25 Days 'Til Christmas

by Poppy Alexander

  He sighed. It was three in the morning. No corner shop or coffee shop was interested in staying open through the night in case he was in need of a sugar or caffeine rush to get him through his lonely shift. Not that it was completely lonely. Barbara was there in the booth beside his own. He could hear her soothing Bristolian tones, chatting matter-of-factly to the latest caller to phone the helpline that night. As he walked back toward her, he noticed how the two small desk lights in the darkened office created a glowing beacon in the darkness. That’s what they were. The only other souls awake in the whole universe, or so it seemed to those who called them—drunk, angry, tearful, sometimes completely silent, unable to speak but hopefully able to take comfort from knowing that there was someone on the end of the line.

  The silent ones got to him. They upset him, that heavy, oppressive miasma of misery coming down the line, sometimes a muffled sob, sometimes not even the sound of breathing, making him wonder if he was witnessing a death. A suicide. That had happened to him more than once. It happened to everyone working on the line if they volunteered for long enough. It changed you as a person, hearing someone die. It was a requirement of all volunteers that they undergo supervision sessions which gave them a chance to offload distressing stuff, preventing it from carving too deep a gouge into their own soul.

  Another strategy they used to distance themselves from the pain of others was to use a different name for their phone selves. It wasn’t compulsory, but Daniel had always done it. He was Jonathan when he answered the phone. It was also a double protection against ever picking up the phone to someone they knew in real life, although the chances of that were vanishing slim. Barbara was Daniel’s supervisor. She was also the first person he met when he volunteered. She smiled her thanks as he quietly put down her mug and sat beside her in the next booth, cradling his own mug as he idly listened to her call.

  It sounded like yet another sex call. They got a lot of them. People—mainly men—phoned wanting to shock, talking inappropriately and often very obviously fiddling with themselves while they spoke. It was a policy of the charity to only end calls in exceptional circumstances, but they had recently adopted a rule which allowed volunteers to hang up if that happened. There were limits. In the Bristol office, their other option was to hand them on to Barbara, who was worldly and pragmatic enough not to mind.

  This was clearly one of those calls.

  “Gabriel,” she was saying, “I don’t think you do want to know what color my knickers are, not really—they’re those enormous Marks and Spencer flesh-colored ones by the way, not attractive—but I do think you want to talk to me, don’t you, my love? I think you want to tell me what’s upsetting you, don’t you?”

  Daniel raised his eyebrows and Barbara gave him a little nod in return.

  “Gabriel?” she went on. “I think you’re playing with yourself while you’re talking to me, and . . .”

  She paused. Daniel strained his ears.

  “ . . . yes, I’m sure it is enormous . . . but Gabriel, I don’t think you really want to talk about that . . .”

  There was another indistinct rumble from the receiver. “Or that. Gabriel, will you listen to me? Now, I am more than happy to sit and talk to you about the size of your private parts. I’ve got two grown-up boys of my own, I’ve seen it all and heard it all but, you know what? I’m just wondering why you drank a lot of alcohol tonight and decided to call the Crisisline, because you and me, Gabriel, we could be asleep in bed, couldn’t we?” She paused again. “No, different beds, Gabriel. Different beds, because I think I’m old enough to be your mum, and you need to take my word for it that sharing a bed with me—five foot nothing, north of twelve stone and long past my sell-by date—is going to do nothing to solve your problems . . . Gabriel?”

  Barbara and Daniel strained their ears and waited. Sometimes there was a lot of waiting in silence. Not speaking was one of the most difficult things to learn.

  She bowed her head, and put her hand to the headset, pushing the headphone a little closer to her ear.

  “Gabriel,” she said, quietly, at last. “I’m with you. I’m listening, my love . . . It’s okay to have a little cry. You just carry on . . . If you want to talk, I’m here.”

  Daniel drank his coffee, slowly. Barbara, next to him, was doing the same, her gaze resting intensely on a patch of wall in front of her, as she listened to her caller, not wanting to miss the slightest communication from him. Waiting.

  “He hung up,” she said at last, taking off her headset and laying it on the desk.

  “He’ll call back,” said Daniel, resting a hand on her arm.

  “I hope so,” she said, stretching her arms above her head and yawning. “He worries me, that lad.”

  She looked piercingly at Daniel.

  “You worry me too.”

  “Not for the same reasons, I hope. I don’t want to sleep with you, honest. If I did, I’d say.”

  “Thank goodness. But what’s a nice boy like you doing volunteering on a Crisisline, stuck in here with a middle-aged deadbeat in the middle of the night, when you should be tucked up in bed with a loving partner.”

  “Physician, heal thyself,” he volunteered, not meeting her eye.

  His phone rang quietly, the red light on the dial flashing to indicate an incoming call.

  “Saved by the bell,” he grinned, reaching for his headset.

  “Crisisline,” he said. “My name is Jonathan, and I’m listening.”

  18 Days ’til Christmas

  By the time he was heading down the street toward the office that morning he had fixed his sleep deprivation with the usual tactics: three hours’ sleep, and as long and hot a shower as his boat bathroom could provide, with a cold burst at the end. It worked quite well. After a strong coffee and a bacon sandwich he would start to feel reasonably human. But it wasn’t enough. It never was.

  She was out there, alone, no customers to distract her from noticing him as he walked toward her. By the time he reached her, there was no ducking out. She was pale, with dark circles—almost purple—under her eyes, he noticed. She smiled up at him and ducked her head shyly as he reached her.

  By the time he had stopped in front of her he had rehearsed and dismissed several potential comments. She looked up at him with a faintly quizzical but friendly smile. Did her eyes flicker up and down the street? Was she looking for rescue or welcome distraction from a customer or did he imagine it?

  “You look knackered,” he blurted. Yikes, that wasn’t good. Planning what to say hadn’t gone well for him in the past but saying the first thing that came into his head wasn’t playing too well either.

  “I am a bit,” she admitted. “You too?”

  “Yeah . . .” he said. He shuffled from foot to foot, digging his hands into his pockets.

  “So . . . get some rest, okay?”

  She nodded, and continued looking at him expectantly, her crooked smile widening.

  “Right . . . so . . .” said Daniel, rubbing his hands together briskly for no good reason. For want of anything else to do, he turned sharply on his heel and walked on, stiff-legged. He turned the corner and—again—beat his forehead with his hand, causing two women walking behind him to split apart, giving him a wide berth and each other raised eyebrow looks.

  “I spoke to her,” he announced to Paul when he got to the office.

  “Tree Girl?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Result! What did you say?”

  “I told her she looked rubbish.”

  “Nice one.”

  They both stared into space, processing the significance of the encounter and contemplating how very, very much better it could have gone.

  “First time you’ve spoken to her?” asked Paul, deciding to focus on the positive. “First time this year, anyhow,” he corrected himself.

  “Actually, no,” admitted Daniel. “I wished her a ‘Good Day’ as I passed her last week, and I strong-armed this dodgy bloke in a bar that was bothering h
er. I stopped him chatting her up, which might actually have been what she wanted.”

  “You did what? Genius, mate,” Paul shook his head in despair. “To be honest I don’t know how you haven’t got them queuing round the block, all these women . . .”

  “Yeah, me too,” admitted Daniel with a self-deprecating smile. “She makes me nervous.”

  “Just ask the poor girl for a coffee, for heaven’s sake. Can you manage that? Repeat after me: ‘Would you like a coffee?’”

  “Cheers,” said Daniel, irritatingly. “If you’re offering . . . milk and two sugars.”

  Paul shook his head again. “And I take it the Hayley situation isn’t a thing?”

  “You ‘take it’ correctly. I’m not going to inflict myself on her. She’s got enough problems as it is.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. Cara means well and all that.”

  “I’m grateful, really, but I don’t need you and Cara to help me mess up my love life. I’m perfectly capable of doing it on my own.”

  “Clearly you are,” said Paul, admitting defeat. For now. “Moving on to other matters . . .”

  “Like coffee?”

  “Like work.”

  “Oh, that . . . go on then. Hit me.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” muttered Paul, riffling through papers on his desk. “Here you go . . . we’ve just taken this on. Shop to let in Christmas Steps.”

  “Nice,” said Daniel, reaching for the papers. “Shouldn’t take long to shift that.”

  “You’d think, wouldn’t you. However, it’s a reject from Comptons, as it happens.”

  “Rejected? By James ‘I’d rather sell my grandma than leave a property unlet’ Grady?”

  “The same.”

  “What’s the catch . . . ?” mused Daniel, his eyes skimming the details. “No! This is a tragedy. You could have broken it to me gently. It’s the ‘Oldie Sweetie Shoppie.’”

  “‘The Oldie Sweetie . . .’” parroted Paul, exasperated. “What are you? Five? Yeah, it’s the Olde Sweet Shoppe. A bit of an institution, I gather. Clearly you frequented it.”

  “I used to take Zoe there,” admitted Daniel. “He had these gobstoppers the size of your fist. Even Zoe had to suck them down to size before she could get them in her mouth, and she had a gob on her—I used to tease her about it,” he recalled dreamily. “We used to sit and watch old films with these ridiculous things. And licorice allsorts. Proper ones. I swear they taste different out of one of those big jars . . .”

  “Aaanyway,” said Paul, but his eyes softened sympathetically.

  “Yeah, so . . .” said Daniel, returning to the property description. “The rent’s really very reasonable—yikes, the rates are sky high though.”

  “The council decided to revalue it,” agreed Paul. “They took the opportunity. To be fair Christmas Steps is long overdue for a rate rise. Half the city’s due a review. We know that.”

  “Why does our client not want to charge a rent in line with the rateable value? And why—especially as the rent is so low—hasn’t he had his hand bitten off for the lease?”

  “You can ask him that yourself. He’s expecting you at three o’clock this afternoon.”

  Kate was desperate for her morning break. Clapping her hands together wasn’t helping with the cold anymore. It just hurt, and her elf costume was too tight for her to stick her hands up the opposite sleeve like she did with her sweaters. Her face was so cold she was struggling to move her mouth and, talking to customers, she had started to sound like she had been to the dentist. She counted down the minutes, dreaming of curling her freezing hands around a hot cup of coffee. But it was not to be.

  “Staff meeting,” said Wayne. “Mr. Wilkins has a cunning plan—and that’s never good.”

  “Oh, love,” said Pat, passing them on the way to the boardroom. “You look frozen. I’m going to fill up my hot water bottle and bring it out to you when you do the next stint. You can tuck it under your top.”

  Kate looked down at her chest doubtfully. She was sure Mr. Wilkins would be delighted to see his Christmas elf with a bit more padding in the chest department, but she wasn’t sure it would stay where it was put. Maybe she would have a bulgy tummy instead. A mildly pregnant elf, maybe . . . What the hell, as long as it was warmer.

  “Now then,” said Mr. Wilkins. “I know you’re all wondering, how can Portman Brothers do even more to establish its good name in the community. As we all know, the firm is well known for its generosity to local charities and I am delighted to announce that the board has decided to launch a new and major fund-raising project, to culminate at Christmas with a grand check presentation. Isn’t that great?”

  “Are they going to donate some of the Christmas profits?” Kate piped up innocently.

  For a moment Mr. Wilkins regarded her with blank incomprehension. “Donate profits?” he said. “Of course not . . .”

  “Didn’t think so,” whispered Pat, before immediately clapping her hand over her mouth, astonished and frightened by her boldness.

  “No,” Mr. Wilkins went on, “much better than that, we want it to be fun,” he gave them all a sickly grin. “Much better publicity to be fund-raising actively . . . raffles, fun runs, that kind of thing . . .” he waved his hand, vaguely. “Over to you all.”

  A stony silence ensued. He stared them all down for an unconscionable time and then relented. “Right,” he said, “here is what we are going to do . . . We are going to need a committee. Kate, you are the chairman.”

  “Did I volunteer?” she said, although—thinking about it—one of the tasks for her Christmas miracle was to do charity work. This might be useful.

  “You did volunteer,” he said, looking at her beadily, “because I know how keen you are to be a valuable employee and a contributing member of the team.” He paused, still glaring.

  “Okay, fine,” she muttered, rubbing her cold hands together and blowing on them.

  “I’ll be your co-chair,” said Pat, and Kate smiled at her gratefully.

  “So, the only other issue is a fund-raising target,” said Mr. Wilkins enthusiastically. “I know you all like a challenge, so, as the last big fund-raiser made eight hundred pounds, the board have agreed on a target of—wait for it . . .” he looked around the room expectantly, a foolish grin on his face, and said with a flourish, “one thousand pounds!”

  “Yay,” cheered the assembled group raggedly, with a conspicuous lack of enthusiasm.

  “So, that’s that . . . ooh, no, hang on . . . we—you need to decide which local charity benefits,” said Mr. Wilkins. “The board declared you all should be allowed to choose, which I thought was extremely generous of them. Us.”

  “Don’t let it be the hedgehog rescue lot again,” muttered Kate. “They were sweet, but I found fleas on me when I got home. Hedgehog fleas. They were seething, bless them.”

  Pat shuddered.

  “So,” Mr. Wilkins went on, “there were two the board put on the short list—now who was it again?” he fumbled with his notes. “Ah yes, the Crisisline Bristol branch, apparently you call it if you’re at your wits’ end, and then . . . the Apple Café, run by mentally disabled kids and stuff, you know the kind of thing . . .” he looked up jovially. “That’s people who didn’t have any wits in the first place.”

  There was a quiet gasp, as people in the room assimilated what he had said.

  “‘Mentally disabled’?” mouthed Kate to Wayne quizzically. “‘Witless’? Really?”

  Wayne raised his eyes to heaven. “Tosser,” he mouthed back, jerking a thumb in their boss’s direction.

  “I know the Apple Café,” said Kate aloud with a sigh of resignation. Some people you just couldn’t even explain things to. “I vote for that. It’s just down the road from where I live.”

  “Do you go in there?” asked Mr. Wilkins incredulously.

  “Sometimes,” said Kate. “Me and Jack. They’re open to anyone. It’s not well known . . . but their raspberry white chocolate muffins are aw
esome.”

  “Hands up for the Apple Café,” said Wayne. “Seeing as Kate has to arrange stuff, I’m happy to go with her choice.”

  All hands went up.

  Kate checked her watch as the meeting dissolved into chatter. She had three minutes of her break left. Just time for a pee and then she was due back outside. Great.

  “What will you do?” asked Pat. She had come out to the Christmas tree stand with a hot wheat bag and—joy of joys—a thermos of hot coffee.

  “Sorry, I know you don’t have sugar usually, but it was already in.”

  “It’s amazing,” said Kate, sipping gratefully. “And this wheat bag is incredible,” she added, wrapping it around her neck. The sudden warmth made her shiver.

  “I’ll get you one for Christmas,” said Pat, dryly. “Although I’d like to think you won’t be out in the cold selling Christmas trees this time next year. We need better things for you and Jack. Better things than this . . .”

  Kate shook her head, bleakly. Where would they both be this time next year?

  “So, how on earth are we going to raise a thousand pounds?” asked Pat, breaking into her thoughts.

  “Dunno. I could do without this, on top of everything else.”

  “We’ve not been introduced properly,” said Daniel, when the little old man answered the door. “Although I know you, and—I have to say—I am going to miss you and your shop hugely.”

  “Thank you,” the man replied. “My name is Noel Zimmerman but you can call me Noel. I remember you of course. You used to come in often with a young lady who has . . .” he paused, selecting his words.

  “My sister Zoe,” intervened Daniel. “She had a heart problem.”

  “Had?” queried Noel with infinite gentleness.

  “She died, coming up for a year ago,” said Daniel, his eyes thanking the old man for remembering, for being delicate in how he asked. People didn’t know how to ask. Sometimes they markedly refused to, clearing their throats, looking at the sky, changing the subject to something—anything—more comfortable.