The Creeps: A Samuel Johnson Tale

Christmas grotto. They were hardly there to audition for roles as Easter bunnies.

“Elves,” said Jolly. “We’re here to be elves.”

“Not Father Christmas?” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley.

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Are you trying to be clever?” asked Jolly.

“Not at all,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. “I can’t just assume that because you’re gentlemen of, er, reduced stature you’re only here to be elves. That would be wrong. It’s all equal opportunities now, you know. I could get into terrible trouble for saying to you, ‘Oh, you must be here about the elf job, then.’ I could end up in court.”

“But we are here about the elf job,” said Angry.

“Wouldn’t you at least like to think about being Father Christmas?” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because we want to be elves. We’re the right size for elves. It’s not, if you’ll forgive the pun, much of a stretch for us.”

“Well, I have to offer you the chance to apply for the job of Father Christmas. It’s the rules.”

“We don’t want to be Father Christmas.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Wouldn’t you like to try one little ‘Ho-Ho-Ho!,’ just a teeny one?”

“No!” said Jolly. “We want to be elves.”

Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley scowled at him.

“What’s wrong with being Father Christmas? Don’t you like fat people?”

“What?” said Jolly.

He was confused. Beside him, the singing Christmas tree continued to sing. It seemed to know a lot more verses to “Jingle Bells” than Jolly did.

“Are you saying you don’t want to be Father Christmas because he’s fat?” Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley persisted. “Are you fattist? You know, we can’t have people working here who are fattist. We won’t put up with that kind of thing, do you hear? We won’t put up with it at all. How dare you come into this store and say unpleasant things about fat people!”

“But—” said Jolly.

“Don’t you go making excuses! You should be ashamed of yourselves. I’ve a good mind to call the police.”

Angry stared very intently at Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. The singing Christmas tree continued to chirp away merrily. Angry was starting to hate it.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but are you a mad bloke?”

“Oh, and I suppose you don’t like them either!” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. “What if I was fat and mad, eh? What then? I suppose you’d come after me with pitchforks and flaming torches. You’d want me hidden away from sight, locked up in a cell somewhere with only bread and water!”

“Locked up might be a start,” muttered Angry.

“I heard that!” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. “Don’t think I didn’t!”

He opened a drawer in his desk, removed a hammer, and brought it down hard on the Christmas tree. While the dwarfs watched, he continued hammering at the tree until it was reduced to little shards of green plastic. From somewhere in its workings, a final faint tinkle of bells could be heard before the tree expired. Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley moved a bin into place with his left foot and used his right hand to sweep the remains of the Christmas tree into it. They fell on the remains of lots of other Christmas trees. From what Angry could see, the bin contained nothing else.

Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley restored the hammer to its drawer, opened another drawer, and took a Christmas tree from it. He positioned it in precisely the same place occupied by the previous tree.

“Right,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. He smiled. “Where were we?”

There was a long, careful silence.

“A job?” said Jolly. “For us?”

“Of course! Elves, by any chance?”

“Er, if you like.”

“Oh, fine by me. You seem just the sorts. Very festive. Very small. We like our elves small. Doesn’t work if they’re big. Doesn’t work at all. This week good for you to start? Nine until six on regular days, an hour for lunch, two tea breaks of not more than fifteen minutes each, although for the grand opening on Thursday you don’t have to get here until sixish. Don’t eat too many biscuits: they’ll make you fat, and we don’t want that, do we? Fine for Father Christmas, but bad for elves. Bad, bad, bad! Sign there.”

He pushed the pen and blank sheet of paper toward them.

“There’s nothing on it,” said Dan.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. “All friends here.”

“What about money?” said Jolly.

“Oh, I don’t take bribes,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. “That would be wrong.”

He leaned forward, placed a hand against his face, and whispered conspiratorially.

“And you’re supposed to offer me the bribe before you get the job,” he said. “Doesn’t work otherwise. Bear it in mind for next time, eh?”

“Er, no, I meant that we do get paid, don’t we?”

“Oh! I see! Ha! Forget about the bribe stuff, then. Only joking. Our secret, eh? Yes, money. How much would you like? A lot? A little? How about something in between? What about ten pounds an hour?”

“That sounds—” Jolly began to say, when Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley interrupted him.

“Okay, eleven.”

“What?”

“Twelve, but you drive a hard bargain.”

“I think— ”

Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley puffed his cheeks and wiped his brow.

“Thirteen, then, but that’s my final offer.”

“If you’re—”

“Fourteen, but you’re robbing me, ho ho! You’re stealing me blind!”

The dwarfs had no problem stealing anybody blind, but on this occasion they weren’t even trying. It bothered them. It didn’t seem fair somehow.

“Listen—” said Angry, but Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley was too quick for him.

“Fifteen,” he said. “That’s it. I can’t go any higher than sixteen. Seventeen’s my last and final offer. Absolutely. Eighteen it is.”

Angry reached for the pen. Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley grabbed it before he could get to it.

“Nineteen!” he said. “We need elves!”

“Give me the pen,” said Angry. “Please.”

Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley burst into tears and buried his face in his hands.

“All right then, twenty,” he said, in a muffled voice. “Twenty-one pounds an hour, but you’ll be making more than I am.”

The dwarfs eventually managed to sign for twenty-five, but it was a struggle, and two of them had to hold on to Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley’s arms while the others wrestled the pen from him. They left him in his office, and closed the door behind them. From inside came the sound of “Jingle Bells” in a foreign language, followed almost immediately by an intense burst of hammering.

Nobody came to show Dan and the dwarfs out of the store. They had to find their own way back to the street, and they were so troubled by their encounter with Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley that only later did they notice that, throughout the course of their meeting with him, he had not blinked once.