The Christmas Calendar Girls

by Samantha Tonge

  All that guff about not being ready for a relationship – it must have been a cover.

  Had he thought I’d be a better kisser? Or was the closeness just his way of trying to make me feel better after my fall?

  I winced, feeling like an embarrassed, inexperienced teenager.

  My knees buckled. I jolted forwards. I’d tripped and gone flying. Layers of jumper and coat cushioned my fall. The grass smelt fresh with frosty evening dew. Strong arms lifted me up. A large stone, on the ground, peered back at me. I pulled away.

  ‘Falling over again?’ he asked.

  Inwardly I cringed. Me falling? Him picking me up? What a rom-com cliché.

  That kiss had removed the comfortable feeling that had grown between us during those first few months of our friendship, when his confidence was growing and I’d tipped him off about the job at Birchwood Primary. Earlier this year the previous caretaker, Jim, had announced he was taking time out. He’d worked at the school for twenty years and wanted to take his skills abroad and help build classrooms in developing countries, whilst he was still relatively young and fit. The Head had agreed to keep the job open for him, if she could find a temporary replacement. Kit had picked up a lot of relevant skills from his cleaner mum and handyman dad. Plus during his party planning career had often had to manage teams of staff, like Jim did with the cleaners. The Head liked Kit and felt he deserved a chance. She gave him the job that would finish at the end of next spring.

  I felt disloyal for not telling my friends more about Kit. They knew I’d met him through writing a piece on local unemployment – I’d kept it vague. And they were aware that I’d mentioned the caretaking position to him; that we got on well and were friends and met up now and again. They saw us chatting in the playground. They also knew that we’d known each other for months and our relationship hadn’t changed. That he wasn’t my type. That we simply enjoyed meeting for a drink or bowling and cinema trips now and again, depending on Lily’s schedule. Indeed, until recently all of that had been true.

  And I hadn’t told Lily much about my friendship with him; I’d played it down. I didn’t want to confuse her. Not after Adam.

  As for my best friends, us three women shared so much but now I knew I’d been right not to tell them about recent developments and the ice rink evening. I mean, he’d kissed me but apparently had a girlfriend?

  I didn’t want to believe it. I knew Kit. He wasn’t a liar. That’s another thing that had attracted me in the beginning. His imposing physical stature contradicted a modest air – a man who made no attempt to impress. A man with no ego.

  So who was this super sporty woman, I wondered, immediately telling myself to mind my own business. Kit had his own life and didn’t owe me an explanation about every person he hung out with.

  But I couldn’t help wondering, when he’d said Lily and I could do better – was it just a way of letting me down gently?

  One way or another, he was hiding something.

  A jumble of thoughts lay scattered inside my mind like spent fireworks lying on the ground.

  ‘You okay now? After the ice rink,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to say… I still hope… You haven’t texted so I didn’t like to… Does that mean—’

  ‘Mr Carlton!’ A boy ran up, followed by his father. ‘I’ve lost my gloves. Dad says you might have a torch.’

  Glad to avoid Kit’s question, I hurried after Lily.

  12

  It was one week later, a Saturday night. I’d invited Davina and Cara around for us to have a brainstorming meeting about how the calendar preparations were going. I was spending more time than ever in the Facebook group, each night, taking details such as people’s ideas for displays so that none doubled up. I couldn’t stop yawning this morning and just kept telling myself it would be worth it.

  Two of the parents were Ian and Tim: two dads who were neighbours. They were known on the estate for competing with each other about who could produce the most perfect lawn, for example. Last year Tim made a big show of laying AstroTurf to achieve the best height and colour all year around. So this year Ian pulled out all the stops with his summer hanging baskets. They were twice the size of Tim’s and contained trailing ivy and fairy lights. Their wives thought it was funny. Their teenage kids said it was embarrassing. And as far as I could see the Christmas calendar was bringing out the worst in them. Both had rung me confidentially to try to find out what the other was doing.

  I should have found it funny but I didn’t want any bad feeling on their nights. It was just another thing to worry about. Like the resident who rang me to complain and said the whole calendar idea was disruptive. She’d moved to Birchwood Estate because it was quiet.

  ‘You should have consulted every single homeowner on the estate, before going ahead,’ she’d snapped.

  So tonight was also an excuse to share wine and iron out any problems. Max had returned from an afternoon of golf with building mates and John had been at work again, but was back now and playing board games with Audrey and the girls. That was one of the many great things about us all living on the same estate – we could enjoy a couple of bottles between us without worrying about having to drive home.

  Not that I ever had more than one or two glasses. Not since drinking too much after Adam died. During the last three years, to get through the tough times, I’d learnt to rely on myself and not anyone – nor anything – else.

  Although Davina and Cara – and Kit – had been great. Especially on each anniversary of Adam’s death. Last year, as usual, Lily and I visited the pretty crematorium flower bed where his ashes had been scattered. He’d died in the month of August and the flower beds always boasted the most glorious cheerful sunflower heads then. Lily took the book of advice that she’d just started reading on her own and chatted to Adam. Told him he was right about boys being stinky but wrong about suggesting she might like them one day. Then once she was in bed that evening Davina and Cara had come around. We hadn’t talked much about Adam, just ordered pizza and played Scrabble. Just their company made things so much better.

  This year Davina had caught a stomach bug and John was away on business so Cara couldn’t come around. Lily and I visited the crematorium and later skyped Adam’s parents. They didn’t stay on long. When Lily went to bed I caught up on work, writing up an article. I couldn’t remember what it was about. But I could remember Kit texting and suggesting he called by. He turned up with the ingredients for a cheese soufflé, keen to show me his new cooking skills. He knew what the date was. Absent-mindedly I’d mentioned to him that I’d be spending the evening on my own. He didn’t mention Adam but when he got here, he gave me a longer hug than usual. I’d carried on working whilst he made dinner. The soufflé actually rose. He was so excited I couldn’t help laughing.

  I looked at my watch. Almost seven. Lily had gone to bed a little earlier than usual, exhausted after playing in her football team this morning, followed by a walk in Alderston park this afternoon. The ducks were grateful for the crusts we threw onto the half-frozen lake – Lily had point blank refused to eat them since a well-meaning midday supervisor told her they would make her hair curl even more. The trip out gave me an idea for my column. We got chatting to a volunteer clearing litter from the lakes’ banks. Apparently the park’s budget was tighter than ever and they were now desperate for new helpers to run the nature walks and adopt flower plots. They wanted to do a special call-out to active pensioners.

  I turned up the heating. On such evenings, talented Cara would treat us to a batch of her amazing homemade Stilton and Cheddar cheese straws. I’d bought fruit and lemonade just in case Davina was on one of her health kicks that meant she only allowed herself to consume grapes in their solid form.

  I gazed around the modest lounge. Its layout was similar to Cara’s. Lily had helped me paint the buttercream walls last Easter and together we’d chosen the sage green sofa and chairs. The suite from our old London home had become threadbare. Adam and I had bought it shortly
after getting married. It was a practical burgundy colour that wouldn’t show stains as we knew that, after a day of chasing stories, all we’d want to do each night was laze on the sofa together, eating takeaway.

  I gazed at the oak shelves full of books and magazines strewn across the nest of tables. The scented candles, pens and inspirational notebooks. I liked clutter. It made me feel safe; made me feel as if I belonged. It had made life feel full during those empty times after Adam’s death. And it kept him in Lily’s life. Unlike the furniture, small mementoes could be kept forever. Like the framed photo of him in the pool with her, on holiday. And the watch of his that Lily had always loved because it told the time in different countries.

  I’d dusted and vacuumed and made Lily tidy up her pile of comics but to me a true home looked lived in. I went to the dining room table at back of the lounge and drew heavy curtains across the patio doors. I reached into the cabinet by the wall and took out three glasses. The snacks were already on the table.

  A gentle tap sounded at the front door. Davina and Cara stood under the porch with ruddy complexions, icy white breath blowing across tightly tied scarves.

  ‘Come on in,’ I said in a bright tone. They both slipped off their shoes and hung their coats on the stand by the door. For once Davina was dressed casually, in a dusty pink tracksuit. Cara wore her daily uniform of top and jeans, except the jumper was more tailored with silver sequins around the neck. Her trousers were baggy at the back. Had she lost weight?

  Davina gave me a hug. ‘Can you believe some people have already got their outside Christmas lights up?’

  I shrugged. ‘Well, the shops filled with festive fare as soon as Halloween passed.’

  ‘I like it,’ said Cara. ‘Fairy lights are so pretty. I’d have ours up all year around if I could persuade John.’

  Davina gave me a sharp look. ‘You okay, Fern? Your eyes look red. You haven’t caught this cold that’s been doing the rounds have you?’

  ‘No. It’s probably eye strain. I’ve had a lot of work on this week.’

  What else could it be? Grown up women didn’t cry over unrequited love. Not that it was actually that. What a ridiculous thought.

  Pushing away thoughts of Kit, as I had done all week, I took a bottle of wine from each of them to put in the fridge. ‘Let’s sit at the table and go through the checklist for next week. Then we can chill out on the sofa. Otherwise I know what we’re like. The evening will be spent discussing the latest amazing box set or series on Netflix. And that’s before we even get onto the school’s new Year Five teacher.’

  ‘Audrey thinks he looks like a young Rock Hudson,’ said Cara. ‘She kept me company today whilst I did some cooking.’

  ‘Who?’ Davina and I chorused.

  ‘Apparently he was the Brad Pitt of his day.’ She sat down at the end of the table. Davina and I sat opposite each other, next to her. I fetched wine and filled the three glasses.

  ‘So, this cooking, Cara…’ I said innocently.

  Davina grinned.

  ‘Sorry, no cheese straws tonight,’ said Cara and she frowned. ‘Somehow I put the sugar and salt in the wrong storage jars. I had to bin them. They tasted foul. Same with the carob cupcakes I made for the girls. Audrey went out to the shop and bought a swiss roll instead. The girls didn’t seem to mind but I do. And it’s such a waste of ingredients.’

  ‘This isn’t like you,’ said Davina.

  ‘I know. And I forgot all about Lex having ballet last night and we turned up fifteen minutes late. I haven’t been sleeping well lately. Perhaps it’s just that.’ She shrugged. ‘So, is everything going according to plan, Fern? I can’t wait for my turn to host the calendar. My two are really excited. We’ve almost finished making our display.’

  ‘What’s the theme?’ I asked.

  Her face brightened up and she put a finger to her lips. ‘It’s more than my life is worth to share. Hannah insists it should remain top secret.’

  I smiled. Davina had already taken out a sheaf of papers from her handbag and spread them across the table. Cara took out a notepad. I scrolled down the residents’ Facebook page on my laptop. ‘I’ve messaged all participants privately, just to touch base, and they’ve come up with some amazing plans. A few doubled up but I’ve managed to persuade some to change their mind and come up with something else. Kev and Bill over the way—’

  ‘The retired couple?’ asked Cara, looking up from her notes.

  ‘Yes. The golf club they both belong to is sponsoring their night. And Susie on Oak Avenue—’

  Both their brows knotted.

  ‘Dylan’s mum, Year Four.’

  They nodded.

  ‘The bakery she works for is going to donate cakes.’

  ‘And remember my neighbour?’ said Davina. ‘He doesn’t want to host but has had a positive response from some of the wholesalers who supply his pub. They’ve agreed to supply me with red wine and anything else I need, at a ridiculously low price, if on the back of our map we list their contact details and mention a couple of the festive deals they are running. And I’m currently in talks with other alcohol retailers on behalf of several participants.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ I said. ‘Bring on the mulled wine! Everyone’s enthusiasm has been great. As I’m running the first night, I’ve decided to set a precedent for those hosts worried about costs. I’m just going to provide coffee and squash. I don’t want people to feel they have to fork out on fancy soft drinks or booze if they can’t afford to. And I’m making chocolate fairy cakes with marzipan Christmas trees on top but also buying biscuits from the pound shop. I need other parents to realise it’s okay if they haven’t got the time or skills for home baking. Otherwise, if we’re not careful this could get as competitive as the painted Easter egg competition and no one wants that. It’s supposed to be fun and about spending time together, all of us on a level pegging.’

  ‘I’ve been speaking to the children’s friends,’ said Cara, looking more like her old self. ‘I’ve listed what they want from the calendar – because if they are enjoying it then their parents are more likely to come along every night.’

  ‘Great thinking,’ said Davina.

  ‘They are hoping that pocket money priced snacks will be available as well because some of them say their parents don’t buy them chocolates and sweets and insist if they want those things they must come out of their own money.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll post that in the group,’ I said. ‘To make sure there are lower-priced food items.’

  ‘Yes. It will be a good way of giving the parents the heads-up and they can express their disapproval of that idea if that’s how they feel,’ said Cara.

  ‘We could also offer more expensive snacks that are healthy and therefore attract the parent pound,’ said Davina. ‘Like carrot cupcakes, for example. Or banana fibre bars with fun decorations on top. That might be a good compromise.’

  We brainstormed for about an hour, researching and discussing, eventually coming up with a list of online and local shops that sold cheap craft and baking products. We decided we’d not price the drinks and snacks – apart from the pocket money ones, if they got the go-ahead. Instead we’d ask for donations. Hopefully that way we’d make more money.

  ‘I think we’ve thought of everything,’ said Davina and put down her pen. ‘It’s going to be great.’

  I hoped she was right. A lot was riding on this. If we failed to raise enough money, young families would face a miserable New Year and homeless people would go hungry. Last night, in bed, I couldn’t help making a mental list of people who’d be disappointed. I bit on the end of my biro. Ron was at the top. He was counting on us. Counting on me.

  ‘I can’t wait for Christmas,’ continued Davina. ‘This year we’re going to have goose for a change and I’ve just booked a pantomime.’

  ‘Adam and I went to see Aladdin one Christmas. He said he didn’t need a magic genie. With me he’d got everything he needed.’

  ‘He was romantic, then,’
said Cara.

  ‘He had his moments.’ I smiled. ‘He’d write me little love poems on Post-it notes and leave them under my pillow or in my handbag. I’ve kept them all. The writing was exquisite. I reckon one day he could have written a novel…’

  ‘Then he was the total opposite of Max,’ said Davina and grinned. ‘His idea of a love poem is reading out the takeaway menu.’

  ‘Sounds good to me!’ I couldn’t help laughing.

  ‘John is sweet when he’s not working so hard,’ said Cara. ‘One Sunday he brought me breakfast in bed and had cut the toast into small hearts and spread on red jam.’ She got lost in thought for a few moments before sitting more upright. ‘So, are people happy to take part in the living calendar at weekends?’ Her voice was more monotonous again. She’d hardly touched her wine. ‘I haven’t been onto Facebook much lately but I’m doing what I can, answering people’s queries in the playground.’

  I exchanged looks with Davina. We’d both noticed. Cara had been missed. All year round she was a valuable member of the group, warning everyone if roads were closed, if she’d heard of a local burglary or to share special offers she’d discovered running at local businesses. Her nails caught my attention. Normally they were covered in clear gloss but they were dull and shorter than usual, the edges uneven as if they’d been bitten.

  ‘Yes. Six o’clock, like during the week, seems to be a good time. It gives everyone the chance to have a full day out and doesn’t intrude on the evening.

  Davina talked about her shift at the food bank yesterday and how, with the harsher weather, the number of service users had swelled. We sat and discussed the health and safety aspects Kit had made me think about. If it was icy or snowing we’d make sure the pavement outside the relevant house was well gritted. And as Kit suggested, a couple of parents would be asked to keep an eye on any passing traffic.

  Cara said nothing but looked at her watch a couple of times as if she wanted to go home – or didn’t.

  ‘The calendar is really coming together.’ I passed around the crisp bowl and lobbed a couple of Pringles into my mouth. Our glasses clinked.