The children’s Christmas Party at the Dominica Club is always a cheerful, happy time, filled with good cheer of the social and liquid kinds. It is a time for Santa to visit all the young children of members, guests, and employees.
The Santa suit is brought out of mothballs and aired, well ahead of the big afternoon present giving. Maxwell Williams, the club manager, unpacks the Christmas decorations and the ladies see that the main room is festively decorated.
The person who will wear the Santa suit is always chosen carefully. The children range in age from those too young to really embrace the concept and those nearing eleven who are satisfied that the lively old fellow is really a club member dressed like Santa. Great speculation as to Santa’s identity permeates the older children’s attention, and only the directors know who it will be.
One or another of the directors had always played Santa, but on this occasion our son, Daniel, was selected because, in recent Christmases, Santa’s identity had been discovered before the ceremony.
At noon on the twenty-fourth the shops close and the club begins to fill. The bar packs and members are soon in full spirit. Beautifully dressed little children begin to fill the grounds, playing children’s games.
This Christmas the party was to begin, Daniel went into the men’s room, strapped on the pillow, and began donning the costume. He thought he had locked the door but one of the older children opened it, discovering Santa’s identity.
Frantically the directors searched for a suitable understudy.
Son, Reed, was standing at the bar, thoroughly enjoying his Mount Gay Rum and Coke when he was singled out.
The problem was quickly explained and Reed, just as quickly, declined.
“This is my fourth pony rum,” he explained. “I’m just beginning to get the Christmas spirit.”
“Oh, balls, Reed, you can do it! Besides, we have all had drinks, and it’s your turn,” Major Ray Thompson said. Ray was wonderfully kind and good-hearted but he could sound a little pompous. He, like most of the rest of us, was in his cups.
“Yeah, Reed,” his older brother laughed from behind the front line of directors, “your nose fits right in. It’s red as Rudolph’s.”
Reed, though diffident to forfeit his good cheer, thought about the situation for a long moment. The anxious directors stood around him, blank faced, waiting.
“Oh, well,” he grinned broadly, “what the heck!”
The somber expressions turned to grins.
“Daniel,” Hamish McNabb said in heavy Scottish brogue, “You should hide until the party starts and then come out. When they see it’s not you in the Santa suit it will make his identity a true mystery.”
Everyone agreed and Daniel, who had dutifully refrained from Christmas cheer, was furnished with a double rum to tide him over the short time in hiding.
Reed, pillowed, and otherwise properly attired began his part. His grin was alcohol preserved, and his “Ho-Ho-Hos” were delivered with slightly sloshed dedication and feeling. He was seated in the center of the room; the tree on one side with all the gifts under it, and the children, with attending parents, forming a part circle on the other. Children were sent up one at a time to sit on his knee while he waited for a helper to find the child’s gift.
Soon children were whispering that it was Daniel under the whiskers, but then Daniel strolled into the room. The children were stumped. Everyone they suspected was standing there in mufti.
The Royal Bank manager and his wife had brought their daughter, a four year old who had been given the deserved sobriquet, Simone Chatter-Box. It was pronounced “SEE-moan”, with the emphasis on the first syllable. If you asked her name she would proudly repeat the entire three-word title, with slightly indignant impatience.
“Mommie, Mommie,” Simone Chatter-Box demanded, “What does Santa smell like?”
“Oh, for goodness sake, Darling, what difference does it make? Christmas tree needles, maybe. Mothballs, maybe. He only gets his suit out once a year for Christmas. Maybe Mrs. Santa Clause puts it away in mothballs every year on Boxing Day. I don’t know. Now hush!”
Simone Chatter-Box’s time came and she skipped eagerly up to Reed and jumped onto his knee.
“Ho-Ho-Ho,” Reed said in practiced tones of good cheer, “and what is your name, little girl?”
“Simone Chatter-Box,” she replied brightly.
“And here is your Christmas present, Simone Chatter-Box?”
Reed was unconsciously huffing his Mount Gay breath in her face as he delivered her present.
She finished her visit and returned to her mother.
“Mommie?” she whispered, “Santa does not smell like mothballs, he smells just like Daddy.”
Brings back memories – Rayand Haymish! Was it Simone Sardinha – must be with Santa smelling like Dad! Who was Santa? – Looking forward to next. Kind regards Rosa