25 Days 'Til Christmas

by Poppy Alexander

  “Young man, I am so sorry to hear it. I very much enjoyed your sister’s company.”

  “And she yours.”

  “But now, life has changed, as life tends to do—relentlessly,” Noel observed. “It is the way of the world,” he smiled, clasping his hands. “And I am glad I was there for your sister. I should not like to think I ever disappointed her by closing the shop while she still required it. Shall we?” he waved his arm at the front door of the shop.

  Once inside, Daniel turned slowly in a circle, evaluating the space. “So, it’s small at just under three hundred square feet,” he observed. “I am happy to re-assess the space, or—if you prefer—we can just adopt the Comptons evaluation and move on?”

  “Comptons were fine. Let us take their evaluation as read,” said Noel.

  “And yet you are looking to us to take on the job?” said Daniel. It was critical to understand why Comptons had not been successful. On the surface of it, finding a new tenant should have been swift and straightforward.

  “Christmas Steps is a very special area,” explained Noel. “I have lived and worked here all my life . . .”

  “You live here?” asked Daniel, looking to the ceiling.

  “I do. There is a little flat above. Two stories. Tiny, actually, but perfectly adequate. I am alone,” said Noel without self-pity. “It amuses me that people are always surprised. Where do you expect me to live? Actually, with children it is particularly amusing because they seem to think I am just—what?—sitting in the shop all day and night, every day of the week, waiting to spring to life when they come along . . .”

  “I think I was a bit like that,” admitted Daniel. “Do you know? I’ve been coming here with Zoe since we were tiny. Our dad would bring us on a Saturday morning . . .” His eyes filled suddenly. They did that since Zoe died. He hated it. The feeling of not knowing when grief was going to roll over him, like a dark, powerful wave, sweeping his composure away in a moment as if it were a pile of matchstick flotsam. Sometimes he would even make a sound. A sob. Mainly he would manage to suppress it by holding his breath. He would turn away, surreptitiously wipe his eyes, and turn back restored, as people pretended not to have noticed.

  Noel didn’t pretend not to notice.

  “Our dear Queen said it perfectly,” he observed. “‘Grief is the price we pay for love,’” he told Daniel, putting a hand on his arm just for a moment. “And to quote Tennyson—as I believe it was—‘Better to have loved and lost . . .’”

  “That’s so true,” said Daniel, taking a deep breath. He had to get a grip. He had never failed to be a professional before. Noel just seemed to hit a nerve. “Sorry,” he said, turning back and straightening himself with a conscious effort.

  “Don’t,” he said sharply. “Don’t apologize. I won’t have it.”

  “No,” said Daniel. “I won’t. I won’t apologize for being sad. You are quite right.”

  “But there comes a time when you have to look forward, young man . . . and in a way, that is what I am asking you to help me with.”

  “Right, yes, absolutely. So, you mention the flat upstairs but—just to check—you are only seeking a tenant for the shop, aren’t you?”

  “I am. It is all part of a bigger plan,” said Noel, gesturing for Daniel to sit on one of the two upright wooden chairs which were sitting at angles on the dusty floor, in an otherwise empty room. The light was dingy. Whatever sunlight filtered through into the narrow street was obscured by the whitewashed glass of the window. Daniel sat and, suddenly, felt more at peace than he had done for months. He looked expectantly at the shrunken old man beside him and settled in for the story he was about to hear.

  “I have lived and worked here for more than seventy years now. Obviously, that makes me very old,” Noel said with a smile. “And the demands of the business, the long opening hours, the need for a constant presence, means I have lived a fairly narrow life for that time. You might feel I regret that, but I do not. You might pity me, even. But you should not. I have been content. It has been the life I have chosen. My parents brought me here, as a young boy, from Germany, which was not a good place for my family to be at the time.”

  “You escaped the Nazis?”

  “We did. We were caught helping a Jewish family. In fact, we helped many, many families,” he said with pride. “We got away with it for a long time, but eventually our card was marked, and we heard they were coming for us. We left in the dead of night, came here with nothing, and made a small life for ourselves. My family were confectioners in Germany too—marzipan mostly, some sugar work—and so it was natural to stick with what we knew. It has been years since we made the sweets ourselves—that part was not necessary here—but we built a reputation. When I was an adult I took over and when my parents died, it became something I did alone. I have now done it alone for as long as I feel I can.”

  He paused.

  “So,” interjected Daniel gently, “how can I help you now? “I’m interested to know why Comptons didn’t succeed in finding you a tenant.”

  “They failed—that man, James—he failed because he did not ask the right questions as you do. I am not looking for rent, it is not about money, it is about finding a person who can breathe life into the shop, who can cleave to our little community here in Christmas Steps and make it stronger. I have been presented only with a succession of ghastly people who want to open some ‘boutique,’” he made a dismissive gesture with his hands, “who want to take a short lease to make the most of some venal, commercial opportunity. I had a dodgy mobile phone sales person who wanted to take over the shop for six weeks only; it turned out he wanted to sell poor-quality phone cases, counterfeit handbags, cheap textiles—just in the run-up to Christmas—and then disappear again. That is the last thing this community needs. Every shop in Christmas Steps is like a different organ in a human body. We are more than the sum of our parts here . . .”

  “Sorry, so . . .” Daniel asked, “just to be clear, are you only interested in someone who wants to take over the confectionary business . . . ?”

  “No,” said Noel slowly. “That would be delightful, but it is probably unrealistic. It is only because I own the property and pay no rent that I have been able to survive as long as I have. This ridiculous new, high business rate has put paid to the profitability of my business. It is gone now. I accept that.”

  “That’s so sad,” said Daniel. “It’s been a sweet shop as long as I remember.”

  “We need to change or die. In my case, I am going to literally die soon anyway”—he said this without the slightest hint of self-pity—“so it is important that this person has the energy, vision, and goodness of heart to take on the battle.”

  “And how will I find this person?” asked Daniel, smiling.

  “You find them. When you have found them, you will know. I will know. You must bring them to me and I will tell you.”

  “And the rent?”

  “Irrelevant.”

  As usual, Kate barely made it to the school gate in time.

  “You needn’t have rushed,” said Seema, looking cool and composed as usual. “I could have taken the boys home and met you there.”

  “I had a call. Apparently, Mrs. Marshall wants ‘a word.’”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “I know . . . not good.”

  “Well, it might be good,” said Seema. “It might be that Jack has done some amazing, astonishing, fabulous thing that Mrs. Marshall is pining to tell you about.”

  “Or not,” said Kate, flatly.

  “Or not,” agreed Seema. “I’ll let you go and face the music then. See you back at ours?”

  Mrs. Marshall was waiting in the foyer, giving Kate the soothing, professional smile that she knew and dreaded.

  “We are so glad you have come in . . . It’s just a little chat, Mrs. Thompson. We’ve been having a think about Jack and his needs,” she said, ushering Kate smoothly into the principal’s office, where the others were already seated with cups
of tea.

  “It is our feeling,” said Mrs. Marshall, slowly, “that it would be helpful for Jack if we could take a closer look at his issues, with a view to seeing how we can best support him moving forward.”

  “A closer look?”

  “A professional insight.”

  “At his issues?”

  “Anger management, concentration and focus, executive function, cognitive ability . . .”

  “What? Who?” Kate shook her head in confusion. “Cognitive ability? Is Jack not normal? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “No, no, Mrs. Thompson,” Mrs. Marshall said earnestly. “Of course Jack is ‘normal.’ All children are ‘normal’ but they are also unique, and we want to understand more about Jack’s—uniqueness . . .”

  Kate shuffled nervously. “Okay, go on. Is there anything in particular?” she dreaded to ask. “Anger, cognitive thingie . . . ?”

  “It’s more of an emerging pattern of behaviors and learning styles,” said Mrs. Marshall. “I have asked our Special Needs Coordinator, Mrs. England, to explain a little more.”

  Kate turned expectantly. Mrs. England was a quietly spoken, earnest, middle-aged woman whom Kate had been sent to speak to before. She had been reassuring then. Perhaps now it was a different story.

  “Jack is a lovely boy,” she began, “but . . .” She thought carefully. “I feel he would benefit from an investigation by an education psychologist with a view to applying for an EHCP.”

  “A wha . . . ?”

  “An EHCP—Education, Health, and Care Plan—is a binding document which compels the education authority to meet a child’s needs as identified in their plan. It comes with a commitment. Funding. Resources.”

  “So . . .” said Kate, floundering, “you want to diagnose Jack. You want to say, ‘This is the thing that’s wrong with him.’ Put a label on him.”

  “We do not label children. This is not a diagnostic process. It is an opportunity to look in detail at the support Jack needs with all aspects of his access to education—and any other needs he may have—and then it helps to see more clearly which school is . . .”

  “Which school?” interrupted Kate. “This is his school. He goes here.”

  Mrs. Marshall nodded her head but would not meet Kate’s eye. Kate stared at her imploringly.

  Mrs. Marshall cleared her throat delicately. “Mrs. Thompson, moving forward—and we really are simply trying to do the best for Jack—I suggest I apply for the EHCP process to start and see what the result suggests. As part of that, I have to ask, does Jack have a social worker at all?”

  “They asked if he had a bloody social worker, for God’s sake,” hissed Kate. They were both leaning up against the kitchen counter as Kate brought Seema up to date. As soon as Seema had seen her friend’s face, she had dispatched the two boys to the sitting room, with CBBC turned up louder than usual and a packet of Monster Munch each.

  “Wine,” said Seema, decisively.

  “I know, I know, but it’s just not my style,” admitted Kate. “I do feel like it though. I feel like filing an official complaint.”

  “I said ‘wine,’ you idiot, not ‘whine,’” said Seema, reaching into the cupboard for glasses.

  “On a Monday?” said Kate, with mock horror.

  “On a Monday,” she insisted, sloshing white wine into two glasses. “This is a big one . . .”

  “So I told them of course he hasn’t got a social worker,” said Kate, returning to her point like a dog with a bone. “I feel like I’ve been catapulted into a parallel universe. Suddenly he’s—I dunno—different? Failing? Damaged in some way?”

  Tears sprang to Kate’s eyes and Seema tore off a bit of paper towel for her.

  “It’s fine,” she said. “Don’t panic. Jack’s going to be fine.”

  “But they don’t want him at the school.”

  “They didn’t say that.”

  “They sort of did. What if they do this psychology report thingie and then they say they can’t help him. Do you think they’ll expel him?” The thought led to a fresh rush of tears.

  “You need to calm down, girl. This isn’t getting you anywhere.”

  Kate’s eyes widened at the no-nonsense tone. But then she nodded. “You’re right,” she said. “I do.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Do you think Jack is different to the other boys?” Her eyes were searching her friend’s face for honesty.

  Seema took her time. She took a slow gulp of wine and stared. “I think,” she said at last, “Jack is unusual.”

  “How? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You do know . . . in your heart, but maybe not your head yet. You’re his mum so you see it. Describe it,” she suggested. “Why don’t you just—describe it—to me and to yourself. Right now, just say whatever pops into your head.”

  “I’ve only ever been Jack’s mum though,” said Kate. “I can’t compare with other children. How can I know? But . . .” She stared unseeing out of the kitchen window. “It’s like Jack is under siege the whole time. I look at his little face, and I can see he is desperately trying to—I don’t know—make sense of everything. It’s like he’s being blasted by all this information. Like there are no filters, just a tidal wave of . . . stuff. And he takes it all in too. His questions . . . what, how, who, why . . . it’s constant. It’s like he’s ‘always on’ and then, suddenly, he gets totally overwhelmed and switches off. Glazes over. Gets angry sometimes then too. What is that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Seema, quietly. “I don’t think it needs to have a name, does it? It’s just Jack. What matters is understanding what he needs. You’re a good mum. You’ll get him whatever he needs, I know you will. Just go with it. That’s my advice.”

  They both drank, silently, for a few minutes, lost in their own thoughts.

  Suddenly, a huge crash destroyed their reverie.

  “What the heck?” said Kate, jumping out of her skin. It had come from from the sitting room, followed by shouts of laughter from the two boys. There was another crash, and then another.

  “I think they’ve finished their crisps,” said Seema calmly.

  “Do we know what they’re doing now?”

  “My guess? Sounds like they’re seeing whether they can jump from one sofa to the other, without touching the floor.”

  “Nice,” said Kate. “Do you mind?”

  “Could be worse. Now show me these camel costume heads. I’ve been dying to see them all day.”

  “Did Mrs. Marshall say I was naughty?” asked Jack sleepily as Kate tucked him in.

  “Absolutely not. She said you were amazing.”

  “That’s okay. I like my school.”

  “There are lots of really cool schools though. Even better schools.”

  “No,” said Jack, with certainty. “I wouldn’t want to go to another school. It wouldn’t have Krish at it. That would be bad.” He added, “I forgot my advent calendar!”

  “Oh, Jack,” said Kate. “I reminded you twice. Now you’ve brushed your teeth . . .”

  “I’ll brush them again,” said Jack, hopping out of bed, all sleepiness forgotten.

  “Send letter to Father Christmas,” he read on the scrap of paper Kate had hidden in the pocket. “Oh yes, I’ve got to post it, haven’t I, Mummy?” he said, around the chocolate which was now thoroughly coating his teeth.

  “You have,” said Kate. “Now off you go, you monkey,” she said, sending him back to bed with a pretend boot on the bottom. “And brush your teeth again. Really well.”

  17 Days ’til Christmas

  The furry pants Kate had discussed in that uncomfortable conversation with Mr. Wilkins were starting to sound more and more attractive. Even with two pairs of tights and three T-shirts under her elf tunic, she was freezing. Her face was numb, and her hands were aching with cold. Business was slow too, now that most people had their trees. With fewer customers to distract her, she tried to while away the time thinking up solutions to her newest press
ing problems instead. The one about Jack and his school was too depressing for words, so she filed it in the back of her mind to return to later. The one about raising a thousand pounds for the Apple Café was more appealing; she was idly weighing up the pros and cons of carol singing versus getting the café staff to make and sell mince pies when—suddenly—the man was in front of her. She looked up into his kind, hazel eyes and smiled stiffly.

  “You’re really cold,” he said, not breaking her gaze.

  Kate nodded, mutely.

  “Okay,” he said. He stared for a moment longer, and then ran his eyes down from her face to her feet and back again. “Right,” he barked, suddenly. “Wait here. Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

  Kate shrugged. “No chance of that.”

  Twenty long minutes later, he arrived back in front of her, a little breathless. He had a Portman Brothers shopping bag in his hand.

  “Look,” he told her, rummaging in the bag, “what about this?” First, he produced a green woolly hat with an extravagant fluffy pom-pom. He held it outstretched, looking at her for permission.

  She nodded, bemused, and he pulled it onto her head, gently tucking in a strand of her blond hair that had fallen across her eyes, so she could see. His hand was warm as it brushed her cheek, and the hat was like a gentle hug. It was soft, thick, and instantly warmer. “Wow,” she said, “that’s brilliant. Do I look ridiculous?”

  “No, cute,” he said, standing back to appraise his work. “I thought green for an elf, I hope that’s okay? Also . . .” He handed her a pair of dark green woolen gloves. “They’ve got these flaps, see?” he demonstrated. They were fingerless but then there was a flap, buttoned to the back, which could be released and pulled over the fingers, turning them into mittens.

  “Genius,” she breathed, pulling them on gratefully. “I’ve been wanting some of these.”

  “You can pull the flaps over, and then—when you’ve got customers—you can release your fingers to do the money thing,” he explained, unnecessarily.