The Reluctant Santa Claus

By Roger Jones

Cash-strapped actor Byron Nichols takes a job as Santa Claus in a department store and feels his career is heading for oblivion. But he quickly discovers that the role demands more than acting skills as he becomes involved in the lives of the people around him.

A lively cast of characters including a struggling theatrical agent, a girl with a past, a dypsomaniac pantomime director, an enigmatic Asian store executive, a New Zealand soap starlet and, of course, loads of children make this a Christmas he is unlikely to forget.

Roger Jones' novel is an entertaining and nostalgic read with some surprising twists and elements of tragedy in the tradition of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roger Jones
• Release date: Oct 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465984302

Roger Jones

Roger Jones is a writer and an editor specializing in careers, living and working abroad, and music. A graduate from King’s College, London University, who studied modern languages, he has worked abroad in Europe, the Middle East, Southeast Asia, and in refugee welfare and education in the UK. A longstanding member of the Society of Authors, he plays an active role in civic amenity groups. He lives in Gloucestershire, UK.

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THE RELUCTANT SANTA CLAUS

A Christmas Tale for Adults

Roger Jones

Smashwords Edition

First published 2001 (ISBN 978-0-9540189-0-0)

New slightly amended edition 2011

Copyright 2001 and 2011 Roger Alan Jones

Arle Publishing, 43 Arle Road, Cheltenham GL51 8JY, United Kingdom. [e-mail]

This Smashwords Edition - ISBN 978-1-4659-8430-2

Roger Jones has asserted his moral right to be identified as the author of this book.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted at any time or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior permission of the author or publisher.

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

KEY CHARACTERS

Byron Nichols, an actor

Jennifer, his former partner

Dick Freeman, his agent

Cynthia Strang, Dick's assistant

Bob Hayward, a drinking companion

Willis Lambert, another agent

Amanda Baum, a personal assistant

Sir Clifford Fitzsimmons, a company chairman

Giles Steadman, managing director of the Fitzsimmons Group

Nahid Patel, a Fitzsimmons executive

Henry Harcourt, founder of Harcourt's department store

Celia Harcourt-Sims, grand-daughter of Henry Harcourt

Reg Humphries, store manager at Harcourt's

Diana Humphries, his wife

Eileen Jackson, a floor manager at Harcourt's

Beryl Lloyd, the personnel officer

Vi Johnson, a former Harcourt's employee

Vicky Maslin, Santa's assistant

Jock MacGregor, technical manager at Harcourt's

Steve, a Harcourt's employee

Jason, a Harcourt's employee

Morton Hadleigh, a distinguished actor

Carina Merchant, a young actress

Rowena Blackwood, an older actress

Flora Maloney, a theatrical landlady

Don Dearlove, an actor and pantomime director

Rhoda and Penny, a comedy double act

Loretta Sykes, a TV star from New Zealand

Mona Morrison, a Scottish starlet

DC Rogers, a detective

Oscar Stein, a financial analyst

Ali Khalid, a journalist

CHAPTER 1

Byron Nichols stepped jauntily along Shaftesbury Avenue. He was feeling a good deal happier than he had done for a long time. After years of slogging away in comparative obscurity he had finally made it to the West End.

It had been a long and arduous climb interspersed with fallow periods when he had been tormented by doubts as to his suitability for what was a chancy profession even at the best of times. But now his persistence had been vindicated and he was finally smelling the sweet scent of success.

The evening rush was dying down. Most of the office and shop workers were safely on trains and buses heading back to suburbia. A few of the younger ones and those with no suburban semis to return to had lingered on for a drink with their chums. Close to Cambridge Circus a crocodile of Chinese was heading for the Chinese supermarkets and restaurants of Gerrard Street.

Before long the streets would reverberate to the chatter of people who had come into town for a night out - to the nightclubs of Soho, to the cinemas around Leicester Square or to the theatre. Some would doubtless be heading for the Laughton Theatre no less, where Byron was treading the boards in Tyrone Heathcote's new play.

Heathcote was a literary genius, of that there was no doubt, and it was a signal honour to be invited to act in his latest work The Gods are Merciful with two of the most distinguished actors in the land, Morton Hadleigh and Lorna Cheetham, who were both at the zenith of their careers.

To play a role, albeit a subsidiary one, in a West End theatre seemed almost too good to be true. It had come quite out of the blue after a dreadful eighteen months when jobs had virtually dried up. The occasional bit part in a TV series, one or two badly paid jobs in the remoter reaches of the Kingdom, had generated scarcely enough income to keep him alive. If you were just out of drama school you'd do anything for a bit of cash, but he had now reached the age when he was no longer prepared to resort to odd jobs in telephone sales or with stripogram agencies to eke out his meagre income.

How he envied those contemporaries of his at RADA who had gone on to be household names. Joanna Masefield was in Hollywood and must now be worth a mint; Ben Groves was never off TV these days; while Geoff Huntley had become one of the mainstays of the Royal Shakespeare Company. By contrast, apart from a few lucky strikes longer ago than he cared to think, his own career had failed to take off. Until now.

As he made for the stage door of The Laughton he could not resist peeping once more at the hoardings outside the theatre. It gave him such a buzz to see his name emblazoned there below the play's title. ... Except that tonight it was no longer visible. Instead a banner had been stuck across the hoarding bearing the message: ENDS SATURDAY.

Byron was thunderstruck. He rushed through the stage door and ran upstairs to the dressing rooms hoping for confirmation that this was merely a hoax. But he found his fellow-actors sitting around looking glum-faced and realised that the dream was over.

Hey, what's happening? he asked.

The play's a flop, announced Morton Hadleigh. The critics hated it and the public are staying away in droves.

It's a brilliant play, Byron insisted.

That's the problem. The Great British Public detests brilliance, Morton retorted.

But just a week! Surely a play needs longer than that to prove itself.

We're talking money, my dear boy. The management have invested tens of thousands in this production and they need to cut their losses. Don't worry. I'm assured we'll all get paid. And we'll have a cast wake on Saturday night to drown our sorrows.

That was small consolation. Byron was suddenly seized with the horrible premonition that Saturday would be the final curtain not only for The Gods are Merciful, but also for his own career in the theatre. What a lousy hand of cards fate had dealt him! He had been banking on Heathcote's new play to buoy up his deteriorating finances. Universal fame had been a secondary consideration.

The prospect of another year and a half living on hope was unbearable. He had lost Jennifer who had been unable to cope with his persistent moodiness, and he had found it desperately hard to rely on his own resources. In fact, she had thrown him out, forcing on him a hand to mouth existence. He had even resorted to sleeping on other people's floors for a while.

In anticipation of a steady income for once he had found a half-decent flat to rent on the fringes of Hampstead. But he was already getting behind with the rent, and the unforeseen demise of the play would plunge him even deeper into debt. He shivered at the prospect of another painful session with his bank manager.

He struggled through his performance that night. Why give of your best when tomorrow you know you will be out on the street? This was hardly the attitude expected of a dedicated actor, and he now wondered if he was really cut out for this career. Would he not be happier - and richer - working as a car salesman or an accountant, maybe?

As he left The Laughton he recognised he was in a hole from which he had to extricate himself without delay. There was only one course open to him. He resolved to rise at crack of dawn and visit his agent, Dick Freeman.

Byron knew the route to the Dick Freeman Agency like the back of his hand. It was at the top of an unprepossessing building in a back street off Drury Lane. There was a kebab shop on the ground floor. Since few of Dick's clients were high-fliers, he could not afford to move to more salubrious premises.

The actor knocked at Dick's door and pushed it open to behold a scene of confusion. There were papers and files everywhere - strewn across the floor, piled up on the ancient desk, perching precariously on cupboards and filing cabinets. The IT revolution had plainly passed the proprietor by. He felt more comfortable with paper and card indexes.

Dick was clearly surprised to see him.

You're early, he remarked with surprise.

Byron had the reputation for being a late riser, like so many other actors and entertainers.

You've heard the news?

That the gods weren't so merciful? Yeah. The West End's going through a bad patch at present.

This did not augur well.

I know of two or three other productions running into trouble in the West End. And audiences at the National have been a bit thin this season.

Byron decided to put a quick end to these pessimistic musings.

Look, Dick, I need something urgently, he cut in.

People always do, came the measured reply. But I can't wave a magic wand, you know.

I'll take anything, just anything.

The agent sighed.

All the pantomime jobs were snapped up weeks ago, he answered. Honestly, I doubt if there'll be much doing until the spring. Still, I might be able to get a few voice-overs and product demonstrations.

Byron winced.

No thanks. Look, Dick. I've made it to the West End, for God's sake. Surely that counts for something?

Dick attempted to sound sympathetic.

I suppose there's a remote chance that someone in The Mousetrap will die or break a leg, but I wouldn't bank on it.

I don't mind what I do. If you've some job going abroad, I'll take it.

The only thing I've got on my books are cabaret opportunities in the Middle East ...

OK, I'll willing to have a go. Anything.

Unfortunately, Byron, your face and your figure don't fit. For that kind of job you need to be young, nubile and female.

Byron was in no mood for such pleasantries, and rounded on his agent.

It's my age, isn't it? Hell, I'm pushing forty and I'm still not properly established. You must have seen quite a few actors like me in your time, Dick. So I want you to be brutally frank. What exactly are my chances in this profession? Or should I get out?

These were weighty matters for the time of day. Dick recognised his client had come for tea and sympathy and was unlikely to shift until he had been given it. While he hadn't any tea, there was a jar of tasteless instant coffee in the office which he set aside for his actor clients. His own poison was Scotch, to which he resorted after particularly trying confrontations.

He made a mug of the insipid brew - the coffee, not the Scotch - handed it to Byron and began to reminisce.

I know a number of people on my books who got tired of the uncertainties of the profession and drifted into other things, he noted. "There was George Grantham - a very promising actor. He's now an estate agent ... a very successful one, I gather. He hates it, but he's managed to buy himself a very nice place in Ealing.

And Jason Marsh. Jason used to be very idealistic. But when the theatre co-operative he belonged to folded, his wife persuaded him to take up accountancy. You know, Jason could never suppress his creative spark. He was jailed for fraud two years ago.

Byron shuddered.

A contemporary of yours, Bob Wardle, decided to become a crofter in the Orkneys.

And ... ?

Nothing's been heard of him since.

Crofting in Scotland is definitely not my style, Byron insisted. I couldn't stand the long winter nights.

Brenda Barraclough, of course, really hit the jackpot when she married into the aristocracy. That's what comes of doing costume dramas. Yeah. There's an idea for you, Byron: marry a rich duchess.

I did have Jennifer - but that's all over now.

Dick sank back in his chair, gazed at the actor and shook his head sadly.

To tell the truth, Byron, I can't see you as an estate agent or a crofter. For one thing: acting's in your blood. For another: you're too damn stubborn. I don't think you'll ever go in for the law or hotel management. You'd look the part, certainly, but you just wouldn't fit in. Let's face it, Byron. Acting's the only career you're cut out for.

Was this a back-handed compliment or the candid truth? Byron never knew how to take Dick's cryptic remarks. But he was not going to leave without extracting a promise from him.

You will get in touch if anything comes up, won't you?

Of course, Byron. What else am I here for?

The out of work actor wore a downcast expression as he left the agent's office. A period of enforced leisure was fine for the likes of Morton Hadleigh; he could doubtless use the break to pen his memoirs. But this was not an option for a theatrical nobody. It looked as if a particularly lean winter lay before him.

Meanwhile in an office south of the Thames Aidan was pacing up and down searching for inspiration.

What are we going to do about Vicky Maslin? he sighed.

He turned and glared at his two companions who seemed lost for words.

Come on, come on. We've got to think of something. She'll be arriving any moment.

"Maybe she could live with her family?'

No way, said Aidan sharply. Her nearest and dearest are the problem rather than the solution.

Couldn't we send her on course?

She'd run a mile if you suggested it.

You're not being very positive, Aidan, Susan commented.

I've seen it all before. You don't appreciate how many Vicky Maslins I've dealt with during my career. Whatever we do will make no difference. We'll be back to square one again ... and again.

I wish we could do something for the kid. She hasn't had much of a chance, said Jo.

She needs a new start.

Don't we all? Aidan's idealism which had prompted him to enter social work had worn very thin. As a younger man he had enjoyed rising to the challenge of helping people to lead better lives. But as he looked back he could not recall even one conspicuous success. How he wished he had considered more seriously the other career option open to him at the time - that of income tax inspector.

Why don't we ask her if she has any ideas of where to go from here? Jo suggested.

Aidan hated to disillusion her. In his experience girls of Vicky's ilk had expectations which were outside the bounds of realism. They dreamed of becoming models or TV presenters, when most of them couldn't add two and two together. Not that numeracy counted for much in modelling, but qualifications were becoming crucial for whatever job one went after these days.

There was a knock on the door and a small blonde in a bright pink anorak appeared in the room. She looked at its three occupants with suspicion.

Hiya, she said gruffly.

Aidan bade her sit down.

We've been wondering if you have any plans, he began.

Plans? Vicky gave him a blank stare.

... About your future. What do you want to do with your life?

Dunno.

Aidan glanced at his two companions who were raw recruits to the team. How positive would they be after a year in the job?

I know what to do, said Jo. Let's have a brainstorming session.

Aidan was aghast at the suggestion. What good would that do?

Look at me, Vicky, said Jo brightly. Don't you ever dream of what you'd like to be? I do. Sometimes I come up with some fantastic ideas. Last night I dreamt I was a trapeze artist. And sometimes I feel I'd like to be an opera singer. What about you, Vicky? What would you like to be?

Dunno.

Aidan groaned. Common sense had been supplanted by textbook theory expounded by naive, hair-brained nincompoops. He resigned himself to seeing yet another novice to the profession making a sorry spectacle of herself.

Come on, Vicky. There must be something you'd love to do more than anything else in the world. Perhaps you'd like to be a parachutist ... or an explorer ... or a famous painter ...

Vicky gazed with amazement at the woman. What the hell was she playing at?

I know, Susan chipped in. How about becoming ... a secretary?

Aidan was not too impressed by the idea, and neither was Vicky judging by her scornful expression.

Go on. Think, Vicky, said Jo. Wouldn't you like to be an airline pilot ... or a zoo-keeper ... or a tour guide ... Come on, Aidan. Think of something Vicky could do.

Brain surgeon?

Suddenly Vicky came to life.

I know. I'd like to work in a shop. Not a supermarket or a little shop, but a big department store.

Susan was ecstatic. Her brainstorming was working.

You mean like Harrods?

"Yeah, that's