He could be relied upon to arrive when the days were shortest, always after nightfall, when the Aurora Borealis fanned the northern skies. It was at that time of the year when the strong wet wintry westerly winds backed to the North and the temperature rose slightly.

" The north wind doth blow
And we shall have snow
And what will the robin do then, poor thing"

Parents were persuaded to step outside and sniff the moist night air.

"Will it snow Mam, will it snow on Christmas Day?"
"Johnny Jones doesn't believe in Father Christmas".
"Oh, yes he does, he only says that to tease you".

The logistics of his arrival troubled us for some time, particularly the temporary stabling of Prancer, Dancer and stable mates on our steep roof of Welsh slate, and his ability to insinuate himself through our 8 inch chimney pots.

There were however strong contra-indications. Did he not always drink his sherry and eat his Christmas cake? How many times had we heard that disbelievers got nothing?

It was clearly understood that to catch sight of him on Christmas morning was the surest way of getting an empty stocking.

"I've seen Father Christmas".
"No you haven't".
"Yes I did, I saw him in Marks & Spencers in Cardiff".
"He wasn't real, he was only a pretending one".

We were four, six and seven years old. I was the middle one, flanked by two sisters Eira and Gill.

We awoke that Christmas morning 1934 long before daylight, there was just enough moonlight to see that our stockings had been filled. The fill-ups of nuts and tangerine oranges hastily cast aside in the hunt for the main prize.

The girls' presents were dolls, exactly as their carefully written letters to Father Christmas had specified. Mine was also as requested, it was a model train.

It seemed a very long time before that winter's dawn broke. I was holding a Hornby train with a wind -up mechanism complete with a large clock key. There was enough light now to see it was painted black with maroon pin striping and the letters LMS in gold on the tender.

I was busy winding up the train when my elder sister noticed that one of the front buffers was bent. Then we realised that the paintwork was badly chipped and that one of the headlamps was missing.

We felt it was not too early to show our surprised parents our toys and to tell them how Santa had fallen down the chimney, damaging my train in the process. A point of view, with which my parents seemed to concur.

It had snowed overnight, and later that morning, on the way to church, we noticed that a patch of snow had slipped away near the chimney exposing wet slates. We concluded that Santa must also have slipped on landing on the roof.

That afternoon we asked if we could climb into the attic to play. "Yes, but make sure you don't open any of the boxes".

We played dressing up in Japanese kimonos, straw sandals, old army uniforms, and chased each other with a mounted fox's head and a stuffed parrot fish.

Eira noticed that a swatch of red fabric was protruding from an old Orient Lines cabin trunk and lifted the lid to free it. Gill peered in, then let out a great squawk, a cry she uses to this day to express surprise.

There lay a Father Christmas outfit comprising a red cap with white fur trim, red coat and trousers and shiny black Wellington boots.

We lifted a corner of the red jacket; it revealed a long white beard sprouting from waxen cheeks and parted glazed lips. A skin of linen like texture, rubicund cheeks and nose and white bushy eyebrows capping dark, eyeless sockets.

We shot out of that attic like Jack in the Boxes; certain that Santa's fall had in fact been fatal.

© Alan Tossell, Blackmans Bay, Tasmania - Sept 2004