When Mrs Claus came to town

As children queue to meet Santa, I surprise them by turning up and asking them what presents they want for Christmas, writes Mrs Claus.

TIP-TOEING through the crowds in a red velvet dress with white fur trims, I see some of my oldest friends waiting for Santa at Clerys department store in Dublin. They’re the grannies and granddads who, when they were young, visited Santa in this store, then carried on the tradition by bringing their children and later, their grandchildren, so they could share in the same joy.

Elizabeth Egan from Walkinstown in Dublin is here. It’s the eve of her 69th birthday and she’s with her son and his family. While her granddaughter is too young to make wishes, her grandson, Darragh (5) is asking Santa for a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Slide this year.

“He might find that he gets a surprise instead,” says Elizabeth, with a wide smile. “His parents say he has too much of that stuff.”

As a child, Elizabeth got one present from Santa every year. “In those days, one gift was more than enough,” she recalls. “We were more innocent then.”

When she was 13, Santa brought Elizabeth an embroidery set. Shortly afterwards, her parents explained that since there were twelve kids younger than her in the house and she was getting big, Santa might have to stop coming to her.

“I understood what they were trying to say,” says Elizabeth. “A few months later I left school and started work in Henry Whites’ factory, where I hand-stitched labels and lining on coats.”

It sounds as though Santa knew what he was doing when he brought her needles and threads that year. “It does,” she replies, with a light in her eyes.

Surrounded by his grandsons, Sean, 6, Jack, 8, and Mark, 12, Michael Caulfield from Donnybrook in Dublin, is also waiting for Santa. Like them, he once stood in this queue as a boy.

“Are you Mrs Claus?” asks the smallest lad, while taking a furtive glance in my direction. I say that I am and the two older fellows gather around. I tell them that Santa has asked me to double- check what’s top of their Christmas list this year, so I can remind him on Christmas Eve when he and the elves are packing the sleigh.

“I’m asking for a Wii U,” says Mark. “I’m getting a Bop It Smash,” pipes in Jack.

Can’t they be quite tricky to work? He nods, shyly.

But he’ll be able to manage, will he? He nods again. “His daddy is in the Air Corps,” explains Granddad Michael. “He has great hand-eye co-ordination and so does Jack.”

What’s Santa bringing for Sean? “He’s bringing me a new bike, a space station, a Wii U and a …” He carries on naming wishes, oblivious and dreamy-faced.

Is Sean the baby of the family? At the mention of the word ‘baby’ his face takes on a wry look and without shaking his head or saying a word, he tries to give the impression that he’s anything but. For fun, Granddad Michael steps in with a gentle prompt. “You are the baby. Mrs Claus knows you are.”

At that Sean and I exchange glances and I get the impression that we need to bond a little and fast.

What’s the best part of Christmas? I enquire. The boys look from one to the other and in one voice shout: “Waking up on Christmas morning!”

What time do they get up? “6am,” says Mark. Which of you wakes first? “Dad,” the three boys chorus, and we all laugh.

Will they promise to go to bed early this Christmas Eve and stay asleep so Santa can do his work?

Nobody promises. “I heard Santa last year,” confides Sean. “I heard jingle bells in the middle of the night.”

I tell them that Oh yes, Santa mentioned that when he came back home to me in the North Pole.

“Really?” asks Sean, eyes wide. “Well, I was only awake for five seconds,” Ah! Well that was because of Santa’s magic dust. One tiny puff of that shimmery, sparkly powder and little children who wake up on Christmas Eve, go straight back to sleep.

“Do elves really have magic dust? Someone in my class says they don’t,” says Sean, looking a tiny bit worried. “He asked for it one year and he was told the elves had none.”

Santa has it. It’s one of his secrets, I say. “I never woke up and fell back asleep so fast before, so that must have been magic,” he whispers.

“I think I’ll ask Santa.”

With that he turns, and in a blink he’s gone — in search of The Big Man.

— In conversation with Rita deBrun