Santa Claus turned up in the woods with his sleigh wedged between two chestnut trees and a twig stuck in his beard. Rufino offered to get him unstuck, then climbed straight onto the sack. Checking the load, apparently. With his hand in the sweets.
We've known each other for ages. He handles the flying and we slip through the small gaps. On the woodland paths we're carried by Francis, our mule. She knows where you can get through. We could have saved ourselves a lot of trouble that Christmas Eve by listening to her.
"We'll take a shortcut here," said Rufino, pointing at a slope.
Francis planted all four hooves. Rufino wouldn't have it. We climbed onto the saddlebags because arguing from up high seemed more comfortable. Francis stayed still, glancing at us sideways. The only one who moved was Rufino. Up to his knee in a puddle.
The lady drives here
We let her choose the path. As soon as we moved the know-it-all aside, Francis set off. Rufino came behind with his boots squelching at every step. Santa laughed so much we had to stop so he could breathe.
We were carrying small parcels, balanced between the saddlebags. The sleigh had been left in a clearing with the reindeer, who were eating and resting. Santa walked with us, delighted to stretch his legs. After three minutes he asked if it was much further.
At the first house, Rufino wanted to go down the chimney to make himself look important. There was a fire burning in the hearth. We pointed at the open window and grabbed his waistcoat before he did something bloody stupid. He'd do anything for an audience.
We went in through the window. We left the presents by the tree and came back without waking anyone. Well, no one in the house. We did wake Francis, because she'd dozed off while Santa scratched behind her ears.
Rufino came out last with a milk moustache. He said he was checking that the drink left for Santa was still good. We wiped his face. The moustache came back. He'd kept a soggy biscuit inside his mouth.
A present that wasn't in the sack
When we reached the last house we saw a woman asleep in the armchair, with her glasses crooked and an open book on her knees. Under the tree there were presents for everyone, but by her slipper there was only a skein of wool. She'd spent the afternoon knitting scarves for everyone else.
It touched us deeply. Santa rummaged in the sack and took out some warm slippers. We covered her legs with a blanket and put a bookmark in her book. Rufino wanted to give her a kiss. We told him to clean up first, or he'd leave her cheek covered in crumbs.
We came out with a lovely warmth in our chests. Rufino had got over the chimney nonsense. He helped us check the empty saddlebags and picked up the ropes from the ground. Francis nudged his shoulder with her muzzle. She'd already forgiven him for the shortcut.
Back at the clearing we let Francis rest and some carrot slices. Santa admitted that without her we'd still be looking for Rufino in the puddle. He took a golden medal out of his pocket. He tried to hang it round her neck.
Francis sniffed it and turned her head away. The old man tried again. She turned her back on him and carried on eating. We burst out laughing. He was trying to impress a mule with something you couldn't eat or use for scratching.
"Keep your little badge, champ. Bring her another carrot and tell her she's got tomorrow off," we told him.
He did. Francis brought her muzzle close and gave him an affectionate shove that sat him on his arse in the grass. Santa sat there laughing. Rufino asked for the medal. He said he'd earned it checking the milk.
At dawn we hung the medal on him. It said he was the best woodland helper. Rufino strutted the whole way. He didn't know that on the back Santa had written who to call if the mule got lost.
Now every time Francis runs off to see the donkey at the mill, they call Rufino. They hand him the rope and he touches his medal, sighs and sets off to find her. We piss ourselves laughing.
"Being important is a load of bollocks," he says.
