SANTA'S LITTLE IMPS, PART THREE

The next day, Robin and I knocked on the kitchen door at CH's house. The woman who answered our knock looked surprised, no doubt because, under our anoraks, we were dressed as Elves. Our tell-tale faces were hidden under rosy-cheeked, snub-nosed masks which left only our mouths and chins visible.

(Note: 'anorak' is the British name for the garment we call a parka.)

"Hello!" I said, "We're the waiters for the Christmas party."

"Come in." she said, "I'm Helen, the cook."

She had a round, rosy face atop a round body: both good signs. Never trust a skinny cook; if she doesn't enjoy her own cooking, neither will you.

"Mrs Hutchins didn't tell me she'd hired extra help."

"Many hands make light work." said Robin.

"Hang your coats up there." said Helen, "The party doesn't start for at least an hour. You can take the masks off in the meanwhile."

We were prepared for this: "We're actors, and like to stay in character." I said.

A buzzer went off, distracting Helen's attention from us; she hastened to take trays of Christmas biscuits out of the oven.

(Note: What the British call 'biscuits', we call 'cookies')

"Those smell heavenly." said Robin.

"Would you like a couple?"

Naturally, we said, "YES!", although 'a couple' wouldn't begin to satisfy us. Helen put six on a plate.

"Coffee?"

If what Helen served was coffee, then what we had been drinking before, and calling coffee, had been muddy water out of a ditch.

"This actually tastes as good as it smells." I said, in wonder.

"I roast my own beans." Helen explained.

I nibbled a biscuit, shaped like a Christmas tree, and sprinkled with green sugar (I mean, tinted green with food colouring). Robin, the pig, had already eaten three. I slapped his hand as he reached towards the plate.

"So, how long have you two been, uh, Elves?" said Helen.

"Not long." Robin admitted.

"We just - do it to earn extra money for the holidays." I explained.

Just then, Rachel entered, and stopped short at the sight of two Elves drinking coffee. We stood up, quickly.

"How do you do, Mrs Hutchins?" I said, "We're the waiters for the Christmas party."

"Carl didn't tell me he'd hired extra help." she said, "Well, the more the merrier. You can help set up the buffet tables."

****

Once the party started, our job was simple enough. All we had to do was circulate with trays of drinks and food. The only problem was to keep Robin from eating everything in sight.

"Will you stop that?" I hissed, seeing him ever-so-casually pop a canape into his own mouth.

"I'm hungry!" he said.

"You're going to break our cover, you piddock!"

It was a big party; most of Bay City seemed to be there. One of the guests was the blonde lady from the shopping mall.

"I'm telling you, Jake," I heard her say, "A dread ringer for Carl as a teenager, if he'd been a girl!"

It seemed as though we were going to get away with our masquerade, until (as in retrospect seems inevitable), CH said, "It was whimsical of you to hire waiters dressed as Elves, Rachel." and she answered, " I didn't hire them! I thought You did!"

Not waiting to hear more, I headed for the exit.

"STOP WHERE YOU ARE!" said CH's voice.

I ventured a glance over my shoulder. CH had Robin in an armlock. I couldn't abandon my brother ( well, I could have done, since I had the car keys) so I made a U-turn.

"It's a fair cop." I said.

"Let go!" said Robin, "We're just Santa's Little Helpers!"

"Santa's Little Imps, more likely! Let's get a look at you." said CH, pulling off Robin's tuque and mask.

There was a gasp when everyone saw Robin's face, and an even louder one when I took off my own disguise.

"See?" I heard the blonde lady say, "I told you!"

"I take it," said CH, letting go of Robin's arm," that you are not here to rob the house."

We shook our heads.

"Do you have something to tell me, Carl?" said Rachel.

"Not - that I was aware of." said CH, "Who are you?"

"He's Robin and I'm Melissa." I said, "I believe you knew our mother, Monica Pemberley, eighteen years ago."

"That's 'knew' in the Biblical sense." Robin added, helpfully.

"No." said CH.

No? What did he mean, 'No'? Then it came to me: "You probably knew her by her maiden name. It was Bassett, like the hound."

"I did not, at any time, know a woman named Monica Pemberley or Monica Bassett - Biblically, or in any other way." said CH.

"But - look at us!" said Robin.

"Yes, look at them, Carl." said Rachel, "It can't be just a coincidence! You didn't have yourself cloned by any chance?"

"Eighteen years ago, "CH mused, "That was the year Perry spent the summer backpacking around Europe."

"Who is Perry?" I asked.

"Carl's eldest son." said Rachel.

"Where do we find him?"

"Greenlawn Cemetery. He died in an accident, years ago."

"So, you think - Perry was our father?" asked Robin.

"It's possible." said CH - said our grandfather. "Your mother is the only one who knows for certain."

Robin and I exchanged looks; the mother who had lied to us all of our lives was the only one who knew the identity of our real father; we were back to square one, with a vengeance. I hoped I didn't look as crestfallen as Robin did.

"Oh." said Robin, "We shall certainly ask, when we see her."

"I think we've taken up enough of your time." I said, "Let's go, Robin!"

"One moment!" CH's voice stopped us before we could make our escape. "Does your mother know where you are?"

"Yes." I said.

"More or less." said my idiot brother.

"And what does 'more or less' mean?"

"She knows we've gone abroad." I said.

"And where exactly does she think you are?" CH's eyes were like twin diamond rock-drills; there was no escaping them.

"Switzerland." I heard myself say, "Ski holiday."

Next thing we knew, CH had gotten our home telephone number out of us and was making an international call.

"Monica Pemberley?" we heard him say, "Carl Hutchins here. I believe you were once - acquainted with my son, Perry Hutchins. Eighteen years ago, in fact. .... Your children are here in my home. ... Yes, Robin and Melissa. ... They came here looking for their father. ... I have no idea how they found their way to Bay City."

"PEOPLE magazine." I said.

"Ah. Apparently they got hold of an issue of PEOPLE magazine which included a photograph of myself. ... Yes, the family resemblance is striking. ...Very well."

CH held out the receiver. "Your mother wishes to speak to you."

Robin and I held it between our two heads, so that we could both hear.

"Yes, Mummy?" We had to listen to several minutes of 'What were you thinking of?' and 'How could you be so thoughtless' etc etc. When Mummy ran out of steam, I said: "We wanted to know the truth about our real father. That's what we have always wanted."

"But - what made you think that Daddy isn't your real father?"

"We always knew." said Robin.

"We've been absolutely certain ever since we read that book on genetics, when we were twelve." I added.

"I thought you'd forgotten about that." said Mummy, "I thought that Gerald was your father, or at least, I hoped he was. I made love once - just once - with an American boy I met on holiday - a boy named Perry. We didn't even exchange last names! I'd made love with Gerald dozens of times! When I realized that I was pregnant, I thought - I was sure - that you must be his!"

"So, you told Gerald that he was going to be a father, and he married you." I said, seeing it for the first time, "And then, when we were born, he took one look at us, and knew we were none of his."

"That explains why he never loved us." said Robin.

"Don't say that!" said Mummy, "Of course he loves you!"

"Get real, Mummy!" I said, "He hasn't made eye contact with us for at least ten years!"

"He only speaks to us to give orders." said Robin, "He obviously can't wait for us to leave home!"

Mummy started to cry. "It's all right, Mummy. Don't cry!" I said, "We never loved him, either."

Mummy kept on sobbing. It was embarassing. "We can talk about it when we come home." I said, (although Gerald's house never seemed like 'home' to either of us.) "Goodbye." I hung up the phone quickly.

"Now what?" said Robin.

"Back to the hotel, I suppose. "I said, "We apologise for spoiling your Christmas party."

"Spoiling it?" said Rachel, "You've made it unforgettable!"

"You came all this way, and now you want to leave?" said CH, "Nonsense!"

"But - we're not even your bastards - we're your grand-bastards." I pointed out.

"Carl loves having grandchildren to spoil!" said Rachel, "Welcome to the family!"

And that was it: we were family. Sometimes, you really do get what you want for Christmas.

The End