by Annie O'Neil
The music abruptly stopped and she heard a shouted, ‘Sorry, Martha!’ A minute later it started up again at a lower volume.
Jess gave a little shudder on behalf of Mrs Snodgrass. Poor woman. She must really need the money to keep him round. It made her realise how truly fortunate she was to have had her life collapse into a million pieces in front of parents able to help her pour the foundation for a new one. The deposit had been a godsend. She made a little note to try and ring them again. Island time was clearly getting the better of the pair of them as they kept missing one another.
She should also, she supposed, get in touch with Amanda. She’d leapt to her friend’s defence so quickly this morning because she was actually feeling guilty. Amanda kept leaving her WhatsApp voice messages with increasingly pleading messages to ring her. She had news, apparently. News Jess was sure she didn’t want to hear if it couldn’t be relayed in a text. It would either be about Martin (who lived near-ish Amanda and attended a weekly quiz night at the same pub albeit, with different teams) or St Benny’s. Even thinking about either of them made her skin all clammy. So calling up a friend from her old life to hear about the two boys (one little, one not so little) who’d sent her running for the hills? Nah. She could give that a miss. She’d send her a WhatsApp today. Say she’d been really busy with the street advent-calendar thing and the copywriting work. Which was a little bit true. She was hardly going to tell her she’d also been busy emptying multiple tubs of ice cream while staring at her sparsely decorated house wondering if it would ever feel like home. She may have sunk low. But not that low. Yet.
8 December
21:19
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: Your Christmas Card
Dear Will,
Thank you for your email about my email. I am so relieved I didn’t upset you by the accidental opening and reading (*cringe!*) of your Christmas card. Nice charity, by the way. Do you always support Scottish wildlife or was it just a lucky dip on the cool cards front?
Anyhow, just wanted to let you know that through a weird set of circumstances I ended up spending my morning learning the fine art of tulip-bulb planting from your grandfather. The man knows his way round a dibbler!
I hope your next card gets delivered and rest assured I am triple-checking every envelope before I open it now, so if it arrives here again, it will stay firmly closed!
Now that you’ve made me hungry for mini-blinis and miniature Stilton and cranberry tarts (it was cranberry, right?), I might have to take a little trip to M&S to get myself some seasonal canapés for supper.
All the best x Jess(ica) at number 14
9 December
9 December
02:07AM
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Dear Jess(ica) at number 14,
STEP AWAY FROM THE STORE-BOUGHT CANAPÉS!!!!!
Actually, that’s not entirely fair. Some of the things out there are great and, the Scots in me must point out, a bargain. Besides, who can resist a lovely lump of cheddar skewered to some tinned pineapple? Not me. Appreciate my snobbery comes from the completely biased perspective of a trendy skinny-jeans-wearing desperado, slaving away to make his mark on the catering world with his genuine belief in the merits of local, seasonal produce. Mind you, my love of mini-Welsh rarebits on parsnip crisps doesn’t stop customers from ordering cream cheese and smoked salmon blinis, or me making them, but at least I can ensure the salmon are ethically sourced Scottish fish from family-based businesses and that the blinis are made from locally grown and ground flour.
Crumbs.
I’m preaching aren’t I? Used to drive my ex nuts. Suffice it to say I’ve learned a few valuable lessons along the way. Still learning. Always keep your brain ticking over with something new as my father says. Once that stops, you’ll know you’re ready to meet your maker.
Utterly loving the image of Grandad – Grampa? I have no idea what to call him. Sir??? – tutoring you on the ways and means of properly planting a tulip bulb. I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me to hear it, as my father is equally exacting. The apple might have rolled far away from the tree, but it sounds as though it fell close in the beginning. Or is that me grasping at straws? Speaking of straws, I’ve got about a million cheese straws to make before tomorrow’s extravaganza. It’s a Freemason’s lunch I am just a little bit scared of. Will they try to lure me into their fold or sacrifice me as an offering to whatever it is Masons believe in? Commerce, I think. D’oh! Missed a trick. I should’ve put all of the spoon dishes into mini Mason jars. Idiot.
Right. Sorry. Must shoot off. Thanks again for keeping me updated on my grandfather’s shenanigans (such as they are). I expect the tulip display will be wonderful if my own father’s green thumb is anything to go by. Oh! Speaking of which, the Scottish charity is from the island my parents are wardens of. It’s a wee isle up at the tip-top of the Orkneys where they moved after my brother and I left uni and were no longer, and I quote, ‘bleeding them dry’. They wander round making sure sheep stay on the right side of stone dykes that insist upon falling down every time the wind huffs a breath of air. They also do plant surveys and count birds. Don’t ask how. I have no idea. It’s my parents’ version of payback, I suppose. Dad worked for BP for a gazillion years but has always been a nature nut, so I suppose buying his cards is my way of offering my own pitiable payback for a nice childhood (minus the grandad, but that, as you know, is another story).
Better shoot off now, or I’m in danger of spilling my entire life story. If you have any more encounters with my grandfather/grampa/gramps, do let me know. It’s like getting clues to a Christmas present you never knew you wanted.
Best – Will
*
‘See you soon, darling!’ Jess’s mum and dad were waving at her. ‘And do keep your eye out for the Parcel Force man. He—’
‘Or she,’ her mother butted in.
‘—Santa,’ her father intoned, ‘will be bringing you something in time for Crimbo.’ They blew some kisses then said a few words she couldn’t understand so it must’ve been in Marshallese. That, or her parents had hit the coconut rum a bit early.
She turned off the app and stared at her blank laptop screen, not quite ready to write back to Will or record a message for her parents. They’d finally figured out how to send video messages via Marco Polo and had taken to doing that instead of trying to connect for actual phone calls. Generators/time zones/island life all seemed to be playing havoc with her parents’ previously predictable routines. Not that she was resentful. Having wallowed in her sorrows beneath her unicorn-and-rainbow-covered duvet in her childhood room for the past year, it was high time she learned to stand on her own two feet. Like Will Winters seemed to be doing. He was working his socks off, from the sounds of things. Maybe she should volunteer to drape some ribbons of salmon onto bits of toast—
She pulled herself up short. That would be creepy. She had interfered enough already. The fact Will was so open and seemed quite happy to share all sorts of personal details she couldn’t imagine telling a stranger was a bit weird, but … maybe, as he was working so hard and had had a bad break-up and his childhood duvet was as out of reach as hers was … maybe she was all he had until he connected with his grandfather. Poor Will. He deserved his grandfather. Just as Mr Winters deserved a grandson.
A quickfire rat-a-tat-tat sounded on the front door.
Jess yelped.
‘Open up, buttercup!’ Drea called through the mail flap.
Crikey. The woman certainly knew how to get a girl’s attention. Jess pressed her hands to her chest, trying to get her heart to slow down as the mail flap clanked back into place. Relieved not to be in her pyjamas for once, she open
ed the door with a smile and invited her in.
‘Here you are, doll.’ Drea handed her a candy-striped takeaway coffee cup that, even from a distance, sent out delicious wafts of cinnamon and nutmeg. ‘Something to give you a bit of zip so you can finally start putting some personal touches on this blank slate of yours.’
Jess looked behind her at the hallway leading to the kitchen. White walls. White doors. Beige runner carpet lining the white stairs that led to more … white. Anyone could live here. Or no one.
Which made her heart sink.
Drea was right. It was time to do something to make the house look lived in. Beyond, of course, her fabulous teal-coloured velvet sofa. That said, the thought of personalising her home still made her squirmy. As if making an interior decor statement would define who she was from now until the end of time. And the truth was, she didn’t really know who she was right now, let alone the Jess she wanted to be. Apart from confident. And happy. And a teacher.
Okay. Those were some good building blocks.
‘Hello! Earth to Jess!’
She blinked her focus back on to Drea who was waving a hand in her face. ‘What’s it going to be?’
‘What do you mean?’
Drea’s eyes went wide with disbelief that they weren’t both riding the same train of thought. ‘Tick tock, doll face. You’ve only got five days until it’s your night and from what I can gather, most of the nights are going to be relatively shit until we get to yours. It’s your chance to make a proper impression on the street.’
‘Kai and Rex won’t have a shi—’ Jess stopped herself from giving away the secret.
‘Awww, look at you not wanting to swear. You really are a primary schoolteacher aren’t you?’ Drea, not one to wait for answers, made a concessionary noise, then said, ‘Fair enough. But whatever they do will be tasteful and tasteful doesn’t always mean fun, am I right?’
‘Does every night need to be fun?’
This time Drea really did look at her as if she’d gone round the twist. ‘I am not even going to dignify that with an answer.’ She nodded at Jess’s drink. ‘Go on. Drink up then it’s confession time. Tell your Auntie Dré-Dré what you’re going to do.’
Jess laughed. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come in?’
‘Positive. I’ve got loads of paperwork screaming to be finished, but until I know what you’re doing I won’t be able to focus.’
Jess was pretty sure Drea could do whatever she put her mind to and that this was her form of dithering. She had half a mind to ask her if she’d heard from her son yet, but remembering how sad Drea had looked when she’d spoken about him before, decided to keep schtum. ‘I told you. It’s a secret.’
‘Yeah. Right.’ Drea gave a this is clearly hopeless shrug and half turned to go. ‘I’ll see you tonight, yeah? Gin at the bin? I’ll bring gin if you bring the tonic.’
‘Bin night again?’ Jess scratched her head. In London they stuffed everything into one bag and put it down a chute to a big monster bin no matter what the day of the week.
‘Brown ones today.’
‘What are those for?’
Drea fixed her with a despairing look. ‘Doll. They’re for your garden rubbish. It’s obviously not the time of year for heaps of debris, but I doubt the lot who were in before you would’ve done much of a clear out, lazy sods that they were.’ She looked at Jess, waiting for some sort of report. None was forthcoming. It was so dark most of the time and her energy hadn’t exactly been zinging off the charts … ‘Please tell me you’ve been in your garden.’
‘Errr …’
‘Oh, for the love of Pete, woman!’ Drea suddenly looked deadly serious. It was kind of scary. ‘All of that business that happened down in London? It’s over now. You’re going to have to find a way to pick yourself up and move past it. You’re the one in charge of your destiny. No one else. Moping around is not going to change what happened in the past. Doing something about the future – your future – will. You got me?’
Jess nodded, her heart too lodged in her throat to speak. Even though she hadn’t told Drea the full story, the advice still hit home.
‘Enjoy your coffee,’ Drea called out as she made her trademark exit of walking, talking and throwing a backwards wiggly-fingered wave over her shoulder.
When she’d gone, Jess slumped to the floor, her back against the closed door, and stared at her blank canvas of a hallway. It matched her blank canvas of a lounge (minus the sofa and popcorn and cranberry strands), the blank canvas of a kitchen, the bare bedrooms where, yes, her bed was still unassembled, and the tiny south-facing room nestled next to the guest room. When she’d first seen the place, she’d imagined turning it into a tiny art studio. A place to rekindle her love of doing quirky takes on classic paintings. Years of doing art with children had pulled her in other directions and, as she’d been unable to hang up anything in the flats she’d lived in with Martin, putting her own creative touch on things had slipped off the radar. Which, now that she thought of it, was a real shame. She’d loved getting lost in a painting. She was no Michelangelo, but she was a pretty good mimic. The thrill she got when she was crafting something out of a few random squirts of colour was exactly what had propelled her to become a teacher. It was exhilarating. Seeing something completely blank – like a canvas, or a corner of notebook paper – become something entirely different.
When she’d been at uni doing her art degree, she used to trawl the charity shops for gilt-edged picture frames. The real deals were insanely expensive, but as she was painting fake art, putting it in faux frames seemed rather fitting. Fruity forgeries, her father used to call them. When they’d packed up their house, her parents had offered her a couple of the paintings that had been hanging in their lounge. One was an iconic image of Henry VIII with his face replaced by the plump Labrador retriever they’d had when she was a girl. The other was a painting of the Queen in hunting clothes, looking through a pair of binoculars, only her head was replaced by a deer’s. Her parents, devoted royalists to the core, adored it and insisted the Queen would too if she were to ever see it. Jess had dithered about taking them, ultimately deciding she’d best leave her previous ambitions where they were. In the past.
Which begged the question, why had the little room held so much appeal for her? She’d not even so much as opened the door to it yet. Her parents had insisted she pack her old easel and a few other art supplies, but they remained in boxes in the small boot room in the back. Maybe …
She took a swig of her coffee. It was really good. And exactly what she’d wanted without even knowing it. How did Drea do that? How did Drea know a lot of things? Like the fact that banging on her door every morning and making her account for herself was something Jess had begun to look forward to.
You’re the one in charge of your destiny.
Drea was right. Sitting around moping was only making her more depressed. Was that what she wanted for herself? Her future students? A gloomy thirty-something has-been who’d given the best of herself to London’s most privileged students only to be sent packing?
No. She wanted to give them someone brighter, better. Someone who knew you didn’t need things to be happy. You needed … her enthusiasm wavered … what was it you needed to be happy? She looked down at the coffee cup in her hand, its spicy scent still sending tendrils of holiday spirit into the air.
You needed coffee.
You needed neighbours who cared enough to be cross with you.
She thought of her morning out in the cold with Mr Winters.
Sometimes you needed a crabby neighbour who needed to be led out of his own part of the doldrums. And a secret grandson waiting in the wings to bring even more cheer.
Right. It was action time. Destiny? Jess Green was on her way.
A proper crowd was gathering outside number 9 Christmas Street. It was a good twenty minutes past the hour
and there were still no lights on at the house. Or, as someone had sniggered earlier, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse, then rattled a bin which made all of the Gem’n’Emms scream. The intrigue of what awaited them was creating quite the buzz. All of the other surprises hadn’t really had huge reveals apart from the kazoo choir, so people were beginning to bandy about guesses as to what it could be.
‘Who lives here again?’
Jess turned at the sound of Josh’s voice, which was surprisingly close to her ear. She’d thought they were more at the wave-at-one-another-from-a-distance kind of friendly, rather than whisper in one another’s ear friendly. Interesting. And also a little bit sexy. She turned towards him as if magnetised, her nose drawn towards that magical nook between his chin and shoulder that smelt of oranges and sugar and … Almost a second too late, she forced herself back onto her heels and adopted a nonchalant air, hoping it would cover the ohmygodyousmellsogood feelings she was experiencing.
She shrugged. ‘I’m probably not the best person to ask.’ She nodded over to where Drea was actively charming (read: browbeating) another neighbour into telling her what their plans were for their night.
Jess felt something at her knee. She looked down, expecting a child. Ah. Now she knew why Josh was so close. A Bernese mountain dog had him on the end of her short lead and someone in front of her was dangling the remains of a sausage roll in their hand. She knelt down so that she was face to face with the pooch. She was gorgeous. Dark brown eyes. Light brown eyebrows. A perfect swoosh of white arrowing up and over her forehead towards her inky black back.
‘Jess, meet Audrey.’
‘Audrey?’ Jess looked up at Josh and once again felt that tingle of connection as their eyes met.
‘My wife – umm—’ He looked away from Jess and at the dog. ‘We named her after Audrey Hepburn.’
His wife. Yes. Of course. The reason the whole entire street was vigilantly protective of him. That and his gorgeousness. Poor Josh. And, screw your head on, Jess! Fancying him was ridiculous. He was a) obviously still mourning the loss of his wife, because that’s how it worked when you had small children, right? and b) he was too old for her. He was early forties, maybe? So … not ancient, but still … More to the point: c) she didn’t want a boyfriend. Especially not one who was totally gorgeous, the entire street adored, and smelt of sugar cookies even when there weren’t sugar cookies around. And oranges. Did she mention the oranges?