25 Days 'Til Christmas

by Poppy Alexander

  She smiled. His simple enthusiasm reminded her of Jack. Actually, there was an intensity and focus on the problem solving that reminded her of someone else: of Tom. Her smile wobbled.

  “Sorry,” he said, noticing, “you must think I’m completely mad. Is this a bit random?”

  “A little bit,” she admitted. “But it’s lovely. You’re so kind.” Her smile wobbled again. “What do I owe you?”

  “Don’t be silly,” he said, waving away her question without interest. “And look, the pièce de résistance.” He rummaged in the bag again and produced a slim, orange plastic package.

  “Ta da!”

  “What . . . ?”

  “Aha!” he said, grinning, “these are going to blow you away . . . you open the packet, then you put them in your shoes and they warm up your feet for up to sixteen hours. It’s like . . . I dunno . . . but opening the packet sort of activates it and it gets hot. Good, eh?”

  Kate giggled at his enthusiasm. “Sixteen hours? Even Portman Brothers doesn’t make me work for that long, thankfully. You are amazing. I feel so much warmer already. I’ll do the foot thing when I have my break. I can’t wait . . . But I can’t let you do this . . . I don’t even know your name.”

  “You can,” he said. “You need someone to look after you.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go.”

  “And you still didn’t tell me your name,” said Kate, too quietly for him to hear, as she watched him walk away.

  “So,” said Paul, trying to get a grasp on what Daniel was telling him, “you walked up to her and gave her a hat?”

  “And gloves, yeah. Do you think it was weird?”

  “Yes. Definitely. Eccentric-weird, possibly even creepy-weird but—mate—I have to admire your creativity. As chat-up lines go, I reckon presenting a bird a hat with a pom-pom on it has to be unique.”

  “She was cold. She’s warmer now,” said Daniel, to no one in particular. “So that’s good.” And he had spoken to Tree Girl in a slightly more normal way than before. Slightly. That was good too.

  “Plus, now we finally know her name?” persisted Paul.

  “Ah,” he admitted. “I forgot that bit.”

  “Those are clever,” exclaimed Pat, when she saw Kate putting the foot warmers into her shoes.

  “You’re telling me,” said Kate, relacing her sneakers. She needed to loosen them a bit to make room but—oh the relief—they were heating up already.

  “So, a secret admirer, eh?”

  “I dunno about that,” Kate flushed, and it wasn’t the warmth of the staffroom. “He’s just this kind man,” she said. “He’s kind . . . And he’s sad.”

  “I can feel a rescue coming on,” chided Pat. “And I do wonder whether you’ve already got enough on yourself, without turning yourself inside out for another sad story. What about this ridiculous fund-raising thing? Why is Mr. Wilkins loading everything onto you? I could cheerfully murder him.”

  “He knows I’ll do it, because I need my job,” said Kate, wearily rubbing her face.

  “Talking of which,” said Pat, “this’ll cheer you up. See what I brought in this morning?” she was pointing at a cardboard box on the counter.

  Kate went over, her curiosity piqued. “What’s all this?” she said, rummaging. “Chocolates, bath stuff, oh—bottle of Scotch—great. Cloakroom tickets? What’s it all for?”

  “Staff raffle. My friends at the Women’s Institute. At the meeting last night I told them I was co-chair of the fund-raising committee here, to raise a thousand pounds and—bless them—they gathered up the raffle prizes we go round and round with and told me to bring them here. The cloakroom tickets too . . .”

  “What do you mean they ‘go round and round’?”

  “We have a raffle every couple of months and—to be honest—there’s a bit of regifting, shall we call it? The girls were more than happy to donate all this. We can ask staff to buy tickets. I thought a pound a strip? It won’t raise a thousand but it all helps doesn’t it?”

  “You’re an angel,” said Kate. “Really! It’s brilliant . . . we’ll just set them all up here . . . make it all look a bit enticing.” Now she knew more, she peered into the box again doubtfully, wondering about use-by dates.

  “What else shall we do though?” Pat fretted. “I don’t want us to let them down. Shall we go there, and have a chat with people? Kick some ideas around?”

  “I was thinking of doing just that,” said Kate, with relief. “It’s a brilliant place, you’ll love it. When are you free?”

  “Soon, my love. Tomorrow? But never mind that . . . what else is it? Has that Mr. Wilkins upset you again?”

  Kate sighed, hugging her cup and bowing her head over the table that separated them. “How did you guess? No, it’s not Mr. Wilkins, although obviously he is an arse and it does upset me that he wants me out of here . . . No, I had a meeting with the school about Jack yesterday.”

  “That lovely boy of yours. He’s not in trouble, is he?”

  “Sort of, yes. They want him out.”

  “Ridiculous! What’s he done? I can’t believe he would have done anything. He’s just not . . .”

  “No, to be fair, it’s not that . . .” Kate searched for an explanation. “They’re starting to say his needs would be best met elsewhere.”

  “What needs exactly?”

  “That’s the thing,” sighed Kate, going on to explain what she had said to Seema, his tendency to zone out, the feeling she had that he was overwhelmed sometimes. She told Pat about the huge tantrums he had had at two and three years old. Normal two-year-old stuff, everyone had said at the time. And, of course, Tom had been killed around that time. The tantrums had been massive. Epic. Once seen never forgotten, and yet they had passed. Jack had gotten somewhat better at managing his own emotions, but not enough to fit in, it seemed. Kate had sometimes allowed a tiny voice in her head to whisper that Jack might be autistic, but he couldn’t be, could he? His unusual behavior didn’t fit with the autism Kate knew of from what she had read in the papers. That wasn’t Jack. And yet . . .

  Pat listened as Kate talked. She was knitting, as usual, her needles clicking rhythmically, comfortingly, as she sat, nodding occasionally, making encouraging noises.

  “So,” said Kate at last. “Here we are. They want to examine him. Report on him. They’ve already warned me they think he might need to go to a different school, but they haven’t said properly why yet. Or where.”

  “The ‘where’ I might be able to help you with,” she said obliquely. But Kate was beyond hearing subtlety and inference.

  “I don’t want Jack to change schools,” Kate wailed, tears springing frustratingly to her eyes again.

  “Also,” said Pat, persevering kindly but firmly, “you need to know that Jack is in the right place to meet his needs. He’s a gorgeous boy. Don’t worry. But if he’s not thriving where he is, then you have a duty to find somewhere he’s better suited.”

  “Of course I do. You’re right. I need to get a grip.”

  “You’ve been through more than a lot of people go through in their lifetime,” said Pat. “Don’t be hard on yourself. Now,” she went on, “On the subject of schools, there’s someone I think you should meet . . .”

  “Who?”

  “My sister Ursula.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think she would be interested in Jack. She’s the principal at Greystone Manor Prep, do you know it?”

  “Vaguely, but it’s a posh private school isn’t it? Navy uniform, boys in shorts and long socks, boaters? You see them all swarming around the Cathedral in the summer.”

  “Those are the ones.”

  “Private school is completely out of the question, Pat.” She was aghast that Pat had even suggested it. “Anyway, no one is suggesting Jack needs a posh school with Latin grammar, the cane, and rugger practice . . .”

  Pat held up a hand. “It has elements of that—no bad thing for many boys—not the cane, obviously, there’s no
ne of that nowadays—but Greystone Manor is no ordinary private school. Go and talk to Ursula,” she implored. “I’m going to give her a call.”

  “You’ve got to do your letter to Father Christmas,” Kate reminded Jack when they got home.

  “More writing,” he complained. “I’ve been doing that at school all day.”

  They were both cold and tired. The dark flat was always chilly and uninviting when they first returned at this time of year. She longed for the days when it was still light when they got home. It was getting toward the shortest day and that, she reminded herself—at least that—was a turning point.

  “It’s exciting writing to Father Christmas, though,” she said. “Have some milk and a cookie. Then we can sit down and do it together.”

  Kate bustled about the flat, checking the meter, switching on the electric heater at least for a little while, turning on the lights and drawing the thin curtains. “We’ll soon get it cozy,” she said. “Get out your paper and pencil, monkey boy. We can post it tomorrow on the way to the bus.”

  She left him alone at first, starting on dinner while he wrote laboriously, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth.

  For all his talk, he had made little progress previously. He found getting his thoughts down on paper frustratingly difficult and had to be hectored to get it done. When she could see he had covered half a page, in his huge, scrawly writing, each line drifting off at a steep angle downward, she looked over his shoulder.

  “Good job,” she said. “Can I read it?”

  Jack sighed. “Suppose so. It won’t happen anyway. What’s the point?”

  “You’re far too world-weary for a six-year-old,” she teased, but her heart gave a twist in her chest.

  “Dear Father Crismas,” it said. “I don’t want lots of toys becos we dont have much room, becos we dont have much munny. We need a new daddy me and mummy do becos we are sad and a daddy will have munny and mummy wont have to work so hard and be tired. Thank you. Love Jack.”

  “Do I do a kiss at the end?” asked Jack.

  “If you want to,” said Kate. It came out squeaky because she was trying not to laugh. Or trying not to cry—one of the two, she wasn’t quite sure which.

  “I don’t want to,” he admitted. “I don’t know him, and I wouldn’t want to kiss him in real life ’cos he’s got a big beard.”

  “No, okay.”

  “And you shouldn’t have to kiss people if you don’t want to,” Jack went on seriously. “We did it in school. It’s all about sent.”

  “Consent,” corrected Kate, automatically. “No, okay, no kisses for Father Christmas, that’s fine.” She put her arm around his little, bony shoulder and gave him a squeeze. “Well done sweetie. Put it in the envelope. We’ll check the address we need after dinner, shall we? Come and wash your hands now. It’s macaroni cheese. You like that, don’t you?”

  “Is that going to work?” said Jack, doubtfully, once they had returned to it, after tea.

  Google had informed them, with considerable authority, that the correct address was “Father Christmas, Lapland,” which didn’t seem enough.

  “It is a bit odd that there’s no postcode,” agreed Kate. “But I’m sure it’ll be fine. There. Put the stamp on for me. It’s first class, so that’s good.”

  “Will he reply?” asked Jack, later, as he got ready for bed.

  Kate thought hard. “I think he will, eventually, but we have to let him sort things out his way,” she said, diplomatically. “He’ll do what’s right for us. Sometimes that’s not exactly the same as doing the thing we’ve asked him to do.”

  “Like God,” said Jack, putting his toothbrush back in the mug thoughtfully.

  “I suppose so.”

  “I don’t like God taking Daddy away,” said Jack. “I don’t know what he was thinking. That was a rubbish thing to do.”

  Kate hugged him. “I know, darling. We just have to keep going. It’s nearly Christmas! That’s a good thing, right there, isn’t it?”

  “And we’re stirring the Christmas pudding tomorrow,” said Jack, remembering the slip of paper in the advent calendar. “I can make a wish. I know what I’m going to wish for already. It might seem a waste to do the same thing,” he paused, “but I think it’ll be good. We don’t want God to think we’re asking for too many different things . . .”

  “Very sensible,” said Kate, kissing the top of his head. He smelled like “boy,” a mix of warmth, grubbiness, and shampoo. “It’s cold tonight, darling,” she said. “Want to sleep in with me?”

  “It’s all right, Mummy,” said Jack. “I’ll be fine.”

  She felt quietly bereft. Had the day already come that she had spent her last fractured night next to this squirming, kicking child, all limbs and energy? Had she woken beside him for the final time and not even realized? As a family they would all pile into the bed to watch cartoons on a Saturday morning before Tom went for a run. With Jack waking them at five in the morning most days, it allowed the two of them to grab a sneaky doze, knowing he was safely stationed between them. Then she did it a lot when Tom was killed. When Jack was having night terrors—when she was too—they both gained comfort from waking next to another living, breathing human being. She would put him in her bed whenever he was ill, too, so she could check on him more easily, feeling his forehead, dosing him with acetaminophen, and giving him sips of water throughout the night, gazing at him anxiously for early signs of the sickness parents dread—meningitis, sepsis. She felt constantly as if she was warding off terrible disasters, protecting his frail body with her own. Because appalling things did happen. She knew that. There was no innate sense of fundamental safety and rightness in life anymore—not for her. For Jack, her sole intention in life was to create safety; and yet here she was, bringing him up in a dodgy neighborhood inside a dingy flat with no garden for a little boy to run around, no space for a Christmas tree, a school that didn’t understand him and didn’t want him, no male role model . . .

  She sighed sadly and pulled Jack’s door just ajar, so he could see the light in the corridor if he woke. She had things to do. If Christmas pudding stirring was going to happen she needed to find money for the ingredients. With luck, her coat pockets and the space behind the sofa cushions would cough up a quid or two.

  16 Days ’til Christmas

  The Apple Café was only about a quarter of a mile from the flat. She and Jack sometimes went there on a Saturday morning, walking through streets made ugly with graffitied swearwords, boarded-up buildings, and betting shops, although optimistic little artisan food and coffee shops were beginning to pop up here and there. The two of them usually took the route through the back streets, swapping the high street for lines of Victorian terraces. Occasionally there would be a stained old mattress dumped on the pavement, but here the decay was fighting with signs of defiant gentrification—smart gray shutters on windows and pairs of bay trees on either side of front doors. For all that, it was a far cry from the bright, shiny streets of Portman Brothers with its wide pavements, its huge shop windows, and its enticing, unaffordable lifestyle, which came so naturally to many and seemed so completely unreachable for Kate.

  At least Mr. Wilkins had agreed she could go into work late, so she was visiting the Apple Café on company time. Pat had agreed to meet her there and, when she arrived, the older woman was already inside. Kate could see her, beaming, as she chatted with the girl behind the counter. She was clearly admiring the wide variety of cakes set out on the counter under a series of glass domes.

  Tucked in between a charity shop and a newsstand, the café had a tiny outside space where the staff would place two pairs of chairs and tables for patrons to sit outside. There was no furniture there today. Who would want to take their coffee outside with its lead-gray skies and intermittent frozen rain?

  Kate shivered as she opened the shop door and stepped into the brightly lit café. The little room was crammed with aluminium furniture, made cozier that day with wipeable green
gingham cloths, each table adorned with a small zinc pail and a pot of thyme.

  “Kate!” said Pat. “Will you look at these incredible meringues? Beth here tells me she made them herself.”

  The girl behind the counter bobbed her head and smiled shyly.

  “I can’t believe the talent,” Pat went on. “I tell you I wish I could produce something like that.”

  “You have to heat the sugar,” the girl said, quietly. Her voice was low and charmingly gruff. “That’s what Brian showed me. He taught me that.”

  “Well,” said Pat, “I want to meet this Brian. He’s obviously a genius.”

  “No sooner said,” came a voice from the doorway behind the counter. A tall, well-upholstered man with a shaved head and well-trimmed gray beard was ducking slightly to come through the doorway.

  “I am Brian,” he said, holding out a meaty hand to Pat, and then to Kate. “And Beth’s right. You have to heat the sugar.”

  “I never knew,” said Pat, clearly impressed.

  “Beth knows her stuff,” said Brian, gesturing for Kate and Pat to sit down at one of the larger tables. “Tea for you ladies?”

  “I’d kill for coffee,” said Kate. It was nearly ten o’clock and she hadn’t had time for her usual caffeine fix that morning. Getting a worn-out and grumpy Jack off to school had been even harder than usual that day.

  “Latte? Cappuccino? Flat white?” offered Brian, laughing at Pat’s amazed response.

  “Oh yeah . . . we take our coffee pretty seriously here at the Apple . . . we got a grant for that giant of a coffee machine and three of our staff have just come back from a barista course. Hey, Will!” he suddenly shouted, making the women jump.

  “Sorry . . . these ladies would like you to stand by for a coffee order, mate,” he said to a young man who emerged shyly from the dark room at the back. He was wearing a striped blue and white apron and smiled at them both before ducking his head. He had a charming smile, made all the more endearing by his unusual appearance. He was thickset with stubbly red hair, a wide face, and a clumsy manner. Kate could just imagine him being crucified at school.