When Father Christmas Retires

New Zealand Listener, Volume 14, Issue 339, 21 December 1945, Page 6

When Father Christmas Retires

land’s best-known Santa Claus, a tall and thin and soft- voiced man, has retired. We called to see him at a department store the other day after he had given up his regal chair to his younger successor, whom he had been coaching in the art of Father Christmasing for the last few weeks. "There’s not much coaching in it really," he said. "The new man is sympathetic to children and has a love of children in his heart and with that the rest comes easy. He’s got six children of his own, so he knows all about them. Of course I’ve got eight children and nine grandchildren, so I know even more." The old one was thin and the new one is fat. Our thought was answered. "Oh, yes," said the Old Father Christmas, "they had to do a, lot of dressmaking. Sixteen years ago, or rather — 17 years ago now, I had a wonderful red gown, fur-trimmed, falling from the shoulders. But the modern style tunic and trousers came in years ago and we cut down the gown-for me,’ but not of course for him." We went away upstairs with the Old Father Christmas, listening to his reminiscences. . "There are people in this town, wellknown, very well-respected people, who are bringing their children to visit Santa to-day and they were coming to see@me themselves 14, 15, 16 years ago when they were so high. In fact, the last few years I’ve had quite a few children of my original children being brought in to ‘ FTER 17 Christmases Auck-

see me. Now I can tell you of a case of one little boy, a regular little chap he was, who used to come to see me, year after year, even when he «as at Grammar school and last year in he came one day to say Merry Christmas to me and what do you think? He had just been sitting his university examinations. What do you think of that? He’s just the same, I don’t even know his name, but he never forgets me. Very touching. Others like that too — girls who would say to me each year ‘Well, I won't be coming next year, I’m getting too old,’ but back they’d come and now they’re bringing their children." It’s a Strenuous Business "So you're missing it?" "Yes I am. I’m missing it more than I thought I would. But I couldn’t go cn indefinitely. Forty years ago I came to New Zealand with 18 months to live and although I’m still going I’m not going very strong. I found each year ‘that when it came to Christmas Eve I was just a rag, no use for anything. It’s a strenuous business being Father Christmas. You can’t exactly call it acting, because you enjoy talking to the children, and it is easy to be so friendly with them; but when you have to smile all day and say something new to each child, it does become a strain. Oh I liked it more than you can imagine, but I just had ‘to give it up and that was that." Tricks of the Trade We asked about the a of the trade and were told that there were only two: not to let the parents in for too much and not to disillusion the children about Santa Claus,

"They'll ask for an aeroplane or some such expensive toy and we have to take a sly look to see if Mummy nods or shakes her head and then we answer accordingly. I think it’s a shame to spoil their fun-goodness knows there are enough disillusionments and sadness in life. Let the little things enjoy their fairyland while they can. If they told me ‘a boy at school said there was no Santa’ I would say ‘but there is! You’re looking at me and touching me. Of course there is!’ It used to break my heart in the last few years when they used to tell me ‘I want my Daddy home for Christmas.’ The war years were sad. But things will be better again now we hope." * a) * a BACK IN TEN MINUTES. SANTA." This was printed in red on a big placard on the noble throne of the new Father Christmas, who had dashed out back for a quick cup of tea while there was no queue. He doesn’t get many chances during the hours of his attendance from 10 a.m. to 4.30 p.m. He came back and sat in his chair, stroking the long white beard that was made by a famous firm of London wigmakers 17 years ago. His tunic and trousers were of red flannel with white fur edging and his wonderful boots were scarlet and lined with lambswool. The first in the queue was a very small, very dark little boy, perhaps four, perhaps less; one word from Father Christmas and he set up a howl that made all the ‘other children giggle. It was only after three’ Or four ' boldér (continued on next page)

(continued from previous page) spirits had had their wishes heard that he could be persuaded to finger the white fur, pull the long beard. We watched the children, their faces lifted up to the beard and the bushy eyebrows. They all began with beaming smiles, became shy, fidgeted, pulled at the fur, and at last began to giggle and smile and talk excitedly again. Each one went through almost the same stages of enthusiasm, shyness, and renewed en- | thusiasm. The new Father Christmas had a way with him. When the crowd had gone we asked him how he liked the job. "Great fun, . great fun," he said. "They’ve got me up well, don’t you think?" We agreed that they had and admired his boots. "Yes, the boots are pretty wonderful. But what do you think of the beard? Of course I have to keep on fingering it myself so that they don’t get a chance to tug too hard," He stood up and turned round. to show us how well his tunic was cut. "They'll have a bit of taking in to do if they pick on a thin Father Christmas after me!" He was round and jolly and kept on rubbing his hands together in apparent enjoyment of the part he was playing. Santa’s Brother We called in at another department store and listened-in to a few conversations, watching the anxious mothers hovering near enough to catch the important words. One young person was ready for this: "You go away while I whisper," he said. The Listener came in handy as a relaying agent in that case. We stood around on this leg or'that and heard TRAIN, SLEEPING DOLL, WHEELBARROW, BABY SISTER AND DINGHY. Two little girls, solemn and composed, looked on. We strolled over to them and asked if they weren’t going to talk to him. "No," said one, "I’ve told him." We asked what she told. "A doll’s house," she said, losing her composure and dragging her toe on the floor. We

asked the other one. "I’ve told two Father Christmases. A doll’s house and +a baby doll." She spoke so fast we could hardly tell what she said. Someone else had another idea. A small boy was towing his mother away from the wool counter. "Here’s a Santa," he was shouting, "come on, here’s Santa’s brother." The mother looked a little bewildered, but seemed determined to go through with it again.