Outside, the snow was falling heavily. It had started this morning, with purple-black clouds dropping the first crystal flakes soon after breakfast.

Dora, Steve and Ron brought in the horses they’d let out in the field, hurrying them in. Old backs twitched at the frozen flakes, old legs stretched as their owners pranced in the snow like colts, but finally the motley crew of ancient horses were back in their stables, eyes bright, nostrils snorting condensed white air.

“Flippin’ heck,” grumbled Ron. “It’s only mid December. What kinda winter are we in for?”

“Me bones tell me it’s gonna be a cold one,” Slugger said, handing out steaming mugs of tea. “You should hear what me left ankle is sayin’.”

By four it was pitch dark outside, with the white blanket of snow looking eerie, and the world outside silenced and muffled.

Dora sipped her tea in between putting baubles on the Christmas tree. She had bought a little pine, and its sweet green scent, released by the fire, made her breath deeply and happily. Christmas! A time for goodwill towards all men, even that thug Lewis Hammond and his slimy father. Well, maybe!

She jumped at the knock on the door; she’d been daydreaming, lost in a world of Christmases past and Christmases present. Christmas as a child, home from boarding school to a huge tree and gaily wrapped gifts, one of the few times she felt her parents loved and really wanted her. And this year, Christmas with her ‘real’ family, Steve, Slugger, Ron and of course her uncle Geoffrey.

Steve opened the door to an old man, whose unkempt beard was only slightly less white than the snow on his flat cap.

“Hello mate, I hear you take old horses in.” Without asking permission, the old man stamped the snow from his boots and walked gratefully into the warm kitchen.

Steve’s heart fell. God, the place was full! They didn’t need another horse.

On closer inspection the man was ancient. Faded, watery blue eyes met his from deep inside wrinkled lids, and the hands that were more liver-spotted than Alex the Appaloosa trembled as their owner pulled his gloves off.

Steve sighed. Another one they couldn’t turn away.

Dora left the tree and walked to Steve’s side. “Tell us about your horse,” she said.

“Old pony,” the man said. “He’s thirty-something now and me family are moving me in with them at Christmas. Reckon I can’t look after meself.” He snorted. “I might have a weak heart but I’m not feeble. Not yet, anyway.” He grinned a grin that showed an impressive set of false teeth. “I need to find old Rudy a home. He’s like me, not ready to be put down yet.”

“Where is he?” Dora offered the old man a biscuit, which he took eagerly, clacking his false teeth as he chewed.

“Out in t’yard. Tied him to your fence.”

“You RODE up here? In this weather?” Dora almost dropped the plate.

“Walked, lassie, me and Rudy, we’ve walked a lot over t’years. Rain, hail, sun or snow.”

“He can go in with the donkeys,” Dora suggested. “It’s the only place we’ve got.”

“Grand!” The old man beamed. “I can give you a bit towards his keep. Don’t get much from t’pension but I always pay me way.”

Steve said: “Don’t worry about that now, let’s get Rudy in the dry.”

Dora bit back a smile. Steve MUST be feeling the Christmas spirit – any other time he’d ask for cash up front if it was offered!

The three of them trudged through the snow to where a very hairy brown pony waited patiently, his back covered in white. Rudy whickered hopefully and nudged their hands as they untied him and led him into the donkeys’ covered enclosure.

Bubble and Squeak laid back their long ears but after a cursory sniff allowed Rudy to stand in one corner of their yard.

“Champion,” the old man declared. “He’s a good lad. Gets on with other horses. There’s only one thing. I need him back on Christmas Eve for the night. Might be my last Christmas with him, y’see. T’family’ll probably kill me off with kindness.”

An old man, dragged from the home and pony he loved by a well-meaning family. Dora patted his arm. “Anything you want.”

“Thanks, lassie. Me name’s Thompson. I’ll be back on Christmas Eve.” He shook Dora’s and Steve’s hands and pulled his gloves back on, then headed for the gate.

“Wait! I’ll drive you home.” Steve felt in his pocket for the Land Rover keys.

“Nay, lad.” Mr Thompson waved a careless hand. “Walkin’s for me. Won’t get much walkin’ in t’town next year.”

They watched the old figure trudge down the hill, head bowed against the snow, determined and independent.

“Poor old chap,” Steve said. “Hope he’s OK.”

“Me too.” Dora huddled against him; she wasn’t wearing a coat. Steve cuddled her close.

They watched the donkeys and Rudy for a bit to make sure there wouldn’t be any fights, and when Rudy stood nose to tail with Squeak, sharing his warmth without a twitch from the donkey, they left them to it and headed back to the cottage.

* * *

Over the next couple of weeks gifts mysteriously appeared under the Christmas tree; Steve’s present for Dora was intriguingly small, hers to him large and square. Slugger’s presents for everyone were clumsily wrapped with almost more sticky tape than paper. Ron hadn’t put anything under the tree yet; he said he was waiting for a win at Saturday’s races.

After the first heavy fall of snow the skies had lightened, and the horses of Follyfoot enjoyed cold, crisp days with weak sunshine. Rudy had settled in well with the donkeys, and joined in the morning chorus of whinnies, showing long yellow teeth. His owner had sent a pound note in the mail and a note in a shaky hand reminding them he’d be back on Christmas Eve.

And he was, trudging up the hill to stop breathlessly at the gate. Rudy screamed a welcome which brought Dora and Steve running to see what was the matter. They found the old man in with the donkeys, Rudy nuzzling his hands and whickering delightedly. Mr Thompson had tears flowing unchecked and unashamedly down his cheeks.

“By heck, I miss this old lad,” he choked.

Dora tactfully left him to it, and Steve patted Mr Thompson’s shoulder.

This time Mr Thompson let Steve give him and Rudy a lift home in the Land Rover and trailer. The old man had been living in a small stone cottage with a huge garden, on the outskirts of a nearby village. Now most of his possessions were gone, either moved to his new home with his daughter or, as he sourly told Steve, given away or sold by that bossy woman. All that was left was his bed, some clothes and enough food for breakfast. Tomorrow he’d move the last of his things in with his family, and the cottage would be put up for sale.

Rudy, despite his years, cantered happily into his old back garden and put his head down to graze as he’d done since he was a colt. At the end of the garden a stone stable stood with a fresh load of straw on the floor.

“Families, eh?” The old man looked lovingly at his pony. “Bloody doctor reckons it’s t’best thing for me and all. I’d much rather spend my days here, where I’ve always lived.”

He looked at the sky. “Snow tonight, lad, a white Christmas.”

Steve followed his gaze to the heavy clouds rushing in from the west. “You’ll be OK, Mr Thompson? You’ve got wood for the fire? And enough to eat? I’ll come and collect Rudy tomorrow morning, shall I? What time?”

“Aye, any time before lunch. They won’t drag me away before then. Merry Christmas lad, and to that young lassie of yours. Bless you for looking after old Rudy here.” He shook Steve’s hand and waved the younger man away with a grin. “Go on, lad, back to that young lady of yours, and leave me with me best mate.”

Steve did as he was told, uneasy about the old man’s situation. How many old people lived like Mr Thompson, in cottages on the edge of a village called Poverty? The little he’d seen of the cottage showed him a rudimentary kitchen with an ancient Aga that put out a faint heat, threadbare rugs covering a freezing stone floor, and a bathroom with a terrifyingly old heater that looked likely to explode at any moment in a flurry of rust. Mr Thompson’s possessions may have been moved, but the fixtures and fittings were painfully bad for any person living in the 1970s. It was like stepping back in time. The pony’s stable looked cosier than the cottage!

Snow started to fall as Steve drove back into the yard, his mind still on Mr Thompson and all the Mr and indeed Mrs or Miss Thompsons carefully counting the logs for the Aga and working out when and where they could next afford to buy them. It struck him that if it wasn’t for the Colonel, Slugger himself might well be living like that.

Instead, the old man had cooked a lunch that was, for once, edible and even tasty. Potato and leek soup steamed aromatically as Slugger dished it out.

“Bloody ‘ell, Slugger, wot’s this?” Ron exclaimed, digging his spoon into the soup and taking a tentative mouthful. “It’s delicious, me old mate! Did you get it out of a packet?”

Slugger cuffed him. “A packet, he says! I’ll give you packet, son! D’you want your Christmas present tomorrow or not?”

“I’ve look at the packaging, Slugger. If what’s inside is as bad as that, I’m not sure.” Ron ducked another punch.

“Unlike mine from my parents. I’m almost scared to open it,” Dora said. That morning’s post had brought a parcel that, when opened, revealed a professionally wrapped box with elaborately curled silver ribbon, a little crushed but still reeking of money and the impersonal touch of an upmarket shop. There was also an enveloped pinned to the outside.

“With any luck, it’ll be a food parcel. Remember Slugger’s Christmas dinner last year? Burnt black it was.” Ron grinned.

“No-one forced you to eat it,” Slugger reminded him. “You’ve got a home to go to, after all.”

“Gawd, me dad getting drunk and chattin’ up ‘is sister-in-law. Punchups before lunch. Sod that for a lark. Naw, mate, I’ll take your burnt offerins any day.”

Slugger didn’t know whether to feel pleased or insulted.

Steve put aside Mr Thompson for a bit and grinned. This was family. His family.

Dora finished her soup with a contented sigh. “You know, it really feels like Christmas now, with the snow outside, and the tree all nice and smelly. Who wants to come carol singing with me tonight?”

“You ain’t ‘eard me sing,” Slugger said. “If you think me cooking’s bad…”

“Nah, got a date wiv a bird, she thinks I’m Santa Claus,” said Ron. “I’ll get her to sit on me knee and tell me wot she wants, then I’ll give it to her.”

Steve and Dora howled and Slugger tried hard to look disapproving.

“I’ll come,” Steve said finally. Carol singing wasn’t his thing, but his time with Mr Thompson today made him want to feel part of a bigger community. And maybe Dora was feeling the same; she’d never wanted to go carol singing in previous years.

“Great.” Dora beamed. Then she said something nobody had ever said before. “Slugger, is there any more of your delicious soup?”

* * *

Steve kissed Dora on the tip of her nose. It was almost the only part of her face that was visible. Her head was wrapped in scarves and a woolly hat, and her body heavily clothed in sweaters and her sheepskin jacket. She pulled the scarf down from her mouth and kissed him back hungrily.

“Down girl, this is a family event.” But his eyes said a lot more than that.

Around them small children shrieked “Jingle Bells” with all their might, excited at the knowledge that Father Christmas would visit tonight. Their parents, buoyed up by eggnog or hipflasks, sang loudly and tunelessly.

The village was festive; lights festooned the trees on the green, and a bonfire warmed dozens of hands. Many people held candles, relighting them when the soft, light snow snuffed them out. A nativity set sat in semi-darkness, unable to be lit up in case the electric flex shorted out in the snow. The local church choir tried desperately to rise above the combined key of Z flat that everyone else seemed to be singing in, their voices almost drowned by the general chanting.

“Silent Night, Holy Night…”

Tears pricked at Dora’s eyes. It was so beautiful – so friendly, so much what Christmas was all about. The crowd swayed in time to the music, and so did she, feeling Steve’s arms around her and his lean body behind hers.

“Now then,” shouted the MC. “We’ve got a special visitor coom all t’way from t’North Pole. Who could that be then?”

On cue, and to the delighted screams of children, there was the sound of bells and, from the street behind the pub, came a brown pony pulling a cart and a figure dressed as Father Christmas.

Dora and Steve exchanged glances. Rudy! And Mr Thompson!

Rudy wore a bridle with bells on it, and fake antlers fixed to the top. The old pony snorted steam in the cold evening air, and looked to be making heavy weather of his load, but his eyes were bright and his tail swished eagerly.

“Ho ho ho!” shouted Mr Thompson, a little breathlessly. “Merry Christmas!” He pulled the pony to a halt and hacked a cough into his gloves. “Who’s been good boys and girls then?”

The MC helped “Santa” pull a couple of chaff sacks from the cart. “What’s in these, Father Christmas?”

“Aye, lots o’ presents for good boys and girls.”

Eager children flocked around Mr Thompson as little gifts were distributed from either the ‘girls’ or ‘boys’ sack. The old man couldn’t keep up with the delighted children and the MC helped him out. Little fingers unwrapped dolls or cars, or packets of sweets. Miraculously, there was enough to go around and even some left over, so “Santa” threw sweets into the crowd.

“So that’s why he wanted Rudy back tonight,” Steve mused.

“What a lovely old man,” Dora agreed. “I bet his family doesn’t know or care that he’s Santa Claus to all these kids.”

“Come on.” Steve tugged her hand and they pushed through the crowds to Rudy and Mr Thompson.

“Hello there, lad!” Mr Thompson grinned at them. “Didn’t expect t’see me tonight, did thee?”

“Merry Christmas, Mr..er…Santa!” Dora kissed his cheek. “Do you do this every year?”

“Aye, lass. Always put a bit aside during the year for the presents and the local football club helps out wi’ t’cost too. This’ll be me last year, though,” he said sadly. “They’ll have to find another Father Christmas next year. If anyone wants to do it.”

Steve thought of the cold cottage, with minimal logs in the Aga, and the generous sacks of presents, bought with a ‘bit aside’. “Come on, then, Santa, we’ll give you a lift home. I can take Rudy and the cart and Dora can drive you in the Land Rover.”

“Nay, lad, wouldn’t be right. I come in me cart and I go in me cart. Father Christmas doesn’t ride in a car, you ask these kids. Any road, I’m just in t’next village. See you tomorrow, lad. And Merry Christmas!”

The last was shouted to the crowd, and Mr Thompson jiggled the reins. Rudy, his load lighter, jogged off into the snowy darkness, the sound of his bells fading as the old man turned him towards home for the last time.

“What a man,” Steve said.

A little boy looked up at him. “He’s magic,” he said simply.

Dora agreed. “He certainly is.”

* * *

Christmas Day brought a dusting of fresh snow, and swearing from Slugger as he stuffed the turkey before breakfast. “Oh hell. I’ve shoved me oven glove in there.”

“Might improve it on last year.” Ron slammed the kitchen door and took his scarf off, ducking the tea towel that whisked past his shoulder.

“You’re just in time, Ron. We’re going to open the presents!” Dora called from the living room.

Slugger shoved the turkey in the oven with a bit more swearing, and joined the others around the fire.

Breakfast was over, the horses had been fed, and the pile of parcels under the tree glittered.

The Colonel sat in his favourite old, cracked leather chair, puffing contentedly at his pipe, watching Dora’s delight at his gift, a superb new snaffle bridle for Copper.

Slugger had knitted scarves for everyone; surprisingly, they were much better than his cooking, and he beamed at the surprise. Slugger was a man of many household talents – cooking certainly not among them – and was also a dab hand at mending socks.

Ron’s presents were tucked in with his cards – a betting ticket for everyone for the Boxing Day races. “You never know, you might be on a winner.” He winked.

“Not if you picked ‘em,” Steve grinned. “Thanks mate, if Tricky Dicky comes home I’ll buy you a pint.”

Dora regarded her present from her parents. “Open it,” Steve urged. He hoped she’d leave his till last; wanted to savour the look on her face when she unwrapped it.

Carefully Dora unpicked the glamourous bow, and tore the gold and red wrapping. She opened the cardboard box and looked, bemused, at the richly coloured swimsuit, sarong and hat that sat on her knees. “What on earth will I do with these?” she said.

“Don’t forget the card,” Slugger pointed out.

She opened the envelope and tucked inside the card was an air ticket to the Bahamas. “We hope you can join us in January for a fortnight,” her father had written in the card. “We’ve booked in at a marvellous hotel and you can have a break from your horses and meet some lovely people.” Dora snorted and looked closely at the air ticket. It was only for one person – herself.

“I’m not going without you,” she said to Steve. “What money they’ve wasted.” Anger surged inside her. When would her parents accept that Steve was the man in her life, the lovely person who really mattered?

She pushed the beach clothing back into its box. She’d worry about it later, persuade her parents to give her a ticket for Steve too if they were so keen to see her. Or simply send it all back. In the meantime… she handed Steve his present from her.

“It’s heavy.”

“Open it,” she urged.

Steve found himself the owner of a record player – the first he’d ever had. The speakers were only small, but that didn’t matter. His watermelon grin split from ear to ear. Steve had some great old records that he’d picked up at jumble sales but nothing save Slugger’s old gramophone to play them on.

Still grinning, Steve gave Dora the little box. She opened it to find a silver necklace nestling in a box puffed with cotton wool. A locket hung from the long chain. “Oh, Steve! It’s beautiful! It must have cost a fortune!”

“Like Mr Thompson, I put a bit aside throughout the year.” Steve did the clasp up around her neck and dropped a kiss on her lips.

Mr Thompson! Steve thought with a start. “I’d better go and collect Rudy.”

“I’ll come with you,” Dora said, her hand fingering the silver locket. “Let’s take him some Christmas cake or something.”

“You get back before lunch,” Slugger called out as they pulled on their coats. “I don’t want the turkey to get ruined.”

“Don’t need an excuse for that to happen,” said Ron.

* * *

It was a winter wonderland outside – but the roads were treacherous with ice, and they crawled along beside hedgerow and moor. Even the sturdy Land Rover skidded here and there, the trailer behind slewing.

“Phew,” Steve said, switching the engine off outside Mr Thompson’s cottage. “Poor old Rudy, he’s in for a rough ride on the way back.”

Dora jumped down and knocked on the door. “Mr Thompson? Mr Thompson!”

“Maybe he’s around the back saying goodbye to Rudy,” Steve suggested. They wriggled down the side path, ducking overgrown weeds and staccato leafless branches that tugged at their coats.

Even from the house they could see something was wrong. The stable doors were open, Rudy was lying down, and Mr Thompson was apparently lying on top of him, his Santa suit the only bright thing in the dark stable.

Dora and Steve ran.

“No!” she wailed, taking in Rudy’s lifeless, cloudy eye and the still figure of the old man who wanted one last night with his pony.

“Dora…sweetheart…” Steve pulled her back. Gently he reached down and touched the old man’s neck. It was icy cold, and his body stiff. He felt hopelessly for a pulse, but there was, as he expected, none.

He turned to Dora and shook his head, then she was in his arms, sobbing incoherently about Santa Claus and the pony and the children and their toys and….

“Ssh. Dora, this is what he wanted. He didn’t really want to leave Rudy – or his home.” Steve kissed her hair, holding her tight. “I wonder what happened. Poor old Rudy was making heavy weather of that cart last night. Maybe it was too much for him and his heart gave out.”

“So did Mr Thompson’s.” Dora sniffed one last time and breathed deeply, gulping back sobs. She pointed to the little bottle near Mr Thompson’s outstretched left hand. “Heart tablets?”

“Very likely. We shouldn’t touch anything.” Except each other, Steve thought, and wrapped his arms around her, grateful for her being here because if she wasn’t he thought he’d burst into tears himself.

“Not a very merry Christmas, is it?” Dora’s voice was muffled, her face pressed against Steve’s scratchy woollen sweater.

“Hey, think of last night. How happy Mr Thompson was to be Santa Claus for those kids. How proud. It was his last time. I hope he – and Rudy – died quickly.”

“This is what’s important, Steve. Not holidays in the Bahamas. People like Mr Thompson. Horses like Rudy. I wish we could have done more…”

“Me too. But we DID help him, I think.”

Dora nodded. They stayed like that for a long time, not talking, until they heard a car pull up outside and a strident female voice call, “Dad? Are you there, Dad?”

* * *

They were late back for lunch, but it made no impact on the turkey. Slugger had done his awful best, and the bird was tough as old boots even when he’d first taken it out of the oven.

By the time Dora and Steve had finished with the police, who were taking the ‘natural causes’ path, and found a knacker who would come and take Rudy, the turkey was cold and the potatoes brown rocks.

Ron said, “Don’t worry, it was just as bad when it was hot.”

Slugger looked keenly at Steve. “Old feller’s pegged it, hasn’t he?”

Steve nodded.

“And the horse?”

“I think the horse went first. Mr Thompson died of shock and heart failure, the police doctor thinks.”

“Life goes on, lad. There’s many more where he came from. Many more flippin’ horses right here, for starters.” Slugger pushed another log into the Aga, enjoying the sparks and rush of flame that warmed his old hands.

“Oh, Steve,” the Colonel knocked the old tobacco out of his pipe. “I forgot to tell you. I got a letter for you up at my house yesterday.”

“I never get letters – unless they’re bills or summonses.”

“This looks personal.” the Colonel drew it, slightly crumpled, out of his jacket pocket.

Intrigued, Steve ripped it open, and read the note with open-mouthed disbelief. “I hope you will be able to join us and our daughter for a holiday in the Bahamas in January….”

The air ticket fell to the floor, twisting and turning. Dora picked it up and read the letter over Steve’s shoulder.

The Colonel grinned. It had taken a lot of persuading to get his brother and his wife to invite Steve on their expensive folly of a holiday, but he bluntly told them that Dora wouldn’t consider going without him. Steve, he assured them, was a fine man if they took the trouble to find it out for themselves. But THAT was a conversation Steve and Dora would never know about.

“Merry Christmas,” the Colonel said.

The end

© 2005 Sabrina Davis