by Annie O'Neil
‘Any clue what you’re going to do for the advent calendar?’ Josh asked, eyes still on Mr Winters’ house.
‘Nope. You?’
‘Nada.’ He gave her a cheeky sidelong look. He began to hum a song from Sweeney Todd, which … double swoon! The man knew musical theatre. He was, without a doubt, the Hugh Jackman of Christmas Street. But younger. And a widow. And, yes, still off limits. ‘Drea’s going to turn us into mincemeat if we don’t dazzle.’
‘Yes, Drea will,’ said Drea, along with her signature move of whipping an arm round each of their necks and pulling them into a weird and slightly strangley sports hug. She released them and shot them each a look. ‘What are we staring at?’
‘Number twenty-four.’
Drea made a frustrated noise. ‘He’s still not got back to me, the old goat.’
Jess stiffened protectively then remembered Drea was as defensive about Mr Winters as she was. ‘Maybe he likes to play his cards close to his chest.’
‘Yes, dear.’ Drea rolled her eyes and then, to Josh, said, ‘You can see why our darling Jess here is a primary schoolteacher, can’t you?’
‘Oh, yes, that’s right!’ Josh pushed aside a tousle of chestnut waves, the bulk of it flopping back onto his forehead. ‘I forgot you might be looking after my little monsters. What year are you teaching?’
Drea gave Jess a not so subtle, ‘get in there girl’ look.
Not being the biggest fan of ‘little monsters’, Jess still managed a smile because she knew Zoe and Eli were perfectly nice children. ‘Year three. Plus I’m the art coordinator for all of the years, so I imagine I’ll be meeting most of the children.’
‘Wait a minute!’ He mimicked her head-thunking gesture. ‘You’re the replacement for Mrs Jameson.’
‘That’s right.’ They’d only met briefly, but she’d seemed lovely. An early-forty-something woman who’d said she’d always wanted to retrain as a garden designer so she thought she’d better get to it before old age set in.
‘Shame how things ended.’
Jess’s stomach scrunched up in sync with her forehead. ‘How do you mean?’
Had she been fired, too? Accused of assault?
‘Well …’ Josh explained in a voice you used to say someone had got cancer or something equally awful. ‘That her husband got transferred to Canada.’
Errr … ‘And why is this bad? Do they not have gardens to design in Canada?’
Josh did one of those laugh-huffs things that produced a little cloud between them. ‘No. Not that. It’s that all of the children absolutely adored her. I don’t think I’ve ever known a teacher to be so loved. The other teachers loved her. The students. The parents. The local council considered putting up a plaque, but as she’s still living …’ Josh gave a shrug that indicated a statue in the centre of town probably wouldn’t have been enough. ‘We all dug deep for her leaving day. Got her some lovely pressies. And the tears! You’ve never seen so many bereft children …’
Jess began to tune out, mostly because her brain was buzzing with fear. Replacing the most popular teacher ever? How was she going to fill those shoes? She looked down at her faux fur-lined boots and silently asked them, How? How?
‘Anyway,’ Josh was concluding. ‘You’ll be fine. I’m sure they’ll adjust in time.’
Drea tucked her arm into Jess’s and turned her away from Josh with a whispered ‘You’re gaping, doll face.’
They were now facing number 10. It was a single family home – as large as the semi-detached ones flanking it – with a small lawn and a drive leading up to a red garage door. The porch lights flashed.
‘It’s Morse code!’ Kev the mechanic shouted out.
‘Do you think they’ve been taken hostage?’ One of the Gem’n’Emms giggled.
‘Who lives there?’ Jess asked Drea.
‘The Nishios.’
She tried to place the name for a minute then asked, ‘Is that a Japanese surname?’
‘Yeah. They’ve been to a few of the nights. Hiro – the husband – moved over to teach at the uni on some sort of exchange, ended up meeting his English rose and ba-da-bing, ba-da-boom, four children later and here they are in the heart of British suburbia.’
A teacher. Like her. Who had found love, marriage and not one but four baby carriages. Jess’s heart constricted with longing that she’d find the same level of fulfilment one day. Maybe not in the form of four baby carriages, but … The burst of joy she used to get each morning when the school bell rang and the students began to fill her classroom would be a good start. If, of course, the students ever recovered from the loss of the beyond-perfect Mrs Jameson.
‘What does he teach?’ she forced herself to ask.
Drea shrugged. ‘Classics, I think. English literature. The pair of them. They’re always off to the Brontë’s house or some Jane Austen festival or another. Love their cos-play, they do.’
Jess smiled. They sounded like a great couple. And she was a sucker for a feisty heroine in a bonnet. Maybe if Will Winters taught her how to cook something beyond microwaved scrambled eggs on toast, she could invite them over for dinner one night. ‘Any idea what they’re going to do?’
‘Not a clue – oh, look. The front blinds are opening. Are those … is he doing that by remote control?’
It looked like it. A hush came over the crowd as the automatic blinds lifted to reveal the Nishio family in a perfect Victorian Christmas tableau. There were ooos and ahhhhs and then applause. The attention to detail was amazing.
They had a beautifully decorated Christmas tree complete with real candles on its perfectly aligned branches. Mrs Nishio, a tall redhead with rosy cheeks, was wearing a plum-coloured dress that looked as if it could’ve walked straight off the set of A Christmas Carol. She stood at one end of an old oak dining table upon which lay an incredible Christmas meal. A large ham, some sort of moulded pudding, a platter of roast potatoes. The works. Mr Nishio, a portly gentleman discreetly pocketing a remote control, was holding a carving knife above a beautifully roasted goose that still had curls of steam rising from it.
The two youngest children, girls, probably around six or seven, were wearing exquisite, matching velvet dresses in a deep green.
‘They’re twins,’ Drea said, pointing to the little girls. ‘Scrumptious little munchkins aren’t they?’
They were. They were also perfectly still. One of them was mischievously holding a coin above a Christmas pudding while the other sat on a rocking horse and was holding a cat that clearly hadn’t been briefed on the ‘do not move’ edict.
One of the older boys was poised as if pulling a chair out for his mother, while the other boy was holding an immaculately wrapped Christmas present to his ear as if he were shaking it for clues.
And then the blind began to close.
‘Is that it?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘Aren’t they going to hand out sarnies or anything? Some of those roasties?’ Kev gave his tummy a solid pat only to get an elbow in the ribs from his wife along with a reminder that they had a perfectly serviceable tea waiting for them at home.
A few of the children squatted down to see what remained of the tableau and then, as the blind reached the bottom of the window, the cat ran along the sill with a goose leg in its mouth.
Drea began another round of applause. ‘Bloody marvellous. Sets a high bar for the rest of you lot, doesn’t it? Kai? Rex? You two ready for tomorrow night?’
‘Absolutely, Drea. Wouldn’t want to let the street down, would we?’
‘Better not,’ she said warningly, and then laughed her disarmingly cheery laugh.
‘Oh!’ Kai went up on his tiptoes and whispered something into Rex’s ear. They conferred a moment between them then Kai made a ding-ding-ding sound as if he were putting a knife to the side of a crystal glass. ‘As you’re all here, w
e were wondering if you wouldn’t mind tomorrow night’s session being a little earlier?’
There were a few shouts indicating most people thought it was all right.
‘Excellent. As it’s Saturday, we thought we’d leave the evening to everyone to enjoy whatever Christmas parties they have lined up.’
‘Too bloody right!’ Shouted someone.
‘Mark!’ remonstrated one of the Gem’n’Emms. ‘Language.’
Rex shushed the crowd and instructed, ‘We’re going to be outside for about an hour, so wear warm clothes.’
‘What time?’
‘Five o’clock.’
There were a handful of ‘we’ll have to delay/push forward the children’s tea’ comments bandied about, but ultimately everyone agreed that five was fine, despite the adjustments and yes, everyone was sensible, they’d all wear their warm clothes and couldn’t wait to see what tomorrow’s surprise was. And then, as if a switch had been flicked, the street emptied until it was just Drea and Jess.
They stared at one another a moment. Then giggled. Drea flicked her thumb towards number 1. ‘There’s a bottle of rosé in there with our names on it. And some pasta if you aren’t a fussy eater.’
‘Sounds perfect.’ Jess said, glad for a reason not to go back to her house. She’d felt funny there ever since she got the post. Kryptonite in the form of an embossed envelope stuffed into a kitchen drawer. Kryptonite that made naming the house she had yet to call home even more difficult.
11 December
There was some sort of strange chirruping next to Jess’s head. Strange, because the noise very distinctly sounded like a frog. It was pitch-black. She tentatively put her hand out. Hmmm. Nothing around her felt like her bed (still unmade).
The chirruping began afresh. Eventually, through the fug of what had been a rather comatose sleep, Jess realised it was her phone. She batted around for it only to hear it fall off the cushy thing she was lying on that must be a sofa. She followed suit. Why did her head hurt so much? She hadn’t remembered being in a fight last night.
She heard a power shower kick into action above her.
She didn’t have a power shower. Why was she on the floor beside a sofa that wasn’t— Ohh.
She was at Drea’s. They had drunk wine last night. Lots of wine. More than one bottle anyway. There may have been pasta. There may also have been lots of YouTubing Drea in her new-millennium, big-haired, animal-print unitard heyday. She was Australia’s Jane Fonda. The UK’s … umm … Davina? But better. Step-aerobics. Jazzercize. Thighmasters. She was spectacular. Drea had either taught it, championed it or worn the outfit. She had entire Pinterest pages devoted to her. Early on, she’d rejected the soft-lit studio workout video aesthetic. The type that always had a pair of mauve armchairs, geometric-patterned carpets and huge potted artificial plants that culminated in the set looking more like a dentist’s waiting room than a living room which she presumed the producers had been aiming for. She’d started her own type of work out. The Bondi Beach Body. It had taken her a while to ‘get her claws into the business’, but she’d done it and made it accessible to everyone. You could wear whatever you wanted, do it wherever you wanted, and, depending upon if you ever actually did the workouts, ‘your body and booty were well on their way to being beach-tastic’ – a tagline Jess had made her repeat again and again with Jess trying, and failing, to mimic her Aussie accent until they’d both dissolved in hysterics.
There had even been one point, after Drea had said she could come over on Christmas Day if her son didn’t show, when they had exchanged very slurry and very impassioned, ‘I love you—’ ‘No! Listen. I love you’s.’
#Embarrassing.
Jess’s head made a crinkling sound. Why was her head crinkling? She gingerly touched it to see if it had turned into something breakable. It appeared she was wearing a paper crown. Why was she – ohhhh.
They’d broken into Drea’s supply of Christmas crackers (lush, proper crackers with prizes you would actually use, like miniature screwdrivers for glasses, and bottle stops which, on reflection, they should have used). They’d pulled out the party hats and sung a bit of off-key ‘All By Myself’ after Drea had confessed she didn’t think her son was going to come. ‘He’s not mentioned it once. Not. A. Peep.’
‘What are you doing on the floor?’
Jess lurched up realising a bit too late that there was a trickle of drool on her cheek. She batted her fringe away, as if that would help her overall aesthetic, and offered Drea what she hoped was a smile.
‘Why are you on the floor?’ Drea repeated, giving her a little nudge with the toe of her trainer.
‘Are you going for a run?’
Drea looked at her ensemble, a rather fabulous Lululemon winter athleisurewear ensemble – solids on top, discreet camo-patterned leggings on the bottom – then back at Jess. ‘Cold shower and a run followed by a hot shower’s the only way to get the booze out of the system, isn’t it?’ She fixed Jess with a stern look. ‘You’re a bad influence. C’mon. Get up. I’ll make you a coffee before I go – unless you want to come with me?’
One rocket-fuel shot of espresso later, Jess refused a second invitation to ‘crank out a few miles’, preferring to take her walk of shame under cover of darkness. A shower, some sort of actual planning for the advent calendar and one-upping the saintly Mrs Jameson were on today’s list of things to do. That. Or a nap.
Jess bolted up from the sofa.
She did a quick check. Yes. It was hers this time. No drool. Her eyes flicked to her phone. Three o’clock. A whole day wasted. Avoided, more like. Getting yet another text from Amanda saying they MUST TALK AND SOON had solved the chirping phone mystery but had also thrown her hackles up. The Amanda she knew would always tell her what was going on rather than tease out the details. She was not a secret keeper. In fairness, Jess could’ve just rung her as requested and put an end to it, but the fact Amanda’s texts and messages flanked the arrival of the letter from St Benny’s was suspicious. It led her to the conclusion she feared most. The school and/or Crispin’s parents had definitely decided to sue her. No doubt a thick missive from Pinstriped, Buttonholed & Privileged law firm would be arriving in today’s post.
The doorbell rang followed by a knock and not so much as a whisper of a coooeee. Not Drea, then. Thankfully, Jess’s drapes were closed, so whoever it was wouldn’t know she was napping away her life. After a quick squat and check in the hall mirror (still leaning against the wall waiting to be hung up), she confirmed that her fringe was only partially skew-wiff and that her face’s cushion creases weren’t too obvious, she opened the door feigning a brightness she wasn’t feeling.
‘Hi, darling, hi. All right?’
It was Kai and Rex, looking immaculately put together as usual. Kai leant in for his customary cheek kisses.
‘Mmm. You smell good,’ Jess said.
‘Myrrh and tonka bean. You like?’
‘Sounds seasonal.’
Rex leant in for his kisses with another waft of something delicious. ‘I’m frankincense and bergamot.’
Jess nodded her approval and drew in a few little extra wisps of fragrance in the way a chef might cup a hand and move the scent of his wine reduction towards him. ‘Scents of the three kings I take it? Have you arrived with … erm … gold?’
Kai indulged her with a laugh then shook his head no. ‘Just two queens hoping for a favour.’
They both looked so expectant and delighted at whatever it was they were going to ask, Jess felt a sudden rush of excitement light her up. ‘Oh my God, you got a puppy and you want me to babysit?’
Kai’s face fell and Rex gave his head a confused little shake. ‘No, love, sorry.’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ she fell over herself apologising. ‘I don’t know what made me think—’ She stopped herself before she dug her hole any deeper and said, ‘Anything. I wi
ll do anything to help.’
‘Don’t be so quick to say yes, love. You don’t know what it is we’re after.’
It was a good point. If she’d stopped and thought before she’d done what she had at St Benedict’s, she might be packing her bikini and factor 50 for a couple of cocktail-soaked weeks in the Maldives right now. After, of course, having attending Ethan’s funeral. She shoved the thought away. Ethan hadn’t died. That was the main thing.
‘Okay. I take it back then.’ She said, jauntily jiggling her eyebrows so they’d know she was kidding.
‘Please don’t,’ Kai put his hands in prayer position, looking a bit like the puppy dog he claimed he didn’t want. ‘We need someone who’s good at dealing with the unruly masses. And by unruly masses, we mean everyone who lives on Christmas Street.’
‘Why?’
‘For the wreath-making session.’
She frowned. They were the experts. ‘Why do you need my help?’
‘Because we don’t want them to be ugly.’
She looked from Rex to Kai and back again. ‘And you need my help as an ugly-wreath monitor?’
‘Not exactly.’
Two hours later Jess was feeling much more in her element than she had anticipated. She liked big happy groups of people trying to create things and had, with each hot glue-gunned addition to a wreath, felt a bit of that buzz she got from a really good teaching session. She hadn’t instantly slipped into Mrs Jameson’s Best Teacher Ever shoes. Yet. But she did feel as if these were little baby steps in the right direction.
An added bonus came in the form of a hall pass on the awkward chitchat sessions Drea kept strong-arming her into with Josh and his kids. She was hopping from family to family, sticking a finger on a bow here, twisting a bit of wire over a pomegranate there, teasing cloves into clementines, quite certain she’d return home smelling like a bowl of Christmas potpourri – which, all things considered, wasn’t a bad personal scent.