Bert Saves Christmas

He crouched behind the dumpster at the rear of the village General Store, muttering, scratching at congealed blood on his forehead and in his beard. Having self-triaged his injuries at the accident site, he’d followed the cleared land below the high-voltage power lines. Staggering for hours through the remainder of The-Night-Before-Christmas, he’d limped into the rural village just prior to dawn. He was desperate to remain unseen by any of the 273 residents. Their jolly Christmas morning would probably be upended soon enough. The children of Dunducketty Creek would never understand.

A cracker of a dawn pierced the night but he was underwhelmed and remained concealed behind the dumpster pondering his next moves. How would he explain this if he was sprung? What if several of his ribs were broken as he suspected?  He guessed his head injury would require stitches and in the dark he hadn’t been able to assess the condition of his vehicle. He was in a filthy mood when a concerned head peered around the side of the dumpster.

Philbert Toy, aka Bert Toy, was a long-time resident of Dunducketty Creek. He raised a pair of prodigious eyebrows in surprise at the figure crumpled on the ground in obvious distress.

“Geez. Are you OK mate?” Bert quizzed, taking two rapid shuffles backwards.

“Yeah, think I’ll live,” he wheezed through gritted teeth, wincing with each breath. “Only hurts when I breathe.”

“Well don’t stop breathin’ champ. I’m Philbert Toy. Just call me Bert.”

“Shhh… Bert, please… speak quietly. Don’t want anyone to see me like this.”

The injured man indicated his blood stained cap and Parka, and his torn denim jeans.

“OK mate but d’ya want me to phone the Police. Maybe an ambulance? What happened?”

“No… no cops! No ambulance! I’ll be OK. Single vehicle accident in the dark not far from here. My fault. Just need to get back to the accident scene. Get my stuff.”

Bert sensed red flags. This old dude was too quick to dismiss the police and emergency services. Something smelled off; it wasn’t just the alcohol on his breath.

“Mate, you’re not involved in something illegal are you? This stuff of yours wouldn’t be drugs would it?”

“Nah! Nothing like that,” he blustered, hawking up a ball of blood-stained phlegm and dispatching it to the dust at his feet. “I just need your help.”

 Bert hesitated momentarily, weighing up his options.

“Ok, wait here mate. I’ll duck home and get something to bandage that head wound. Anything else ya need?”

“That’s particularly kind of you Bert. I don’t suppose you’ve got a vehicle do you? I need to get out to the crash site. Recover some of my stuff.”

Bert Toy grinned, “Yeah. Vehicles are what I do, mate. I’m a deliverer. Back in a tic.”

Within minutes, Bert’s small delivery truck motored up to the dumpster.

“Perfect!” chuckled the injured stranger, who smiled briefly through a wall of pain.

Bert quickly swabbed and bandaged the stranger’s bloodied head, replaced his cap carefully over the wound. His injured frame was shoved up into the passenger seat by the ever-helpful Bert Toy. Rattling off into the dawn, the mystery man navigated in the increasing light towards where he thought his accident may have occurred.

Bert was beginning to regret his decision to convey an injured stranger of dubious character to an isolated place in the bush. What if this person had other drug traffickers lying in wait? What if he was armed? What if he proved to be violent?

His front-of-mind concerns couldn’t be restrained any further.

“So what actually happened, mate? Why the secrecy? Who are you?”

“Hmmm. What indeed? You wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

“Try me,” Bert replied, arching an eyebrow.

The injured man exhaled a slow wheeze and spat more blood through the opened passenger side window before answering the anxious Bert.

“I’m Santa Claus, Bert. Father Christmas. Saint Nicholas. D’ya believe me Bert?”

Bert emitted a nervous high-pitched laugh before replying, “No. But I get it that you don’t want me to ask further questions. I’ll back off and leave you to your own devices when we arrive at the crash site. You’ve got my word; I’ve seen nothing, heard bugger-all.”

“I’m telling you the truth Bert. I don’t expect you to believe me. I’m only real to those who believe in me. Most grown-ups don’t believe. Kids believe.”

The noise of the truck bouncing over the rough dirt track was briefly the only sound in the cabin. Bert chuckled silently before cogs began spinning in his head. Processing of the unbelievable was taking place. The long white beard was real although matted in dried blood.

“I know you’re having a lend of me, mate. Pull the other leg. Where’s your red suit?”

“That’s only my performance outfit. When I’m in flight, I wear my civvies, Bert. These jeans, sneakers and Parka are way more comfortable for extended flights.”

Bert’s response was a derisory snort.

“So what happened, mate? How’d ya crash?” It was Bert’s turn to have a lend of the stranger. Bert was assessing him quietly. Possibly not the violent type, probably just drunk or deranged.

“I won’t lie to you Bert. Christmas Eve is big for me. Huge. I carry several hip flasks of whisky under my parka. A little reward to myself. I’d just commenced my descent into Dunducketty Creek. Bells were jingling. Last job to complete in Australia. I’d had quite a few swigs on the whisky flask by that stage and had lost my bearings. It was eerily dark, Bert. Black as tar. I was piloting by the stars. Was just about to put away my device, return my seat to the upright position, fasten my seatbelt. Then wham! Slammed into a fucking wind-turbine, didn’t I? Took the gloss right off my support for net-zero emissions and a carbon-neutral future it did. Sucked the joy right out of my Christmas too.”

“Bloody hell, you’re lucky to have survived, Santa.” Bert was enjoying taking the piss out of this stranger by now.

“Maybe… but the reindeer weren’t so fortunate. They bore the brunt of those blades.”

Arriving at the crash scene near the wind-farm twelve kilometres outside Dunducketty Creek, Bert’s jaw slackened. Eyes bugged out, he gagged. Macabre… A pile of shattered yet highly decorated timber was partially embedded in the soil below a turbine. The remains of reindeer, small bells and harnesses were strewn randomly around the impact site. Most of the toys and gifts were undamaged. The stranger explained that they’d been stowed near the high-tech airbag which he’d unfortunately missed when he’d been ejected through the nightsky, screaming loudly, arms and legs air-swimming crazily in a failed attempt to arrest a rapid and raucous descent.

 Unable to make sense of what confronted him, Bert was struck dumb. In the warmth and glow of a golden December dawn, he wandered, open-mouthed, amongst the carnage. He was overwhelmed with inner turmoil. This isn’t real, this can’t be real. He wanted to take photographs but the stranger’s voice assumed an aggressive tone when he insisted that Bert hand over his phone. No photos, no phone calls.

At the stranger’s request, Bert helped drag the twisted harnesses, the debris of the sleigh and the deer carcasses to a nearby rocky outcrop to conceal them from view.

“Mate, you don’t seem to be welling up about the loss of your team. Must be hard surveying the carnage though. I mean, that wind-turbine certainly put out the light in Rudolph’s nose.”

“Aaah Bert, it’s truly a tragedy,” he rasped, “…but you need to understand that reindeer is a staple part of our diet in the Arctic Circle… and tanned reindeer hides are sought after for traditional costumes and furniture coverings. You can’t afford to become too attached to your working animals.”

“Oh… right. Do you feel the same way about your elves, mate? A lot of social media posts suggest that your helpers work under sweat-shop conditions,” Bert pointedly added.

The stranger seemingly ignored Bert’s query. He’d retrieved an undamaged communication device from a tiny black-box compartment in the stricken sleigh, then speaking out of earshot of Bert, contacted someone. The stranger relayed to Bert that he’d organised a standby sleigh to collect and take him home. Meanwhile, all gifts that were bag-tagged DCK for Dunducketty Creek were loaded into Bert’s delivery truck. The stranger removed the SIM card from Bert’s smartphone before handing it back to him.

Assuming his aggressive voice again, he turned to Bert.

“I know you still don’t believe Bert, but if I were you I’d keep my mouth shut about this. Nobody’s going to believe you anyway. Probably have you classed as a lunatic. You’re a good-hearted person Bert. Now get into that truck and get yourself back to Dunducketty Creek. Don’t come back here. Merry Christmas.”

Accelerating away from the macabre scene and the certifiable stranger, Bert was hyperventilating, his skin tingled. He roared into the village and skidded to a halt on the main street, sending up a spray of gravel.  

Bert leant heavily on the horn. Confused residents milled around his truck to hear his explanation – Santa’s sleigh had broken down during the night and he’d contacted Bert, requesting that he complete the Christmas run to Dunducketty Creek. Kids squealed their approval. Everybody laughed. Yeah, good one Bert. Wink, wink… Then Bert Toy, reflecting in a state of disbelief about the events in his morning, solemnly commenced the task of distributing gifts and goodwill from his truck… Bert the disbeliever had saved Christmas.