by Annie O'Neil
‘Can you get drunk from a mince pie?’ Jess giggled a few minutes later, mug of tea in one hand, pie in the other, icing sugar, no doubt, on her nose. ‘This one definitely has rum in it.’
‘This one’s not, but it’s got something else in it.’ Mr Winters held it out for Jess to see.
‘Cranberries,’ she said. ‘Looks good.’
‘’Tis.’ Mr Winters eyed the pie and then gave it a nod as a stockman might a prize bull.
The moment caught Jess in the throat. This was a handmade mince pie from his grandson. The grandson he never knew he had and still had yet to meet.
It was completely delicious and, so easy to tell, made with love.
They were all gorgeous. There were about four dozen in total. Cranberry, rum, traditional, and one that was stuffed with blackcurrants and apple.
It was a shame Will – if indeed it had been Will in the van – hadn’t stayed to see this moment himself, but perhaps Mr Winters had been slow in getting to the door and Will had an event to get back to. Or maybe, like his grandfather, he too was shy about meeting him, and doing it in little increments was his way of building up to the big moment.
Whichever, it meant that even though he knew the truth about what had happened between his father and grandfather, he wasn’t holding him accountable for it. There was the distinct possibility he was holding Jess accountable for it because a) he knew her address and b) she’d been standing in the doorway when he’d driven by. But … c) Josh and the children had been there. Maybe he’d thought they were an item? Which really shouldn’t have made a difference because it wasn’t as if she and Will were an item, they were more … modern-day pen pals who’d hit a little bump in the communications road. And she was very likely almost a decade older than him. Maybe she’d send him a note. Let him know his mince pies were amazing and that Mr Winters had been deeply touched by the gesture.
After a few more minutes of companionable munching and chatting about the weather, and the icy roads, and general curiosity as to why Will thought Mr Winters might want four dozen mince pies, Jess eased the idea of being a judge for the Christmas Pet Show into conversation.
The old familiar bristling resurfaced. ‘No. I’m afraid not, lass. Not something I’m up to.’
‘I think it would be a really great thing to do, you know, in creating stronger community relations.’
They both made faces. Why was she sounding like a politician canvassing for a vote? Because, in a way, she was. ‘Look,’ she laid her cards on the table, ‘if I write to Will and say you received the mince pies and thought they were excellent, would you pretend to be a judge for me?’
‘Eh?’
‘Just stand next to me. Nod. Point. Agree with everything Drea says because she’s going to be the one calling the shots anyway, and in exchange, I’ll send Will an email and let him know you thought his gesture was really kind.’
Mr Winters’ nose twitched. Just a smidge. But enough to tell Jess if she gave him just enough breathing room he’d say …
‘Yes.’
‘This should totally be on YouTube,’ Drea said, pointing at a teenager still trying to get his pet hamster to sit in the car Kev had given his father a couple of weeks back as he tugged it along by a red ribbon.
Jess laughed. It was hilarious. Even if it was ruddy freezing.
There were far more pets on Christmas Street than any of them had imagined. It was going to be impossible to pick an overall winner, which was why, in the end, when Mr Winters had said there was no chance he could pick a winner and suggested that they make up some sort of prize for everyone, they had decided to do exactly that.
Kai, who had surprised Jess by showing up, had quickly done up a dozen-odd bows; and Rex, who had spent the bulk of the evening cuddling the collected canines, had hot-glued little white circles with silver backing onto the centre of them, then had written the pet’s names in a florid script. (Drea had insisted everyone register their pet and sign a disclaimer as, yet again, the gritting trucks had failed to arrive before sundown.)
Now, as it was prize-giving time, Drea, Jess and Mr Winters were all standing behind his picket fence as the participants, willing or otherwise, did a final parade round the arc in front of his house that served as a perfect ‘show ground’ for the parade. Everyone could see. Everyone who wanted to participate could. And Mr Winters had a bit of added security by being behind his picket fence so any slipping children would be their parents’ responsibility. So far so good.
The prizes – handed out along with mince pies Mr Winters gruffly informed everyone were from his grandson – went down a storm and, unlike yesterday when a general crankiness had reigned, the neighbours all left with proper smiles on their faces. The hamster won Top Gear Pet (an inspired idea from Mr Winters). One of the Gem’n’Emms’ cats won Best Mrs Claus. The Nishios’ schnauzer (unseen by many before now) won Best Elf. And the list went on right up to Audrey, the evening’s Red-Carpet Ready Christmas Canine. She was sporting a rather glamorous ensemble including Kai and Drea’s boa – a moment filled with ooos and ahhhs and one solitary cry of dismay (Martha) as the boa trailed behind the Bernese mountain dog like a street duster. Zoe – who was wearing her own version of a red-carpet outfit in the form of a little mermaid bodice, a Princess Anna cape and the Wonder Woman headband – did not stop smiling, and when Josh lifted her up on his shoulders kept shouting, ‘Christmas Street is the best place in the world!’
Even Mr Winters managed a smile at this one, quickly hidden behind his thick tartan scarf.
Kai, clearly strained from spending an evening smiling at all of the pets and their owners, made a quiet signal to Rex and slipped away.
Her heart ached for him. It was a shame he didn’t want a new dog as Rex so clearly did, but, as she was learning, everyone had their own journey through the fug of grief and it wasn’t anyone’s place to pass judgement.
She refocused on the happy crowd in front of Mr Winters’ place, showing one another their ribbons and catching up on last-minute plans for the holidays.
‘Gorgeous,’ Jess grinned.
‘Yes,’ Drea whispered. ‘He is.’
Jess quirked her head to the side. ‘Are you taking about the hamster?’
Drea gave her a confused look then popped on her trademark smile, gave her cheek a lipsticky kiss then said, ‘I’m offski, doll face. Conference call tomorrow.’
Jess watched her go, hoping against hope Spencer would appear on Drea’s screen with a suitcase by his side and a promise to see his mother on Christmas Eve.
‘Jessica?’ Mr Winters pulled his coat a bit more snugly round him. ‘You won’t forget to ask your screen to send a message to Will, will you?’
Ask her screen? Oh!
‘’Course. I’ll email him first thing.’
‘Good,’ Mr Winters gave the type of nod she imagined he’d given at work when someone had presented him with a job well done.
She gave him a little salute. ‘I’ll report back tomorrow.’
He nodded. ‘You do that.’
‘Okay.’ She couldn’t stop grinning. She loved that he had helped tonight. ‘I’m going now.’
‘Very good then.’
‘Night.’
‘Jess?’
‘Yes?’
‘Go home.’
‘Okay.’ A few steps beyond the picket fence she couldn’t resist whirling round and using her Terminator voice, ‘I’ll be back.’
He was already climbing the steps towards an expectant Mr Perkins, but when he got to the top, Arnold waved and, as he shut the door, she could see that he, too, was smiling.
21 December
Jess woke with a sense of anticipation buzzing through her, which was strange, as her daily list of things to do (get up, make coffee, twiddle thumbs and contemplate future) had been roughly the same since she’d moved in. Bar,
of course, the initial flurry of describing office supplies, the daily anticipation of the advent-calendar reveal and the late morning coooeee! through her post flap which had, sadly, been waning in frequency the closer to Christmas they were. She spooned coffee into the glass beaker wondering what her life would be like once she was teaching again. Better? More stressful? Humdrum?
As she poured her first cup of coffee, her laptop jangled with a Skype call.
‘Hey, Mum! Hi, Dad.’ She peered at them. Something was off. ‘Are you … are you two all right?’
‘Yes, sorry, darling. We’re both a bit puffed is all.’
‘Why?’
Her parents looked at one another to see who would explain.
‘We’ve been learning to climb coconut trees,’ her mother finally said holding up her hands, which were wrapped in white gauze bar the fingertips. ‘The traditional way.’
‘Why?’
‘We wanted to help hang up the fairy lights. You know how they …’ Her father made a swirling gesture which, surprisingly, made sense. Her father gave a happy little grin then began asking Jess about her day, the house and how settling in was going; and before long they were making promises to set their alarms so that they had calls on both Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. So they could open and eat their chocolate oranges together (her parents had put one of those in the art box as well) and then on Christmas morning ‘exchange’ proper gifts, even though Jess had insisted the deposit on the house counted as a proper gift for, like, the next thirty years.
After Jess had extracted a promise from them that they’d limit their holiday decor to trees no higher than six feet, the call ended. Jess opened up the mail app and, once again, was disappointed to see there was nothing from Will or Spencer. There was an email version of the St Benedict’s Christmas card, which included a note explaining how they’d gone paper-free to contribute to the environment and had made a donation to Childline – which was so two-faced it made her want to throw up in her mouth. It was also suspicious, because she definitely hadn’t received one last year. How had she hopped back onto their Christmas list?
Whatever. That was then and right now she needed to make good on her promise to Mr Winters.
21 December
11:32
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: PIES!!!!!!
Dear Will,
It’s Jess(ica) here.
I just wanted to let you know that your amazingly delicious (dare I say … scrumptious) mince pies were received at your grandfather’s.
Lucky me, I happened to be passing by. Was that you in the green van? I don’t know if you noticed, but I was standing in the doorway talking to another neighbour.
Erm … awkward pause … I am hoping your kind gesture was a way of letting Mr Winters know you know what’s going on and still want to get in touch but that you’re busy right now. I haven’t told him I told you about, you know, everything, but the man’s not daft. He knows we email one another because he is the one who suggested I ‘ask my screen’ aka – my laptop – to send you a note to tell you he liked the pies.
I know it’s crazy time for you so I won’t take too much of your time, but I thought you should know he shared some of the pies (definitely not all because, yes, they’re good enough to hoard) with the street when he served as a judge on the Christmas Street Pet Parade last night. Tonight’s at number 21 (obvs). It’s Martha Snodgrass who is, give or take a decade, somewhere around your grandfather’s age. I have no idea what she’s going to do. Lecture us on seasonal noise pollution or give us all a boa-wearing lesson (slightly long story). Watch. This. Space.
I hope you don’t hate these updates. I just … you seem so nice and your grandfather is obviously so sad and it’s been great seeing him start to peek out of his tortoise shell a little bit and I bet he would do it even more if/when you actually come by and meet him, so … I’ll leave it there?
All the best – Jess(ica) x
‘Get your glad rags on, girl!’
Drea opened the bottle of champagne she was holding with a sword. An actual sword.
‘What on earth are you doing?’
Drea sucked a bit of the foam from her hand then beamed as she expertly slid the sword into a sheath hanging from her hip. ‘Celebrating.’
‘Oh?’
‘Spencer.’ Drea said, her grin pretty much hitting ear to ear. ‘He’s coming. Christmas Eve, the little devil.’
‘Oh, Drea!’ Jess did a happy dance that was also a little bit for herself. ‘I’m absolutely thrilled for you. That’s brilliant news.’
‘It is, isn’t it,’ Drea beamed, then frowned. ‘Why aren’t you running off to fetch champagne glasses, doll? The evening is ripe for excitement.’
Martha Snodgrass wasn’t as full of joie de vivre as Drea was by the time the bulk of the neighbourhood had gathered outside her house, the children off in a group competing to blow the best cold breath ‘smoke’ ring. She looked nervous, a bit snappy about people sticking to the paved areas and away from her tied-up rose bushes but, Jess was pleased to see, she was looking fabulous and warm in her fur coat and hat.
‘This is going to be short and sweet,’ announced Martha in her usual straightforward way. ‘Some of us aren’t so great with all of this standing around we’ve been required to do of an evening.’ She shot Drea a little ‘that means you’ glare then rang her actual, genuine bell on the side of the small porch.
Tyler appeared from behind her, like a matador brandishing his cape, only it was a guitar and, a bit more clunkily, a speaker. He shoved a big wedge of hair back from his pale face, sat on the speaker after unpocketing a microphone he’d handed to Martha, who said ‘Hello’ into it then instantly apologised to everyone for the volume. He gave the guitar a rather alarming torrent of distorted cranks and squeals. Jess wasn’t entirely sure if they were meant to like it; and from the looks on everyone else’s faces, nor were they. Several of the smaller children clamped their little mittened hands to their ears.
‘Tyler,’ Martha snapped, then, more genteelly into the microphone, ‘Now, if you’ll all just quiet down, we can get this over and done with.’
‘Hear, hear. I’ve got a shepherd’s pie in the oven, so let’s get this moving.’
‘Do you think it’s going to snow? It’s cold enough—’
‘It’s cold enough for you to stop talking.’
‘Shhhhhh!!!!’
‘Ladies and gentleman, I’d like to welcome you to Marti Morgan and Tyler Butterfield’s Christmas Street Holiday Blues Club.’
Everyone perked up and, more to the point, buttoned up.
The voice that had come out of the microphone wasn’t at all old ladyish. It was rich and confident and extra comfortable with being centre-stage – every eye in the house was on her. Martha, or rather Marti, shot Tyler one of her imperious looks complete with arched eyebrow, and then she winked. ‘That’s better,’ she said to her spellbound audience. ‘I always preferred to hear a pin drop before the music began.’
Jess gave Drea an open-jawed look, then Mr Winters, but neither of them were looking at her. They were staring at Martha and her fur coat and the boa she was tangling her daringly coloured nails through. Her entire aura exuded glamour. Showbiz Martha, it turned out, was quite the looker when she put a mind to it.
After Tyler gave the guitar an initial, more familiar strum, and one of the Gem’n’Emms began handing round little tealights in jam jars, Jess felt everyone’s shoulders begin to relax. Tyler made an impish face, held his hand above the guitar fretboard, twirled a pick through his other fingers, then began to play an absolutely beautiful, slow and luxurious version of ‘Silent Night’.
Collectively the group leant in and then … oh, and then … Martha began to sing.
Marti Morgan was a leg
end. Her voice danced and played along with Tyler’s sometimes cheeky, sometimes haunting spin on the classic carol. She soared up and down the octaves as easily as a child swept down a slide then ran back up again for more. Joyously. With complete and utter commitment.
And then it began to snow.
The moment could not have been more magical. The night wasn’t at all like it had been for poor homeless Mary and Joseph seeking, then ultimately, finding shelter in a manger in Bethlehem and arriving just in the nick of time to give birth to Jesus, but this felt a similar type of magic. A rare moment of beauty that bound everyone together for a singular, never to be repeated, moment in time.
And then, just like that, as the last notes of both Martha’s voice and the guitar hung in the air then faded into the darkness, it was over.
‘Right you lot, mind the roses as you go,’ Martha instructed, her gimlet eyes pinned to the small crowd that had managed to jam themselves onto her flagstone path.
Taylor started playing ‘Let It Snow’ as everyone applauded Martha, expressed amazement that they had such a star in their midst, and, much more congenially than when they had arrived, wished one another a good evening and exchanged promises to see one another the next night even though, yes, they were all busy and up to their eyeballs with things to do. It was special, they all agreed, very special to live on a street where they could come together and share a bit of themselves and, yes, surprise one another.
Mr Winters made a quick farewell to Jess, but did, she was pleased to see, make sure he caught Martha’s eye to send her a wave of thanks and a finger touched to his nose as if confirming that she was every bit as good as the album she’d given him. Drea gave Jess a hug and sighed and kept saying, ‘Isn’t life wonderful?’ As if her news about her son’s impending visit had actually changed the hue of the world from grey to glistening. It probably had. What a difference a phone call could make.