The Twelve Dates of Christmas

by Jenny Bayliss

  “Who’s manning the shop?” asked Kate.

  “I’ve put a note on the door,” said Evelyn. “If anyone needs me, they’ll come and get me.”

  “People have been decorating the trees in Potters Copse,” said Kate, wrapping fairy lights around the garland.

  “Yes,” said Evelyn. “Your dad told me the other day. He brought a sprout tree in for me.”

  “Oh,” said Kate. “That’s nice. Well anyway, it looks really magical, especially with the snow, and I thought it might be a nice idea to add it into the caroling walk?”

  Every year on Christmas Eve, the Blexford residents went on a caroling walk around the village. It had started back in the Second World War, as a treat for the children who’d been evacuated from London. The Women’s Institute gathered all the children and they walked through the village singing carols. The residents would leave homemade gifts—paper airplanes, peg dolls, and knitted finger puppets—en route, hanging from branches or resting on garden walls, for the children to find as they went.

  The tradition had endured, although these days the procession wasn’t just for the children, and the gifts tended to be of the edible kind. But it got everyone in the Christmas mood and it was an excellent excuse to nose at people’s outdoor decorations. Now there was a fair amount of unspoken competitiveness, which only made the village look even prettier.

  “Good idea,” said Evelyn. “I’ll put it to the team.”

  With the garland secure and the lights evenly spaced, Kate and Evelyn tied baubles and wooden trinkets—rocking horses, little nutcracker soldiers, and ruby hearts—in among the leaves and pinecones and berries, until it looked as extravagant as a Fortnum & Mason display.

  Carla disappeared from bauble duty into the kitchen and reappeared five minutes later with a Christmas-tree-shaped serving platter, laden with steaming mince pies. The customers fell gratefully upon them; Kate had two.

  If the café had looked festive before—what with the giant gaudy tree hung with everything from toilet roll Santas to paper snowflakes—now it looked positively grotto-like. The fairy lights, which covered the walls, glinted off the sea of ceiling baubles, so that the whole place seemed to twinkle.

  “Isn’t it lovely.” Kate sighed.

  Evelyn nodded.

  “His mum would’ve loved the way he runs this place,” said Evelyn fondly.

  Evelyn had been one of Matt’s mum’s oldest friends. Matt and Corinna’s dad left when Matt was a baby without leaving a forwarding address. When Matt’s mum died, her solicitor produced a letter, handwritten by her and witnessed, instructing that should anything happen to her, the children should be left in the care of Evelyn.

  Matt hadn’t always appreciated Evelyn’s support, or her scoldings (Evelyn didn’t suffer fools), when he’d been younger, but for the last decade or so she had woken up every Mother’s Day to a card and a bouquet of flowers on her doorstep.

  “Mince pie, Evelyn?” mumbled Matt through a mouthful of sweet shortcrust pastry.

  He offered up the Christmas tree plate. Evelyn’s hand hovered over the pies while she chose one.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full!” she said.

  Matt grinned.

  “Right! I’m off,” said Kate. “How much do I owe you?”

  “As if you’d pay,” said Matt. “Can you make me some more mince pies and a rocky road for Saturday? I’ll pay you for the brownies at the same time.”

  “No problem,” answered Kate.

  Kate exited the Pear Tree grotto, shutting out Paul McCartney’s “Wonderful Christmastime” as she pulled the door closed behind her.

  The air was crisp and clean and the double shot in her flat white was having the desired effect. The sky had the laden look of more snow about it. Kate doubled back through Potters Copse and took photos while the light was still good and then dropped in on her dad, but he wasn’t home. She guessed he was at her place tending the vegetable garden. She guessed right.

  Kate poured hot soup into bowls and laid the table while her dad banged his boots off outside. He shrugged out of his overcoat and gloves and soon they were seated at the table. The log burner in the corner crackled and Mac cupped his hands around his soup bowl to warm them.

  “How’s your mum?” asked Mac.

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “We were married for thirty-four years. You care about someone for that long, it’s hard to switch it off just because they’re not around anymore,” said Mac.

  “She’s good,” said Kate. “She’s in Barbados.”

  “Barbados!” said Mac. “Crikey! Holiday?”

  “Work,” said Kate. “Of sorts. She’s selling a yacht out there and the owner is letting them stay on it over Christmas.”

  “Phew!” said Mac. “She has the life, eh? Well, that’s good. I’m glad she’s doing well.”

  “Oh, Dad,” said Kate. “You’re a better person than me. I’m not sure I would be so forgiving.”

  Her dad smiled.

  “Really?” he said. “What about Matt?”

  “What about Matt?” Kate asked.

  “After the falling-out you two had,” said Mac, “I thought you’d never speak again. And look at you now. Best mates, living in the same village, baking for him . . .”

  “Well, that’s different, isn’t it,” said Kate. “We weren’t married with kids.”

  “True,” said her dad. “But your feelings for Matt were . . .” He paused as he tried to find the right word. “Intense,” he said finally. Kate shifted in her chair and Mac changed the subject. “I know your mum was no angel,” he said.

  “No angel?” said Kate, relieved to be on safer ground. “That’s an understatement!”

  “She was unhappy with herself,” said Mac.

  “There is no excuse for her behavior,” said Kate. “I don’t know why you stood for it. I’d have thrown her out after the first affair.”

  Her dad grimaced and Kate wished she hadn’t said so much. She was always worried he might lapse back into depression.

  “With someone like your mum,” he said, “you always hope they’ll change. Each time they come back they swear it’ll never happen again, and my God you want to believe them so badly.” He stopped; his eyes were fixed on a patch of wall behind Kate’s head, but Kate could tell his mind was far away. He blinked and his reverie had passed. He looked at Kate, smiling.

  “Maybe Gerry’s the man to finally tame her,” he said. “Good luck to him. He’ll need it.”

  Kate’s phone blipped and the screen lit up. It was a text message from Matt.

  On the fifth date of Shagmas my true love gave to me,

  One gay man dancing,

  One date of drinking,

  One fireman skating,

  One vegan weeping

  And a no-show outside the Pear Tree!

  Kate shook her head and typed back:

  You are hilarious. Have you considered giving up catering and going into comedy?

  Kate took her phone and shut it in a drawer in the dresser. “That man is the bane of my life.”

  “Matt?” asked Mac.

  “The one and only.”

  “He brings out your sparkle,” said Mac.

  “That’s not sparkle,” Kate corrected. “It’s rage-glitter.”

  Kate often felt that in Mac’s eyes, Matt could do no wrong. With Matt’s dad not around when they were kids, Mac had stepped in as a male influence, although Kate suspected this was less an altruistic gesture and more that he had a daughter who wasn’t even slightly interested in football or cricket.

  Sometimes on a Sunday, when Matt’s mum was busy baking or doing the books, Mac would take Matt to watch the cricket; sometimes they’d play an inning. He’d energetically tried to engage Kate’s interest in it but to no avail, and so
it became something he and Matt would do together. Kate didn’t begrudge either of them their time together; it kept her out of the stands and made her dad happy.

  * * *

  • • • • •

  “I liked Dan,” said Mac, going off on his own tangent. “He was a good chap. A real go-getter. And I liked that other one too, what was his name? You sent back photos from Morocco?”

  “Aaron,” said Kate.

  “That’s the one. I could tell you liked him. But he didn’t make you sparkle.”

  “I’m not looking for sparkle, Dad,” said Kate. “I am on a grown-up-woman mission to find a suitable, sensible partner who has no improper pride and is perfectly amiable.”

  “Have you been watching Pride and Prejudice again?” asked Mac.

  “Maybe,” said Kate.

  They ate the rest of their soup and crusty bread in companionable silence, while outside it began to snow again. After lunch her dad helped her clear up and Kate helped him in with the veg basket. He gathered up a few vegetables for himself and some for Evelyn and left the rest for Kate.

  “I’ll leave the rest in the ground, ready for Christmas dinner,” said Mac as he left for home. The snow was coming down quite heavily and his footprints up to the vegetable patch had been all but filled in.

  “Dad,” said Kate. “Have you ever considered, you know, getting back out there again, you know, trying to meet someone?”

  “I certainly have,” said Mac, and he gave her a wink that she couldn’t quite fathom.

  Kate worked on her sketches until it was too dark, even with the lamps on, to get a clear sense of the colors. She rinsed out her brushes and laid some papery pressed flowers along the top of the table, ready for the morning. Below them she placed an illustrated treasury of nursery rhymes. It was a large tattered book, passed down from her grandma. Kate used to spend hours as a child looking at the pictures of ruby toadstools and fairies hiding in flowers. Now she would use them as inspiration for her spring collection.

  The phone rang.

  “Don’t hate me,” said Laura.

  “Why? What have you done?”

  “Ben’s been called away with work,” said Laura. “I can’t make it to your Dates with Mates night. I’m really sorry.”

  Kate was disappointed, but she only said, “That’s okay. I’ve got a lot of work I want to get done anyway. Maybe I’ll skip this one.”

  “You can’t skip it!” said Laura. “I’ll feel awful. You want to do all twelve dates, don’t you? This could be the one! And besides, you’ve paid enough for it, you ought to get your money’s worth.”

  Laura was right, she really ought to make the most of it since she was paying through the nose for it, and honestly, it got her out of the house.

  Her relationship with Dan had been full on. Dan was an adrenaline junkie; every moment they weren’t working was spent abseiling or kayaking or hiking or rock climbing. It was never quiet. Exciting but exhausting. And since they’d split up, Kate had found herself reveling in the calm of her life. But she had been reaching the point where she’d quite happily become a hermit.

  Laura—ever determined once she had an idea in her head—had drawn Mac into her scheme to get Kate signed up for the Twelve Dates of Christmas:

  “There’s nothing wrong with staying in, if it makes you happy,” said her dad. “But you’re hiding. And that’s not the same thing at all.”

  He was right. She had been hiding. Because it was easier to hide away and never meet anybody than to potentially meet someone only to have it fail again.

  Dan had been great. They had fun. The sex was good. They’d just run their course and that was that. Kate wanted children and Dan didn’t. Neither one had deceived the other; they’d known where they stood from the start, though each of them had hoped the other would come around to their way of thinking.

  Kate was philosophical about it. Dan had been the only serious contender for her heart in a long time, but even with him she hadn’t really felt invested. And when, as she’d known it would, their relationship had fizzled out, she was aware that she wasn’t as heartbroken as she probably ought to have been.

  As for the rest of the flings she’d had over the last few years, they had been just that, flings: fun and frivolous but by no means life partner material.

  If she did eventually want a family, she would need to either be more discriminating or sign up for IVF; she didn’t mind which. She could more than capably raise a child alone. She would do this one thing to prove to everyone that she’d tried, and then she would go it alone.

  Laura’s pleading voice broke her reverie.

  “Please say you’ll still go,” said Laura. “I’ll feel terrible if you miss it. And Ben will too; I’ll make sure of it.”

  “It’s short notice to ask anyone else,” said Kate.

  “Ask Sarah!” said Laura, elated at her own genius. “She’s always up for a laugh.”

  * * *

  • • • • •

  Sarah normally dropped in to see Matt when she finished work. Kate arrived just after four o’clock and sure enough there she was, hugging a hot chocolate, the heat from the café curling her raven hair in just the right way.

  “Wait a minute. Let me get this straight,” said Matt. “You want to take my girlfriend with you on a date night, as your wing woman?”

  “Yes,” said Kate. “Although you make it sound creepy. The theme is Dates with Mates; it’s just a chance for people to mingle in an informal way. It’s a pub quiz, actually.”

  “Nice,” said Sarah. “You know me and a pub quiz.”

  Sarah was very clever—as you’d expect from a headmistress—and fiercely competitive. Their pub team score had increased significantly since Sarah had joined them. The Pear Tree Perils were now a force to be reckoned with at the Duke’s Head quiz nights.

  “So, you haven’t been assigned a shag . . . sorry, I mean date for this one,” asked Matt.

  “Give her a break, Matt,” said Sarah. “You make it sound like Kate’s the only person who’s ever used a dating website. And I know for a fact that you were on one before we met.”

  Kate was aghast.

  “You hypocrite!” she said. “You’ve been giving me grief this whole time.”

  “All right, all right.” Matt held his hands up in defeat. “But still,” he went on. “It’s a bit weird, isn’t it? I’m not sure I want you to go on a singles night, Sarah.”

  “It won’t be like that,” said Kate.

  “And besides,” said Sarah. “I do have a mind of my own. I’m not going to forget I’ve got a boyfriend just because there are men in the room. It’s called self-control, Matt.”

  Matt was flustered; he rubbed his hand through his hair and it stayed stuck up in the air like the worst kind of bed hair.

  “But this is set up with a view to people copping off,” he said.

  “At a pub quiz?” said Kate. “Are you this terrified at the Duke’s Head quiz? Perhaps you think Sarah might pounce on Steve or Gavin?”

  Matt looked sulky.

  “What about Wally?” Sarah suggested.

  “Wally is a hottie,” admitted Kate.

  “When he wipes the beer froth off his handlebar mustache it drives me wild,” said Sarah.

  “It’s the eyebrow dandruff that does it for me,” said Kate.

  “All right! Fine!” said Matt. “You’ve made your point. But Kate, can you wear a sign or something so that people know you are definitely the date and not the mate?”

  * * *

  • • • • •

  Matt needn’t have worried. The next morning Kate had an email from the dating site requesting that all “dates” wear a Christmas jumper to differentiate them from their “mates.”

  Kate had an embarrassing number of Christmas jumpers in an ottoman beneath her bedroom win
dow, from full comedic with flashing lights, to sequin baubles, to embroidered snow and nativity scenes.

  She picked out a pale green knitted sweater with felt sprigs of dark green holly and ruby berries across the front: one of the Knitting Sex Kittens’ less avant-garde pieces.

  Kate worked for a couple of hours on her spring collection. The winter sun streamed in through the window and illuminated the kitchen table and the dried flowers on it, as though wanting to inspire Kate to think spring thoughts.

  She layered palest lemon paint onto her pencil primrose studies, slowly building to a more robust warm-butter shade toward the petal centers. The rough watercolor paper drank in the pigments. When she had a cluster of delicate yellow primroses on the page, she washed out her brushes and began to paint nodding bluebell heads in shades of periwinkle and lapis lazuli, letting the colors bleed into each other and the flowers come alive beneath her fingers.

  Kate made herself a coffee and shook out her arms, turning her head from side to side to relieve the stiffness after such concentrated work. She leaned on the sink and looked out the window. The sky was blue for the first time in days, and already the warmth of the sun—scant though it was—was melting the snow on the grass. She’d opened the smallest window at the top a crack to stop the windows from steaming up, and through it she could hear the steady drip-drip-drip as the ice melted off the fascias.

  * * *

  • • • • •

  Between the gritters and the sun, the hill to Blexford was clear enough for Kate to retrieve her car from the bottom and bring it back up to the village. She pulled up outside Matt’s cottage and beeped the horn. Sarah bounced out of the door and Matt followed, pulling her into an embrace and kissing her sweetly. Kate pretended to stick two fingers down her throat and Matt poked his tongue out at her.

  “Put him down, Sarah!” she shouted. “You don’t know where he’s been!”

  Sarah laughed and Matt stuck two fingers up at Kate, grinning.

  Sarah ran gingerly down the icy path to the car, looking impossibly lovely even wrapped in a puffer jacket. And how did she get those delicate curls to caress her face like that? Kate’s hair was corkscrew or frizz with no in-between. When Kate’s curls fell about her face, which they did often, they looked like Medusa’s serpents after a spell in a wind tunnel.