25 Days 'Til Christmas

by Poppy Alexander

  Dedication

  For Jonathan

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Daniel

  Kate

  25 Days ’til Christmas

  24 Days ’til Christmas

  23 Days ’til Christmas

  22 Days ’til Christmas

  21 Days ’til Christmas

  20 Days ’til Christmas

  19 Days ’til Christmas

  18 Days ’til Christmas

  17 Days ’til Christmas

  16 Days ’til Christmas

  15 Days ’til Christmas

  14 Days ’til Christmas

  13 Days ’til Christmas

  12 Days ’til Christmas

  11 Days ’til Christmas

  10 Days ’til Christmas

  9 Days ’til Christmas

  8 Days ’til Christmas

  7 Days ’til Christmas

  6 Days ’til Christmas

  5 Days ’til Christmas

  4 Days ’til Christmas

  3 Days ’til Christmas

  Christmas Eve

  Christmas Day

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Daniel

  He looked at the calendar as he shrugged on his coat. Nearly December. He still found it strange how time kept passing, the earth kept turning on its axis, each day taking him further away from that awful moment ten months ago. The moment she left him.

  People say death is a shock, even when it’s expected, and they are right. He had been astonished. And that was the easy part, the disbelief. The hard graft was the bit that followed, the grief that came in waves, each first anniversary painfully borne . . . her birthday, his birthday, and now the big one. Christmas.

  He wondered if the Christmas Tree Girl would be in her usual spot. This would have been the fourth year, long enough to call it a tradition, him walking past her twice a day, smiling sometimes and catching her eye. Most days she had been preoccupied, busy with other customers, so he would end up passing unacknowledged, creating an odd sense of disappointment which hung over his entire day. Then—on a Saturday in early December—there would be the ceremonial “making the visit to buy the tree.” Zoe would always argue for the first Saturday in December and Daniel would want the second, worried the tree would be dead and bare by Christmas Day. The good-natured discussions would start at the end of November and Zoe would generally win. Last year, he had had to bring her in her wheelchair, wrapped up against the cold because her circulation was so very poor. Her lips had been permanently blue, as if she had been eating blackberries, her cheeks flushed in a parody of good health; but by then her movements were slow and her voice weak.

  The Christmas Tree Girl had still greeted Zoe as if nothing had changed, teasing her about her hat, ignoring the wheelchair but unselfconsciously hunkering down on her haunches to be on the same level, straining to hear her whispered words and making a joke of her own stupidity when she had to ask her to repeat herself. The Christmas Tree Girl never pretended to understand when she didn’t. Not like other people, people who were embarrassed and dismissed her with an exaggerated smile and a nod. Zoe thought they were idiots and Daniel agreed. No, the Christmas Tree Girl had been different.

  As always, last year, the intensely difficult question of which tree to choose had been fully engaged in. An unlimited number of trees had been examined and their form, height, bushiness, and general appearance thoroughly explored. A short list would be drawn up and judging would be repeated until—at last—a selection could be made, and Daniel could lift the tree onto his shoulder and heft it back to the car. Last year, the Christmas Tree Girl had quickly packed up her money tin, slipped on her backpack, and taken the handles of the wheelchair. By the time Daniel had the tree properly balanced on his shoulder she had been ready to go.

  “Where’s the car?” she asked.

  “You can’t . . . what about the trees?”

  “They’ll be fine. You can’t manage on your own.”

  They walked the short distance back to his parked car talking about nothing in particular. He wished it were further. There was that awkward moment when she turned to leave.

  “Merry Christmas,” she said, giving Zoe a wave through the window as the girl settled herself inside the car.

  “Merry Christmas,” he replied, wanting desperately to kiss her on the cheek. Stopping himself, he held out his hand instead. “Merry Christmas,” he said again, feeling like a complete tool. She shook it, grinning that grin where her mouth went up further on the right than the left—but her eyes still looked sad.

  He blinked hard, dismissing the memory. He didn’t need to make the Saturday visit this year. He wouldn’t need a tree . . . but he desperately wanted to tell the Christmas Tree Girl why. He wanted to tell her—this woman whose name he didn’t even know—that he had lost Zoe, that she was gone forever and he couldn’t bear it. He wanted to tell her because he had looked into her eyes and he had seen something he now saw in his own reflection.

  The Christmas Tree Girl knew about loss.

  Kate

  “We’re all very excited about it,” finished Mr. Wilkins, straightening his unforgivably awful tie and giving Kate a smug grin.

  “So,” she said, dragging her mind reluctantly back into the tired little beige-carpeted space off the stockrooms where Mr. Wilkins had created himself a domain, “what you’re saying is—despite promising last year was the last time—you want me to stand outside the shop and sell the Christmas trees again.”

  “We do! Your talent and enthusiasm for the task in the previous three years has been noted within the Portman Brothers’ senior management team,” he said, clearly expecting her to be fawning with gratitude. “And this year is the most satisfying challenge ever. With a bigger-than-ever stock of six-foot premium blue spruce—at a higher-than-ever retail price, I might add—we are aiming for our best year yet.”

  “Am I on a bonus?”

  “No.”

  “Do I have to work extra hours?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do I get overtime?”

  “No.”

  “Is there marketing support?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you mean actual marketing support, or do you mean me wearing a sexy elf costume with curly slippers and a crotch-length tunic in the freezing cold? Again?”

  “Yes.” Mr. Wilkins paused. “The second one,” he added. “You’ll have to get yourself some fur-lined knickers,” he suggested with an unattractive leer.

  He wasn’t wrong, thought Kate. The wind whistled straight up the High Street from the river and it didn’t bother going around anyone in its path. She felt the cold in her bones. In previous years she had genuinely worried about getting hypothermia.

  “Is there a budget for fur-lined pants?” she asked, without optimism.

  “No. Non-uniform attire will be provided at the expense of the individual employee.”

  I bet it will, she thought glumly. “So,” she said, “with no sales-related bonus and no other perks, what is my motivation for saying yes, exactly?”

  “I think,” said Mr. Wilkins, with barely concealed malice, “all staff on contracts which are expiring in January would be well served to ask themselves not what Portman Brothers can do for them but what they can do for Portman Brothers.”

  “My contract is ending?”

  “The thirty-first of December,” confirmed Mr. Wilkins. “How time flies when you’re having fun . . . You are, as you will doubtless remember, on a rolling contract which renews in line with the business year end, regardless of start date. It’s all in there. Do
you not recall?”

  “Well, yes,” said Kate, because she did vaguely remember something about it. The contract terms had been generally poor, she definitely remembered that much, with the bare minimum wage, holidays, and benefits, but she had needed a job as a stopgap, not imagining she would still be there. “But it’s just continued every year. I didn’t think . . .”

  “That’s because it’s been rolling,” he explained patiently. “But now it’s been getting on for four years—can you believe?—since I interviewed you for the post. You brought Max, I recall. He was only, what, three?”

  “Two,” said Kate, faintly. “He was two. And he’s called Jack.”

  “Yes, well, anyway,” he said, losing interest. “Like I said, four years down the line, belts tightening, cutbacks, same old, same old . . . Always wise to make a good impression, don’t you think? Don’t want to find yourself starting the new year at a loose end, especially with a little lad to support.”

  Helen opened the door of the bright pink terraced house with a broad smile on her face.

  “Sorry, sorry,” said Kate. “I had a meeting after work. I thought about calling when I got out but I decided to just get here asap.”

  “No problem,” said Helen, who was sunny by nature but was also smiling for a reason; she made a penalty charge of fifteen pounds for all parents collecting after her seven o’clock cut-off point and the minute hand was now firmly south of ten past.

  She had earned it fair and square, thought Kate without rancor, although it was money she could ill afford to lose. That said, Helen was a rock without whom Kate would not be able to work at all, and she owed the older woman for far too many kindnesses over the years to begrudge the little boost to her income.

  “He’s been fine,” said Helen. “Done his homework, eaten a good tea; getting a bit tired now though. Mrs. Chandler said to tell you she wanted a word when you take him in tomorrow. Jack’ll tell you why,” she said, pulling a face. “At least he’ll tell you his version.”

  “Fighting!” said Kate once she had Jack in the car. “What have I said to you about fighting?”

  “Dad did fighting as an actual job,” he said sulkily. “And Uncle Stuart said he was a ‘bloody hero.’”

  “Don’t swear. And that’s not the point. Dad was a soldier. It’s not the same. Anyhow, what was the fight about?”

  “Lucas and Krishna said Father Christmas only comes if you’ve got a dad.”

  “Well, how the heck do you work that one out?”

  Jack sighed. “It’s simple,” he said. “You know Father Christmas can’t get to all the houses in the world in one night, right?”

  Kate blinked. “He can’t?” she asked, playing for time.

  “Obviously not,” said Jack, with heavy patience. “That’s not real, is it? So, he has to do a thing where he uses the daddies, see? So, it’s—kind of—a thing where it’s him but not him, right? The dads . . .” he cast around for logic, “they help. See?”

  “Oookay,” said Kate, “but that’s fine, because you have got a daddy, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah, but he’s just a stupid star now isn’t he?” said Jack, pointing at the sky through the car windshield. “How’s he going to help Father Christmas bring me presents from there?”

  By then, they had arrived back home. Miraculously there was a parking space just outside the launderette and Kate nipped in quickly before it was taken by someone else. She checked her watch. They had arrived home in the sweet spot between daytime parking charges and nighttime visitors. She and Jack lived in Stokes Croft, the edgy, “up and coming” area that never seemed to quite come up. The architecture was mainly late Victorian houses—now largely flat conversions—interspersed with brutalist sixties architecture replacing what had been flattened by stray wartime bombs meant for the docks. It was the only place near the center of the city—and therefore work—that wasn’t stupidly expensive. That was one of the reasons why Kate had been so pleased to find the nearly affordable little flat above the launderette. The comforting smells of detergent and hot laundry floating up the stairs to their front door, accessible only via the launderette itself, were another plus.

  “Time for bed,” she said, noticing the little boy rubbing his eyes as she opened the flat door, nudging him ahead of her as she came in behind him, carrying their bags.

  “Can we have hot chocolate?”

  She thought quickly. There was barely any milk, but enough for one mug, providing she gave him toast not cereal for breakfast and drank her tea black tomorrow morning. “’Course you can,” she said, with a smile.

  “Don’t you want any?” he asked, as she measured out the last of the milk and put the mug into the microwave.

  “Not for me, thanks lovely, I’m fine.”

  “Can I have marshmallows?”

  “None left,” she admitted, “but I’ll get some more as soon as I get paid.”

  “Yay! I love marshmallows . . . But I love hot chocolate without them too,” Jack added, hastily, noticing the sadness on his mum’s face.

  By the time he was in his pajamas, hot chocolate drunk, face washed, and teeth thoroughly brushed under Kate’s supervision, he was dragging his feet and yawning noisily. She chivied him into his bedroom that wasn’t a bedroom and encouraged him into bed. Kate had been amazed to see a two-bedroom flat to rent in her price range but when she came to view it, the reason for the low rent was obvious; the so-called “second bedroom” was—technically—a closet, or at least an internal space carved out of the main bedroom by a flimsy partition wall. It had its own door from the little hallway but no outside wall and consequently no window of its own. Kate worried about Jack being in there without direct access to daylight or ventilation, but she had made it cozy with a little chest of drawers, a narrow single bed with a bright, space-themed duvet cover, and lots of bookshelves, piled high with children’s books, mainly bought secondhand from charity shops.

  That night, Kate had barely started to read when Jack’s eyelids drooped and then fluttered closed. She continued for a few minutes more, lowering her voice gradually to a whisper before closing the book, but as she stood up his eyes flew open again.

  “I need a colander,” he announced, suddenly wide awake.

  “A colander?” she said, sitting back down and tucking a lock of his hair out of his eyes. She needed to get it cut. “Any particular sort of colander?”

  “A vent colander.”

  “For vegetables?”

  “Noooo . . .” he said, in frustration. “Not vegetables,” he pulled a face. “A vent colander . . . so we can tell when Christmas is.”

  “Ah!” said Kate, as the penny dropped. “An advent calendar.”

  “Yep. One of them,” Jack agreed with relief. “I think there are chocolate ones,” he added hopefully.

  “So I’ve heard,” smiled Kate. “I’ll have to see what I can do.”

  In the flat’s mean little sitting room, with its dingy furnishings and a basic kitchen arranged along one wall, she moved around quietly, tidying Jack’s possessions with nothing but the yellow light from the street lamp outside to guide her. She needed to get things sorted and then settle down to at least a couple of hours of jewelry making. It wasn’t a hobby. The craft, which she had been doing since Jack was tiny, had turned into a useful way of making extra money, but after an already busy day it was hard to find the motivation to do it.

  Folding his discarded school sweater, she gazed out of the tiny square window at the night sky. The glass was veiled with dirt, not on the inside, but on the outside from the traffic fumes and the dust from the street. The sky was clear though; Kate could see the moon and even some of the brightest stars.

  Had she been wrong to tell Jack that his father was looking down on him from the sky? It had seemed a comfort to tell him something—perhaps she even believed it herself—but now, gazing out at the white pinpricks of light, so many millions of light years away from the earth, she wondered . . . could Tom really be there w
ith them in any way at all? Was he sorry to have left them alone—a widow at twenty-six and Jack at just two? She pressed her forehead against the cold glass. She hated this time of year. The knock at the door had come days before Christmas four years ago. She had assumed it was one of the other wives from the army base, coming for a coffee, to borrow some milk, or just for a gossip. But when she saw the two officers there in dress uniform, caps tucked under their arms and gloves in their hands, she knew.

  Initially, the Army had been more than kind, inviting her to stay in her quarters for “as long as she needed.” But just weeks later one of the other men—Tom’s comrade—had become a nuisance, making it clear he was all too happy to “comfort” her in her grief. The support from the other wives had fallen away pretty rapidly then. Sympathy had been replaced by beady looks as they jealously defended their men from the pretty young widow. Kate had taken the hint. The army pension wasn’t much and it had been swallowed up supplementing the fees of the good but expensive nursing home where Tom’s grandmother Maureen—who had raised him—had been put within months of his death. Grief had accelerated the dementia that had been nibbling at the edges of Maureen’s mind for years. Kate still took Jack to see her occasionally, but it was a long journey and she didn’t recognize either of them anymore. She kept thinking Jack was Tom as a boy, which frightened and confused him.

  Kate had picked herself up, moved to Bristol, found a rubbish job, and put a roof over their heads. The daily grind of living had occupied her mind and kept her going. Since Tom’s death, Christmas had brought on a particularly strong urge to disappear under the duvet and come out when it was over. Instead she steeled herself to make sure Jack had a good time on Christmas Day. But this year he was older and more aware so he knew much earlier that Christmas was coming. It was going to be December tomorrow. The anticipation was building, and Kate was going to have to stifle the duvet urge for a whole month. She groaned aloud at the thought.

  Was this really all life held for them both now? The poverty, the fatigue, the lack of joy . . . ? She had adored Christmas before Tom died. He had laughed at her rituals, her plans—starting in October with the present lists, the stirring of the pudding in November, dancing around the kitchen to the cheesy Christmas songs playlist on the iPad: Slade, George Michael, Mariah Carey . . . where had that old Kate gone? She gazed out of the window at the sky. This was her now.