She was a star too; cold, remote, distant, and lonely.
Jack had already lost one parent. He couldn’t afford to lose the other. She needed to share the joy of Christmas with her son: to be his mother properly, to be there . . . He deserved nothing less, but where would she find the strength to do it?
She needed a Christmas miracle.
25 Days ’til Christmas
The rushed visit to the pound shop, on the way to work, had not been a success. There were advent calendars, but they weren’t chocolate ones. They were flimsy, and the designs were uninspiring. Plus, she had twelve pounds and twenty pence to last her until Friday and it was only Monday. At least four pounds of that was going to be needed to keep the gas and electricity on in the little flat; another four pounds for the bus, and then the rest for suppers all week. It was pasta with canned tomatoes and cheese all too often, because it was cheap. There was always the food bank at the church up the road, of course. She had not yet resorted to that. Not yet. She had managed her meager resources so far with steely resolve and relentless planning.
And on that note, the whole advent calendar thing was impossible. There was no point at all looking at the advent calendars in the store itself: even with her staff discount they were well beyond her reach. The big, three-dimensional cardboard creations were for the rich kids. There were even some versions for grown-ups, with handmade chocolates and beauty products for the women, posh shower gel and miniatures of whiskey for the men.
Jack had mentioned it again pointedly that morning—it was December now—and Kate had fobbed him off, saying she had always opened her advent calendar in the evening so maybe he should wait until tonight and see what happened.
And now it looked like there would be nothing happening, thought Kate in despair.
“You all right, love?” asked Pat, as Kate came exhausted into the staffroom to have her twenty-minute break. “Cuppa?”
She nodded, wordlessly sagging down onto the hard, plastic chair, closing her eyes for a moment. Then, as if it weighed a ton, she dragged her head up to meet the older woman’s eye.
“Hi, Pat. Yes, please, tea would be amazing, sorry.”
“S’all right,” said Pat, sliding a mug toward her. “Strong and sweet, just like you.”
“I’m definitely going to be strong by Christmas,” agreed Kate. “The trees are huge. The trunks are like—well—tree trunks.”
“You shouldn’t be hauling that sort of thing around. You’re only little. It’s not right. What about health and safety?”
“I’m not that small,” said Kate, with a spark of energy driven by indignation.
“Yeah you are,” said Wayne, joining them and occupying one entire side of the table by spreading his legs wide, a huge hand curving around his cup of instant coffee, which was in a mug urging them all to Keep Calm and Drink Coffee. “You’re tiny.”
“Only next to you. Everyone looks small next to you: you’re like King Kong.”
“All muscle, darlin’,” agreed Wayne.
“So why aren’t you shifting those trees for Kate then?” said Pat, with spirit. “Compared with Kate’s five foot nothing, you’d do it in twenty minutes.”
“Doing the lights though, ain’t I? Highly skilled job, that. Not everyone can do the Christmas lights, mate. They have to be done in a very special way,” he said portentously, tapping the side of his nose. “Plus, I can’t imagine Mr. Wilkins would want to see me in that elf costume of yours.”
“Nor do we,” Pat assured him promptly.
“I don’t see what’s so hard about sticking a plug in a socket,” teased Kate, but she mustered a smile as she said it. Wayne was a dull-witted but kind young man, who coached Jack at football most Saturdays, and would do anything for anyone, once they got past the initial attitude.
“You were late this morning,” said Pat to Kate, without judgment. “I told Mr. Wilkins you were here but had gone to the loo. I hinted at girlie stuff. Sorry.”
Wayne shuffled awkwardly and cleared his throat. Girlie stuff was definitely not his thing.
Kate gave him an amused but understanding look and explained wearily about the advent calendar issue.
“Well, there’s a thing,” Pat said triumphantly. “What a bit of luck! Hang on . . .” She jumped up as fast as her arthritic knees would allow and went to rummage in her locker.
“Now, I nearly didn’t bring it in this morning, but then I thought, well, chances are I’ll be going straight there . . .” She chatted on, the words inaudible from the cupboard; “. . . would want it for the beginning of December,” she finished as she emerged triumphant.
She patted down her hair with one hand while holding a paper bag with a string handle in the other. She plonked it on the table and pushed it over to Kate.
“You’ll probably hate it. Not exactly the kind of thing you’re after, but still, it might do if you’re desperate . . . I won’t be offended . . .”
Kate plunged her hand into the bag and pulled out a mass of green, white, and red knitting, all rolled up like a Swiss roll, with what looked like a piece of bamboo in the middle. Unraveled, it revealed a large oblong of red hanging from the horizontal bamboo handle. It was scattered with embroidered white snowflakes, but what caught the eye was the rows of knitted pockets, five across and five down, twenty-five in all, each with a number painstakingly embroidered onto the front, along with a little Christmas motif—a reindeer on one, a candle on another, a Christmas wreath on another. The pocket for Christmas Day had no number on it, just a big, elaborately embroidered star, shimmering with transluscent beads and sequins.
“It’s an advent calendar,” exclaimed Kate. “Oh, my goodness, tell me you didn’t knit it. It’s amazing!”
Pat blushed and ducked her head: “I get bored,” she admitted. “I made a couple last year and they seemed to go down all right. Mind you, the Christmas Fair was earlier last year. This year I can’t see them selling. Too late, like I said.”
“But this isn’t something you would use just for one year,” said Kate, examining it wonderingly.
“We’re in a disposable society now, but—no—I would hope it would become a tradition,” admitted Pat, her face lighting up at her friend’s obvious approval. “Obviously you pop new things in the pockets each year . . .”
“There’s something in them already,” noticed Kate, seeing for the first time that the little pockets each had a discreet bulge.
“Just chocolate,” admitted Pat. “Not very original. I had some chocolate coins . . .”
“That’s exactly what he wanted,” beamed Kate, sagging in her chair again but this time with relief. “I must give you something for it. You were going to raise money for charity with it. I can’t not.”
Pat waved her away. “Don’t be silly. Charity begins at home. The Christian Mission would be very happy to know it was going to such a lovely little boy. Entirely appropriate.”
“Thank you,” said Kate, but it came out on a little sob. She wiped away a tear, laughing at herself.
This was all too much for Wayne. “Mate . . . knitting, girlie stuff, and crying,” he muttered to himself as he got up. “I’m off.”
“Right,” said Kate, shaking herself into a more positive mood. “That’s solved one problem. On with the next.”
Spending a year stuffed in a shopping bag in a corner of the vast store cupboard in the staffroom had not done the elf costume any favors. Kate was desperate to get a thermal vest and leggings to wear underneath it, but that was all money she could be spending on presents for Jack. Dressing quickly, in case Wayne came back and had the shock of seeing her in her underwear—or, God forbid, Malcolm Wilkins walked in and got a thrill—she layered two old T-shirts under the green tunic instead and put on an extra pair of tights, making sure the ones with holes were underneath. As first days went, she was lucky: the weather was still mild.
“It’s a shame you having to work so hard in December,” said Pat as she finished off her tea. “All t
he extra hours, what with your little lad.”
“Jack loves being with Helen, though,” replied Kate, doing up the belt on her tunic. “I think they’re making salt dough Christmas decorations today. She’s really good at them.” Kate refrained from adding that she had struggled to get a babysitter who was prepared to work evenings and weekends. Most wouldn’t. For Saturday care, Helen charged a premium which nearly wiped out the benefit of Kate working. But management had made clear that if she valued her job, Saturday working was a “must.”
“You’re not on a rolling contract too, are you?” Kate asked Pat, her worrying conversation with Mr. Wilkins coming back to her.
“Am I what, dear?”
“On a rolling employment contract? Does your contract come to an end at the end of this year too?”
“Goodness, I hope not,” said Pat, her forehead crinkling with worry. “Why on earth do you say that?”
“Nothing, nothing . . . I’ve got one because it’s all I was offered at the time, and I signed but I wish I hadn’t now. You’ve been here for years, it’s probably different.” She explained briefly her conversation with Malcolm Wilkins.
“Oh dear,” Pat said, in dismay. “I think that’s terrible.” She paused, clearly considering whether to say something. “I did hear . . .”
“Go on.”
“I heard things weren’t good,” Pat admitted. “Trade hasn’t been what the directors would like. I gather this Christmas is critical. If it doesn’t go well, apparently there might be, well, redundancies.”
Kate swallowed. “Redundancies,” she said. “I don’t know how it works and I couldn’t find the paperwork at home last night, but if I’m really on a rolling contract, they’ll be able to chuck me out without paying anything. I’ll be the first to go.” She felt sick. The cheese sandwich she had brought from home for lunch sat in her stomach like a boulder.
“It won’t come to that,” said Pat kindly, placing a reassuring hand over Kate’s. “But you might want to have a word with HR,” she added, her brow knitting again in concern. “Just to see what the situation really is.”
“You worry too much,” Tom had always said. She wished hard, causing a physical ache in her chest, that he was there to tell her that now, to hold her against him, to warm her and comfort her in the way he always did, his chin resting on the top of her head. A tear leaked out as she leaned her head against the bus window. She straightened, wiped it away, and sniffed hard. I worry too much, she told herself, making a pledge to go to the HR department during her first break tomorrow. Better to know the truth than immediately fear the worst.
“They’re not out yet,” said Seema, as Kate skidded to a halt beside her. “Catch your breath, you’re fine.”
Kate shot her friend a grateful look. “How was your day?”
“Got up, shouted at children and husband, brought children here, shouted at them again in public, went to work, got home, picked up smelly socks, threw away fresh veg I was going to use for a stir-fry, called Anil and asked him to get a takeaway for dinner again, decided not to walk the dog—again—came here again, just waiting to resume child-shouting activities. You?”
Kate smiled. Seema was ridiculously elegant and poised with her immaculately draped saris and her impeccable eye makeup. She was beautiful. Kate couldn’t imagine her shouting at anyone. She worked part-time at the registry office so she could fit it in with Krishna’s school days. She constantly told Kate she should get a job with the council too, because they were so child-friendly. Kate had kept an eye on the recruitment pages for a time but had gotten out of the habit after months. Nothing had come up that she had the right experience for. She wasn’t really qualified to do anything, that was the problem. The only skill she had that made her different from every other mum looking for working hours that suited the school run was her ability to make jewelry. It was a hobby, but Tom had encouraged her. She was going to have a little workshop at their next army quarters. A spare room. It was all part of the plan. And then the plan—the plans—had all disappeared in a puff of smoke . . .
“Uh-oh,” Seema added, grabbing Kate’s arm and talking through the corner of her mouth. “Incoming at three o’clock.”
The queen bee, PTA Chairperson Anastasia Green, who always arrived half an hour early so she could park her minivan right outside the school gates and catch up with her text messages. Having checked her makeup in the driver’s mirror, she had now climbed gracefully out and was sauntering their way. She was wearing designer gym gear, as she usually did, its figure-hugging nature showing off her tight, gym-honed figure.
“God, I just always love your beautiful traditional dress,” she gushed to Seema, who smiled tightly at her in reply. Kate—who knew what Seema thought of Anastasia—dug her friend in the ribs and settled into trying to disturb Seema’s carefully poised facade by making her laugh.
“God, yah,” Anastasia went on, oblivious, “it just looks so elegant . . . I wonder if I could get away with one.” She looked down at her perfectly toned body. “Not sure I could carry it off like you do.”
“I’d suggest we should swap,” said Seema, giving Kate a quelling look, “but I don’t think anyone wants to see me in your gym stuff, to be honest.”
Anastasia tossed her head, pleased with the compliment. “I do have to send away for it,” she said with false modesty. “I’m annoyingly tiny and the normal gear just hangs off me. So frustrating. I’m sure you find the same, don’t you, Kate?”
“What with us both being short, you mean?” she asked, for unnecessary clarification. “Nah, what I do,” she confided, leaning in as if imparting a valuable secret, “is make sure to eat lots of cake. That way, though I’m little I’m also quite squat, so I can still fit into normal sizes, providing I take up the trouser hems. Think of the money I save.” She nodded emphatically. “Think less ‘Kylie’ and more ‘garden gnome,’” she added. Seema snorted inelegantly, and Anastasia grinned a ghastly grin, not sure whether she was being teased or not.
“Anyway,” said Seema, composing herself and looking at her watch. She glanced at the school’s main entrance, which was sure to be flooded with a mass of blue-clad primary school children at any moment, “what can we do you for?”
“Well,” said Anastasia, gazing heavenward as she ticked a list of tasks off her fingers, “the whole PTA committee is just massively overcommitted already, up to our eyes, and we’ve still not got the tombola, present wrapping, Santa’s Grotto, lucky dip, or whack-a-rat covered for the Christmas Fair,” she looked at them both accusingly. “And the thing is, girls, we are all just getting a teensy bit fed up of making up for the other mums. I know what you’re going to say,” she said, holding up her hand to stem a flow of words which neither Seema nor Kate were actually contemplating, “you working mums are too busy for all this stuff, but I’m busy too, you know, and there are other ways . . .” she added, darkly.
“Like . . . ?” Kate ventured, nervously.
“Well, Kai’s mum’s really high powered in the City and she got one of her high-net-worth clients to donate a helicopter ride for a raffle prize. Just an example.”
“I don’t think many of my customers are ‘high net worth,’” muttered Kate, thinking of her typical customer, who tended to be a woman of a certain age looking for flesh-colored control pants or a nice, sensible navy-blue cardie.
“And I’m pretty sure asking for a present from people coming in to register a death is sort of frowned upon,” said Seema, a smile still playing mischievously at the corners of her mouth.
“Yes, well, not exactly that, obviously,” said Anastasia crossly. “But what about you, Kate, you were seen selling Christmas trees today outside Portman Brothers, I gather.” Her mouth twisted into a fleeting expression of disapproval. “I am sure the department store would be delighted to donate a tree for the school hall.”
Kate was sure they would not. “I’ll ask,” she said, shuffling her feet.
“Fine,” snapped Anastasia, “if
you would.” At that, she turned sharply on her heel and shimmied off, glancing up under her eyelashes at one of the dads who, caught looking admiringly, blushed and looked away rapidly.
“Phew,” said Seema, wiping her brow theatrically. “I thought she was going to make us actually do something then. I might have had to go in with my nuclear excuse.”
“Which is?”
“We’re flipping Hindus, aren’t we?”
“God, yes, that’s brilliant!” said Kate, genuinely impressed. “I wish I could say that. She couldn’t make a fuss: it would be culturally insensitive.” She paused. “Hang on a minute, you guys do Christmas, you definitely do . . .”
“’Course we do,” said Seema. “You don’t think Krishna would let us miss out on that? We looove your quaint little rampantly consumerist traditions. And anyway, ‘when in Rome . . .’ and all that. Anyhow, what are you two doing now? Do you want to come back with us for a bit?”
“Could do,” said Kate, brightening. “We were just going home, that’s all.”
Krishna had a new DVD and the two boys were soon happily ensconced in front of the television. As Seema bustled about the little kitchen making them both a cup of tea, Kate had a look through Jack’s school bag, taking the opportunity to throw away a blackened banana skin with a shudder of disgust.
“What’s this?” she asked, extracting a crumpled piece of yellow A4 paper. The school used different colors for different communications and yellow was a letter from the principal’s office. Never a good sign. “Jack’s been put in some extra literacy class thingie on Thursdays,” she said, reading. “Has Krish had one of these?”
Seema peered over Kate’s shoulder. “Don’t think so.” Seeing her friend’s concern, she added, “But that’s good isn’t it? Glad to see the school is earning its money and differentiating its teaching.”
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