The Girl Who Saved Christmas

  She remembered Little Mim’s excitement last year, just before the trolls attacked. She knew that this must never happen again. ‘Yes, it’s Christmas Eve. So that means this afternoon you and all the other elf children can go to the Toy Workshop and choose some toys.’

  ‘Hooray!’ said Little Mim.

  ‘But first you need to get ready. You’re going to the Christmas party at the School of Sleighcraft. All the kindergarten is invited. The Sleigh Belles are even playing . . .’

  Little Mim, like his mother, loved the Sleigh Belles. They were his favourite band and their number one hit ‘Reindeer Fly Over The Mountain’ was his absolute favourite song. But Noosh wondered why a frown had appeared on his little face.

  ‘The trolls aren’t coming, are they?’

  ‘No, they’re not coming.’ Noosh thought. And then she thought some more. She looked at her son’s wide, wide eyes and knew she couldn’t lie to him. ‘I have been asked to go to the Troll Valley, Little Mim. For an article.’

  Little Mim’s eyes widened. ‘You’re going on a scary adventure!’

  ‘Not really. It’s just a little day trip. A little adventure. I need to find some information. It’s just beyond the wooded hills. I will be back to tuck you in tonight, I promise. But for now this is our secret, okay? All right, my little cloudberry?’

  She held her son close and smelled his clean sweet hair. She couldn’t have loved anyone more. ‘It’s going to be fine,’ she said. ‘It’s just something Mummy has been wanting to do.’

  And Little Mim stared up at his mummy and thought he would like a little adventure too, but maybe not one involving those horrible trolls that had destroyed last Christmas, and who had caused his father to have so many nightmares.

  He didn’t like the idea of his mum going all on her own to the Troll Valley. So he decided to make a plan of his own, and keep it to himself.

  The Truth Pixie

  oosh held Little Mim’s hand as they walked through the snow to the kindergarten. The whole of Elfhelm was busy with excitement.

  Elves were walking past with bundles of new elf-made clothes or holding as many chocolate coins as they could carry. They were all heading to Reindeer Field, where Father Christmas would be opening up his infinity sack for them to drop in the gifts for human children. Noosh felt sad that she was missing Christmas Eve, but if – as Father Vodol thought – the trolls really were planning another attack, then Elfhelm needed to know about it.

  Noosh left Little Mim at the kindergarten gates, and after a small kiss on his forehead, she hurried away, passing the gingerbread shop and thinking of Little Mim who loved biting the heads off gingerbread elves. It was then she had a horrible and scary thought.

  The thought was: what if I never see him again?

  Noosh left the Main Path and turned down Quiet Street and took a left down Really Quiet Street then turned right at the Secret Route to the Wooded Hills. She had been to the Wooded Hills many times in her life. When she was a little girl Father Topo had taken her pixie spotting. She had captured a Flying Story Pixie in a jam jar (they were the smallest of all pixies) and been mesmerised by its wings. When Father Topo saw the poor trapped pixie he was very cross. He freed the pixie and gave it a new word. The word was ‘miscellaneous’ and the Flying Story Pixie liked it very much. Flying Story Pixies fed on words the way some creatures feed on honey and they were always on the hunt for new words, exotic words, with which to spice up their stories.

  The snow was thicker here on the Wooded Hills than it was in Elfhelm and everything was uphill, so Noosh quickly became tired. Her feet trudged through the snow, and stumbled on pine cones. She felt a bit guilty that she hadn’t told Humdrum but he would have been worried and told her not to go. Humdrum was all right, as husbands went, but he was a worrier. He worried about everything. Not just trolls. He worried about breaking his teeth on candy cane. He worried that the sun would forget to rise. He worried that one day all balls in the workshop would just stop bouncing and spinning tops would stop spinning. He worried, most of all, that the trolls would return. Still, she couldn’t help that guilty feeling in her stomach, which was a bit like the feeling of falling. She saw, through the prickly pine trees, a tiny yellow cottage up ahead, with a small wooden door. It was a pixie cottage, less than half the size of an elf cottage.

  The cottage was so bright, like the yellowest cheese, with a steep roof, as if it was an arrow pointing at the sky. It had one little window and one little door.

  There was a little sign on the door.

  ‘WARNING’ it said, ‘I TELL THE TRUTH.’

  So this is where the Truth Pixie lives, Noosh thought. And she remembered that Father Christmas liked the Truth Pixie, so she shouldn’t be too scary. Noosh knocked on the door.

  A small, delicate creature with saucer-wide eyes and pointed ears and a bold dress sense (yellow, yellow, yellow) appeared. She smiled a big, mildly mischievous but very happy smile.

  ‘You are the Truth Pixie,’ said Noosh.

  The Truth Pixie looked up at the elf. ‘Yes, I am. Thanks for telling me. Bye.’

  The Truth Pixie closed the door in Noosh’s face.

  Noosh stayed where she was and spoke loudly at the wooden door. ‘Sorry. I just wanted to ask you some questions. I’m a friend of Father Christmas. I am trying to find out if there is going to be another troll attack. And I know you are a pixie, not a troll, but pixies tend to have more information than elves about such matters so I just wondered if you . . .’

  The door opened. The Truth Pixie was there. Her huge eyes looking up at her.

  ‘So, you’re a friend of the big man?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Noosh, with the pride of someone who owned seven Father Christmas portraits.

  ‘Enter,’ said the Truth Pixie. ‘But leave your clogs outside.’

  So Noosh slipped off her clogs and left them in the snow by the door then went inside.

  It was bright yellow on the inside too, and smelled of cinnamon. Noosh sat on a chair.

  ‘I would offer you some cinnamon cake but I want it all for myself,’ the Truth Pixie told her.

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Noosh, over her rumbling stomach, as she took out her notebook. ‘Is it okay if I write some notes down for the article?’

  ‘Yes. But don’t quote me. I like my “air of mystery”. I’ve been working on it for years.’

  The Truth Pixie stared at Noosh. ‘Elves are so strange-looking,’ she said. ‘With your thick fingers and wide faces and your legs like tree stumps. I mean, you don’t look as strange as Father Christmas with his freaky round ears, but you aren’t far off. What is your name?’

  ‘Noosh.’

  ‘Bless you. Now, what is your name?’

  ‘Noosh.’

  The Truth Pixie frowned. ‘Bless you . . . You are quite a sneezy elf. I don’t want elf snot on my carpet.’

  ‘No. I’m not sneezing. My name is Noosh. That is my name.’

  ‘Oh. Oh. I am so sorry. It must be horrible to be called something so stupid. My name is Truth Pixie. Much simpler.’

  Noosh did her best to smile and not look upset. She noticed a little brown mouse in the corner of the room.

  ‘You have a mouse?’

  The Truth Pixie nodded. She explained it was Maarta. The great-great-great-great-great-granddaughter of a mouse Father Christmas had known very well back when he was just an ordinary child called Nikolas. The mouse had been Father Christmas’s friend, and had accompanied him to the Far North and here to Elfhelm. Miika’s great-great-great-great-great-granddaughter looked very much like him. She was nibbling on some cinnamon cake.

  ‘Hello, Maarta,’ said Noosh.

  The mouse ignored her.

  ‘She normally likes elves,’ explained the Truth Pixie. ‘So it must just be you.’

  Noosh told herself not to be offended. ‘Do you know anything about why the trolls attacked us last year?’

  The Truth Pixie looked out of her little window, past the pines, up
the hill towards the Troll Valley.

  She suddenly looked a bit worried. She tried to lie.

  ‘N . . .’ She tried again. ‘Nnnn . . .’ She tried to say no one more time. ‘Nnnnnnnn . . . Yes, I do!’ And the Truth Pixie slapped her hand over her mouth, knowing she’d said too much.

  ‘Well, why was it? What were they angry at?’

  The Truth Pixie frowned, and desperately tried to stop talking. ‘They had been brainwashed.’

  ‘Brainwashed? Who by?’

  ‘By pixies. Some pixies. You understand there are different types of pixies, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Noosh. ‘I know there are a few different types, but not all of them.’

  The Truth Pixie explained in detail, hoping this would stop any further questions.

  In addition to the Truth Pixie there was a Fear Pixie who lived all by herself, in a treehouse. She was scared of heights, so she never came down from the treehouse. (And no one knew why, if she was so scared of heights, she would have chosen to live in a treehouse in the first place.)

  There were also Flying Story Pixies – of course, Noosh knew about these. She knew, even as the Truth Pixie was telling her, that they lived nowhere in particular, and had wings (unlike most pixies) and flew around the pixie area, Troll Valley, and sometimes even around Elfhelm, telling stories. They were the most miniature of all pixies. ‘Oh, and then there was the Lie Pixie, who I didn’t used to get on with at all. But I’m warming to him. He gives the best compliments.’ But even though there were other pixies, Father Christmas was only really friends with the Truth Pixie, because a Truth Pixie is the only kind of pixie you can really trust.

  ‘So, what do you know about what happened last Christmas Eve?’

  ‘I really shouldn’t say. I’ve said enough . . .’ she blurted, almost in tears.

  ‘Tell me what you know, ‘Noosh asked, her eyes staring fixedly at the pixie’s delicate face.

  The Truth Pixie sighed. She was now exhausted from all these impossible attempts to lie. She just couldn’t do it. ‘It was the Flying Story Pixies.’

  ‘What? How?’

  ‘Well, trolls are stupid. They are big and angry, but they don’t know how to think. And pixies are the opposite. We are small and mischievous and think all the time. For instance, I’ve had three thousand, four hundred and eighty-two thoughts since I started this sentence. And Flying Story Pixies are the biggest thinkers of the lot. That is why they have wings. They had so many thoughts and imaginings that wanted to fly out of them that they ended up actually flying. And they can get inside other people’s thoughts. They can . . . Can we talk about something else now? Can we talk about Maarta? Look how cute she is. Look at her. The way she eats the crumbs . . .’

  But Noosh had more questions. ‘What has this got to do with what happened last Christmas Eve?’

  The Truth Pixie rolled her eyes. ‘Well, the problem with Flying Story Pixies is that they chatter a lot. To themselves . . . And I hear them talking. And they got in their heads that it would be a bad idea for Christmas to happen.’

  ‘Why?’ wondered Noosh, scribbling this all down in her notebook. ‘What have they got against Christmas?’

  The Truth Pixie smiled. She liked this question. Because she could truthfully say, ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘Could someone have put them up to it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the pixie chirped. ‘Listen, Atishoo, I’ve got places to go . . . people to see . . . crackers to pull . . .’

  ‘My name’s not Atishoo. It’s Noosh.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  Noosh looked at her watch. The hour hand was inching closer to the hour of Night.

  ‘And this year? There have been reports in Elfhelm of noises under the ground. Do you think we should be worried?’

  ‘I’ve heard nothing,’ said the Truth Pixie, and she was now so frustrated she stood up and walked over to Noosh and reached up and pinched her hard on the nose. Even though pixies have small thin fingers they have a tight grip.

  ‘Ow! What are you doing?’ asked Noosh, her eyes watering with pain.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve just always wanted to pinch an elf’s nose. I don’t know why. Do you want to pull a cracker?’

  ‘Erm, no, but thanks very much, Truth Pixie,’ said Noosh. ‘I am going to go to the Troll Valley, and I will try to see a Flying Story Pixie and get some more facts.’

  ‘Flying Story Pixies won’t give you facts. They’re allergic to facts. And the trolls will probably give you a horrible death.’

  Now Noosh didn’t want this conversation to carry on and felt an urgent need to get out of the too-small house. ‘Well, thank you, Truth Pixie. This has been very enlightening. See you again.’

  The Truth Pixie laughed her high-pitched squeal of a laugh. ‘I doubt it!’ she said. ‘Where you are going!’

  And Noosh smiled politely, said goodbye to the Truth Pixie and her mouse, and stooped out of the door, and back into the snow-covered hills, westwards to the Troll Valley.

  A Woman Called Mary

  here is no Christmas in the workhouse,’ Mrs Sharpe had said to Amelia. ‘And no chitter chatter. There is only work from morning until night. Look. Look at these girls! They never speak. That will be you in a week. Silence is godliness.’

  ‘Never,’ said Amelia.

  ‘Oh, you’ll see. I have assured Mr Creeper you will have a deeply unpleasant time here. For the good of your own soul.’

  That was last year. And Amelia was still in the workhouse three hundred and sixty-five days later. They had been the longest and most miserable days of her life. The life before that time seemed unreal to her now. It was like someone else’s life. One she’d read about in a story somewhere. Amelia missed her mother and Captain Soot and she had to quietly beg her eyes not to leak tears.

  She had been working for Mrs Sharpe in the laundry room. The laundry room was full of women and girls with blank faces who looked like they’d had the life sucked out of them. They folded clothes or washed them in sinks or squeezed them dry through a mangle.

  There was no easy job in the laundry, but turning the mangle was generally considered the toughest.

  A mangle was a machine that dried and flattened wet clothes. You fed the wet things between two wooden rollers then turned a heavy iron crank by hand to push the washing through.

  It was so hard turning the crank it made Amelia’s whole body ache, and Mrs Sharpe often stood behind her, barking comments. Amelia never knew if Mrs Sharpe was really properly horrid, or if she was just terrified of Mr Creeper.

  ‘Come on, slowcoach. We haven’t got all century,’ Mrs Sharpe would say. And then Mr Creeper would walk into the room with his hands behind his back as if he was an emperor inspecting soldiers rather than a man inspecting a pile of pressed clothes.

  ‘Not good enough,’ he said. ‘I want to see a significant improvement after lunch.’

  But no matter how hard Amelia worked, turning the crank as fast as she could, it was never enough for Mr Creeper, and if the pile of washing wasn’t large enough he would ban her from the evening meal and keep her working till midnight.

  It was lonely in the workhouse and Amelia had no friends. In fact no one had any friends in Creeper’s Workhouse. Fear – that was the trouble. Everyone was scared. But fear was pointless. Amelia had run out of fear. Instead, she was angry.

  She felt the anger rise up inside her chest like heat in a chimney.

  She realised that this world, and everything in it, belonged to men. Except Queen Victoria. The only way to be female in this world, Amelia thought angrily, was to have a crown on your head. Because really the world was run by men. Cruel, unthinking men who didn’t and would never care about the wishes and hopes of a ten-year-old girl like her. Men like Officer Pry. Men like Mr Creeper. Men who thought they were doing good but who were really doing harm. And yes, even Father Christmas. Yes, especially him. Father Christmas had made children believe in magic when actually a lot of life was ve
ry unmagical. What could be crueller than giving people hope in a hopeless world? Father Christmas didn’t really care. He had just been showing off one Christmas. No. No one cared.

  No one cared that she was so hungry she could have fainted. But when she was in the dinner hall, with all the girls and old women (boys ate separately), she would look at the grey slop being served by the kitchen maids and suddenly feel not so hungry.

  There had been one girl, Emily, who whispered to her in the dormitory, but she had left the workhouse when she was sixteen, two weeks after Amelia had arrived. ‘Always get your slop from Mary, the maid with the bun in her hair, the plump one,’ Emily had whispered on Amelia’s second night.

  And the next day Amelia had seen the kitchen maids in a line over their saucepans, putting the grey sloppy liquid into the battered tin bowls that the girls and women held out. She spotted Mary instantly. She was the only one who was smiling. She had a round, rosy-cheeked face. She looked like an apple that had turned into a human.

  So Amelia approached Mary and held out her bowl.

  ‘’Ello, my dear. You’re new, ain’t you?’

  Amelia nodded. The woman could see the sadness in Amelia’s face.

  ‘You look after yourself, all right?’

  ‘Thanks,’ mumbled Amelia, and she sat back down to discover that, yes, slop was slightly less disgusting with sugar in it. And she kept looking at Mary’s face because it was kind, and warm, and it made a tiny spark of hope glow inside her like a lonely star in a dark, dark galaxy.

  Over the year Mary would whisper little titbits about her life, sugaring the boredom of the workhouse with her own story. She had been at the workhouse since it opened. Mr Creeper had needed five hundred people to be at the workhouse for it to get its licence, so he had gone around the streets of London, and found Mary sleeping on a bench next to Tower Bridge, surrounded by pigeons. He had promised her warmth and food and a good life, and that hadn’t happened. But even when there had been a chance for Mary to leave the workhouse she hadn’t taken it. She had decided to stay, because, as she said, ‘if there was a chance to make you poor young ’uns a little less miserable then I thought I’d ’ang around and sugar the slop.’