Calling Mrs Christmas

by Carole Matthews

  ‘Promise me.’

  The lad looked up at him. He was a pitiful sight. ‘Yeah,’ he whispered.

  Jim turned to his colleagues. ‘All right, lads. I’ll take it from here.’ He loosened his helmet. ‘Will one of you go and find Rozzer and bring him here?’

  He took off the helmet, put his baton back into its holster and stepped inside. He left the cell door open, knowing that one of his colleagues, at least, would be waiting just outside on the landing as back-up in case anything kicked off again.

  Jim sat down on the bed opposite Smudge. ‘Are you going to get up now? No one’s coming in.’

  Smudge wiped his sleeve across his face, covering it with blood.

  ‘You’ve probably done your nose, lad,’ Jim observed.

  The boy touched it gingerly and winced.

  ‘I’ll have to take you down to Healthcare. They’ll want to clean you up properly.’

  After a few moments’ consideration, Smudge slowly inched himself up onto his own bed and sat with his back against the wall, knees hugged into his scrawny chest. He looked about twelve years old.

  Jim took his time. ‘Want to tell me what it’s all about?’

  Smudge shook his head.

  ‘Easier to tell me,’ Jim said. ‘Otherwise you will be going straight to Seg to get one of the psychiatrists to prise it out of you. You know what a pain that is.’ Smudge had been taken to see the psychs often enough to know that he didn’t want to go down that route. ‘Let’s see if we can’t sort it out without all that, eh?’

  He waited but there was no answer. There was no rush. He was on shift all afternoon. All he had to do was get to Cassie’s event for six o’clock, make nice and give drinks out. Hopefully, this could all be done and dusted by then.

  ‘It was all going so well, lad,’ Jim tried again. ‘You’ve been making good progress. You and Rozzer get on great. You haven’t had a fall-out, have you?’

  ‘No,’ Smudge said.

  ‘Then why the long mush? You’re ugly enough without trying to bust up your own conk.’

  A glimmer of a smile touched the lad’s lips.

  ‘You’re getting out in a few weeks,’ Jim reminded him. ‘You don’t want to do anything stupid to set that back.’

  The lad’s head hung lower. Blood dripped onto his trackie bottoms. Then it dawned on Jim. That was probably what was troubling him. Jim remembered what had happened the last time Smudge had been released.

  He softened his voice. ‘You are OK about getting out this time?’

  At that the lad burst into tears. Deep racking sobs shook his body. Jim wanted to go and put his arm round him, comfort him, but that wasn’t possible. If the professional barrier didn’t remain in place, then he’d be answering to the governor. Instead he waited for the lad’s tears to subside.

  ‘I’m frightened.’ Smudge’s voice was small. ‘At first I thought it was scary in here, but this is a walk in the park compared to out there.’ He flicked a thumb towards the one tiny window high up in the wall.

  ‘There’s help,’ Jim said. ‘The probation service will be keeping an eye on you and there’s a charity that we can put you in touch with. They’re good at sorting out somewhere for you to live.’

  ‘I was living in a wheelie bin, Jim. Nicking food. No one helped me then. I can’t go back to that.’

  ‘There’s no need to.’

  ‘I want a job,’ Smudge said. ‘My own place. A key to let myself in and out. I’m sixteen and I’ve already been banged up twice. What mad fucker will give me a chance?’

  Jim sighed. It was the age-old problem. He’d been at Bovingdale for ten years, seen governments come and go, and no one had managed to sort it. Once cons were on the merry-go-round of crime, it was hard for them to get off even if they wanted to. The easier option was to keep offending, to keep getting banged up until you learned how to be better at it and not get caught. A lot of the regulars were keen to help with that kind of education.

  Kieran here was barely literate. It was only because of the lessons he’d had while he was in the unit that he was able to read and write at all. What he’d done at school, God only knows. There were very few jobs that he was going to be able to walk into and, so often, it was easier to get back into thieving.

  ‘Have you talked to Rozzer about this? He’s your listener.’

  Smudge shook his head. ‘He’d think I was a wuss.’

  ‘He gets out about the same time as you. Rozzer might be feeling the same way. You should talk to him.’

  ‘I’m worried that he won’t want to see me when we’re out of here.’ The tears started again. ‘He’s the only proper mate I’ve ever had. What if we go and live in different parts of the country? What if he goes back to his family and forgets me? What if we get banged up again and get put in different units? Then what?’

  Rozzer stood in the doorway, flanked by an officer who asked, ‘All right, Jim?’

  Jim nodded. ‘Yeah.’

  The officer turned and left Rozzer behind. ‘What have you been doing, you stupid cu —?’

  ‘Language,’ Jim said.

  ‘Sod,’ Rozzer corrected himself. He came into the cell and sat down next to Smudge. ‘You look a mess.’

  ‘Want to tell Rozzer what’s wrong?’ Jim prompted.

  Smudge shrugged.

  The lad was right to be frightened. It was going to take every ounce of his strength to keep on the straight and narrow. Jim just hoped that he would make it on the outside. He looked at the two awkward and lost teenagers in front of him and his heart squeezed. He hoped they would both make it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I arrive at the Old Town Hall only a little bit later than I planned. And I am only a little bit stressed about it. When I get there, however, the venue is looking good. The large Christmas tree that I ordered is standing proud in the corner, ready for my titivation, and it’s a smasher. Big, glossy and green. The fresh pine scent that it’s giving off is heavenly.

  I found an enormous Christmas warehouse online that’s not far from Hemel where they sell decorations for domestic settings as well as for commercial use. So I shot over there a couple of days ago and stocked up on giant baubles and garlands. They also have those fantastic illuminated figures for gardens and I was itching to buy loads, but no one has asked me to use them yet.

  As I’m bringing in all my boxes from the car, the champagne and glasses are delivered, along with a case of red wine for me to mull. Recipe obtained from the internet, of course.

  I call Jim again but, as it has done all day, his phone goes to voicemail. He didn’t even ring me at lunchtime today and I’m worried that he’s forgotten about tonight, even though I reminded him a dozen times. He seems to have a lot on his mind at the moment.

  There’s not a moment to waste. So I sign for the delivery and then set it all up in the kitchen. I bring in from the boot of the car the oranges and spices that I’ll need and, with the red wine, leave them to one side to heat up later.

  I collect the rest of my decorations and then move my car to the car park in the square so I’m not blocking anyone in. As soon as I’m back, I get cracking on dressing the tree and making the room ready for the party. I set up my stepladder so that I can reach the top of the tree. This time a glittering golden star will grace the pinnacle, not a beautiful angel. I’ve put a Christmas playlist on my iPod, which I connect to their sound system and let the songs fill the space to get me in the mood. Since I started this business, I think that I’ve grown even keener on Christmas than I was before. I just love it all. I’ve never felt happier than when I’m dressing a Christmas tree and I can only hope that this is something that I can make a living doing.

  For this tree, I go for a very traditional look. Swathes of red and gold tinsel, large baubles in the same colours. The lights are shaped like candles and give out a soft, mellow glow, not harsh like the new bright and twinkly LED ones. After an hour, I’m finished and I stand back to admire my handiwork. It looks lovely.
But no time to go all dreamy, I’ve just got a few minutes to grab a quick coffee before I start on inflating balloons. No rest for Mrs Christmas!

  I make a table ready for the mince pies with a gold cloth and displays of pretty scarlet poinsettia plants in gold pots that I bought from the garden centre. Next step is to learn a little more internet floristry so that I’m comfortable with doing my own table decorations, maybe even a swag for a mantelpiece in case I’m asked.

  Glancing up from my helium canister, I see Gaby arrive. I’ve already got a hundred balloons blown up, beribboned and arranged artistically around the room.

  ‘Wow,’ my sister says as she takes in the room. ‘Looking good.’ She kisses my cheek. ‘Really Christmassy.’

  ‘That’s the idea.’ I risk a look at my watch. It’s already five o’clock. ‘Flip, is that the time?’

  ‘It is indeed. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘You could start to put out the mince pies and the nibbles, if that’s OK. You look lovely,’ I tell her.

  My sister really does look nice in a black pencil skirt and fitted white shirt. She’s put on some make-up and her hair is swept up. It’s the first time in years I’ve seen her wearing heels. I look at her and my heart fills with love. Sometimes I feel that Gaby is older than her years. She didn’t have much of a childhood as she was always having to look after me. And here she is again, helping me out when I need it.

  ‘It’s the only chance I’ve had to dress up in ages.’ She smoothes down her skirt. ‘That’s quite sad when you think about it.’

  ‘We’ll make sure to have a couple of celebratory glasses at the end of the night,’ I assure her. ‘Assuming all goes well! I’m done here now. I’ll pop into the kitchen to get the mulled wine going. Better keep the drink flowing.’

  ‘Not so much that they don’t appreciate your lovely decorations.’

  In the kitchen, I slice the oranges and mix the spices. I find a couple of enormous pans in the cupboards and pour in the wine. When it’s simmering nicely, I slip into the ladies’ loo to change out of my jeans and sweatshirt and into my waitressing clothes. I’m also wearing a black skirt and white shirt. I’ve brought the same along for Jim – white shirt, black trousers – but they’re now accompanied by the Santa outfit, which I’ve yet to tell him about.

  Too soon, it’s a quarter to six and – after looking at my watch every three seconds – I am just beginning to panic when Jim arrives. His face is drawn and he looks as if he could do with a few beers and a night in front of the telly, rather than doing a waiter’s shift at the end of his long day.

  ‘Everything OK?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah.’ He shrugs.

  ‘Tough day?’

  ‘Yeah. I had a shower before I left work, I’ve just got to get into my clean shirt. You did bring one?’

  ‘Yes. It’s all here.’ I chew my lip. ‘There’s one other thing. I’ve been trying to call you all day —’

  ‘I know,’ Jim says. ‘I only just got your messages. We’ve had something on today. Haven’t had the chance to ring back.’

  ‘They sort of wanted a Santa. At the last minute.’ I whip the Santa suit from the top of the nearest cardboard box and wiggle it at him.

  His face falls.

  ‘I was sure that you wouldn’t mind.’

  Jim sighs. ‘Not today, Cassie. Any other day, I could probably gear myself up to be Santa. But a ho-ho-ho is totally beyond me now.’

  ‘Have a drink,’ I suggest. ‘Or two. Loosen up. I know it’s tough, but I’ve said that I could do it. I’ve got the suit and everything.’

  Now his shoulders sag.

  ‘Is it such a big deal?’ Normally Jim will do anything for me. I can’t see that this is a massive ask. ‘You might enjoy it. All you’ve got to do is be jolly and hand out some USB sticks.’

  ‘It’s the being jolly part that I’m struggling with.’

  ‘What else can I do, Jim? I can’t let them down.’

  ‘Someone might recognise me.’

  ‘With this big white beard on?’

  He eyes the suit with contempt and a certain amount of resignation. ‘You want me to put it on now?’

  ‘In half an hour or so,’ I say, my heart lifting. ‘Let’s get everyone welcomed and settled with drinks, then you can slip away to get ready for about seven. You’ll look fantastic. You’ll be fantastic.’ I give him a grateful kiss.

  ‘You owe me for this, Cassie,’ he says. And he doesn’t smile or laugh as he normally would.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When the guests begin to arrive I turn up the Christmas music to get the party started. Gaby, Jim and I drift around serving the champagne and the mulled wine. The atmosphere is lovely. Very jovial. The room is full to bursting point now and there’s a friendly hubbub of chatter. Ideally, it would have been nice to have had real musicians, but the budget didn’t go quite that far. Maybe next year, if they have me back.

  We circulate with the nibbles and mince pies, making sure that the food and wine are flowing. The business cards that I’ve scattered discreetly around the room are disappearing with satisfying regularity and I’m making sure that I replenish them as I top up the glasses.

  Janet from Hemel Hempstead Means Business comes to congratulate me for doing such a lovely job. ‘Wonderful, Cassie,’ she gushes. ‘Simply wonderful. So many people have commented on the beautiful Christmas tree. It’s the prettiest party we’ve ever had. I’m quite looking forward to Christmas now.’ Her cheeks are flushed, probably from the glass of mulled wine that she’s knocking back.

  I’m pleased that it’s going so well, but there’s a knot of anxiety in my stomach that probably won’t disappear until it’s all over and I’ve packed away my boxes.

  ‘The mince pies are divine, dear,’ someone says to me as she helps herself to another one. I think we could have done with twice as many tonight and I make a mental note.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll pass the compliment on to my baker.’ I wink at Gaby and give her a sly thumbs-up sign.

  It’s nearly a quarter to seven, so I sidle over to Jim and say, ‘It’s probably time that you put on the Santa suit.’

  He gives me a dark look again, but it’s a shade less black than the previous one, so I take that as a good sign. ‘I’ll come with you to help.’

  Leaving Gaby to man the fort, I slip away with Jim, grab the Santa costume and steer him towards the walk-in pantry.

  ‘In here?’ He baulks when he sees the small space in between the stacks of tins and crockery.

  ‘We can’t risk the loos. Someone might see you.’

  ‘And realise I’m not the real Santa?’

  ‘Indulge me,’ I plead.

  So, in the storeroom amid the tins of tomatoes and bottles of cooking oil, Jim strips off his shirt and trousers and hauls on the Santa costume. ‘It’s massive,’ he says. ‘I need to be about two stone heavier to fill this.’

  ‘I have a solution.’ I disappear to delve into one of my cardboard boxes. Minutes later, I’m back in the pantry, clutching a pillow from our bed. ‘Stick this up your front and I’ll buckle you in.’

  ‘You’ve thought of everything.’

  I meet his eyes. ‘I hope so.’

  ‘It’s going really well, Cassie,’ he assures me. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Then we both huff and puff, stuffing the pillow into his outfit, and I tighten the thick black belt. I fix on Jim’s beard and then his hat. He puts his big work boots on and there are black gloves too.

  ‘I’m roasting alive in here,’ he complains.

  ‘You look fantastic,’ I tell him. ‘Just like the real Santa.’

  ‘Ho-naffing-ho,’ he chimes.

  I put my arms round him. ‘Day that bad?’

  ‘Yes,’ he sighs. ‘Bloody awful.’

  ‘Want to tell me about it?’

  ‘No. This is your night to sparkle. I’ll get over myself and go and wow the boys and girls.’

 
‘Catch them quick before they’re all pissed.’

  ‘Got my sack of swag?’

  I show him the festively striped sack that I filled with the corporate branded goodies that Janet left out for me. ‘I think there’s enough for a couple of presents for everyone.’

  Jim heaves the sack onto his shoulder. ‘It’s certainly heavy enough.’

  I kiss him tenderly. ‘Thanks for doing this for me.’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘Wish me luck.’