The Little Christmas Shop on Nutcracker Lane

by Jaimie Admans

  I’m on his left side this time, next to his broken arm, and his head instantly drops onto my shoulder. I automatically reach up to play with the fluffy white pompom on the tip of his elf hat where it’s dangling down and resting against his neck.

  ‘Did that feel good?’

  His head on my shoulder? Oh, his head on my shoulder feels very good indeed. It takes me an embarrassing amount of time to realise he’s not talking about that. ‘It really did. I don’t know if he even recognised the significance between that and what he’d said to the nutcracker, but yeah. I wish we could do more. There are so many wishes we’re not going to be able to touch.’

  ‘We’re just a few people doing what we can,’ he says. ‘No one can expect more than that. The shopkeepers are already spending their own money on this. I never expected that.’

  ‘Who bought that board game?’ I say even though it’s a rhetorical question because we both know he isn’t going to claim it back on expenses.

  ‘We should move.’ He lifts his head, deliberately avoiding the question.

  I stand up and hold my hand out again, and this time he lets me haul him to his feet. The bench happens to be situated under a lamppost with a sprig of mistletoe hanging from it, and he leans forward and presses his lips to my cheek again. Another peck that isn’t nearly long enough.

  ‘Really, Miss Maddison, we’re going to have to stop meeting like this.’ He mouths the words against my skin before kissing my cheek again and pulling away.

  ‘Decorating these lampposts was your idea. You should’ve known there’d be mistletoe involved.’

  ‘Oh, I was counting on it.’ He gives me such a cheeky wink that it makes my knees feel so weak that I’m glad we’re standing in front of a bench in case they give out. I’ve never noticed any problems with my knees before but James is having a shockingly negative impact on them.

  ‘In fact, I think we should put some mo … That’s a weird camera.’

  I follow his gaze when his sentence trails off and I see a man photographing the line of nutcrackers with what can only be described as a professional camera.

  ‘What are you up to?’ James asks nonchalantly as we approach him.

  ‘The Wiltshire Walkabout. Following up some comments we’ve been receiving online. Quite a few people talking about these little chaps on our social media accounts. Something to do with this old place closing down?’

  Even the words make a cold shiver run down my spine, but it’s instantly replaced by James’s hand as he gently but determinedly encourages me forward. ‘This is Nia Maddison, the organiser.’

  ‘We’re co-organisers,’ I say quickly.

  ‘Oh, excellent.’ The man pulls his phone out, presses a couple of buttons, and holds it up to show me the microphone symbol to indicate it’s recording audio. ‘Can you say a few lines about what’s going on here? I’m going to run this on the website because people are curious, but if it gets a good response, it’ll get a spot in the local newspaper on Monday too.’

  At first I think I’ll be nervous, but it’s so quick and informal, and James’s hand doesn’t move from the centre of my spine between my shoulder blades, his fingertips rubbing minutely against my jumper, and by the time I’ve finished talking about how wonderful Nutcracker Lane used to be and how much things have changed, the man looks like he regrets asking.

  He thanks me and hurries away, but we watch him dart into a few shops with his phone still in hand, surely to get comments from some of the other shopkeepers too.

  ‘You said you wanted someone to listen,’ James says as we head back to Starlight Rainbows. ‘Maybe wishes do come true.’

  I look up at him and he grins back at me, his brown eyes dancing with all the shades of wood.

  It’s definitely not beyond the realm of possibility.

  Chapter 13

  ‘Don’t eat that, that’s the door!’

  ‘Sorry,’ James says with his mouth full. ‘Can’t it be an open house this year? Y’know, warm and welcoming? Inviting people in via the open door?’

  ‘It’s a good job there’s still plenty of dough left.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but you put fresh-baked warm gingerbread in front of me and I can’t control myself. I’m just testing it to make sure it’s up to standard. Call me Quality Control.’

  By December 15th, to say I’m having a slight panic about all the baking I haven’t done yet would be an understatement. James has come over after work to help, officially part of his un-Grinching, although judging by the number of wishes he’s been granting lately, I’m not sure how much help he needs on that front.

  I should be telling him off for eating everything I can make as soon as it comes out of the oven, but the truth is that I love seeing him enjoy it, even if it was a vital part in the construction of the gingerbread house that was supposed to be made weeks ago.

  He eats the cut-out bit of the window. ‘This is just going to stand there for decoration. Don’t we deserve to enjoy it too? What’s the point of making something edible look so nice when you can’t actually consume it until it needs hoovering and dusting first?’

  ‘They’re made for visual enjoyment.’ I try not to laugh even though he has a point. ‘I’ll make a batch of gingerbread men for edible enjoyment before Christmas.’

  ‘Can I come and help?’

  ‘Like you’re helping with that?’ I raise an eyebrow as I carry on spooning the royal icing into a piping bag, ready to stick the pieces together.

  ‘I’m supervising!’ He nods towards the sides and roof of the gingerbread house laid out on oven trays covering the kitchen unit. ‘I’m supervising these getting cold enough to construct.’

  ‘A vital job. The whole process would fall apart without you.’

  He pops another window into his mouth and grins at me, and even though I’m trying to be annoyed, I cannot stop myself grinning back at him. He knows I’m teasing, and I’d be so embarrassed if he had even half a clue about how happy I was when he still wanted to follow through on his promise to help with the gingerbread house.

  I’ve used my grandma’s recipe for the walls and roof parts – one with less baking soda to stop it rising and less butter for a stronger, firmer gingerbread – and between us we’ve got the dough made, eaten dinner while it was chilling, and James has stood back while I’ve rolled and cut each panel to within a millimetre of its life and used every oven tray I own to get them baked. It’s the first time since we lost my grandma that I’ve used this recipe, and the first time I’ve ever attempted a gingerbread house on my own. Well, not on my own – with James. I glance over at him. He’s now eating the garden path.

  ‘You know you’re going to have to come over again sometime and help me replace all the bits you’ve eaten, don’t you?’

  His whole face brightens as a smile creeps slowly from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘Why do you think I’m doing it?’

  The oven has heated up the kitchen, but his words make me feel even more overheated. I’m sure he’s only joking, but the idea that he might not be makes butterflies start zipping around inside, and they don’t dissipate when the construction begins.

  My hair is up in a ponytail and my fringe is held back by a Mrs Claus red sequinned bow with fluffy white trim, and it’s so warm in the kitchen that this is probably the first time James has ever seen me without a Christmas jumper on. He’s wearing a grey T-shirt too, and I made him put an apron on – one that’s patterned with rows of dancing mince pies and Christmas puddings, mainly because he seems to understand the benefit of novelty Christmas clothing now, and even he had to smile as I reached up and slipped it over his head. It’s almost as adorable as the reindeer antlers I made him put on to keep his hair back while he muttered and grumbled something about dying of embarrassment if anyone saw him like this.

  The apron also means there’s not much fabric between us as I squeeze in between him and the unit and start setting all the pieces aside, wash and dry the worktop and lay down grease
proof paper to protect it from icing spills.

  He goes over to the sink to wash his hands while I start lining up pieces of gingerbread house in some sort of formation and working out where they’ll be glued together. It’s been so many years since I’ve done this and I feel rusty and out of practice, but it doesn’t matter. Gingerbread houses are never perfect – and they’d be boring if they were. Each one is individual – that’s the point.

  James comes back and instead of standing next to me like I expected, he stands halfway behind me, barely touching but close enough to feel the heat from his body. His chin is close enough that I can feel every breath against my hair, and the press of the elbow above his cast as he holds his broken arm out of the way and his right arm comes around from underneath my arm and he turns his hand over so it waves up at me. ‘Use me in any way you want.’

  All thoughts of gingerbread houses go out of my head because all I can think about doing is turning around in his kind-of embrace, wrapping my arms around his neck and snogging him senseless, and it takes a lot of willpower to concentrate on the freshly baked walls in front of me. I pick one up and pipe a line of royal icing along the bottom and stand it up on the silver cake board base. I position his hand to hold the wall until the icing sets hard enough to keep it upright, while I pipe another line of icing along two sides of the next wall and stick it alongside the first one. He holds it in place while I turn the base around and pipe another line of icing along the adjacent side, and then pick up the next wall and splodge it in, wiping up the icing that splurges out and using it to plug the gaps.

  James supports the structure while I pipe wobbly lines of icing, which probably wouldn’t be quite so wobbly if he wasn’t filling each one of my senses. His cologne is in my nose, some warming spice that would go on top of a steamy cinnamon drink, with an earthy hint of something natural like the wood of a newly sawn tree trunk.

  Every breath is in my ear or stirring the hairs on the back of my neck. His body is warm and solid behind me, and his good arm is resting on my hip where it’s underneath my arm. I’m sure it’s not the most sensible position for gingerbread house construction, but I wouldn’t want it to be any other way, and it’s definitely a good thing that both my hands are occupied because I want to reach blindly behind me and pull him closer. He’s the perfect height to stand next to because my head tucks in under his chin and his stubble brushes against my hair every time he speaks, and I’m not sure if it’s being this close to him or inhaling so much icing sugar that’s scrambling my brain.

  Somehow we get enough of a routine going that it doesn’t take long for the gingerbread house to be complete, and I stand back, my hands braced around it but not touching, ready to catch it the moment it falls apart.

  ‘Wow,’ James murmurs. ‘I had no idea how these were made.’

  ‘Well, now it’s your turn. You’re going to decorate it.’

  He bursts out laughing so hard that it makes him wince. ‘It’s not fair of you to make me laugh that much when laughing’s still so painful. You are joking, right?’

  ‘Of course not. Decorating a gingerbread house is a rite of Christmas passage.’

  ‘Yeah, but with you. You do the bits that are supposed to look nice and I’ll stick some gumdrops on or something. You don’t have time to redo it when I destroy it.’

  ‘You won’t. And I don’t have time, that’s exactly why I’m delegating. You get on with that and I’m going to make a start on the Christmas cake. You know the one that’s supposed to have been fed with brandy every week since November?’

  He looks down at the biscuit structure like it might morph into a flying reindeer and take a lap round the room at any moment, chewing his lip so hard that I want to reach up and free it from his teeth before he bites through it. ‘And you trust me not to ruin it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He smiles like the words render him physically incapable of not smiling. ‘No one in my life trusts me not to wreck anything. I am the most untrustworthy person when it comes to wrecking things.’

  ‘You’re also creative and artistic with a good eye for detail. And I think it’s been a long while since you let that side out. Christmas is the best time of year for letting your imagination run wild, so let yourself go and imagine you’re a child again and it doesn’t matter what it looks like as long as you enjoy it.’

  ‘I’ve only got one working hand!’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s your dominant hand. Squeeze the top of the bag with your right hand; all you need to do with your left is guide it. Say if it’s too much and I’ll take over.’ I twist the top of the icing bag, pick up his hand and place the filled bag into it, and he lets me curl his fingers around it in roughly the positions they should be in. ‘Use this thicker mix for the outlines and then we’ll make it up thinner for filling in or just go to town on the sweets over there.’ I nod towards the tray of various sweets and chocolates I bought last week for this sole purpose.

  I decide not to overthink it or let him talk himself out of it and I go across and start filling the sink with the empty bowls we’ve used so far and wash up the ones I’ll need for the Christmas cake, trying not to watch James as he stands in silence pondering the gingerbread house, turning the base occasionally, looking like an artist contemplating his next art exhibition.

  I set out the mixing bowls I need on the other side of the kitchen unit with the sink in between us. ‘Before you start covering things, can I scribble down an inventory of what we still need to make?’ I grab my notebook and pencil and go over to him. ‘Another door, that bit of the chimney that broke, and the outside stuff. Another path, a couple of bushes, and some Christmas trees.’ I write them down as I say them. ‘Oh, and we need a gingerbread man and woman to stand outside, inviting guests into their open door.’ I give him a pointed look but I can’t stop myself smiling. I don’t think I’ve ever smiled as much as I have in the past few weeks.

  ‘Oh, yeah, because that’s realistic. A happy couple, even made of gingerbread, is laughable.’

  ‘It’s Christmas. We’re supposed to believe in the impossible.’

  He looks up and meets my eyes, and for just a moment, I see something in them. Understanding. Hurt. A pain that for once isn’t caused by his physical injuries.

  His gaze flickers and he looks away. ‘Can we have her bit-on-the-side hiding round the back and the husband holding gingerbread divorce papers in his hand?’

  I’m not sure whether to laugh or not, but he speaks again before I have a chance to figure it out. ‘Sorry, that was cynical even for me.’

  ‘I’m kind of … adapting … to your cynicism.’

  He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes, and I want to question him, but I force myself to go back to my side of the sink. I start getting Christmas cake ingredients out of the cupboards, filling the unit with packets of dried fruit and nuts and spice bottles, but by the time I’ve measured out the wrong amount of brown sugar and used the wrong kind of flour, I realise it’s because he’s all I can think about. I risk a glance at him and he’s concentrating intensely on piping lines of royal icing onto the gingerbread roof. ‘What happened?’

  ‘What?’ He doesn’t look up although I’m certain he knows what I mean because his lines on the roof are so neat that I couldn’t possibly be talking about the icing.

  ‘Even you couldn’t reach that level of cynicism without being hurt somewhere in the past. Whoever did a number on you before … what happened?’ I wonder if I’m being too pushy. It’s easy to forget that I’ve only know him for two weeks. We’re friends, yeah, but are we close friends? Close enough that I have any right to pry into his past when he doesn’t look like he wants to talk about it?

  ‘I was cheated on,’ he says eventually.

  I carry on weighing out the dry ingredients one after another, moving from the dried fruit and mixed peel to the almonds, deliberately not saying anything because he looks like he’s struggling to find the right words.

  ‘I was in
a long-term relationship, seven years, not married but living together. She wanted to have her cake and eat it too. She didn’t want to disrupt the apparently happy life we had and thought she was doing me a favour by sleeping with someone else rather than ending things with me. She genuinely didn’t grasp that she was doing anything wrong. She honestly said, “I thought you’d be happy because I was getting what I needed without bothering you.”’

  ‘Wow.’ My nails make dents in my palms as I try to stop myself going over to hug him. ‘Are there really people who think like that?’

  ‘Apparently so.’

  ‘And since then?’

  He shakes his head. ‘What’s the point? I mean, what is the point in relationships if even when you think you’re happy, your other half’s off having an affair with her married colleague, who was also apparently doing it for some sort of payback on his own wife because he suspected she was cheating on him in some never-ending cycle of revenge shagging.’

  As usual, his way of putting things makes me snort and I have to cover it quickly.

  ‘She blamed me entirely,’ he carries on. ‘And don’t get me wrong, I know I settled into the relationship and got a bit too comfortable and worked too much, but to be told it’s your own fault for making the person you loved sleep with someone else once a fortnight when they regularly as clockwork “travelled for work”, and then to be bought books on how to be a better partner and told I was too much hard work and the ruined relationship was my fault for finding the text messages … It just took the biscuit.’

  ‘Oh, James, I’m sorry.’ Do not go and hug him. I repeat the words in my head. Do not go and hug him. He seems uncomfortable talking about it, but I’m not ready for him to stop yet. ‘You found messages?’

  ‘He phoned the house by mistake. I answered, he covered it well and I didn’t think anything of it, quite normal for a colleague to phone another colleague especially when they worked so closely and “travelled for work” so often. She was always on her mobile and was ridiculously protective of it, and in the scramble to get the house phone off me, she’d left it unlocked on the sofa. I wasn’t going to look or anything, I was working on my laptop, and as I was sitting there, a text message from him flashed up on the screen with a string of swearwords and “I didn’t mean James to answer. That was close!” I couldn’t ignore that.