I wasn’t pleased at being told I was to be this year’s Father Christmas. After all, I was manager of the Purchase Accounts Department. How in the new year could I deal with directors and senior managers knowing they were seeing an image of a man in a long red coat, tatty white stick-on beard, shouting , “Yo-ho-ho, yo-ho-ho?”

   Not that I even looked the part. I was young, only just past my twenty-sixth birthday, and so skinny Oxfam would probably take pity on me.

   “No problem,” laughed Dobson, the Finance Director and my boss, waving away my protests. “A few strategically placed cushions will soon put that right.”

   So now I was to be wrapped around with cushions. Fearing I would look more like the Michelin man than Father Christmas, I played my trump card.

   “But James,” I pleaded, “I don’t even like kids.”

   “Nonsense,” he retorted impatiently. “Everyone likes kids. You were one yourself once.”

   Any hopes that I could wriggle out of this terrifying directive disappeared the following morning when the Managing Director breezed into my office. “Glad to hear you’re going to be this year’s Father Christmas, Deakin,” he enthused. “Good to see younger managers getting involved.”

   Everyone called me Deakin, as though it was my Christian name. Even my girlfriend did. Only my mother called me Richard.

   “I’m not sure I’m the best choice for this job,” I offered meekly, looking desperately for a glimmer of sympathy.

   “Nonsense.” Yes, that word again. “This sort of involvement will be good for your career path. Wouldn’t want things to falter over a little thing like this, would we Deakin?

   ”The message was loud and clear. So there it was. I was to be Father Christmas at the annual Christmas party for the children of the company’s employees. It was a big company, which meant an awful lot of children.

   My girlfriend thought it was a wonderful idea, but it took her a full ten minutes to stop laughing long enough to tell me so.

   “It’ll be fine,” she finally assured me. “I will be your pixie helper.”

   I rolled my eyes skywards.

   In the pub that night Kate was getting quite enthusiastic about her role as the pixie helper, even having hired a costume from a local theatre group.

   “I hate Christmas, anyway, without all of this to cope with,” I muttered into my beer. “Just an excuse for two days of too much drinking, too much eating and too much television.”

   Kate shook her head. “We don’t have to do those things. We could join the local church group that goes around the estate singing carols on Christmas morning or we could roast chestnuts over an open fire.”

   “No-one has open fires any more.”

   “We could probably get a little fire going in the garden at my parents’ house.” Kate was determined not to be outdone. “It’s Christmas, I’m sure the neighbours wouldn’t complain.”

   After considering these alternatives for all of half-a-second, I said defiantly, “I think I’ll stick to the booze, the food and the telly!”

   The party was in the main hall at the company sports and social club, a large room with a sizeable stage at the far end. Arriving backstage, I sat down before changing, hoping I could steady my nerves. When Kate arrived shortly afterwards and slipped off her coat, her pixie outfit certainly looked the part, a light shade of green with the most amazing curly-toed sandals that coiled round and round at the front like large catherine wheels about to burst into sparkling action.

   Before I had a chance to comment, I was given a large slice of less than welcome news. The carpentry department had built a sleigh, quite magnificent too and that was fair enough, but now they told me they had rigged up a system of ropes and pulleys, so that we could be lowered spectacularly down onto the stage amid a flurry of imitation snow.

   Resisting the temptation to put my coat back on and leave, I managed, with Kate’s help, to pad out my body with cushions, put on the Santa Claus outfit, then reluctantly climb the hastily-constructed scaffold tower, Kate just behind me, to get into the sleigh. The men from the carpentry department were very particular how we positioned ourselves, claiming it was all to do with balance.

   If that was the case, then something went drastically wrong, for as the grand descent commenced the front end lurched crazily downwards ahead of the rear, toppling me backwards off the seat, so that the first view the awe-struck, open-mouthed youngsters had of eagerly-awaited Father Christmas was a pair of shiny, black gumboots waving frantically in the air. Although I managed to right myself before the sleigh jolted its way to the stage, the fall had dislodged a couple of cushions, with the result that I stepped out to face the children looking more like a pregnant tomato than everyone’s idea of a cuddly Santa.

   Despite everything, my dealings with the youngsters were going rather well, until the little girl with the saddest eyes I think I have ever seen.

   Turning on my very best Father Christmas smile, I asked, “And what does this beautiful little girl want Father Christmas to bring her?”

   “My daddy,” she said quietly. “I want my daddy home for Christmas.”

   “I’m sure your daddy will do his best to see you at Christmas,” I said cheerfully. “Where is your daddy now?” “He’s been very sick and mummy says he’s gone to Heaven ,” she said tearfully, “but I want him to come back to be with me at Christmas.”

   I went cold. My head began to spin. My mind flashed back to my own childhood Christmases, the excitement of Christmas morning, opening presents with my mother and father, playing games together, the shared happiness and laughter. There was always laughter in our house at Christmas. I tried to imagine it without my father, but my mind simply couldn’t accept such a concept. The little girl. I had to say something.

   “Was he a very nice daddy?” I asked.  Never in my life had I felt so inadequate.

   “The best daddy in the world,” she whispered very softly, a tear rolling gently down her cheek.

   I looked up at Kate, willing her to say something, but she stood in silence, biting deeply into her bottom lip, her eyes looking decidedly moist.

   Falteringly, I said, “Then you must have a lot of happy memories of him. "Hold on to those this Christmas and your daddy will be there with you.”

   As I brushed away her tears, she put her arms around my neck and placed a kiss on my cheek.

   I was glad I hadn’t come in the car. I wanted to walk home, feel the cold air on my face, finally let out the tears unnoticed I had held back before. Kate walked beside me, struggling to keep pace, saying nothing.

  Suddenly I stopped and looked at her. “Could we really build an open fire in your parents’ garden?” I asked.

  She reached up and kissed me lightly on the lips. Then, linking her arm affectionately in mine, she said, “We can give it a damned good try.”