by Annie O'Neil
She was so lost in her thoughts it was a bit of a shock to find herself staring at Martha putting a box outside her front door.
‘All right there, dear?’ Martha asked when she saw Jess.
‘Yes, sorry, I—’ she went to hold up the wreath but before she could explain her mission Martha interrupted her.
‘I think I owe you an apology, Jess. For being snippy.’
‘You weren’t—’
‘Yes, I was. I’ve lived in the same skin for well over seventy years now and I know when I’m snippy and when I’m not. I was snippy and I didn’t much like it.’
‘Oh, well … you don’t have to apologise.’
‘No, dear. You’re wrong. I do. It’s the people round us who look after us, and I was rude.’
Jess wanted to contradict her again, but thought better of it. Martha had been round the block a few more times than she had and, as she said, knew herself better than anyone else did. Jess looked down at the cardboard box and saw a couple of feathers peeking out. Feathers that looked an awful lot like the feathers on Kai and Drea’s shared boa.
Martha caught her looking. ‘Nothing to see here, dear.’
‘Oh, I beg to differ,’ Jess said, already preparing to race across to Drea’s and tell her she might not have to share after all. ‘This looks remarkably like a boa we saw only recently.’
‘No, that one was ostrich. This is—’ Martha stopped, pressed her lips tightly together and shook her head. ‘Oh, you’re good. A real Angela Lansbury, aren’t you?’
Jess gave her one of those maybe, maybe not smiles she hoped looked slightly mysterious and twinkly-eyed. She’d quite happily become the neighbourhood detective if it was going to be this fun.
Martha threw up her hands, exasperated. ‘All right, fine. Yes. It was me who donated the boa. I thought I couldn’t let the other one go, but on reflection it turned out I could. I can let it all go.’
‘What? What do you mean?’
She pointed a semi-gnarled finger towards the box. ‘The coat and hat are in there, too. Ridiculous for me to have pulled them out of the mothballs and even more ridiculous to have thought I could relive my glory days.’
‘Glory days?’
Martha’s mood shifted from cantankerous to forlorn. She gave Jess a kindly but sad smile along with an arm pat. ‘You’ll find out one day when you’re old and grey, dear. I’m sorry to say it, but all of you young people will soon come to realise life is full of dreams you have to let go.’
A crashing sound came from indoors. Startled, Martha lost her footing. Jess lurched forward to steady her, inadvertently swinging the wreath at the door and knocking it wide open. There, at the foot of the stairs, lay Tyler, sprawled in a skinny-jeaned, spider-legged mess.
‘Oh, dear. Tyler!’ Martha’s hands flew to her cheeks. Before she could get to him, he popped up and grinned.
‘Not to worry, Mrs S. My bad for not looking.’ He looked round him and then pointed at a couple of boxes that he’d clearly tripped over. ‘Oh, ho. What’s in here? Has Santa come early?’
Mrs Snodgrass tsked. ‘I was trying to get them out to the car before you came down, but with all of the old aches and pains …’
Tyler was by her side in an instant, guiding her to a comfortable-looking armchair of the very well-loved variety. A cat was lounging across the top of it and quickly shifted into Martha’s lap when she was settled.
‘You mad old woman.’ Tyler tutted, not unlike an old woman himself. ‘What have I told you about lifting heavy things on your own? I’m the one who should be doing that, not you.’
Jess, still standing in the doorway, felt her heart squeeze tight. It was easy to see why Martha didn’t kick Tyler out. He was doting on her as if she were his own flesh and blood. Tough on the outside, soft on the inside, the pair of them.
‘Are you planning on spending my entire heating budget today, dear?’ Martha asked, eyebrow cocked, an imperious expression playing upon her features as she gave her feline a long stroke upon its back. Jess pulled the door shut, wreath still on her arm, errand incomplete, feeling every bit an idiot.
‘Put yourself on the other side of the door, dear!’ Martha shouted through the closed door.
Tyler pulled it open for her. ‘That’s her version of an invitation. Jess, was it?’ He shut the door behind her once she had walked in and put out a hand for her to shake. ‘Tyler Butterfield.’
‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Same. Now!’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘What have we here?’ He went to pick up one of the boxes.
‘Mind yourself, young man, they’re heavy.’
Tyler grunted as he picked one up. ‘What on earth have you got in here?’
‘Nothing that would interest you,’ Martha snipped, her regal expression shadowing.
Tyler opened the box.
‘Tyler!’
‘Vinyl!’ He cried over Martha’s admonition, putting the box on the coffee table and kneeling in front of it. ‘Martha Snodgrass, you sly old dog, you.’
‘Don’t you call me a dog, Tyler Butterfield. You know very well I’m a cat person through and through. Now close that box up and carry it out to the car, please.’
‘Not if you’re giving them away.’ Tyler said without a hint of apology. ‘I’ll have them. Have you seen these?’ He held up an album for Jess. ‘John Coltrane. The Bird. Ella Fitzgerald. Hell’s teeth, Martha. You had some good taste in music.’
‘Language, Tyler. And I think you’ll find I have good taste in music. I’m not dead yet.’
He grinned up at Jess. ‘I’m banking on her outliving me.’ He held up another album for Martha to see. ‘Who’s this? Marti Morgan?’
There was a beautiful woman on the cover. A beautiful woman wearing a thick, opulent fur coat walking out of a club called Ronnie Scott’s. If Jess remembered correctly, it was London’s premiere jazz venue right in the heart of Soho. A rush of adrenalin shot through her. The beautiful woman was wearing the same opulent fur coat Martha had been wearing last night.
‘Is that you, Martha?’ Jess asked.
The shadows fell again. Darker this time. Jess felt as though she was witnessing something very, very private. Her stomach churned with discomfort. Maybe staying out on the porch had been the better option.
‘Put that away, Tyler,’ Martha instructed. ‘I want it in the tip.’
Her tone was so sharp that both he and Jess looked away. Abruptly, Tyler jumped up and ran up the stairs. There was some shuffling around, a loud thump, a few curse words and then he thundered back down the stairs with a record deck under one arm and a portable speaker in his hand. He rustled round behind the sofa, plugged it all in, unsheathed the album, put it on the record deck and smiled at Martha.
‘Let’s have a listen.’
‘No.’
‘I’m overruling you.’ He put the needle onto the record.
Martha lurched forward then back into the worn cushions of her armchair, her eyes closing in resignation. She pressed her fingers to her forehead, as if fighting a migraine, as the first pure notes of a female voice emerged from the whirring of the needle circling the vinyl.
‘Martha,’ Tyler sat back on his heels after they’d listened for several spellbound minutes. ‘You’re a fucking legend.’
‘Language,’ Martha cautioned, eyes still closed, but … if Jess wasn’t mistaken … the tiniest hint of a smile?
An hour, a cup of tea and a much more relaxed atmosphere later, Jess waved goodbye to the pair, securing a promise to see them later that night for the advent event at number 12. ‘Any idea what the two of you are doing?’
Martha shook her head. ‘Not given it a moment’s thought, dear. I was planning on playing the too-old-to-tango card and insisting Tyler do something.’
‘Thanks for the heads up on that, Marti,’ Tyler intoned w
ith a this should be a laugh snort.
‘You two should do a duet,’ Jess suggested, pointing at the record, instantly wishing she’d kept her mouth shut when Martha shot her a cease-and-desist look.
‘Not a word about this to anyone,’ she warned.
Jess ‘locked’ her lips and threw away the key. ‘Not a word. And you’re sure you’re happy for me to give this to Mr Winters?’ She lifted up the wreath so that her face was in the middle of it.
‘More than.’ Martha said, her wrinkly fingers giving Jess’s arm a conciliatory squeeze. ‘And while you’re there, do me a favour, will you?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Tell him I’m tired of being the only old codger out there every night freezing myself to the bone.’ Despite the stern expression, there was a twinkle in her eye.
On impulse Jess leant forward and gave her leathery cheek a kiss. This was what Christmas was about. Being nice to people even if they were extra grumpy. ‘It would be my pleasure.’
Ten minutes later, Jess found herself nose to nose with Mr Winters growling, ‘Well, a very, merry, Christmas to you too, Mr Scrooge.’
Mr Winters slammed his door in her face. Which was fair enough, given that she’d just lobbed quite the number of unseasonal insults in his direction.
Barely restraining herself from throwing Martha’s lovely wreath at his door, Jess whirled about, stomped down the steps, slammed through the picket-fence gate, whirled around again, glared at the house, trying to plumb a lucid thought from the deafening roar of blood in her head, and finally came up with a question: What could she do to make the grumpiest man on the cul-de-sac even grumpier?
She came up with an answer.
And then she did it.
13 December
13 December
23:57
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Update from Christmas Street
Dear Will,
I hope your life isn’t too overrun by vol-au-vents and mini-turkey-drumsticks (is that a thing or is it all Henry VIII-style sizes???) I’m guessing I haven’t heard from you because you’re insanely busy. The penultimate weekend before Christmas must be mad.
Just a little update for you. We had a wreath-making day outside your grandfather’s a couple of nights back that ended up in a bit of a holiday sing-song which, I’m sorry to report, upset your grandfather (the volume must’ve been messing with his quiet evening in). Anyway, I saw him yesterday after one of the street’s other residents, Martha Snodgrass (who turns out to have a secret past as a jazz singer!!!), kindly gifted the wreath she made. It’s now hung on his outside gate. Have you seen the house? It has a genuine picket fence. I love a picket fence. And with Martha’s wreath on it, it gives the house a little splash of festive cheer. As do … erm … the other twelve or so wreaths flanking it.
The truth is, he and I had a teensy tiny run-in over the wreath (well, Christmas in general). After a rather lively exchange, he may have slammed the door in my face. I didn’t take this very well and might have accidentally-on-purpose asked all of my neighbours who were awake at ten last night to let me hang their wreaths on his fence in protest. He’s a bit Christmas resistant, but, in fairness, so am I, so not judging!! Much.
In fact, it’s my turn to do the advent calendar tomorrow (twenty-four hours and counting). I have zero idea what to do. Sunday night’s was good. Pin the nose on Rudolph with mulled wine (you drank wine then pinned the nose unless, of course, you were a kid, in which case it was red cordial). Tonight’s was weird. Maybe it’s because they’re number 13, I don’t know, but … When we arrived we were all handed something. A broom, a dusting cloth, the hoover. And elves’ hats. Then we were all set to work to make up ‘Santa’s Magic Wonderland’. And by Santa’s Magic Wonderland, what my neighbours actually meant was: clean their house and set it up for Christmas with them supervising. (Note to self: never accept a dinner invitation to number 13. Could end up making it myself!)
Do you even know what I’m talking about? I’d never heard of a living advent calendar before I moved here. Basically, it involves turning our street, which has twenty-four houses, into a living advent calendar. First night snowball fights, second kazoo carolling etc., etc. My idea of a total nightmare as I’d vowed not to do Christmas this year. Yes, I could hide in my house like your grandfather does, but, I will reluctantly admit, some of the nights have been fun and as a newbie on the street who is becoming a bit close to morphing into a hermit, decorating sugar cookies and making wreaths is as good a way as any to get to know thy neighbour. Did I mention I have NO idea what to do? None. Nada. Nul. This head is bereft of any creativity.
Sorry. You’re getting a bit of a stream of consciousness here. (My neighbour/new friend/enabler Drea had a hip flask of rum she was freely sharing and I’m doing that whole ‘write drunk, edit sober’ thing that I’m not sure is genuine advice.)
Oh, who am I kidding? I’m totally in a bad mood. I was happy on Sunday (reference: discovery of elderly neighbour’s secret past as jazz singer) and then, when I went to see your grandad (can I call him grandad? Pops? No. He’s not a pops) he was all gruff-response this and take-your-business-elsewhere-young-lady that and I was trying so hard to be cheerful and not tell him I know all about you (well, a little bit about you). He kept rebuffing my efforts to help him be cheery. Because we should all try and be cheery, right? ‘Tis the season and all that. And then when he slammed the door in my face. It flipped me back to a place that, I’ll be honest, I revisit a bit too frequently.
Shall I tell you about it? (#SpoilerAlert: you may want to cut and run at this point). I’ll tell you about it. (#LastAndFinalWarning) One year, three weeks and about … six hours ago??? my whole life changed because of a cheese sandwich. (Brie and cranberry, if you must know). At this point, you may be asking yourself, how could a cheese sandwich strip someone of their creativity, compel them to move and make them scream at an old man that he wouldn’t know Christmas cheer if it bit him on the nose? (Apologies. I was filtering earlier.)
Well, lemme tell ya. (Get a snack. You’ll need it).
Thirteen months ago (there it is again! Unlucky thirteen) I was an art teacher at a fancy-schmancy prep school in London. St Benedict’s. I absolutely loved it. We had all the resources a teacher (and a child) could ever dream of. Beautiful grounds. Amazing buildings. Unbelievable perks if the parents liked you. If you haven’t heard of it, think … Eton for the offspring of rock stars/oligarchs/make-up empresses. You get the idea. Anyone whose children require security teams or unironically ask after the seasonal smoothie bar for elevenses.
So. One seemingly regular day I was on dining-hall duty. (Yes, we were normal enough to do that.) We all took turns. You wander around making sure the children are being charming to one another. Lifting their pinkies aloft when sipping their tea. (Kidding. That last part was a total lie). It was my turn. One minute I was wandering round, happy as a lark, the next minute? Slow-motion horror show. Crispy Banana-Hate (name changed for child-protection laws), aged thirteen and the only offspring of our richest parents, had been merrily eating his lunch, or so I thought, when all of the sudden he was up and out of his seat and on the brink of hurling his focaccia, brie and cranberry sandwich (I know … I know) at a fourth-year student called Ethan. Ethan is small and nerdy. Nose always in a book. If his parents weren’t loaded, his glasses would regularly have tape on them because he was always tripping over something or getting accidentally-on-purpose knocked around by the older kids. He’s not the type of kid to stand up for himself, or the type to garner friends to do it for him. He’s a little sweetie if you take the time to get to know him. And smart. And totally allergic to dairy. The type of allergic that means he will literally die if it touches him. Like the peanut people.
So I did what I thought anyone would do. I grabbed Crispy’s should
ers and whirled him round so that he wouldn’t hit Ethan with the brie. This is where it all gets a bit fuzzy/dark/totally why I warned you to stop reading. Crispy punched me in the stomach. So hard I lost my balance. I fought to regain my footing, but in so doing, inadvertently brushed Crispy’s face with one of my hands. He told the Head Teacher I assaulted him. I didn’t, of course, but as I was being escorted from the school premises later that afternoon he was standing in a window and I saw scratch marks. He must’ve done it to himself. It’s the only way I can imagine he got them. (This is all totally difficult and unbelievably humiliating to admit, which is probably why I’m telling you, a person I’ve never met and probably never will meet, but you do good email and send lovely Christmas cards so thank you very much, I hope you don’t regret it now. If you’re even still reading. Hello?) Anyway. Surprise, surprise. I was suspended. Investigations were launched. Reports were filed. Ethan, god bless him and his little argyle cotton socks transferred to a smaller, more ‘diet-sensitive’ school (read: epi-pens on tap). His parents had said I’d done the right thing; but they were taking their school fees elsewhere, so who was going to listen to them, right? I was then informed I had a choice. To be sued by the Banana-Hates or quietly leave the school with a neutral reference.
Shit. Just realised I used Ethan’s real name. Please wipe it from your mind. And in-box. My bad.
My boyfriend at the time (who dumped me shortly afterwards), saw the bruises but refused to believe a kid could’ve done it. Well. Let me assure you, this particular thirteen-year-old is a black belt in discreet, nasty, injuries. Just like Nicole Kidman’s husband was in that mini-series Reese Witherspoon made. Did you see it? Probably not. Anyway, by the time they let me back in the school, the bruises had faded and I hadn’t taken any pictures so there was no evidence and everyone was looking at me like I was evil and I couldn’t bear it because I love teaching those little fuckers. I mean darlings. Most of them are darlings. They’re all kids, you know? Products of the world around them. Crispy? Devil’s spawn. But – long story short – this is me trying to pull myself back together after quite the breakdown. I start teaching again at a small primary academy in January. I’m scared shitless. I’ve also found out I’m replacing the most deeply loved teacher in the world. Universe. Bigger. Whatever galaxies black holes lead to. Ones with even better teachers? Point being, I don’t want to let the children down, but I’m finding it hard to trust myself any more. I mean, who offers a charming older gentleman a wreath only to turn into a psycho when he says no? Do normal people ask the rest of the neighbourhood to hang their Christmas wreaths on sad lonely old men’s (lovely) picket fences just because they’re not down with the Yule? No. I’ve gone mental. I’m sorry. I should apologise to your grandfather, but … it’s insanely late. He’s probably in bed and waking him up to offer him an apology for something he might not even know I’ve done is immensely stupid. Gah!!! I have no clue what I’m going to do tomorrow when the neighbourhood turns up expecting holiday cheer. Maybe they won’t. Maybe they’re all calling each other wondering whether or not I’m an axe murderer. Say the word and I’ll take them down.