring them special gifts at Christmas if they have been good during the year. And he would know if they’ve been good or bad.””

“We all looked at each other. None of us had ever received any Christmas gifts from Santa Claus. From each others eyes we gathered that maybe all those pranks we got up to during the year counted against us, or Santa Claus just gave Bermuda a miss.”

““So, who’s been good this year?” boomed the white-bearded, red giant. None of us spoke. “What about you Johnny? Alfie? Joey?” As he called their names my pals just lowered their eyes to the ground. “And you Winston?”  He turned to me. I nodded a yes – believing that if I did nothing he would take that as a no and get me into his big sack. “Aha, we have a good boy here. Come over here Winston.” I went towards him, but quickly pulled away as he bent down and opened up his sack. “Don’t be afraid, boy. Santa has something for you.” He pulled out something wrapped in coloured paper and handed it to me. I stood there, package in hand, not knowing what to do. He smiled and let out another booming HO! HO! HO! Do we have any other boys who have been good – or at least not very naughty?” One by one my friends came forward. Each time he dipped into his sack, brought out another colourful package and handed it over. We all stood around him with our gifts unopened. He looked into his sack and brought another package out. “I seem to have one left here, hmmm! Whose name is on this one let me see! Ah! Jimmy!” He looked towards Jimmy who was still watching curiously from behind his tree. “You want this Jimmy? Come on out here and get it.” Slowly Jimmy came forward, still unsure whether this pink-faced man was a threat. “There you are Jimmy,” said the giant, “and be a good boy – no more teasing Winston, just because he’s smaller than you.” The man seemed to know us well – he knew that Jimmy often used to bring me close to tears with his constant teasing.”

““Well, aren’t you going to open your presents?” We did not need to be told a second time. There was a ripping of paper and pulling of string to uncover what this mystery man had given us. When I removed the wrapping I found a little boat carved out of a piece of cedar. It was a simple thing I suppose, but to me it was the most beautiful little boat I had ever seen. It was the first real toy I had ever received. I whispered a ‘Thank You.’  I plucked up courage and asked him ‘Are you….Santa Claus?’”

“He laughed. “No, little Winston. I’m not Santa Claus, but you can say I’m acting for him today – you can call me Santa Smith!””

“He then invited us over to the nearby cottage. The lady we had seen before had brought out a pitcher of lemonade and some biscuits, and she asked us to help ourselves. It was a great treat for us all. Then Santa Smith sat down on a bench next to the lady and gathered us, still clutching our toys, all around him. He then called out and a young man came out of the cottage with a strange contraption on a tripod that he set up some distance away. The young man shouted to us to look towards him and keep very still. He disappeared under a black cloth at the back of the box and soon there was a flash of light that made us jump. The young man emerged from under the black cover, gave Santa Smith the thumbs up and disappeared back into the house with his equipment.”

 Winston paused and poured himself some more tea.

 Linda and Matthew, were completely entranced by old Winston’s story. “Papa,” said Linda, quickly putting two and two together, “are you telling us that the photo in the frame….?” She left the question unfinished.

 “I sure am,” replied her father, as he pointed to the old photograph he still held in his grasp. “Look, there’s Jimmy, Alfie, Joey, Chesley, Charley, Johnny,….” he pointed to each one in turn across time and space,  “…..and this little guy in front holding the little boat is me!”

“This is incredible, Papa,” said Linda. “I’ll go get the frame so we can put the picture back where it belongs,” and she hurried off into the kitchen to retrieve it.

“You know, Matthew,” Winston told his young grandson, “with all the toys you have today you cannot understand what that little boat meant to me. It was my very first real toy, my most precious possession. I cherished it more than if it was made out of gold. Can you understand that Matthew?”

“I think I can,” replied the young boy suddenly seeming much older than his seven years.

Three days later it was Christmas Day. Matthew woke early, eager to open up the presents lying around the brightly decorated tree in the living room. Very soon the floor was littered with torn Christmas wrapping paper, bows and ribbons. Linda and her father sat back on the sofa savouring a mug of hot coffee, enjoying the little boy’s excitement at each new present he opened up. There was a large book on dinosaurs from Aunt Lucy, Lego from Uncle Robert, a remote control car from Grandpa, and a new, light aluminium scooter that were all the rage from Mum. “Wow! This is cool! Thank you mummy, Thank you Grandpa.”  Linda blew him a kiss.

“Matthew, what is that just behind the tree. It looks like you missed one,” said Winston. “Where, grandpa?” The boy looked around, excited that there might be yet more presents. “Right there boy,” pointed Winston, “just behind the tree partly hidden by the curtain.” Matthew went to where his grandfather was pointing. He picked up a small package and rattled it tentatively. “I wonder who this is from,” he turned the package all around, “it doesn’t say.” “Just open it and see,” said his mother. She hadn’t seen that package the night before.

Matthew sat down on the floor. He pulled the multi-coloured wrapping away to reveal a cardboard box. Tearing the tape that sealed the box, he opened it and removed an object wrapped carefully in several layers on white tissue paper, and finally a soft white cloth. Matthew placed the object on the floor in front of him, and slowly lifted the corners of the cloth one at a time to reveal a simple but exquisitely carved and polished little cedar boat. With it was a tiny card that read, “To Matthew, from Santa Smith.”

The boy’s eyes widened, disbelieving. He looked at the boat, then at his grandfather. Picking it up he ran to the old man, put his arms around him, kissed him on the cheek and whispered in his ear, “Thank you grandpa, and don’t worry, I promise I’ll take good care of it!”

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