25 Days 'Til Christmas

by Poppy Alexander

  It was nearly three o’clock by the time she and Jack got to Christmas Steps, and the daylight was fading fast on a now dull, rainy day.

  “We should be getting you a new coat,” she fussed, pulling the zip on his hoodie right up to his chin and pulling the hood up over his head.

  He immediately pushed it off again. “I’m fine, Mummy,” he said. “Can we go to the sweet shop first? Can I have licorice?”

  “Let’s take our time,” said Kate, “look at those amazing baubles!”

  “For our Christmas tree?” asked Jack, immediately making Kate regret the diversion she had chosen.

  “At fifteen quid each, I think not,” she said faintly, spotting the price tags. But they were beautiful. Blown glass, with swirls and streaks of gold, each one had a feather inside like it had fallen from an angel’s wing. While Tom was still around, she had tried to start a tradition of buying new decorations each Christmas, just one or two special ones, and—with his army salary to rely on—she would not have ruled out buying one. That kind of expenditure was out of the question now.

  “Okay,” she gave in. “Let’s hit the sweet shop and then we can work our way back slowly. Just window shopping, mind . . .”

  “Windows? Boring . . .”

  “Not actual windows, you twit,” she teased, pretending to clip him on the ear.

  “It’s gone, Mummy!” Jack’s cry of anguish was heartbreaking. He turned back to her and pointed up ahead.

  “What’s gone?” she said, catching up to him and putting her hand on his shoulder. And then she saw . . . the fantastic little sweet shop, hunched low, halfway up the worn, stone steps, with its bow window, like something out of The Old Curiosity Shop, the ox-eye glass-paned space crammed with big jars of old-fashioned sweets—was devastatingly altered. The glass panes were opaque like cataracts, obscured with a streaky layer of whitewash. The shop sign in the glass window of the door was turned drunkenly to Closed, and below it, obscuring the rest of the window, was a large green and blue real estate agent’s sign.

  To Let, it declared, with a telephone number for inquiries.

  “Oh, that’s such a shame. I wonder . . .” Kate said, looking everywhere for a sign saying where they had moved to. “Perhaps they moved to a bigger shop,” she murmured, but there was nothing, just the telephone number of the leasing agent.

  “What a pity,” she said, trying to sound brisk, but feeling inescapably sad. They had come here often—including once with Tom, before he died. It was on a day trip to Bristol from the army base and, even though Jack hadn’t been old enough to remember it, Kate had told him the story on subsequent visits as a way of mentioning him. “What a missed opportunity to close down just before Christmas,” she said, more to herself than Jack. “You’d think they would want the benefit of the Christmas rush.”

  Jack couldn’t have cared less about the micro-economics of the situation. “My sweets!” he wailed, nearly in danger of losing it. “We were going to get licorice. And fudge.”

  “I’m not sure we were going to get both,” corrected Kate, gently. “Tell you what, let’s go and see what they have in the newsstand. I’m pretty sure they could do us M&M’s at the very least.”

  Disaster was averted with M&M’s for Kate, most of which went to Jack, and a small packet of Haribos as Jack’s own official choice. He was persuaded to let her lead him back to Christmas Steps. Despite the Christmas carols playing and the lights twinkling above and around the little shops as well as inside them, Kate could see the signs of economic distress. A couple of other shops—not nearly as well placed as Jack’s “Oldie Sweetie Shoppie”—had also closed down since Kate had last been there. The sweet shop had been in a prime location. Placed halfway up, it was prominent and visible. She allowed herself a daydream of telling Malcolm Wilkins to stuff his job and setting up a little shop to sell her jewelry. She could have a workspace in the shop, with proper equipment so she could do more designing and real silverwork, she could take commissions . . . She brought herself up sharply. It was ridiculous. There would be no workshop. Not in her life now, not without Tom.

  It turned out Christmas shopping without money was not as amusing as she thought. It was cold, too, and Jack was soon complaining and dragging his feet. She pulled out one of her two remaining fivers and waved it at him. “Hot chocolate?” she bribed.

  “Yay!” said Jack. “Yes, please.”

  Jack’s hot chocolate, with everything on it, ate up a big chunk of the fiver, so Kate chose a cup of tea. It was cheaper than a latte.

  They could see the sweet shop from the café window, a dark, forlorn space in the row of brightly lit shops, standing out like a missing tooth.

  Almost before she knew what she was doing, Kate found herself dialing the number on the real estate agent’s board. It was an agent specializing in commercial properties so—she glanced at her watch—she wasn’t really expecting an answer, late on a Saturday afternoon.

  “Hello, James speaking?”

  “Oo, sorry,” said Kate, slightly breathless, “I was expecting to leave a message.”

  “You can if you like,” came the brusque reply. “But I’m here. How can I help?”

  Kate briefly explained, feeling like a fraud for wasting his time. She should ask about the rent. She was sure that would be the end of it. Something stopped her, and James didn’t volunteer the information.

  “Why don’t I show you around?”

  “I . . . are you sure?”

  “Twenty minutes?”

  “You’re getting unfit, mate,” said Paul dispassionately, watching Daniel leaning forward to catch his breath, his hand resting on Paul’s garden wall.

  “Thanks.”

  “Too many takeaways. You should come for supper. A proper meal. I’ve persuaded Cara off the vegetarian stuff—some of the time at least. I’ve been cooking steaks for her and she loves them. If I say so myself, the grub’s not half bad sometimes.”

  “That’d be nice,” Daniel gasped, wiping his brow. “We’ve just knocked ten minutes off the usual circuit; though, to be fair, it’s more like you’re getting fitter rather than I’m losing it.”

  “Yeah, yeah . . . whatever. Fancy a beer? Seeing as you’re here?”

  “You should ask her out,” said Cara as they all leaned against the kitchen counters, their hands cupping mugs of tea. Daniel had said it was too early for beer, and anyway he was still recovering from all the whiskey he had drunk the night before.

  “Ask her out?” he repeated, looking inquiringly at Paul. “Amazing. I didn’t even see your lips move.”

  “We talk,” said Cara, without rancor. “And anyway, you should definitely ask someone out. Tell me about her. What does she look like?”

  “She looks like an elf. She’s a Christmas elf, that’s the thing.”

  “No, I mean, how does she look?”

  “Cold,” said Daniel. “She looks cold, whenever I see her. It’s the elf costume, it’s not exactly . . .”

  “God, you’re hard work . . .” said Cara, taking a deep breath and trying a different tack. “What’s her name?”

  “‘Christmas Tree Girl,’” admitted Daniel, flinching exaggeratedly as Cara raised a hand in frustration, “Okay, look, I just don’t know anything about her. She’s . . . I dunno . . . I don’t even know . . . I mean, she could be married, even.”

  “Ask her, for the love of God,” said Paul. “And then we can all stop worrying about you quite so much. Ask her to come to supper with us.”

  “No thanks,” said Daniel. “Talk about chucking someone in at the deep end.” He looked at his friend, who looked back with concern in his eyes. “All right, I will. Probably. Possibly. Eventually.”

  “Well, you’ve only got ’til Christmas,” Cara reminded him, “so you’d better step on it. Anyhow, talking about my amazing matchmaking skills . . .”

  “Were we?”

  “We were . . . I take it you’re still on for this evening?”

  “This evening . .
. ?”

  “Supper. Here. Seven o’clock. Don’t be late. Never mind Tree Girl, I’ve got a friend I want you to meet.”

  “Did I agree to this?” Daniel turned in an air of slight desperation to Paul.

  “Not even sure I agreed to this,” said Paul and then caught sight of Cara’s face. “Yeah mate, you agreed, I definitely said something about it a few days ago and you made a noise.”

  “I made a noise?”

  “It was a yes-y sort of noise,” said Paul, with a hint of pleading in his voice.

  Daniel sighed. “What shall I bring?”

  “Beer, mate. We’re going to need it.”

  Kate and Jack hovered in the café until they saw a man in a suit with a scrubbed, pink face and a short back and sides, who looked very much like he might be a real estate agent called James. As they approached, a woman in vertiginous heels, very tight jeans, and a waist-length fur jacket was walking down the steps toward them from the opposite direction. She was wearing sunglasses despite the fading light and was carrying what Kate guessed was a very expensive handbag in the crook of her left arm.

  “Are you James?” the woman said as she arrived. “Let’s get this over with, shall we? I’ve got a launch party to get to . . .”

  The woman waited, tapping her heel impatiently until poor James had wrestled the door open. She didn’t seem to have seen Kate and Jack at all.

  James held the door open and met Kate’s eye.

  “You’re the other one?” he said.

  She nodded apologetically and slipped into the shop behind him.

  The woman was poking around the gloomy little space disdainfully. The floor was just dusty planks. The little bow window which made the frontage so charming still had some shelves in place, which would be handy with a thorough clean down, but clearly they were not to the woman’s taste. Kate had a peek through the door at the back, which revealed a tiny storeroom, a sink and plug for a kettle, and a dark, slightly smelly toilet. It was unappealing, but she could see the potential. The storeroom would clean up and make a perfectly good workshop area. She didn’t need a huge amount of space, just a bench, a stool, some shelves, and a power socket. There was a window badly in need of a clean and she definitely needed a desk lamp with a powerful bulb as well, which was no problem. Jewelry was small. It didn’t need space. As for the shop itself, again, space was not a big requirement—just as well . . . but what was the point of thinking about it? The whole plan was impossible.

  “What is the annual rent?” she asked, hesitantly.

  James turned to her in surprise and gave her a figure which made her recoil. “And rates are on top of that, of course,” he said, mentioning another staggering but not quite so huge figure. “As you will gather from that, the landlord is looking for a rent below the current rateable value, which means the unit represents excellent value for its size and location.”

  Jack was watching the other woman with his mouth open. Her face was compelling viewing. She was clearly older than she had first appeared. Her forehead was glassy smooth and her lips were so plumped up she had a permanent pout that looked as if she was just about to kiss someone. Her manner suggested otherwise though.

  “I would need a big skip and some industrial cleaners before I did the fit out,” the woman was saying to James. “It’s going to take six weeks minimum to get it up to scratch. I hope the landlord won’t expect me to be paying rent for that.”

  “I am sure my client is open to fair proposals, but I would counsel you not to play too hard to get. There are,” he paused and looked emphatically at Kate, “other people interested.”

  The woman, looking at Kate for the first time, gave her a crushing scowl which looked odd on a face which was largely immobile.

  Ah, thought Kate. That’s what we are here for, pressuring the real clients into thinking there’s competition . . . Fair enough; I was wasting his time too.

  “Thank you,” she said to James, giving him a half wave and nudging Jack to stop staring, close his mouth, and leave. “We’ve seen what we need to see. I’ll be in touch.”

  Or not, she thought, as she hustled Jack up the steep steps to the street.

  “Getting dark, darling, we need to get home,” she said, and then she broke her stride, stopping abruptly, making Jack cannon into her.

  “Sorry, Mummy, what is it?”

  “That, my son, is a camel costume,” said Kate, who was now outside the charity shop just yards from the bus stop.

  “We won’t miss our bus, will we, Mummy?”

  “Nope. This’ll just take a mo . . .”

  Kate and Jack traipsed in and she took a cursory look at some books and old china to mask her true intentions. Then, she moved in for the kill.

  “How much for this?” she asked the elderly lady behind the counter who came out to greet them—or stop them stealing, judging by her forbidding expression. For the second time in just a few minutes Jack was struck dumb in awe. The lady was clearly a keen purchaser in charity shops herself—presumably this one. She was wearing an eclectic mix of costume jewelry, including some striking shoulder-length diamanté earrings which made an interesting pairing with her sensible twinset and tweed skirt.

  Kate was holding up a heavy, beige wool man’s coat with a leather collar and horn buttons.

  “That’s pure wool, that,” said the lady. “Nice quality. Going to have to be a tenner, I’m afraid.”

  “Really,” said Kate, meeting her steely gaze with one of her own. “There’s moth damage on the sleeve.”

  “There is?” The lady went to look. “What a shame, just a little hole.”

  “A couple of holes . . . and here too, look,” said Kate. “It’s no good to me as a coat, I’m cutting it up to make it into a camel costume.”

  At this, the lady’s expression softened. “For the little one?” she said, looking at Jack. “He’s just like my grandson, Charlie, only five, but tall for his age, just like his dad.”

  “I’m six,” said Jack, giving the woman a beady look.

  “And you’re going to be a camel?” she said, undaunted, bending down to him.

  “Yeah . . .” he replied, uncertainly. “And Krishna, me and Krish are both camels. We are for the three kings . . . they’ve only got two camels though,” he said, spotting the oversight for the first time.

  “So actually, I need to get two costumes out of this,” said Kate, holding it up thoughtfully.

  “No problem,” said the lady, now enthused at the challenge. “Each sleeve can be the camel’s neck so that’s two. There’s plenty in the body to make the head. Do they need whole body suits? I would just get them to wear brown trousers and T-shirts . . .”

  “Great, good idea, you’ve got something, haven’t you Jack?”

  “Am I going to wear a camel head? Cool . . .”

  The lady was now on a mission, rummaging in a box of fabrics.

  “Aha!” she said, emerging looking a little ruffled. “Black felt. I knew I’d seen some. And look, a couple of belts, you could make bridles and reins?”

  “That’s all lovely,” said Kate regretfully, “but I need to keep the cost down . . . I’m sure I can manage with the coat, somehow,” she said, holding it up again.

  “Let’s call it a fiver for the lot, lovie,” said the lady quietly, looking over her shoulder. “Don’t tell anyone. Our manager will have my guts for garters. You’d think we were Portman Brothers, the airs and graces she puts on.”

  Kate was happy to help support someone over a workplace power struggle and handed over the fiver before the lady changed her mind.

  “Come and show me,” the lady called after them as they left.

  “People are nice, aren’t they, Mummy?” said Jack sleepily, leaning against Kate as they traveled over to Seema’s house.

  “They are, darling. Mostly, if you give them a chance, they are.” He was right, of course. Out of the mouths of babes . . . it was something she had always loved about Tom, too, his gift for seeing the
best in people, despite doing a job that brought him into contact with some of the most evil people in existence. His stories, when he came home each time, had centered on how the lads had been able to help repair a road, or take a child to the hospital, acts of heroism and kindness, not annihilation and death. It had been like his brain was programmed to focus on the good. His son was the same. She was glad.

  Daniel had been working Crisisline shifts most weekends. It had kept him from thinking he had nothing to do on a Saturday night, which he didn’t and this—as a single guy in his early thirties—was a bit lame. That was probably why the phonelines were so busy on a Saturday night—all those other lost souls who didn’t have anywhere to go.

  Not only was Seema’s husband, Anil, looking after Jack, Krishna, and Krishna’s older brother Sohail for the night, Seema had invited the girls they were going out with over to hers to pre-load and get ready. Going out on the town was the very last thing Kate felt like doing, but she had to admire Seema’s energy and enthusiasm. They were a group of four; Kate, Seema, and two other mums who had six-year-old daughters, Amy and Karen. They were pleasant, fun-loving women whom Kate knew vaguely.

  Seema was much better at the friend groups than Kate was. It was partly because Jack was already two when they moved to Bristol and mums who had had their babies at the same time had already formed their little tribes. Amy and Karen were friendly and sweet though, not cliquey, and Kate had enjoyed their company well enough in the past. But they were morbidly fascinated by Kate’s widowed status, and wanted to talk about Tom in hushed tones, which Kate found a bit wearing after a while.

  There was much drink being taken as they got ready, painting each other’s nails, trying out dramatic eye makeup on each other, and—in Kate’s case—zhushing up her classic black dress to make it a bit more sexy, something Kate wasn’t entirely sure she wanted it to be. She also wasn’t a massive drinker nowadays, as it just made her parenting and work obligations even harder to meet. She envied the other women having husbands to take noisy children away somewhere the following day, so they could have the luxury of recovering from their hangovers in peace.