The Creeps: A Samuel Johnson Tale

“I have a funny feeling that I’m being watched,” said Jolly. “I was thinking of nicking something, just to keep my hand in, but I don’t think I will after all.”

They all shared his uneasy sense of being under surveillance, although they could see no sign of cameras or security guards. There was no sign of anyone at all. They had arrived at the side entrance, just as a message had instructed them to do after Dan had called the number at the bottom of the advertisement. There they found the door unlocked and a handwritten note instructing them to proceed to the top floor via the main stairs.

It was Mumbles who caught a flash of movement in a corner as they neared the final flight of steps.

“Oberare!” he said.

He walked warily to the corner. There was a small hole at the base of the wall. He knelt and peered into it. He had the uncomfortable sensation that, from the darkness behind the wall, something was peering back at him.

“What is it?” said Angry.

“Umsall,” said Mumbles.

“Small?” said Angry. “It was probably a rat. These old buildings are full of rats.”

But Mumbles didn’t think it was a rat. He had only caught the slightest glimpse of it as it fled, but it had looked like a very small person.

If he hadn’t known better, Mumbles might even have said it was an elf.

• • •

The dwarfs were stunned into silence when they reached the top floor. The entire space was in the process of being transformed into the most spectacular of Christmas grottoes. Frost glittered on the trunks and branches of the immense silver trees supporting the ceiling, and a pathway that felt like marble wound over the floor while snow fell from above.

“It melts,” whispered Dozy. “When it touches your skin, it melts!”

And it did.

Somehow, the entire area had been lit so that it looked bigger than it was. It was like being in some great northern forest in the depths of winter. It even felt cold. As they progressed through it, the dwarfs saw the shapes of reindeer passing by. They appeared so real that the dwarfs could almost have reached out and touched them, running their fingers through the deers’ fur.

At the heart of the forest was a cabin made not of logs but of old stones. Smoke poured from its chimney and was lost in the darkness above, which glimmered with stars. Looking up, Jolly had the sense of being just one small person on one small planet in a vast, icy universe. It made him vaguely depressed, so he went back to looking at the cabin instead.

Angry was testing the stones with his hand.

“This cabin must weigh a ton,” he said. “What’s underneath it?”

Dozy tried to remember the floor plan of the store.

“I think it was more soft toys. I could go and check.”

“Well, I wouldn’t hang about down there if I were you,” said Angry. “If this thing falls through the floor it won’t be just the toys that are soft. It’ll reduce little kids to jelly.”

A man appeared from a doorway to their right. He wore a black three-piece suit with a gray tie and a slightly soiled white shirt. His face was blankly pleasant, like a greeting card without a personal message inside.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “Can I help you?”

Jolly looked at the note in his hand.

“We’re here to see Mr. Cholmondeley,” said Jolly.

“Chumley,” said the gentleman, his expression unchanged.

Jolly examined the note again.

“No, it’s definitely Cholmondeley.”

He handed it to Angry to check.

“That’s it,” said Angry. “Cholmondeley. It’s here in black and white.”

“It’s Chumley,” said the man. A small frown line had appeared on his forehead.

“Listen, mate,” said Angry, “are you saying we can’t read?”

“Not at all. The name is simply pronounced ‘Chumley.’?”

“Then why is it spelled ‘Cholmondeley’?” asked Jolly.

“It just is,” said the man.

“Well, that’s nonsense,” said Angry. “That’s like spelling a name S-M-I-T-H and calling yourself Jones.”

“No,” said the man, with some force, “it isn’t.”

“Yes,” said Angry, with equal force, “it is.”

It was left to Dan to intervene.

“It’s a posh thing,” he explained to the dwarfs.

“Oooooh,” they said in unison, nodding in understanding. Posh people did things differently. Everybody knew that. Jolly had heard that posh people were born with silver spoons in their mouths, which probably explained why they all talked funny.

“Right you are then, guv,” said Jolly. “We’re here to see Mr. Chumley. Mr. St. John-Chumley.”

“Sinjin,” said the man.

“Bless you,” said Jolly.

“No, I didn’t sneeze,” said the man. “It’s Sinjin.”

“Beg pardon?” said Jolly.

By now the man had started to look decidedly irritated.

“It’s my name!” he said. “It’s Sinjin-Chumley. How hard can it be?”

The dwarfs crowded around Jolly, and all four of them examined the name on the note, running their fingers beneath it, pronouncing the syllables and occasionally glancing up at the gentleman standing before them as though trying to equate his name with the peculiar jumble of letters before them.

“Actually, pretty hard,” said Angry at last. “You might need to have a think about that one. Don’t take this the wrong way, mate, but you’ll never get anywhere in life if you have a made-up name that doesn’t sound the way it’s spelled. You’d better hang on to this job. If you lose it, you’ll never get another. It’s always easier to hire someone whose name you can say without hurting your tongue.”

Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley gave Angry a hard stare.

“I take it that you’re here about the job,” he said, in the tone of a man who is hoping that he might be mistaken.

“We were ‘invited to attend for an interview,’?” said Jolly.

“Indeed. Well, do come in. It shouldn’t take long.”

Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley stepped aside to admit the dwarfs into his office. It was small, and contained only a desk and a chair. The shelves were entirely bare, and there was nothing on the desk except for a single sheet of white paper, a pen, and a small, sad-looking artificial Christmas tree with a red button on its base. Angry, who couldn’t resist a red button when he saw one, pressed it. Immediately the tree began to bob from side to side and “Jingle Bells” emerged from a hidden speaker.

“What language is that?” asked Angry.

“I’m not sure,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. “I think it might be Urdu, or possibly Serbo-Croat. It’s difficult to tell. We found a box of them in storage when we began fixing up the shop.”

“Do you think they’re going to be big sellers?” asked Dozy doubtfully.

“Possibly, if the shop was situated in a country that spoke Urdu or Serbo-Croat,” said Mr. St. John- Cholmondeley. “Otherwise, probably not. I do wish you hadn’t turned it on, though. It takes a while for it to finish the song.”

They all tried to ignore the tree as the interview began.

“Now, which job might you be applying for?” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley.

The dwarfs exchanged looks. They were in a toy shop. It was coming up to Christmas. The shop had a