by Annie O'Neil
A sharp sting of emotion hit the back of Jess’s throat. She wasn’t sure, but that’s how life worked sometimes, wasn’t it? Taking the sucker punches life threw at you then getting up and carrying on. Besides, it wasn’t like she could abandon Drea and curl up here in front of Mr Winters’ fire with one of the lovely tartan blankets she’d spied in the corner. Nor would she.
No. She was going to get up and walk back down the street into her little house and help her friend whose Christmas she had very possibly destroyed. She would find something for them to eat and maybe, if she could convince Drea, they’d play a board game by candlelight. She was sure her Bananagrams was somewhere.
That’d be fun.
They could get a takeaway. Have a good sleep. Christmas would be a bit shit, but it might also be funny. The funny-later sort of funny, but one day she hoped tears of laughter would roll down their cheeks as they recalled this Christmas. And that was the thing about life, wasn’t it? No matter what happened, you had to look forward. You had to keep on climbing.
After ensuring Mr Winters knew he could ring her at any time if he needed anything, Jess stepped out onto the street, her newfound optimism evaporating as quickly as it appeared.
It was dark. Several couples were out having quiet and not-so-quiet discussions about how on earth they were going to salvage even a smidgen of Christmas cheer. Words shot out at her like bullets. Ruined. Disaster. Worst ever.
The happy bonhomie everyone had shared with all of the advent events seemed to have evaporated, too. There wasn’t any talk of sharing or helping or joining forces.
Jess’s skin prickled more from discomfort than cold as she slipped back into her house. Maybe this wouldn’t be funny later. Maybe it would be the Christmas No One Ever Mentioned. Maybe it really was the worst ever Christmas everyone on Christmas Street would ever have.
25 December
‘Ho! Ho! Ho!’
Jess peered through Drea’s mail flap. Nothing. Maybe she was still asleep. Or had frozen to death. It was really, really cold. Jess called out again, trying to keep her voice Christmas-morning cheery. She’d woken up, not warm and cosy exactly, but with an unexpected surge of positive determination. The type of energy burst she used to get when one of her classes, for whatever reason, was in a collective strop. She always managed to turn things around. Even if it was in the last minute of class, she had them laughing and smiling, and she was determined to do the same again today.
After a couple of more minutes Drea yanked open the door. She was wearing a quilted onesie, a knitted cap, mittens and an ultra-cosy pair of Uggs. She glared at Jess then shifted her frown into a sort of smile/smirk. Putting the blinking antlers and ridiculous jumper on had been worth it.
‘Happy Christmas.’
‘Happy Christmas to you, doll face,’ Drea reached out and gave Jess’s Rudolph nose a honk.
‘Want to come over and open presents with me?’
‘Not unless one is a generator and the other is my son.’ Drea’s chin betrayed the tiniest of quivers.
Jess gave her mittened hand a squeeze. ‘Maybe we got it wrong. Maybe he just missed the flight.’
‘Spencer doesn’t miss flights.’ Drea’s tone made it clear she was the only one allowed to speculate on her son’s actions and, as such, the subject was over.
After some rather epic pleading, Jess eventually convinced her to come over for Christmas lunch, only to realise, as she rustled round in the kitchen with a tiny Swiss army torch, that half a packet of vegetable crisps and a mini variety cereal pack did not a Christmas lunch make.
‘How do you feel about Coco Pops and out-of-date mince-pie yoghurt?
Drea’s pursed lips did the talking for her. Then, when her stomach audibly growled, she pulled her coat closer round and huffed out a vaguely conciliatory, ‘Surely there’s at least one restaurant open today.’
Jess stopped herself short of saying that even if there was somewhere open, they’d probably been booked out last night when the power was cut. This was a day to look at what was possible, not what wasn’t.
She quickly made them mugs of chocolate milk, made a big show of giving Drea her last Wagon Wheel, took a fortifying swig then clapped her hands together. The wall clock she’d taken from her parents’ kitchen – bearing a large molar and the motto ‘There’s Always Time To Brush Your Teeth’ – drew her attention. It was just past ten.
Okay. Good. She had three hours to magic up a Christmas lunch. She could do this.
She pulled open the ‘everything’ drawer to see if any of the takeaway menus she’d acquired over the past month might surprise her with Christmas hours.
Her heart jammed in her throat.
There, unopened, sat the large envelope from St Benedict’s.
Jess frowned at the letter then made a decision.
She read silently for a few moments, her eyes racing over the letter at first then, more slowly a second and third time.
‘What?’ Drea finally demanded. ‘Tell me.’
‘It’s …’ Jess shook her head hardly believing it. ‘It’s a formal apology and an invitation to come back and teach at St Benedict’s if I want to.’
Drea’s frown deepened then shifted to a half smile as she lifted up her chocolate milk in a toast. ‘Well done you. Has the little blighter ended up in juvey?’
Jess pulled a face. ‘Sort of?’
Drea blinked her surprise. ‘Seriously?’
‘Military academy,’ Jess explained then handed her the letter and the mini torch she didn’t really need now because actual genuine sunlight was flooding into the room.
In fact, for all of the misery the heavens had unleashed on them yesterday, today seemed … pleasant. The calm after the storm. She pulled on some socks and practically skipped over to the window while Drea read. The sky was a sharp, bright blue and while the window was cold to the touch, the day seemed invigorating, inviting even. A day full of promise.
‘Well,’ Drea said when she had finished reading the letter. ‘Looks like someone who actually deserved to be disciplined finally was.’
Without offering the full ‘set of circumstances under which Crispin’s behaviour came to light’, the Head Teacher of St Benedict’s Preparatory School had made it clear that, after some ‘careful consideration and considerable evidence’, he was compelled to acknowledge that Jessica’s version of the story had, in fact, been true.
‘One of his buddies must’ve filmed him bragging. I bet it’s on YouTube,’ Drea said, as if she’d spent a lifetime getting to the bottom of these types of mysteries.
Jess didn’t really care. She felt light and unburdened in a way she couldn’t have imagined possible. Another thread tying her to a past she no longer wanted, snipped. She was a good teacher again. A good person. She’d known somewhere in her heart that it had to be true, but having one of the most prestigious schools in the country take a spoilt child’s word over hers had felt akin to a dictator announcing they’d won a ‘free and fair’ election.
The doorbell went.
Drea and Jess looked at one another, then, fortified by Jess’s news, raced to open it.
‘Two-pence pieces?’ Jess repeated.
Mr Winters nodded. ‘I tried to replace the mechanism with something that would accept chocolate coins, but …’ He stopped himself.
‘Mr Winters?’ Jess asked carefully. ‘Are you all right? You didn’t slip and fall or anything last night, did you?’
Arnold laughed. A genuine, shoulder-shaking, see-your-tonsils type of laugh.
‘No, I’m fine, duck. I wanted the whole thing to be a surprise, but with the shops closed and my reputation on the street being what it is – you know …’ he shifted his weight then looked her in the eye again. ‘I’m not in the habit of asking for favours—’ Jess opened her mouth to say he was welcome to ask whatever favour he wanted but
he shook his head, no please, that’s not what this is about, and continued, ‘The long and short of it is, I wanted to get things set up before I invited everyone over.’
‘Set what up?’ Drea asked
‘Ah,’ said Mr Winters, his blue eyes glinting with mischief. ‘Now that would be telling.’
After assuring Mr Winters they’d scrabble together as many two-pence pieces as they could then meet him at his, Drea went home and Jess hastily pulled on three pairs of tights and a thick corduroy skirt done up with a centre line of colourful, mismatched buttons. She tugged on two jumpers then dove into an as-yet-unpacked box and unearthed the silliest Christmas jumper she owned, a sparkly elf body with the classic elf neckline complete with jingle bells running along a mock turtleneck. She raced over to number 1 where Drea had, surprise surprise, pulled on a winter ensemble more suited to Bond Street than Christmas Street, an hilarious contrast to her pleasure in showing Jess her startlingly large collection of two-pence pieces. Drea explained that, back in the day when money hadn’t been quite so plentiful, Spencer used to love building up stacks of coins into little towers until there were enough towers to afford a night at the movies. Precious nights when it had been just the two of them. Popcorn, sweeties from the concessions. The lot. She’d been saving her two-pence pieces ever since she’d begun sending him airline tickets, hoping to recreate the adventure.
‘Are you sure you’re happy to use them?’
Drea’s jaw did one of those back and forth wiggles that meant she was fighting off a surge of emotion. ‘It’s Christmas, doll. I’ve got to try and celebrate what I do have. Not what I don’t.’
After a quick hug and a mascara touch-up for Drea, the pair of them practically jogged down the street towards Mr Winters, delighted to note the gritting machine had, at long last, made the turn down their little cul-de-sac.
When Jess and Drea arrived at number 24, Jess felt the breath knocked out of her.
In place of Mr Winters’ reliable old Volvo was a food truck. A familiar-looking logo was painted on the side.
The Merry Victualler.
Jess’s stomach did a flip.
Will. Will was here.
The window on the truck wasn’t open yet but the scents wafting from it immediately made Jess’s mouth water.
It was stupid to be as excited as she was, because of course she couldn’t fancy someone she’d never met, not to mention the fact he was very likely younger than—
Ohhh … no, he wasn’t.
A dark-haired, thirty-something man – tallish, lanky, a face wreathed in kindness and, yes, rather striking good looks Jess had seen hints of in Mr Winters – climbed out of the food truck, eyes darting between her and Drea. His eyes were the same sparkling blue that his grandfather had. He also had a ridiculously lovely set of teeth. No periodontitis in this guy.
‘Jess?’ He said, eyes hopping from one to the other.
Drea pushed her forward. ‘This is Jess.’
‘H-hello.’
Will bounded towards her and took both of her hands in his. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’
‘Me? What? Why would you—’
Mr Winters appeared from round the corner wheeling a hand trolley. ‘William? Would you mind giving your grandad a hand with – oh! Jess. Lovely. You’ve met my grandson, I see.’
Jess beamed at Mr Winters. Then at Will. Then, after a nudge in the back, at Drea. ‘Yes. We have. Ummm – what is all this? It looks like you’re …’ She floundered for the right words.
‘Well,’ Mr Winters said, clapping a hand on his grandson’s shoulder. ‘As Old Man Winter stole the celebrations from everyone last night, my grandson and I thought we’d show him what the Winters family could do when they put their minds to it. Thought we’d bring a bit of Christmas to Christmas Street, didn’t we, William?’
Jess’s heart skipped a beat. There was such a depth of affection in Mr Winters’ voice in that one, lovely word: grandson.
Drea covered a small sob with a cough. Jess grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. It would be a tough day for Drea, but they’d get through it together.
‘How?’ Jess gestured at the two Winters men, the house, the food truck, still not entirely able to capture her powers of speech.
‘No time for that, lass. We’ll work and talk at the same time if it suits you.’
After demanding use of Will’s generator to charge her phone, Drea dispatched herself round the street to spread the news that Christmas dinner would be served in three hours. She also had a list of things to collect from the neighbours as she did. Chantal’s tables. The Gem’n’Emms’ outdoor heaters. Everyone’s folding chairs. The list went on.
Will, it turned out, had been up half the night prepping loads of food and roasting several turkeys, as his catering facility in Greenleigh had power; but there was still a lot to do.
Jess was sent into the food truck to peel a mountain of potatoes, humming along to the radio which was, of course, playing a non-stop stream of Christmas songs.
When Will and Arnold reappeared from round the back of the house they called for her to join them. ‘Where do you think we should put this?’ Arnold asked her.
Jess’s jaw literally dropped.
Will was edging a mini-pallet down the drive and onto the street. Balanced on it was the most beautiful, vintage vending machine Jess had ever seen. It was cherry red. There were feathery little snowflake whorls painted round a classic 1950s-style Santa who, between his mittened hands, was holding a freshly painted sign that read ‘Merry Christmas’. The machine had four windows showing a magical display of chocolate coins, miniature chocolate oranges, tiny bottles of bubbles and – she actually gasped at this one – dozens of small packets of Christmas tree-shaped sparklers. The price? Two pence.
‘Was this what you were going to do last night?’ Jess asked, her hands clasped one atop the other over her pounding heart.
Mr Winters nodded. ‘It didn’t seem right. The timing,’ he said.
‘But …’ she looked round the back of the machine. No. There was no plug. No electricity. It was run on good old-fashioned clockwork mechanisms. She shook her head, trying to get everything to make sense and then, seeing Mr Winters look at Will with such a glow of pride, she realised he was right. It was all about timing, wasn’t it? If she had opened that letter from St Benny’s back when she’d received it, she might have accepted the job offer and headed back to London only to discover that her life had moved on without her.
Drea reappeared in full troop-commander mode, demanding menu details before she carried on having just been to the hippies’ who, while delighted, wanted to know about vegan, gluten-free, sugar-free, and soy-free options. They would, it was announced, ‘make an exception for turkey’, seeing as it was Christmas. And they also had plenty of homemade elderflower champagne to bring if anyone was interested. Drea had already accepted that offer.
Will gave her a printed-out list as if he’d been expecting the barrage of requests.
Drea scanned it then began doling out instructions. Even though it wasn’t her event to set up, Will and Mr Winters agreed with Jess that it was probably best to let her helm the ‘command centre’, as she’d taken to calling the large turning circle at the end of the cul-de-sac where they would set up the outdoors feast. Her way, Jess supposed, of coping with the fact that, unlike Mr Winters, she would not be spending Christmas with family.
Some three hours later, nearly everyone on the street, bundled up in new Christmas jumpers and scarves and bobbly hats, was merrily chatting away, exchanging ‘war stories’ of the worst Christmas Eve ever as they collectively set out Will’s recyclable (applause from the hippies) plates and cutlery with a motley collection of serviettes people had brought along when it turned out Will had forgotten to bring some. They’d also brought wine and soft drinks. Anyone who had a camp stove had brought it along so hot
pots of tea and a lovely cinnamon-scented apple drink could be kept warm on little tables near the food truck. Kai and Rex had run into town and handed out piles of sheepskin rugs and baskets of woollen blankets – and, Jess was thrilled to see, did it all with their brand-new puppy, Ickle Pickle. Kai was carrying him in a baby sling, explaining to anyone who would listen that it was important for the puppy to hear his heart beat for bonding purposes. Martha said something about trying to do that with a cat and see where it landed him, but Kai was too over the moon to take any notice. Tyler, Jess was amused to note, had pulled him aside and volunteered to dog-sit.
A few people had brought out their Christmas trees. Those who hadn’t already added their wreaths to the picket fence so each family was represented.
Will had, in the course of mashing an enormous stockpot full of potatoes, asked if the wreaths were the ones Jess had put up when she’d been in a huff with his grandfather.
She nodded sheepishly, trying to hide the fact she’d been staring at his arm muscles as he turned the vat of boiled potatoes into a fluffy, buttery pile of steamy mash.
Their eyes met and cinched. A deep, lovely, flicker of heat lit up Jess’s belly then chest, setting her heart off on an erratic pitter-patter that was usually reserved for cartoon characters when their hearts came bouncing out of their chests and a swirl of robins twirled round their heads. As if the intensity was too much to handle they both looked out at the wreaths then back at one another, a bit more shyly this time.
‘They look nice,’ Will said, scanning the wreaths lining the family home he’d never known. She watched him absorb it, trying to fill in the ‘what ifs’ and then, as if he’d made peace with the fact his best bet was to focus on the future, his eyes dropped to hers, then to her mouth, then back up to her eyes again. ‘Very nice.’
Jess instantly turned crimson and busied herself piling a thousand chipolatas onto a platter. Her heartbeat was still erratic as, in such close quarters, their arms kept brushing, but they were mercifully busy filling tray after tray with juicy slices of turkey, piles of roast potatoes, chargrilled Brussel sprouts with (and without) bacon, roasted carrots with cardamom, pitchers of gravy and, of course, a mountain of mashed potato. ‘There’s never enough potato,’ Will said with a cheeky grin as he daubed a mouthful onto a spoon then lifted it up to Jess’s lips for her to try.