25 Days 'Til Christmas

by Poppy Alexander

  Daniel closed his eyes and, as they swayed together, he breathed, taking in the faint jasmine scent of her bright, blond hair. A peace he had not known for nearly a year poured into his body, filling him up and buoying him as if he was floating in a warm sea.

  Eventually, he sighed, and, as one, they both drew back a little, so they could look at each other again.

  “And I’m Daniel,” he said, as if there had been no gap in their conversation at all. As if the world had not just changed, totally, and for the better.

  “Kate.” She smiled. “And this is my little monkey boy, Jack. Or not . . .” she added as she glanced down to see he was no longer standing beside her. She spoke without alarm, but turned away, scanning the vicinity, peering into the crowds of people who had been milling around them as they embraced.

  “He knows not to wander off. Where’s he gone?” she said, and the last word in the sentence was flooded with a sudden tension.

  “He can’t be far,” said Daniel, suddenly alert, his hand on her upper arm. “Don’t panic. Look, you stay here. It’s important you don’t move away from the last place you saw him. Chances are he’s just wandered off and he’ll make his way back.” He too was scanning the crowds. “What’s he wearing?”

  “Jeans, a hoodie. It’s red.”

  “Don’t move,” he told her again. “I’ll be back really soon.”

  In moments he was out of sight. Kate put her hand to her chest, feeling her thudding heart through her coat and scarf. It was beating so hard her whole body was rocking with the force. The urge to run was overwhelming, the instinct was to get herself to the corner of the row, each corner, each row, looking for even a glimpse of him. But Daniel was right. She had to wait.

  In what felt like hours Daniel was back, jogging toward her, not panting much but enough to constrain his speech a little.

  “I’ve told everyone at the exits to stop anyone trying to leave with a small boy in a red hoodie. They’re all on the alert.”

  “Would someone have actually taken him?” This was a fresh horror. Kate’s pounding heart shook her entire body and she felt a prickle of cold sweat form on her upper lip. Her mind flooded with terrible stories of planned child abduction in public places, the perpetrators changing clothes, dyeing hair, drugging the children to prevent their escape . . .

  “It’s not that,” he said grasping her shoulders to calm her. “Why would it be? Don’t imagine the worst. I was taking precautions, that’s all.”

  “It happens, though,” said Kate desperately.

  “Okay, look. I’ll stay here now, in case he comes back—when he comes back. You go and look now, but stay in the market, he will be somewhere here.”

  She didn’t need a second invitation. Unlike Daniel she was too small to see over people’s heads, but then Jack was so small she could miss him by looking up high anyway. Instead, she ran across the top of the rows of stalls, ducking down to peer between the legs of the crowd along each of the aisles, torn between looking thoroughly and feeling she should rush on to the next row. She was too breathless to shout his name. It felt like one of those nightmares where you want to run and scream and your body feels drained of strength. People were moving around. Jack could be moving around. She could be just yards away from him, but missing him, going around in circles. She was sweating, panicking, more afraid than she had ever been in her life. To have something happen to Jack was unthinkable. But bad things happened to good people. Losing Tom had taught her that. People were looking at her oddly, but no one approached.

  Then a hand fell heavily onto her shoulder, making her jump.

  “You look like you’ve lost someone.”

  She turned and found herself facing an older man with heavy dark eyebrows. He looked familiar.

  “I have,” she panted, “I have. I’ve lost my little boy.” Her mouth turned down and she put her fist against it to hold in the howl that was suddenly trying to get out.

  “What’s his name? What’s he wearing?” said the man, abruptly.

  “Jack. He’s called Jack,” she said, openly crying now. “He’s got a red hoodie on.”

  “Indeed, he has. Sorry, had to check, needed to make sure you were the real deal.”

  “What? Not a child abductor, you mean?”

  “Something like that. And I’m not one either, by the way. Don’t worry, he’s fine. Come on. He’s currently entertaining my wife and doing a grand job of it too.”

  The man, who still had his hand on her shoulder, steered her to the entrance of the market at the back. There, next to a woman who was crouched down chatting to him, was Jack.

  The woman, with kind, dark eyes, looked on sympathetically as Kate swept an uncomprehending Jack into her arms and sobbed briefly into his neck.

  “Children will be the death of us,” she said, handing Kate a tissue.

  “Ours are grown up,” agreed the man, “and they still frighten the life out of me. We managed to keep them alive, just about, when they were little, and we were always mislaying them, weren’t we, darling?”

  The woman smiled at him. “You were.”

  “I’m glad they give you the odd day off from selling Christmas trees,” he went on.

  “I thought I recognized you,” said Kate, shyly. “You bought two, to save arguments.”

  “Is that what he said? That’s just an excuse,” said the woman. “He insists. He’s just like a little boy at Christmas. Loves all the preparation, adores impressing the grandchildren, wants everything to be huge, sparkly, larger than life . . .”

  The grumpy-looking man grinned, his face transforming. “Maybe I do,” he admitted. “Perhaps I’m not quite the Christmas Grinch I pretend to be.”

  It must have been only minutes, Kate thought as she and Jack went back to where he disappeared. It felt like hours. She hoped Daniel would still be there. And he was.

  They were too far away to speak when he saw her. He communicated his relief with an exaggerated knee-sag and brow wipe. He was holding two steaming paper cups from the stall beside the spot where he had been anxiously waiting and he handed one to Kate as she arrived.

  “Mmm,” she said, sniffing it. “Pure Christmas in a cup.”

  “It’s glogg.”

  “Not mulled wine?”

  “Yes, mulled wine, Swedish-style. It’s got nuts and raisins in.”

  “Glad you warned me,” said Kate, who had just taken a sip and had a disturbing sense of something solid bobbing around and nudging her lip.

  “Should we be drinking alcohol in the daytime?”

  “Definitely, after that.”

  “Where did you get to, Jack?” said Kate, making a conscious effort to keep her voice light. Daniel met her eye, sympathetically.

  “All I did was went around the corner,” he explained. “To look at the toy soldiers. They were like Daddy’s ones. I just wanted to see. I was right there. You were really close . . . And then, when you didn’t come,” he admitted, “I got bored so I went up the end to see Father Christmas, to make sure he got my letter all right.”

  Daniel smiled, his eyes softening. “I can see how it happened, mate,” he said, ruffling Jack’s hair.

  “Yeah, so . . .” Jack was on a mission to tell his story now. “I went to see Father Christmas but—do you know what?” He looked at them both, wide-eyed. “I don’t think he was the real, proper one, because he didn’t know about Daddy. He tried to pretend he did, but I had to tell him, and then he looked sad. But if he was real he would have known . . . and I did say in my letter too, didn’t I, Mummy?”

  “You did, darling . . . I’m sorry. He should have known.”

  “Yeah, so that’s how I know he wasn’t the real one. And also”—he leaned toward them both and lowered his voice—“I saw this weird stuff on his face and—do you know what?”

  Daniel and Kate responded appropriately, stifling grins. “What?” they said in unison.

  “I actually don’t think it was a real beard. I think”—he paused for
effect—“I think it was stuck on.” At that Jack leaned back again, looking to see what effect his revelation might have had on them both.

  “Mate,” said Daniel. “That’s a pretty strong statement you’re making there . . . but you could be right.”

  “We should tell someone.”

  Daniel pretended to consider. “Mmm,” he said. “Maybe not this time, eh? We’ll let him have this one, shall we? He’s not the proper Father Christmas and I’m afraid, mate, there’s a lot of it about. But he’s probably just being helpful, don’t you think?”

  Jack looked serious. “Good point,” he said. “We’ll let him get away with it. Just this once, mind.”

  Once Daniel, with Kate’s permission, had distracted Jack from his Santa conspiracy revelations with a stick of cotton candy the size of his head, Kate had drained her drink and eaten the nuts and fruit. With a sigh of regret, she tipped her head right back to get the last drops, but she was calm again and warmed from within.

  “Wow, that was good,” she said.

  “Same again?”

  “God, no. I’m sure it’s massively alcoholic. I’m glad I’m not driving.”

  “I think the traditional recipe includes vodka,” admitted Daniel, finishing the last of his and holding out his hand for her empty cup so he could put them in the bin.

  “I’d like to hear more about Zoe,” said Kate gently when he returned.

  “I’d like to tell you more about her. Not today, though. I think you’ve had enough drama for now.”

  Their eyes met and too much time passed before they broke the gaze, leaving them both awkwardly fidgeting and looking anywhere except at each other.

  Kate handed him her phone. “I’d love to say tomorrow but I can’t, unfortunately. We’re going to see my husband’s mother. But soon. Put your number in? We’ll meet, and you can tell me. I want to know.”

  So, where there was a husband’s mother, there must be a husband, thought Daniel as he walked slowly and thoughtfully back to the boat. Poking his feelings delicately he was dismayed to discover this depressed him very much. Could fate be so cruel? It was time to admit to himself, he hadn’t felt that strongly about any of the women in his past—before Zoe came to live with him. Correction: he had never felt that strongly about anyone, full stop. Especially someone he didn’t even know. The whole thing was a nonsense, and yet the connection, was there—the shared sense of loss. For some stupid reason—he imagined that meant she was alone. Wishful thinking.

  12 Days ’til Christmas

  Bracing herself, Kate hopped out of bed, teeth chattering, and piled on a sweater, dressing gown, thick socks, and tracksuit bottoms over her pajamas, tiptoeing quietly so she could get the heating on and the flat warmer before Jack woke up. She would have poked her nose in through his door to make sure he wasn’t sound asleep and blue with cold with his duvet on the floor—he was a restless sleeper—but she didn’t want to risk waking him. She would get some breakfast on the go first.

  They were due to be on the bus to Frome at eight o’clock. From there they could catch a bus to Maureen’s nursing home. There were not many buses on a Sunday so the whole journey had to be planned like a military operation. A missed connection would be a disaster. For the millionth time she regretted having to sell the car after Tom died. It was nothing special and she got very little for it, but the cost of taxing and insuring it, together with the impracticality of keeping it parked and not collecting parking tickets in Bristol, made it an unnecessary luxury and complication. Plus, living where they did, even a clapped-out Ford would probably have been stolen by now. Either that or she would have come out one morning to discover it propped up on bricks with its wheels gone.

  She whacked on the electric heater in the sitting room cum kitchenette, trying not to think about the cost, and got some porridge on the go. As she stirred the pan, she looked out of the window. The sky was gray, heavy, and low with cloud.

  “Is it porridge?” said Jack, trailing in looking sleepy, his hair on end in the most enchanting way.

  “Good hair,” said Kate. “Yes, it is.”

  “Aw . . . I don’t really like it.”

  “What? Porridge? Porridge is amazing. Body builders have porridge for breakfast.”

  “Is there golden syrup?”

  “Yes, as it happens.”

  “Can I put it on myself ?”

  “Er, no thanks,” said Kate, wise to that. “We’re having syrup with our porridge, not porridge with our syrup.”

  “More than that, Mummy,” he said, watching intently as she squeezed the syrup bottle. There wasn’t much left. That was another item for her growing shopping list and shrinking purse.

  “There, that’s loads,” she said. “Now, why don’t you go and get your duvet? You can eat it snuggled on the sofa with the telly on, just this once.”

  Within minutes the bus was fuggy and warm, like a tropical hot house, and it was packed, too. Thanks to a kind lady offering to move, she and Jack had managed to grab a set of three seats for the two of them.

  “It’s really hot, Mummy,” Jack complained, pulling distractedly at his coat.

  Kate helped him take it off and folded it into her lap.

  “Lie down, darling,” she told him. “Put your head on my knee and I’ll tell you a story.”

  Jack was soon dozing as Kate had hoped, which gave her a chance to think, looking out of the window at the leaden skies and dreary rain-sodden landscape. It must only be one or two degrees too warm for the rain to turn to snow, she thought. Bad weather was going to make next week tricky. She had lots to do, with work, the Apple Café project, and fighting for Jack’s education. And then there was Daniel, she remembered, pleased at the thought she would see him again, perhaps help by listening to his memories of Zoe. God knows, she was grateful for her friends listening to her when she railed and sobbed about having lost Tom. She carefully slid her phone out of her pocket without disturbing Jack and found his contact details. She tapped out a quick text, offering to meet him the following afternoon. She always had a couple of hours to spare on Monday afternoon before she had to get Jack. If she needed longer, she knew she could ask Seema to help. That done, she leaned her head on the window and daydreamed, about Tom, about their life when they first married.

  Maureen had been lovely, not the traditional difficult mother-in-law at all—grandmother-in-law technically, of course. She had welcomed Kate warmly, feeding them both far too much whenever they came to see her, and absolutely—unequivocally—adoring Jack from the moment he was born. His birth had triggered happy memories for Maureen, bittersweet memories of raising Tom. She stayed for a week after he was born, and she would sit with Kate and baby Jack, dreamily recalling her own daughter Daisy. It had been so sad listening to her tell how Daisy had disappeared at just eighteen years old, weeks after giving birth to Tom. Her departure had launched Maureen into a second burst of motherhood as she immediately stepped in to raise Tom herself. She had clearly been a great surrogate mum, as Kate often said. She had been just as keen to be a brilliant (great) grandmother and Kate had had to beg her to stop buying clothes and toys. There was barely room for it all in their cramped army married quarters.

  “How much further?” Jack complained.

  “Not much,” encouraged Kate. “Anyhow, you know the way. It’s just around the corner, isn’t it?”

  “It’s too far,” he said. “And we’ve got to get back.”

  The owner—whom no one ever saw—might be venal, but the staff of the home were motivated and kind. Someone had put pots of bulbs on either side of the front door, the green beaks of whatever would later flower showing themselves already, despite the cold. The windows gave a view into warm, brightly lit interiors, and Kate was so desperate she was even thinkingly longingly of the weak, gray tea she was generally served there.

  “Mrs. Thompson,” said the manager, Carol, popping out from her little, paper-filled office behind the reception desk. “How lovely to see you, and Jack to
o! Maureen will so enjoy your visit.”

  “Is she well?” asked Kate.

  “Well enough, dear. You’ll judge for yourself. I think you will see changes, but that’s to be expected.” She raised her eyebrows meaningfully. “She has better days, bless her, but it’s fair to say we’re using a wheelchair most of the time now.”

  “She can’t walk?”

  “Mobility, speech, and—er—continence, do gradually disappear in the final stages,” she said, dropping her voice tactfully. “I’ll let you find your own way.”

  “So, Jack,” said Kate, kneeling in front of him to straighten his sweater and smooth down his hair, which had sprung up again at the back. “You know how Nana is?”

  Jack nodded.

  “She probably won’t remember you, but she’ll be glad you’re there, okay?”

  “We’re going to give her the fudge, aren’t we? Can I give it to her?”

  “’Course you can,” said Kate, handing him the tin from her backpack.

  Maureen had been stationed in front of the window in the large day room and they could see her right from the end of the corridor as they walked toward her. She didn’t move. There was a side table bearing a mug and a small plate of cookies, untouched. The wheelchair was angled so its occupant could see both the view outside and the interior of the room, but the little figure in the chair was hunched, head on her chest, eyes closed.

  “Maureen?” said Kate, kneeling beside her and taking the frail, bony, bird-like hand in her own.

  The old lady opened her eyes and turned her head. As soon as she saw Kate she broke into a huge smile, her blue eyes twinkling and her face lighting up in recognition.