Chapter Text
“‘Scuse me, Miss Rose?”
Today was the day that Henrik’s world-renown Christmas windows debuted, and Rose Tyler, while not in charge of the creative end of things, was the person who managed the logistics of the monumental task.... and the last thing that Rose Tyler needed at that moment was friendly old man Mott wanting to chat her up about how he remembered his parents bringing him to see Henrik’s Christmas windows when he was a wee lad in short trousers. She adored the man who had served as the store electrician for longer than she had been alive, really, she did. Today was simply...insane.
Rose squared her shoulders, clutched her clipboard to her chest and smiled, genuinely. “Hello, Wilf.” She tapped her fingers against her brown clipboard, as if counting the seconds she could sacrifice for this conversation.
“Miss Rose, I think that there is something you need to know. Father Christmas is...” The gentleman stopped mid-sentence, leaned closer, and then continued in a whisper, “sloshed.”
“What?” she asked skeptically. “No he’s not,” she said with an incredulous smile and toss of her hair. “I just spoke to him an hour ago, and he was fine.”
The man straightened himself up and removed his stocking cap. “I’m telling you Missy, he’s inebriated.”
“Alright then, show me where he is.” Gripping her clipboard in one hand, she threw her hands up in the air, and followed the slightly stooped man.
Wilfred and Rose wound through the backside of the store until Wilf halted, motioned broadly, and presented the scene to Rose.
Rose swore under her breath. “Excuse me, Wilf. I need to...I need to go. Thanks for telling me.” Rose didn’t bother with the elevator, choosing instead to take the stairs two at a time to the fifth floor office level.
Rose Tyler burst into the cramped office she shared, pivoting around the doorframe, and nearly skidded to a stop. “We've got a condition mauve!”
“Keep your knickers on blondie!” said Jake Simmonds, the mind behind the creative window displays for which Henrik’s was known internationally.
Rose closed her eyes and calmed herself, following Jake’s example, clenching and unclenching her fists. She took one final breath and let it out slowly. “Davvy is drunk.”
Jake swore colorfully. "I knew old man Davros was known to hit the local after work, but he's never shown up at work pissed."
Rose’s jaw went slack as she looked up at the ceiling with her eyes squeezed shut. “Well today is the day he chose to start drinking before noon. I found him on the floor of the sleigh in the Santa window, with a bottle of White Lightning singing, I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus. If I’dve lit a match, I bet he’dve combusted,” Rose shrieked before she flopped into an ancient vinyl office chair.
Jake swore again, even more colorfully this time than the first, and then stood up and paced nervously in front of the bank of windows looking down on the high street. “The crew from Good Morning London is going live in forty-five minutes. We need a proper Father Christmas. Quick. Or Mr. Henrik will have our heads.”
“There’s more...” Rose picked her fingernails.
“What else?”
“I saw that horrid Yvonne Hartman woman from Torchwood’s Discount milling around the front of the store, waiting for the windows to be unveiled. I’m sure she’s gonna just copy our displays. All of your hard work Jake, it isn’t fair! They just...just steal our stuff every year!”
“Yeah, and her windows will look cheap knockoffs, just like the shoddy crap they sell, Rose. Hartman is the least of our worries. Back to the real problem. We need a new Santa.”
“Where am I supposed to find a Father Christmas this morning? And get him into costume, and makeup and--”
“Well it ain’t gonna happen with you sitting there whinging!” Even though his words were harsh, Jake was not an unkind person; however, he was hot headed. “In the meantime,” he sighed, calming himself, “I’ll go pour some coffee down that shriveled-up old coot’s throat. Should’ve guessed this would’ve happened sooner or later.”
Rose nodded, knowing the task was nearly hopeless, but not turning her back on what needed to be done. She wasn’t called the Defender of Henrik’s for nothing! She’d gotten them out of many sticky spots, and this was no different.
oOo
Rose let herself into her flat with a sigh. It had been a long, frustrating and exhausting, but ultimately, successful day. She still had her job, which for a while there, she thought she may have lost. She had found a Santa Claus, and he had been a smash hit. Who knew that Wilfred Mott would turn out to be the perfect Father Christmas? He was friendly, funny, kind and quick-witted. Children weren’t afraid of him, parents trusted him because he wasn’t creepy, and the presenters from Good Morning London had been utterly charmed by his on-screen banter, and his perfect Father Christmas persona.
It was, however, late and she was hungry and tired, and having a hard time deciding which need was more pressing: food or sleep.
“Hello Rita,” she called as she hung up her long, black overcoat, and set her handbag on the entryway console table.
“Hello, dear,” answered the older woman. Rita Smith watched Rose’s little brother Tony from the time he arrived home from school, until Rose got home from work. She lived down the hall, and was the grandmother of Rose’s ex-boyfriend, Mickey. “Tony’s sleeping, but I had a hard time getting him to go to bed. He tried to convince me that now he has absolute proof that Santa is a fraud. His word, the little scamp.”
“Really,” Rose drawled, amused at her brother’s vehement skepticism. “And what did he come up with this time?” Rose asked.
“He said that because you had a different Santa in the window than last year’s Santa, that proved there was no Father Christmas. He predicted you’d come home and tell him that this new one was the real Santa, and because you had always told him that the old one was the real one…and well...” Mrs. Smith left the words hanging in the air as she caught movement out of the corner of her eye.
“There can’t be two real Santas, Rose. And furthermore,” said Tony lisping the word through his top two missing teeth, “I don’t believe that Santa is real at all.” Tony’s stance was firm: little arms crossed, proud chin tipped upward, brilliant blue eyes locked on her own. “Besides, we don’t have a chimney. How does he get into our building, hmm? How does he deliver toys to the six point five two eight billion children on earth within one twenty-four hour period, hmm? Tell me that.”
Rose sighed and ignored her brother, not wanting to engage the question at this hour, or at all, really. “What are you doing out of bed, and for that matter, what are you doing listening in on my conversation with Granny Rita?” Rose asked, eyebrows up. “That’s very rude.”
Tony stood in the doorway wearing his favorite all-in-one footed pajamas that zipped up the front. Brightly colored rockets, stars and planets stood out against the midnight blue fleece.
“There is no Santa, and this proves it,” reiterated the boy. “But...he was a good one, Rose. Way better than that old drunk Davros bloke,” he said with a roll of his eyes and hand wave, gestures he had picked up from his big sister. “And that glass eye of his reminds me of Mad Eye Moody.” Little Tony pulled a face, also mimicking one of her often-used gestures.
Rose snorted a laugh in spite of herself. “Hang on, how’d you know about Davros being drunk?” she asked, to herself more than Tony. “Oh never mind. We’ll talk about this tomorrow, Tony. Go back to bed, please. It’s way past your bedtime, and you have an early morning, remember? You’re gonna have to ride with me on the bus, ‘cos Stella’s mum can’t give you a ride to school. They’re going to Spain for the month,” Rose said calmly. “I’ll be in to tuck you in and say prayers in a mo, yeah?”
He protested mildly, but scurried off as instructed when Rose gave him the Tyler glare.
“He’s such a little man,” Rose said with a sigh as she released her hair from the painfully constricting pony tail. She shook her head, freeing her bleached blonde curls. She ruffled her fingers through her locks, hoping that the released pressure would alleviate her growing headache.
“Oh, almost forgot to tell you that cheeky fellow from the floor below stopped by,” reported Rita. “He wants to know if he can take Tony to the park to kick around a football tomorrow.”
Rose frowned. “That Smith bloke that Tony talks about all the time? The telescope guy from the roof?”
“Yes. Oh, he’s such a sweet man. Handsome too, if a bit skinny for my taste. But then again, you’re all skin and bone too. I know it’s the way these days,” Rita said with a mirthful cackle. “Carries my groceries for me, but for some reason, doesn’t like pears. Who doesn’t like pears?”
Rose tuned out Rita, who continued to talk about her love for tinned pears, especially when eaten cold from the refrigerator.
Tony had mentioned Dr. John Smith several times. Her brother had met the man on the building’s communal rooftop terrace, where Tony had set up a cardboard rocket ship where he pretended to be an astronaut. The man, who was apparently an amateur astronomer, had showed Tony his telescope one summer night, and it was all Tony could talk about for weeks.
“Goodnight, dear.” Rita let herself out.
Rose headed into Tony’s bedroom to kiss him goodnight, as she had promised. The strawberry blonde six year old was already fast asleep, but she couldn’t resist his soft chubby cheek, and kissed him softly, stroking his hair one more time.
As she left the room, Rose surveyed his room, with its rocket ships hanging on fishing wire circling the solar system mobile, the autographed poster of Neil Armstrong, and space-themed bedding. She smiling to herself at the tableau of pinpoint lights scattered over the ceiling -- the star projector had been his favorite Christmas present last year. She had no idea what she was going to buy this year. But of one thing she was certain: it would have to be something to do with space. If it had to do with the stars, Tony Tyler loved it.