by Annie O'Neil
Anyway. I’m rambling. Feel free to delete, ignore, totally eradicate this from your mind. I’ll get another card to him. I’d hand-deliver it, but for my sins, am serving mini-cranberry and Stilton tarts and baby blinis straight through to Christmas Eve. Among other things. They aren’t the only things I can cook. Strewth. I really am rambling. You have my full permission to delete immediately.
Yours etc. etc.
Will Winters
8 December
8 December
07:43
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: Your Christmas Card
Dear Will
Phew! So relieved.
Delete delete delete
Dear Will –
I did delete your message and then I undeleted it. LOL
Delete delete delete
Dear Will,
I’m so happy to have heard from you. There’s something about your grandfather that makes me want to bring a smile to his grumpy old face. Which, I’m guessing, is a bit wrinklier than your face and possibly your father’s?
Delete delete delete
Your computer will turn off in 60 seconds unless …
*
‘What on God’s green earth are you doing?’
Jess screamed and dropped her trowel.
Mr Winters stormed down his porch, in so far as his knees would allow him, and lurched to a halt, looming over the patch of rather beautifully tilled earth in front of his house where Jess was kneeling. ‘I repeat. What exactly do you think you’re doing?’
‘Planting tulip bulbs?’ She held up a net bag full of bulbs. It turned out planting tulip bulbs in December during a cold snap wasn’t the zippiest of jobs. Her plans had been to whizz in, dig a few holes, stuff the bulbs in, then run back home and wait until spring for the magic to happen. ‘I was hoping it would be a nice surprise,’ she tacked on because, obviously, there were evil tulip-bulb planters out there.
Mr Winters glowered at her, which weirdly made her want to giggle. Glowering was something that usually happened in the middle-grade books she assigned her students. It was one of those words she always had to demonstrate to define. The children would always laugh at her grumpy face which was why, she supposed, she had a Pavlovian response to someone doing it to her.
‘You think it’s funny do you? Trespassing in someone’s garden? Putting bulbs in the ground when you’ve been given no permission whatsoever to touch what wasn’t yours?’
‘No.’ She really didn’t. Especially now that he’d put it that way.
His cat appeared out of nowhere and gave her a haughty look as if doubling down on the disdain the pair of them clearly shared for her.
If central nervous systems could get the shakes, hers was getting a bad case of them. ‘I’m really sorry.’
She pushed herself up, not even bothering to swipe at the frozen granules of earth stuck to her knees. She took a step back, feeling too close to the anger radiating from Mr Winters. The back of her knees hit the hedge, causing her to lose her balance. Rather than lurch forward into Mr Winters she did a weird step, trip and fall manoeuvre that landed her in a rather impressive backbend over the picket fence.
‘Umm …’ She said in a high-pitched voice. ‘I’m a little bit stuck here.’
‘Well, what do you want me to do about it?’ Mr Winters groused out of sight. All she could see was the upside-down view of someone taking out their recycling bin, glancing down their way, then scuttling back into their house.
So much for love thy neighbour.
‘Help me?’ If she let herself go she would collapse into his hedge and, very likely, cause more damage than she already had. Not an option. If she had done any of Drea’s Bondi Beach Body videos she’d have some core body strength with which to pull herself back up to standing. Which she hadn’t. So, that idea was a non-starter. If she was a former member of Cirque du Soleil she’d be able to do a nifty walkover, stand up smiling on the other side of the fence, offer him a bow of apology then run home as fast as she could and never show her face at this end of Christmas Street ever again. Damn her parents for being nice enough for her not to want to run away to the circus as a child!
‘C’mon then, lass.’
A large wrinkly hand appeared in front of her face. As doddery as he was on his knees, Mr Winters wasn’t exactly a frail old man, so Jess braced one hand firmly on the ground then accepted the proffered one with another. Trying to take as much of her own weight as she could, she managed a very ungainly return to being vertical and found herself awfully close to Mr Winters. Nose-to-nose close. From this angle, he wasn’t nearly as scary. Maybe it was because, for this nanosecond in time, he looked genuinely concerned.
His eyes were really lovely. So blue! They looked young. And annoyed. Apparently the nanosecond of compassion was over.
He backed up as she was still wedged against the hedge. She squatted down and began to collect up the netted bags of bulbs and her trowel (an opulently floral-patterned tool that came from the genre of gardening tools that looked as though they shouldn’t actually ever be dirty, but Amanda had given it to her as a way to ‘ease into country life’ so she’d kept it). ‘Sorry. I thought I was helping, but I clearly over-reached.’
‘Helping? Spying more like.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, I know what you’re all saying. That I tried to run the lot of you down the other night.’
She tried not to squirm. Some people were saying that. But just as many weren’t.
‘Not at all,’ she insisted as solidly as she could. ‘I told them you’d been surprised by everyone being in the street and that your foot must’ve slipped but that there was no way you would’ve intentionally hurt anyone.’ Well. Drea had. She’d just stood there. But she’d been close to Drea when she’d said it. Had she nodded? She hoped she’d nodded.
He grunted.
She almost grunted back. Not a very nice thank you for standing next to the person who’d defended his honour. Whatever. Fine.
She began pawing at the earth where she was pretty sure she’d planted a bulb.
‘I thought I told you to stop that nonsense!’
She gave him what she hoped was an enough-already look. ‘I’m getting the bulbs out, aren’t I?’
Mercifully, she found the bulb and showed it to him.
His frown deepened. ‘You planted it upside down.’
‘What? No.’ She looked at the bulb. ‘How do you even know?’
He reached out and took the bulb from her. Pointing at the fat flat-bottomed end he said, ‘The roots come out here, the stem comes out here.’
‘Oh.’ She should know that sort of thing. ‘My bad.’
‘I don’t know what that means,’ he retorted with a supercilious air.
She shot him a glare then began pawing away at the earth, fingernails ripping to shreds, intent on digging out the other three erroneously planted tulip bulbs. ‘It means, I was trying to help. I was trying to do a nice thing. Trying to be neighbourly.’ She gave herself a slightly too-hard punch in the chest then jabbed her trowel in his direction. ‘Unlike you, who don’t seem to want any neighbours anywhere near you. But maybe that’s why you live in this big old house at the end of the street so you can glare at everyone and send them packing before they even attempt to do something kind!’
She stood up with a proper harrumph and glared at him.
He glared back and snarled, ‘I could teach you how, if you like.’
‘Teach me what?’ she asked, hoping her tone made it crystal clear she didn’t want to be taught anything. Least of all by this living breathing pile of stroppiness.
‘To plant tulip bulbs. Properly.’ His eyes were glued to hers and she could see little huffs of breath coming out of
his nose like a moose preparing to go into battle. Or perhaps a reindeer, given the season.
‘That would be nice,’ she snapped back.
His eyes dropped to her hand. ‘That’s a ridiculous trowel.’
‘My trowel was gift. From a friend. A friend who was trying to do something nice,’ Jess ground out realising, as she did, that this whole sparring thing was actually rather fun. And, as Mr Winters had yet to depart, perhaps he was enjoying it, too.
His eyes flashed with something she couldn’t put her finger on. ‘Your friend could do with a lesson in pragmatism.’
Jess’s mood took another turn. He could insult her all he wanted. She was, after all, trespassing on his property and planting upside-down tulip bulbs into his beautifully prepared flower bed. But trash-talk the one friend who’d all but moved her into her flat and let her ugly cry whenever she’d wanted for the entire two weeks she’d been suspended from St Benny’s? No way, pal. This time, he’d crossed a line.
In a voice she barely recognised she said, ‘My friend lives in a London flat with no garden, subsequently making it impractical to own a trowel, so I’m going to give her kudos for even knowing what one is.’
Ha. There. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr Arnold Winters.
He narrowed his gaze, chin tilted up so that he was literally looking down his nose at her then turned and walked round the side of the house.
Well, this was awkward.
She stood there swinging her arms round her like a scarecrow caught in a cross wind. What was one to do in this scenario? Take the opportunity to flee and pretend this never happened? Or stick around to see if he really meant it about teaching her how to plant bulbs.
She tried to imagine how she would feel if she woke up to discover someone rooting around in her flower garden. Which, when she put it that way, sounded really invasive.
Okay. Fair enough. He had a right to be cross. She’d give it five minutes. Five minutes of looking like a div in Mr Winters’ garden. Then, at least, she’d have something to report back to Will when she finally got her act together and wrote to him. It was why she’d come down in the first place. She’d tried to write him the perfect ‘yes, please stay in touch’ email that subtly but not too intrusively gave her an in for finding out the mystery behind the falling out between Mr Winters and his son. Not that it was any of her business, but he was her neighbour and he seemed more sad than unkind, particularly when you caught him off guard as she had. Or maybe she was just trying to right a wrong that was completely out of her control just to prove to herself she had the power to do something good.
‘Here.’
Mr Winters was back. He handed her a huge pair of gardening gloves. ‘For the cold.’
‘Oh. Thank you.’
He grunted.
She put them on, gave them a clap. He pointed at the patch and she knelt down again.
They’d clearly used up all of their words in their narky exchange. Fair enough. She wasn’t feeling all that chatty either. There was also the lurking danger she’d give away the fact she knew about Will. If this was actually a truce, it’d be a shame to ruin it straight away. She was pretty sure once he found out she’d read his mail tensions would flare up again, but maybe by then they would’ve established a friendship and he’d forgive her.
Maybe.
Once he’d ascertained and approved of her colour scheme (dark purples, rich pinks and a smattering of ivories) he taught her how to throw them out so they would grow in natural-looking droves rather than look as if they were lined up at a horse guards parade (his words, not hers). He spoke in a soft Yorkshire accent (now that he wasn’t so busy being gruff) and kept disappearing behind his house and returning with all sorts of different gadgets. He had not one, but two different types of bulb planters (standing and hand-held). He had a dibbler. Which was difficult not to giggle over, but proved very effective once she finally got the ‘in, left, right’ wriggle manoeuvre down to Mr Winters’ satisfaction.
‘You certainly know a lot about planting bulbs,’ she said.
‘Always keep your brain ticking over with something new,’ he countered, tapping the side of his head with a gloved hand. ‘Once that stops, you’ll know you’re ready to meet your maker.’
As a teacher she couldn’t really argue, although … try telling that to the Head Teacher at St Benny’s. A woman so mired in tradition it was a wonder she didn’t reek of mothballs. On the plus side, it was good to know Mr Winters wasn’t ready to shuffle off his mortal coil. Sure, he was a bit scratchy on the outside, but something told her that if you hung around for a while and weren’t into hugging, there was a loyal, kind man buried somewhere in there.
Once they’d got all of the bulbs in – which, done properly, took about an hour – she was feeling warm, satisfied and just a little bit smug because they’d actually spent a companionable period of time together. It would be nice to report back to Will that his grandfather was both a good teacher and gruffly delightful.
‘Oof!’ She said, giving her brow a fake swipe. ‘I could do with a big mug of hot chocolate about now.’
Mr Winters’ less-than-charming demeanour flickered back to life. ‘I’ve not got anything like that in the house.’
She swotted at the air between them and once again stood up, this time wiping her knees clean and picking up the empty net bags that had held the bulbs. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t impose myself on you any longer than necessary.’
Something briefly shadowed his features that looked an awful lot like disappointment.
Her heart crumpled in on itself. She opened her mouth, about to say she’d happily impose herself on him anytime he liked, when the loud squeal of an electric guitar streaked through the air.
Number 21.
Tyler. Had to be.
His features reassembled themselves into the short-tempered sourpuss she’d first met. Speaking of which … she looked round and saw Mr Winters’ cat preening itself on the porch.
‘What’s her name?’ she asked, trying to put a bit of their fragile comradery back on the table.
‘His,’ Mr Winters corrected. ‘Mr Perkins.’
‘That’s an unusual name.’ Jess waited for an explanation.
With a shake of the head, he muttered something along the lines of keeping her eye out in the spring. She should be expecting returns on her work late March or early April, weather depending, and then, tools in hand, he disappeared round the back of the house with an air of finality.
Now it was her turn to feel disappointed. Though the morning had begun with a fight – well, a bickering session – it had been strangely satisfying. It was how she used to feel as a teenager when her parents would plead with her to clean her messy room. She’d always stropped off and then, sulkily, complied with their wishes, only to prance down the stairs a few hours later desperate to show off her new ‘show room’. She snorted. Little wonder she’d ended up with an estate agent.
It struck her how little she thought of Martin and the life they’d once sort of kind of shared. Perhaps the relationship had been as superficial as the show flat they’d lived in. Looked great, but none of it had been made to last.
She left Mr Winters’ garden, careful to close the white picket fence behind her. Not quite ready to go home, she decided to walk the entire loop of the street. Up the far side across from hers then back down to her lovely red door, behind which she knew three sets of pastel highlighters were waiting to be matched to their perfect adjectives alongside a whole heap of other office supplies. And, of course, there was the unfinished email to Will.
It was interesting going up the street knowing she’d be getting more than a glimpse into her neighbours’ lives over the coming days. Much like the homemade advent calendars her parents used to put together for her, the Christmas Street residents had been far more generous and thoughtful than anyone at the high-tech
high-rise where she used to live.
And, of course, there were the unexpected dividends to showing up, standing on the edge of the crowd and feeling a bit of a berk. Already, she was fairly certain she’d found a friend in Drea. The Gem’n’Emms were nice, even if she still felt a bit wary round them as their small children would all be trooping through her classroom one day (if she didn’t bottle it and book a ticket to join her parents in the tropics and teach coconut-shell art). Kev the mechanic was handy to know as she was driving her mother’s hand-me-down car, given to her with a warning that its lifespan might not be all that long if it wasn’t properly looked after. Rex and Kai were totally fabulous. She was outside their house right now and it looked beautiful. Surprise, surprise. It was one of the few detached houses on the street. It was situated a bit further back than some of the other homes, giving it a larger front garden than most. As lovers of plants and beauty, she supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised they’d opted for more garden over a driveway as a few of the other homes had (apart from the Hippies, obvs). They had put a huge, thick swag of evergreen all round their front door woven with tiny little fairy lights. The maroon door had a beautiful swag of winterberry branches tied off with a velvet ribbon in a deep forest green. In the centre of their garden was a beautifully swirled boxwood hedge that had a gorgeous whorl of cherry-sized lights twirling round it.
Further up the street, the guitar music blasted even louder. The triple-glazing the previous tenants of her house had put in must work wonders if the music had been blaring like this every day. She hoped Mrs Snodgrass had hearing aids she could turn off at these moments.
When Jess reached number 21, she glanced through the window to see Mrs Snodgrass marching into her lounge with an upside-down broom in her hand and a look like thunder on her face. She gave the ceiling a few solid thumps.