25 Days 'Til Christmas

by Poppy Alexander

  “S-s-s-standing by,” he said, twisting Kate’s heartstrings further as she realized the young man had a learning disability and a stammer too.

  “Latte would be amazing,” she told him. “You’re a lifesaver.”

  He looked thrilled.

  “Same here too please, my lovely,” added Pat, who—Kate knew—usually drank tea, but clearly wanted to make it easier for him.

  “So,” said Brian, addressing Kate, “I recognize you as one of our few genuine public customers.”

  “I don’t come in much,” admitted Kate, “but me and Jack—that’s my son—we come in sometimes at the weekends, when . . .” She nearly said when we can afford to, but didn’t want to indicate to Brian the café’s prices were too high for her. Instead she settled for a half-truth. “We come in when we’re in the area. We go to the park sometimes.”

  “Yes, at least we’ve got the park nearby,” Brian conceded, “but we’re not exactly in a ‘destination’ location, we know that all too well. Not that we’re not lucky to have a venue,” he added quickly. “How much do you know about the Apple Café?”

  Both women shook their heads.

  “Okay, so, we’re a charity obviously. There was a founding benefactor from as long ago as anyone can remember; a parent, I believe, with a child who had Down’s syndrome . . . they wanted their child to have somewhere to go in the daytime—the type of experience someone just going to an ordinary job might have.”

  “Of course,” said Pat. “People want to work. It’s a normal thing.”

  “Exactly,” said Brian, beaming. “You get it. Structure to life, purpose, pride, income . . . Unfortunately, work opportunities for adults with learning disabilities are few and far between. Employers don’t want to know or aren’t supportive enough, so we’ve had to create the opportunities ourselves. This used to be just a social club. When I first started working here it was like a day care center to get people like Beth and Will out of the house. Respite care, you could even call it. Pretty boring stuff. A pool table, a telly, some craft activities that no one was really into. I was brought in because I knew about the cooking and baking side, but now I’m the manager, basically.”

  “Is that what you are?” said Kate, surprised. “I wouldn’t have thought . . .”

  “No, well, I wasn’t massively employable at one point,” admitted Brian. “I had mental health problems and bailed out of my job. I was a head patissier in a top five-star hotel chain,” he said with obvious pride. “It nearly killed me. I came here because I needed to do something with less pressure and—to be honest—I can’t imagine a more rewarding workplace. I don’t want to work anywhere else now.”

  “That’s amazing,” said Kate. “No wonder the cakes here are so good.”

  “It’s the staff,” insisted Brian. “I’m not nearly as hands-on as you might think. Nowadays I’m training, mainly. We do real qualifications too. Everyone starts with their Food Hygiene exam. Some take longer than others . . . everyone gets there in the end. That’s a proper, externally recognized qualification, by the way. Then we get onto learning about recipes and stuff. Everyone’s got their own interest. Will was really keen on learning about the drinks and he totally knows his way around that coffee machine now.”

  Kate and Pat looked over as Will came proudly and slowly toward them, a latte in each hand, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration.

  “I’m really impressed,” Kate told him, as he put them down, slopping them onto the table only slightly. She grabbed a napkin and whisked away the spill almost before it happened. “I’d be terrified of that thing,” she said, waving at the countertop-sized giant of polished chrome.

  “We c-c-c-call it the dragon,” he told her, “because steam comes out of its mouth.”

  “Good name.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Perfect,” she pronounced.

  “So, the other thing I do, is trying to keep us financially afloat,” said Brian, leading them neatly around to the reason for their visit, “and that’s a real brain ache, I can tell you.”

  “Yes, so—absolutely,” said Kate. “We at Portman Brothers are aiming for a grand over the next couple of weeks—which isn’t a fortune, I appreciate.” Kate looked around. It was a humble little place, but she was pretty certain the overheads were considerable, even so.

  “It isn’t a fortune,” agreed Brian, bluntly, and then he laughed. “Sorry. Tact isn’t my greatest skill, as the trustees frequently tell me. Apparently, I should be fawning over you, telling you what a huge benefit a thousand pounds will be and how extremely grateful we all truly are for your massive generosity.” He tried out a sickly, grateful, sycophantic smile, which looked entertainingly grotesque on his handsome-ugly face with his stubble and his boxer’s nose.

  The women laughed, and he joined in. “Seriously though,” he went on, “a grand is not to be sneezed at, and there is something else we need from you, which really will make a difference.”

  “Go on,” said Pat.

  “Hardly anyone knows we’re here. Mainly our customers are limited to the family and friends of our staff. Those who do know we exist tend, present company excepted,” he nodded at Kate, “to assume we don’t serve members of the general public.”

  Kate and Pat nodded.

  “And then,” he went on, lowering his voice and glancing at Will and Beth, who were assiduously wiping down the counter and tables, “the other issue we face is that an awful lot of people don’t quite know how to behave when they meet someone with a learning disability.”

  Pat started to look affronted on Will and Beth’s behalf, but Brian continued, “Listen, we don’t think badly of people for ignorance. Not so long ago, people with learning disabilities spent their lives in residential homes. That was the norm. The shocking and damaging effect of that is that people just didn’t see people with Down’s syndrome—and people like Will who has Fetal Alcohol Syndrome—walking down the street, working, serving them in shops and so on . . . it’s natural. In the majority of folks, the antipathy isn’t rejection, it’s fear . . .”

  “How could someone fear a person like Will,” said Kate in a low voice, matching Brian’s reduction in volume, but Brian would brook no criticism of Joe Public.

  “I’ve always seen it as more of a worry about saying or doing the wrong thing,” he said, charitably. “Will’s a lovely bloke, but it’s not always easy to understand what he’s saying, and he looks different in a way that people don’t even recognize, which makes it harder in some ways. At least people generally understand that Beth has Down’s. They then tend to make unhelpful assumptions about her, but at least they understand—or think they understand—what her issues might be . . .”

  “I agree with you Brian, I’m not sure a thousand pounds is going to make a lot of difference,” said Kate, deflated at the scale of the task.

  “So, what I want from you is more.”

  “They won’t be up for more than a grand,” said Kate, apologetically. “And it’s up to us to raise that. It’s not even a donation . . .”

  “I don’t mean money. What you’ve got is presence. A bloody great big frontage at Cabot Circus. Tens of thousands of people through your door, especially at Christmas. What we want is a piece of that.”

  “O-kay,” said Pat. “What have you got in mind?”

  Kate looked at her older friend. She had a fierce laser-focus and determination that Kate had never seen before.

  Brian pushed up his sleeves and leaned toward Pat in recognition of her commitment.

  “Right,” he said. “I don’t completely know . . . but I want Portman Brothers to help us reach out; to show what we’re made of. I tell you what—the world doesn’t know what it’s missing! Never mind Beth’s meringues—they’re impressive—but Craig’s salted caramel brownies are epic, once tasted never forgotten, and baking and Christmas were made for each other. We’re getting sixty Christmas puddings out of the door in the next fortnight. That takes some doing . . .”
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  Kate slapped her forehead and made a noise which—while containing no actual words—expressed real anguish.

  Brian and Pat looked at her with concern.

  “I need Christmas pudding,” she said, by way of embarrassed explanation for the cry.

  “Don’t worry,” said Brian, gently, “if that’s all it takes to turn your world the right way up again we can sort you out, no problem.”

  “It’s worse than that,” explained Kate. “I’m sure your Christmas puddings are amazing, but I’ve got to produce Christmas pudding mixture for my little boy to stir, tonight. I’d just forgotten. It’s when you said . . . I’m glad you reminded me. I’ve just got to . . .” Kate’s face twisted in worry, “got to buy the ingredients,” she looked at Pat, blushing. The awful truth was, she was so broke, she was probably going to have to just full-on come out and ask her lovely friend for some cash, which was going to be both humiliating for her and unfair to Pat, who wasn’t getting paid any more at Portman Brothers than she was, probably.

  “As it happens, we’ve got six kilos of Christmas pudding batter sitting in the mixer out the back. I’m just waiting for staff to come and put it into the basins. I can scoop a bit into a tub for you to take away, no problem at all.”

  “Really?” said Kate, her shoulders lowering slightly at the thought of one less battle to fight that day. “I’m a bit surprised . . . to be honest I was expecting you to tell me you made them all months ago. I’ve never made one before. I had this idea they have to mature for months.”

  “They do,” said Brian and Pat in unison before meeting each other’s eye and laughing. Pat gestured to Brian. “You tell her, you’re the expert.”

  He demurred with a nod of his head, but turned to Kate. “You’re not wrong,” he said. “These are next year’s puddings. We give them twelve to fourteen months ideally.”

  “Ah,” said Kate, her ideas of nailing a problem adjusting slightly and disappointingly. “So, I can’t get away with having Jack stir a bit of your mixture and then cook it up for Christmas Day then.”

  “Not really,” he laughed. “Tell you what, boil it and stash it away, and I’ll slip you one of our mature ones too. That way you can pretend . . . plus next year will be sorted too.”

  “That’s one problem solved,” said Pat. “And I’ve just had the most fantastic idea . . . how about we have a bake-off ?”

  “Go on,” said Brian, beaming encouragingly.

  “Well, I don’t know . . .” said Pat, waving her hands, “but some sort of competition—maybe Portman Brothers staff versus Apple Café staff . . .”

  “We’ll win,” interjected Brian.

  “Good! That’ll banish some misconceptions, and the local media will love it.”

  “True. And the board directors will love it too,” interrupted Kate. “They can do the judging . . . give the prizes . . .”

  “Our Mr. Wilkins’ll be thrilled with that,” said Pat, knowingly. “If it were a prize for the biggest ego . . .”

  “But how is this going to earn money?” said Kate. “I know you said the dosh wasn’t important but—if nothing else—I’ll get it in the neck if we don’t raise at least a thousand.”

  “Really? Nice people you work for,” he observed, his brow lowering momentarily. “Anyhow, I wasn’t suggesting I didn’t want your money, but raising dosh isn’t a problem with this idea. If the competitors don’t mind—and I don’t see why they should—we can sell the cakes they make. It can be seasonal, the best mince pie, best Yule log, et cetera . . .”

  “That could definitely work,” said Kate. “We could sell the cakes out of the Cabot Circus store where we’ve got the footfall and, at the same time, promote the location of the café to encourage people to visit in the new year. The staff here could do the selling alongside Portman Brothers’ staff.”

  “Our lot will love getting out and about. This idea has got legs, girls, but we don’t have much time. It’ll be Christmas in a couple of weeks. Your top bods and mine will be wanting to do some sort of photocall before Christmas to announce how successful it’s been. That’s not long away . . .”

  “Doesn’t take long to rustle up a batch of mince pies,” said Pat, with a competitive glint in her eye. “That Beth’s more than a worthy competitor. I’ll be pulling out all the stops, and she needn’t think I won’t,” she muttered.

  “That’s the spirit,” said Brian with frank admiration. “Now, we’d better get down to some planning . . .”

  Brian was as good as his word. Kate and Pat left buzzing with caffeine and with tummies definitely more expanded than before, after being persuaded to try not only the mince pies, but the stollen too, and a piece each of the Apple Café’s special spiced apple Christmas cake, which they both pronounced delicious. He had insisted that Kate take away a tub of Christmas pudding mixture to stir with Jack, as well as a near-black canonball-shaped Christmas pudding for them to eat on Christmas Day.

  “What a kind and lovely man,” declared Pat, as they made their way to the bus stop and on to work.

  Kate was amused to see her friend was glowing and quite pink in the face. “You’ve got the hots for our Brian,” she teased.

  Pat flushed even deeper. “He and I are both far too old for all that nonsense,” she said, stoutly.

  “Mmm,” said Kate. “I don’t buy that, Pat Walker. You’re not too old for anything. Not even romance. Actually, especially not romance. Why the heck not?”

  “We’ve never made our own Christmas pudding before have we, Mummy?” said Jack, poking a wooden spoon at the Christmas pudding mix Brian had given them. “Do I like it?”

  “You’ll like this,” said Kate. “Actually, I think you do like it, but I don’t think we’ve had it for a couple of years,” she admitted guiltily. “Do you remember Christmas at Nana’s house? You ate it then. It was when . . .” She was going to say, when Tom was still alive.

  “I don’t remember,” said Jack. “It must have been when I was really little.”

  “You were, my darling. But we’re going to eat Christmas pudding this year. You and me. We’re going to cook it ourselves, how about that?”

  “I hope it’s nice,” said Jack. “It doesn’t look very nice at the moment.”

  She had to agree. It was beige, gloopy, and filled with unidentifiable lumps. “It smells amazing though,” she said, sticking her nose into the bowl and sniffing hard, then deliberately putting her face right in.

  “You’ve got it on your nose,” shrieked Jack.

  “No I haven’t,” said Kate, “whatever do you mean?” She looked around wildly, the glob of mixture threatening to plop onto the floor. “How rude of you . . . my nose is absolutely fine . . .”

  Jack was in fits of laughter and Kate couldn’t remember the last time they had just messed around like this. Playing the fool had been Tom’s job. Kate was the sensible one, treating them both as kids more often than not, and telling Tom off when things got too silly. Her own silly streak had gotten lost over the years, buried deep under the weight of responsibility and grief.

  Eventually, with her nose wiped clean, they got down to the serious business of stirring the pudding.

  “I used to do this with my mummy,” Kate said, leading the way. “It has to be anticlockwise, like this, see . . . ? And then you make a wish.”

  “I know what anticlockwise means,” said Jack. “It means like a clock hand goes but the other way.”

  “Clever you! Now make a wish . . .”

  “I wish my daddy wasn’t dead.”

  She put her arms around his bony little shoulders. “I wish that too, darling,” she murmured in his ear. “But let’s make a wish together for something nice to happen in the next year because the past can’t change, can it?”

  Jack stiffened. “Sorry, Mummy.”

  “Never be sorry, darling. Daddy wouldn’t want that.”

  “But I’m sorry ’cos I don’t want to make you sad.”

  “You can’t. You make me really
, really happy. You’re my best thing in the whole world.”

  “You’re my best thing in the whole world too,” said Jack, leaning back into Kate’s arms.

  “I’m going to wish for a new daddy to come one day and it has to be someone we both like,” he declared, giving the pudding a decisive anticlockwise stir. “There. Done it.”

  “You are too amazing for words,” said Kate, giving him a tight squeeze. “I love you, monkey boy.”

  It was six o’clock in the evening, but Daniel was working late—something he was able to do now he no longer had Zoe to rush back to.

  Working late was not only “possible” now, it was also frequently necessary. Work was taking longer than it should. He spent far too much time staring out of the window, over Broad Street, idly watching the crowds below, thinking about Zoe, about his parents, and longing for life when it was simpler, when he was at home with his family, in their rambling old house in Clifton. It had been a typical townhouse, with endless stairs to endless floors but with a gem of a garden, larger than any allowed in new houses, stretching back and back behind the house, an oasis of green in the middle of the city. His and Zoe’s bedrooms used to be in the loft space but—as Zoe became more ill—she was moved to the back room on the floor where the family spent the most time, giving her fewer stairs to climb, sparing her failing energy and keeping her at the heart of family life . . .

  Despite all the difficulty, life had been fun. His grief at its ending was still a physical ache in his chest. When the longing for the past became too great, he steered his daydreams to other matters. Increasingly, he filled his thoughts with the Christmas Tree Girl, remembering word for word their encounters and wondering if her days were now a tiny bit less arduous for being a little less cold.

  But the thoughts preoccupying him that evening were work-related. His meeting with Noel had taken him aback. The gentle little man had clearly placed such faith in him, Daniel, to do this thing right; to find a tenant for the shop who could take on this mantle, this responsibility.

  “Literally no rent,” Paul had exclaimed disbelievingly, when he filled him in.