‘Aren’t we all competition now?’ Mrs Thwaite from the candle shop asks.
‘Aww, no, you lot are like a second family. I don’t want to be in competition with you,’ Mrs Brissett says.
‘But that’s exactly what it’s saying.’ I scan over the letter again as Stacey appears in the open doorway of our shop. ‘Whichever shops earn the most money will stay, the rest of the lane will be sold off to the nutcracker factory …’
‘… who will waste no time in bulldozing it,’ Stace adds. ‘There will be nothing left. And where are our parameters? How many shops are staying? How much do they need to earn?’
‘Scrooge can pick and choose whenever he fancies it,’ Hubert says. ‘If we don’t know what the rules are, how can we possibly win the game?’
Another chill goes down my spine. It’s cold and heartless, just like the rest of Scrooge’s letter.
‘And this part of the lane is closest to the factory,’ Rhonda says. ‘So what’s he going to do, move whoever’s left into the entrance court and get rid of this bit entirely?’
‘That’s awful,’ I say. ‘How can you have Nutcracker Lane without the lane?’
‘And how can he say “earn the most money or get out” just like that? How can he pit friends against each other? And how is it possibly fair? Little shops like you …’ Rhonda points to me and Stacey. ‘You’re selling things that cost two, three, four quid. How can you compete with the chap who sells custom-made snowglobes at twenty quid each? Or whoever this is.’ She points to the dazzling new shop opposite. ‘There’s a £300 price tag on that dancing Santa.’
We all look at the animatronic Santa who is still moving his hands out in front of him, to his shoulders, and then his hips and back again. ‘One of those gone and this new arrival will have beaten the lot of us. I’ll have to sell sixty hats to outdo one item.’
‘No one’s actually going to buy that though,’ Stacey says. ‘Who would want a Hawaiian Santa doing the Macarena in their house, never mind be able to transport the gigantic thing home?’
A few of us gradually migrate towards the glowing window, which seems even fuller now than it did ten minutes ago.
‘Who’s the newcomer?’ Carmen asks.
‘I don’t know, do you?’ Hubert scratches his head. ‘Funny they weren’t here before, whoever they are.’
‘Funny they’re allowed to sell things that cross over with what the rest of us are selling.’ I nod towards the lit-up snowglobe in the window, which must be plugged in somewhere because the snow is swirling around in it like a lava lamp as it plays a tune that clashes with the one the model nutcracker factory is playing in the busy window.
That tune again. One that sounds so familiar …
After a few moments of silence, Hubert says, ‘It seems that a lot of things that once made Nutcracker Lane special have gone out the window this year.’
The sadness is palpable as all the shopkeepers, people I’ve known for years, people who have been the heart of Nutcracker Lane for as long as I can remember, realise that things have changed, and they’re changing more every day.
‘Good luck for opening day, folks,’ Mrs Brissett says as she starts to walk back towards the jumper shop.
‘No, you can’t say that now,’ Carmen corrects her. ‘We’re not all working together for Nutcracker Lane anymore – we all have to be out for ourselves and looking after our own interests. This isn’t a normal year – this is a fight for survival now. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to lose my shop. I won’t be sending any more business your way and I don’t expect you lot to send any my way. We’ve got to put ourselves first or we’ll all be jobless next year.’
‘I agree,’ Rhonda from the hat shop says sadly.
‘I don’t!’ Hubert smacks his hand against the paper he’s holding. ‘I’m not sure I even want to stay and work for this new owner. Anyone who can agree to a scheme like this is never going to be a decent person, are they? Whoever he is, he obviously cares for Nutcracker Lane as little as Scrooge does. You’d have thought any new owner would’ve been keen to reinvigorate it, but it’s screamingly obvious that he’s only interested in the money. The same as Scrooge. Money, money, money.’
He’s got a point there. The atmosphere on Nutcracker Lane has already changed because of Scrooge. Even as we stand here, a few other shopkeepers have stepped out their doors and come to see what’s going on, and I can see everyone side-eyeing each other, weighing up the competition. It doesn’t bode well for any of us, and Hubert has certainly got a point. Will the new owner be so horrible to work for that no one wants to stay here anyway?
Everyone starts to file away with no wishes of good luck or “happy opening day”. Instead there are mutterings of competition and everyone for themselves. The atmosphere is prickly and tense – something I’ve never felt on Nutcracker Lane before.
‘Good luck,’ Hubert says when there are only me and Stacey left. He raises his hand with the letter in it. ‘I’m not going to stop supporting my friends. Scrooge wants to divide us, and he won’t succeed, not with me.’
‘Me neither,’ I say, sounding more confident than I am. One glance at Tinkles and Trinkets across from us has siphoned my positivity away. Stacey and I can’t compete with £300 dancing Santas and electric-powered snowglobes. And what about the others? We’re not just in competition with another decoration shop – we’re in competition with everyone. I don’t want to lose our shop, but I don’t want them to lose theirs either. Some of those shops have been here for longer than I’ve been alive.
I remember Hubert from when I was young, peering over the counter in his candy-striped apron and taking my grandma’s money from my fist as I tried to buy everything in the shop and he patiently counted out seasonal penny sweets to the value of the two pound coins I had while Grandma and Granddad discussed what to choose for my parents and he slipped me a free Christmas tree lollipop while they weren’t looking. Nutcracker Lane would never be the same without him.
And Carmen who makes the most intricate chocolate creations, Rhonda with her short spiky hair in a bright pink Mohawk who sells every type of Christmas hat you can imagine, or Mrs Brissett who’s got the best selection of Christmas jumpers in the northern hemisphere, or the dear old man who painstakingly crafts the most beautiful snowglobes from photographs of real places.
‘There’s nothing we can do about it,’ Stacey says from the doorway.
When I make a noncommittal noise, she comes over and takes the letter out of my hand and puts her arm around my shoulders. ‘Let’s give Scrooge what he wants and “do our best this festive season”. That’s all we can do. At least if this is our only year, you’ll have got your wish – to work on Nutcracker Lane before it changes for good.’
***
‘Don’t worry about the competition,’ Stacey says as I peer out the window at the shop opposite for approximately the ninety-third time this morning and it’s only 11 a.m. ‘No one’s going to buy those things. The pricing is ridiculous. It’s Christmas, for God’s sake. Very few people have got excess cash at this time of year, and no one is going to drop £300 on a dancing Santa or the £96 that’s attached to that model nutcracker factory. Whoever’s running it has got no idea about competitive pricing. Expecting that much for Christmas decorations is pointless because there’s so much other stuff to buy at this time of year. Customers are going to come in here and spend a fiver on one of your hand-painted wall plaques or £2.50 on a pair of candy-cane earrings without worrying about it, but the stuff over there is a seriously big purchase. They won’t be as much competition as you think they will.’
‘Have you seen the number of people going in?’
‘And leaving with nothing. At least we’ve made a few sales so far.’
‘It doesn’t even look like there’s anyone in there.’ The light spilling out is so bright that it obscures everything else and I hold my hand up like I’m shading my eyes from the sun, but it doesn’t help. ‘Do those garlands around the window look familiar to
you?’
She glances over but a woman takes a gingerbread-house necklace and a standing red bow ornament up to the counter and she stops to serve her.
It’s quiet for an opening day. I remember the days when you could barely move through the lane and there were queues to get into each shop. Maybe Scrooge has got the right idea – put it out of its misery before it gets any worse. Things will probably pick up at the weekend when children are off school, but it’s only Tuesday. Is this as good as it gets until then? There’s a bit of noise coming from the upper end of the lane around the magical nutcracker and Santa’s grotto, but down this end … footsteps of a middle-aged couple echo across the paving slabs as they walk straight past, not even lingering to admire the decorations like people used to when there were any to admire.
‘I’m sure those are the garlands that used to be draped from the ceiling.’
‘Nia, you’re obsessed. You’ve barely been away from that window all morning.’
‘Seriously, look. That new shop has got them around their window like a frame. They’re the same ones. And that nutcracker village. I’ve seen it before …’
She’s gone off to tidy a basket full of wooden baubles that a customer has rifled through and I’m talking to myself. A customer leaves empty-handed, giving me a wary look as he passes.
I am obsessing. I should be concentrating on our shop, not whoever’s over there and whatever they’re selling. It’s nothing to do with me.
Although the door is wide open and it really doesn’t look like there’s anyone inside … I could go over and pop my head in, couldn’t I? Have a peep and see if the inside is as spectacular as the window display. If the owner does happen to be there, I’ll make an excuse of welcoming the new arrival to the lane. There’s nothing wrong with being friendly, after all …
‘Can you hold down the fort for a minute?’ I’m out the door before Stacey’s had a chance to reply.
I run across the lane and stop in the open doorway. ‘Hello?’ I whisper, telling myself I’m trying not to startle anyone rather than I’m hoping there’s no one manning the place so I can have a nose around.
No answer. I take a tentative step inside, feeling as light on my feet as a ballet dancer as I tiptoe in.
Wow. If anything, the spectacularity of the shop itself is blocked by the spectacular window, because the inside is even better. Every wall is lined with a waterfall of twinkling white lights, a curtain of fairy lights that make it look like the walls themselves are sparkling. The shop is absolutely packed with decorations in all shapes, sizes, and colours, all lined up on chunky white shelves in perfectly size-ordered rows, like armies waiting to be called into action. There’s a metallic-y scent of glitter in the air, and every so often, a flake of fake snow floats down from the ceiling, while the music “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” from The Nutcracker ballet plays quietly from a speaker in the far corner.
I keep telling myself I’m not going to worry about the competition. Everything Stacey said is right, and all we can do is put all our effort in and hope for the best, but looking around this shop makes me realise we’ve already lost. It’s like stepping into a winter wonderland, and the feeling I get is probably not dissimilar to the feeling Lucy Pevensie got when she stepped out of the wardrobe and into the snowy lands of Narnia for the first time. It would be easy to spend a couple of hours and a couple of hundred quid in here. Heck, even I’m suddenly prepared to pay £300 for a Macarena-dancing Santa and I definitely don’t have any spare cash or appreciation for Hawaiian-style Santas.
It’s weird that there’s no one here though. The light’s on out the back so maybe they’re still unloading goods. There’s plenty of space between shelves to fit more in, making it look minimalistic and still stuffed full of choice, unlike ours which just looks full because Stacey and I wanted to get as much stock out as possible and that means using every inch of wall space and getting as many display tables in as could reasonably fit while still meeting health and safety guidelines. I’d like to think our shop is relaxed, warm, homely and comforting, whereas this could be the set of a Christmas film.
But that strange familiarity is back again. Those curtains of lights covering the walls look like ones that used to be hung around the entrance foyer of Nutcracker Lane, and there’s an LED mountain range – a huge stand displaying a range of snowy peaks from one foot to four foot tall at the edge of the window display with a £256 price tag. There cannot be two of those, and I’m almost positive this one used to form part of the backdrop behind Santa’s grotto.
In one corner is a wooden crate full of soft toys that used to be given away to children who needed them. Now there’s a price sticker on the front – £16 each. I tiptoe further in for a closer look and find myself stopping to bend over the window display and peer at the mechanical nutcracker factory model. It’s playing a muffled repetition of the most recognisable bars of the first march from The Nutcracker ballet, and at the back, there’s a drip mark in the navy paint, which proves it. This used to be in a display stand at the point where the lane ends and there’s a short, covered walkway between the car parks for us and the nutcracker manufacturing plant next door. Why would it be on sale here? Why are any of these things on sale here?
The more I look around, the more I’m sure of it. Whoever owns this shop is selling off the decorations that have been taken from Nutcracker Lane. Decorations that were once used to decorate this place itself.
I back up and sidle along a shelf, looking at rows and rows of miniature snowglobes, metal reindeer ornaments, and wooden gingerbread men not unlike the ones I’ve been making with my CNC woodcutting machine in my garden shed workshop for months. Mine are four quid each and hand-painted, whereas these look like mass-printed Chinese imports with uneven eyes and wonky noses. I pick one up and read the price tag on the bottom.
‘Twelve quid for that!’ I put it down and step back quickly, except I don’t realise there’s anything behind me until something wooden hits me in the back. I yelp in surprise and turn around to see a six-foot-tall giant nutcracker staring back at me, wobbling precariously from the force of me backing into it.
‘No, no, no, no, no, no, no!’ I try to catch it but the momentum is too much and the smooth wood slips out of my hand and it goes crashing to the floor with such a loud bang that people in France probably heard it, and a shower of gemstones from his elegant green-trimmed coat clatter down and go skittering across the floor.
I squeeze my eyes tight shut and wish the ground could swallow me up. So much for a sneaky look around without anyone knowing. When I force myself to open them again to assess the damage, the giant nutcracker is lying on the floor surrounded by wood splinters. His left arm is broken jaggedly in two, and the broken bit has skidded across the aisle along with the sceptre he was holding.
Oh no. Oh no. I love nutcrackers and he was such a handsome one. Longish furry hair that’s such a dark brown it looks black from some angles, a matching beard, and painted black moustache and eyebrows above almond-shaped white eyes with big brown pupils, red cheeks and a hint of the same red on the tip of his nose. He’s dressed in red with a green trim, navy cuffs around his wrists, black boots with gold accents, and a gold crown on his head.
‘I’m so sorry, you lovely thing. I’ll pay for the damage—’ I catch sight of a price tag tied around his unbroken arm and lean across to read it, turning the tree-shaped cardboard over in my fingers. ‘£926!’ I say aloud. I’ve never had a heart attack before, but I suspect this is what one might feel like.
I’ve heard people use the phrase “eye-wateringly expensive” but this is the first time I’ve ever looked at a price tag and felt my eyes actually start to water.
Nearly a thousand pounds. Every part of my body has tensed up. I cannot pay that. I’d struggle to find a spare £26 at the moment, never mind the £900 as well.
I drop the price tag and look around in panic. There’s still no one here. Wherever the shop owner has gone, even the noise of th
e nutcracker falling hasn’t brought anyone running back.
No one has seen me. No one knows it was me. If I just left …
That £926 is pulsing in my head like a sign flashing in neon red. I’ve got so much stuff to buy to host Christmas for my family this year, never mind supplies to make stock, and food and presents, and in January, I won’t have a job. Not a proper job anyway, only my online sales and whichever craft fairs Stacey and I can get a spot at, not including the petrol it takes to get there. And that’s only assuming they’d let me pay it off in small amounts. The thought of being expected to find nearly a thousand quid right now makes a cold sweat prickle my forehead.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I whisper. And I run away.
I dash back across the lane and into Starlight Rainbows, kicking the weighted Santa hat doorstop I made out of the way and slamming the door behind me, even though we’ve decided to keep it open to make the shop more inviting.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Stacey looks up from replacing one of her necklaces that’s been bought from the mannequin in the window.
‘I knocked over a giant nutcracker and broke it and now I’m going to owe that shop nine hundred quid,’ I say in such a rush that even a professional translator wouldn’t be able to decipher it.
‘Can you split that sentence into more than one word?’
I lean against the wall and knock a bauble skew-whiff and don’t even bother to straighten it as I take deep breaths and try to calm my heart rate while I repeat myself.
‘You have to go back,’ Stacey says when I’ve finished. ‘Explain that it was an accident and ask if they’ll let you start paying it off in January. They run a Christmas shop; they must understand how tight things can be at this time of year.’
‘Or I could hide in the back room and never come out. I’ll go home after dark and stay in my shed making decorations and you can sell them, and between us, I’ll never have to show my face here again and no one will ever know it was me. How’s that for a plan?’
We both know I’m not serious, but I start pacing the floor anyway. ‘What am I going to say? And I’ve run away and made it all worse. Now I’ve made myself look like a criminal. I’m a fugitive. A life on the run beckons. Oh my God, I’m going to get involved in organised crime and be indoctrinated into a gang, and all sorts.’
The Little Christmas Shop on Nutcracker Lane: The perfect cosy and uplifting Christmas romance to curl up with! Page 3