With a theatrical flourish, Philomena Bucket sprinkled the final few grains of salt onto the bedroom floor.
“You’re stuck in there now,” she said. “And don’t give me any of that ‘me no speak the English’ rubbish; I know that you can.”
“Fair enough,” said the Tomte, in a heavy, but perfectly intelligible, Swedish accent. Then, stepping out of the salt circle, he added, “and as you may have noticed, sprinkling salt about has absolutely no effect on us Tomtar.”
“Tomtar?” Philomena looked puzzled.
“It’s the correct plural,” said the Tomte smugly. “Now if you’ll just let me get by…”
You will recall that the Tomte, who apparently held some strongly nationalistic views, had attached himself to young Oswald, whom he knew to be of Scandinavian origin. The little man would creep into the bedroom that Oswald shared with his adopted sister, Caitlin, and carefully fold the boy’s clothes and pick up his muddles, whilst leaving Caitlin’s things untouched. While Philomena was always happy to receive some extra help around The Squid and Teapot, she felt that the Tomte could be a little more forthcoming with his generosity, especially upon learning that it was beholden upon the household blessed with his presence to feed him, or things could get ugly.
“Not so fast,” said Philomena, blocking the doorway. “We need to talk. I thought that back in the old country you Tomtar, or whatever it is you call yourselves, looked after whole farmsteads, tending domestic animals, keeping the place generally spick and span, and asking for nothing more than bowl of porridge and a lump of butter every Christmas Eve.”
“You’ve been doing your homework,” said the Tomte.
“I have,” replied Philomena, “and it makes no sense to me that you come to us, and all you do is fold some clothes and pick up a few toys.”
“No one else in the inn is Scandinavian,” reasoned the Tomte. “But Oswald is.”
Philomena put on her cross face.
“Then you might as well leave now,” she said. “Oswald is my son. We don’t need you. Clear off.”
The Tomte looked crestfallen.
“Then I would have no purpose,” he said, sorrowfully. “The instant that the Blomqvist house was no longer in Swedish hands, my usefulness was over. Then Oswald arrived on the island, and I rejoiced – at last, I would again have a link connecting me to my homeland.”
“Not my problem,” said Philomena, crossing her arms.
“But I will fade away to nothing, and not even be a memory…”
Philomena felt herself soften inside.
“This island,” she began, “was once colonised by Vikings. Some of their descendants are still here, and the foundations of many of these buildings were laid by their hands, a thousand years ago. It is plain that Scandinavia has deep roots in Hopeless. There is no reason for you to be so limited with what you do, don’t you see?”
The Tomte chewed the end of his beard thoughtfully.
“You’ve convinced me,” he said at last. “But I have conditions…”
“Go on,” said Philomena, warily.
“If I’m to look after the inn, I will need somewhere to live, and regular meals…”
“We can do that, although I can’t promise porridge with butter,” said Philomena.
“… and I will only stay for as long as Oswald is here.”
Philomena extended her forefinger, which the Tomte grasped, shaking it to seal the deal.
“Of course,” said Reggie Upton, “according to island lore the Vikings who landed here were from Denmark, rather than Sweden, which is where the Tomte comes from. We don’t want to upset the applecart, so it would be best to keep that to ourselves,eh?”
“It won’t be a problem; I did a bit of digging in the encyclopaedias, up in the attics,” Philomena announced, with a self-satisfied grin. “It seems that, at one time – a thousand years or so ago – most of what we now think of as Scandinavia was pretty much one country. As far as the Tomte is concerned, that has never changed, and home for him, these days, is anywhere that a Viking once chose to hang his helmet.”
“Ah, so you found a loophole,” said Reggie. “Jolly good show. Well played m’dear.”
Philomena beamed happily. Reggie was usually the knowledgeable one; it was good to have learned something that he didn’t know.
By the following evening Rhys had made a small, but comfortable home for the Tomte in the corner of one of the attics. Some porridge (sadly without butter), along with a thimbleful of ‘Old Colonel’, was left at his door.
The regular patrons of The Squid and Teapot know nothing of the diminutive guardian who watches over the children each night, and does the occasional odd-job around the inn. He is a well-kept secret, although one or two have commented that, lately, The Squid seems to be even more cosy and welcoming than ever. They reason that this must be due to the recently hung Christmas decorations – the holly boughs, the garlands of ivy and the festive wreath adorning the inn’s stout oak door, and of course, best of all, there is the beautiful tree occupying pride of place in a corner of the public bar. Everyone who sees the it will go home each night with a lightness in their step, smiling as they recall the way in which the lights, twinkling like stars, are reflected in the glittering ornaments, hanging like exotic fruit from its rich, green boughs.
“Philomena and Rhys have managed to decorate the inn really beautifully this Christmas,” they say to each other. “And that tree! It really is wonderful to see…”
They would be surprised to know that Rhys and Philomena have played no part in any of this flurry of festive activity. They would be equally surprised by the knowledge that the tree has no lights or fancy ornaments. Those few who can see through the enchantment all agree that, despite this, the humble little fir sitting in its pot looks quite perfect, festooned as it is in a simple string of berries, and a few pine cones carefully attached to its branches.
