The Twelve Dates of Christmas

by Jenny Bayliss

  At the bottom of the bag were some framed photographs. Kate had stumbled across some old prints months ago, when she was sorting through boxes in the loft. They were mostly family holidays and parties, but she’d found one of Matt grinning gormlessly on his fourteenth birthday, flanked by his mum and sister.

  Kate had the photograph enlarged, printed in black and white, and framed, along with another picture of Matt, at ten years old, sitting on one of the branches in the pear tree. She had intended to give them to Matt for Christmas.

  Kate held the picture of Matt in the tree. She remembered that day. She was sitting on the branch below Matt. Her dad had a taken a photograph of each of them separately and then a longer shot of the two of them, sitting like little elves in the branches.

  Matt’s mum called them in for tea and they clambered down from their perches. Kate had gone to run on ahead, but Matt caught hold of her hand and pulled her behind the pear tree and kissed her full on the lips.

  She’d kissed a lot of boys since then. Hell, she’d kissed a lot of boys this month. But still, nothing ever quite matched that first stolen kiss behind the pear tree.

  Kate put the pictures, with their memories and their old stories, back in the bag, unwrapped. Maybe she would leave them on Matt’s doorstep as a peace offering when she left. Mac was right. It was stupid to leave on an argument.

  She needed a distraction from her thoughts. She slipped into her wellies and coat, grabbed her camera, and went off in search of inspiration. Invariably she found herself in Potters Copse.

  The Knitting Sex Kittens had been there; strings of crochet stars in gold-flecked wool crisscrossed above Kate’s head, the ends tied to branches high up in the trees. Pompom baubles joined the myriad decorations that bespangled twigs, dangled from ivy-clad bushes, and bejeweled the spiky holly tree.

  Kate’s camera clicked over and over. A knitted wreath adorned with knitted snowmen, robins, and Christmas trees had been tacked onto a tree trunk. Another hung from a knotty bough; knitted toadstools and hedgehogs nestled in soft green knitted leaves.

  Already Kate’s mind was whirring with ideas for next year’s fabrics. And she determined to show the Liberty buyers the Sex Kittens’ handiwork; there was a place for these wreaths at Liberty, she was sure.

  She had just zoomed her lens in on a set of glittery salt dough gingerbread women when the sounds of a commotion drifted into the copse. It was coming from the green.

  Curious, Kate left the copse and stopped at the edge of the green. It looked as though half the village was in the square. There were yelps and screeches of fear and laughter as people tried to round up a flock of flapping, squawking birds.

  A truck with its back fallen open, after what looked like a run-in with a postbox, was parked askew across the green. Several people were trying to heave it back onto the road. The crates from which the birds had escaped lay scattered on the ground.

  Kate moved closer. She caught Andy’s eye as he lumbered two long pieces of timber toward the van. He dropped them at the driver’s feet and as the other men began to position them behind the back wheels, Andy dusted off his hands and walked over to Kate.

  “Stupid arse got lost on his way to the manor,” said Andy. “Thought this was a shortcut,” he said. “Hadn’t banked on the snow being quite so thick up here.”

  At that moment there was a shout:

  “There’s a partridge in the Pear Tree!”

  There came a great flapping of arms and coats and whoops and shouts from the café, and the headache-inducing scrape and grind of forty-five chairs being scraped urgently across the floor.

  The Pear Tree customers, who had been safely watching the kerfuffle from behind the café windows, burst out of the door like they’d been ejected from a cannon and spilled out on to the green.

  The green had become a sort of live poultry circus as fifty escapee partridges danced among men, women, and children in wellies and bobble hats.

  Kate’s mind instantly turned to Matt. She scanned the crowd of coats and brown feathers but saw no sign of him. She began to wade across the green, through snow and birds and people.

  “Has anyone seen Matt?” she called as she went.

  Nobody had.

  Kate walked into the deserted café. The floor was muddy. Chairs had been upturned in the rush to escape and the tables were pushed crooked. A cup lay tipped onto its side, dripping latte onto the floor.

  “Matt?” Kate called quietly.

  No reply.

  “Matt?” she hissed. “Are you in here?”

  This time she caught a whisper of an answer, coming from behind the counter. Kate parted the plates of shortbread and mince pies and leaned over the counter.

  There, crouched beneath the coffee machine and wedged between a giant bucket of hot chocolate powder and a box of takeaway cups, was Matt. He was pale. Paler even than usual.

  He looked up at Kate pleadingly and nodded infinitesimally toward the shelf beneath the till, where a partridge was happily tucking into a piece of tiffin that Carla had stashed to nibble on while she worked. The partridge clucked contentedly.

  Kate unzipped her coat as quietly as she could and slipped out of it. She walked gingerly around the counter, conscious of the squelch her wellies made, until she stood facing Matt. He was pressed hard against some shelves. If he could have fitted into one of them he would have. The till and the partridge sat directly to her left.

  Kate held her coat open wide out in front of her, like a Spanish matador, and in one swift movement, she ducked down and threw the coat over the partridge and its tiffin and scooped them up.

  She felt the bird flap as she hugged her coat gently to her, and her heart raced. Very carefully she walked out of the café and laid her coat on the ground, letting it flap open for the bemused partridge to escape. Then she stepped back into the café and closed the door.

  Matt was shakily extricating himself from his stock behind the counter.

  “Are you all right?” Kate asked.

  For a moment Matt couldn’t speak. His hands shook as he ran them through his hair.

  “All right?” Kate asked again.

  Matt nodded.

  “Yeah,” he said. Though he sounded uncertain. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “All part of the service,” said Kate.

  She didn’t know what else to say. She hadn’t given a thought to what would happen after she got the bird away from Matt. She hadn’t really thought at all.

  Outside the crowd was beginning to thin. The birds—though a good many had made a successful bid for freedom—were being rounded up and put back into the undamaged crates, while John did a quick fix on the others outside his shop.

  With the help of Andy’s timbers the truck was backed off the snowy green and pointed in the direction of the manor. Andy offered to let the driver follow him up there, to prevent further mishaps.

  Kate and Matt, meanwhile, stood awkwardly opposite each other.

  “I mean it,” said Matt. “Thank you.” He added, “You know me and birds.”

  Kate did know him and birds. Matt had had a pathological fear of birds ever since he’d accidentally disturbed a magpie’s nest as a kid and been pecked so ferociously, he’d fallen out of the tree. He still had one of the battle scars from the magpie’s beak on his forehead; it shone silvery pink when he was stressed or angry. It shone silvery pink now.

  Matt took a step forward and Kate froze.

  “Kate,” he said. “About Sarah. . . .”

  “I don’t want to get involved,” Kate broke in. “I wish you both all the best. I really do.”

  Kate turned to leave, but Matt came up behind her and turned her back to face him.

  “Don’t go,” he said.

  “What?” said Kate.

  “I don’t mean now,” he said. “Of course you can go
now, you know, you can go out of the café. I mean . . .”

  He held Kate gently by the arms.

  “I mean, don’t leave Blexford,” he said.

  Kate didn’t know what to say. Her heart clamored in her chest. If anyone could entreat her to stay, it was him. And it would be the easiest thing in the world to stay and be near him and be like they were. Great friends. But Kate would always be wanting. Always longing. Her heart always breaking a little every time she saw Matt share a tender moment with Sarah. Always secretly wishing they were her moments.

  She went to pull away, but he tightened his grip on her arms.

  “Please stay,” he said.

  She looked up at him; the lights on the tree behind her picked out flecks of amber in his brown eyes, framed by long sandy lashes. Her eyes wandered over the freckles that dotted his cheeks and eyelids.

  Matt leaned toward her and she didn’t stop him. Their lips met. Soft and tentative, so familiar yet uncharted, like a promise waiting for fulfillment. Kate’s skin tingled. Her stomach thrilled. A carousel of memories flickered behind her closed eyelids. Longing. Such painful longing. Matt pulled her into a close embrace and Kate melted into him. She wanted to be here so badly. She wanted more than anything for this to be what he wanted too.

  The truck outside backfired and Kate was brought abruptly to her senses. She pushed Matt away.

  “I can’t,” she said. “I can’t do this. What about Sarah?”

  She couldn’t be the other woman, not twice in one week.

  Kate dashed out of the café, leaving her camera on the counter and the Pear Tree bell jangling furiously behind her. She didn’t stop to pick her coat up off the floor. She didn’t stop to say to hello to the people who called out to her.

  She walked as fast as she could through the thick snow, across the green, through the copse and down the lane. She didn’t stop until she reached her front door. She jabbed the key into the lock, slammed the door behind her, and threw herself, wellies and all, across the sofa by the kitchen window.

  She lay there for a long time. Thinking. Her head was in a whirl. Had he meant to kiss her? Or was it a reaction to his close encounter with the partridge? What did he mean when he said, Don’t go? Don’t go because he wanted to keep his old friend around? Or don’t go because he felt more than friendship?

  She couldn’t let herself think that. She just couldn’t. The fall to earth if she allowed herself to hope and it came to nothing would be too much.

  “That’s enough, Kate Turner,” she said to herself.

  She pulled her face out of the cushion and stood up.

  “No more of this.”

  * * *

  • • • • •

  Kate wiggled her largest portfolio case out of the under-stairs cupboard and laid it open on the kitchen floor. Next to the dresser was a large chest of drawers that Kate used to store her work. With methodical diligence she worked her way through the drawers, dropping sketches and mood boards into the case, ready for the move.

  The kiss kept invading her mind, unbidden, causing her heart to leap and her stomach to thrill. It would catch her unawares and steal her breath, scrambling her mind. She’d drop papers and lose her train of thought. It was a heroic effort just to keep working.

  She sifted through folders and old handmade books. Kate picked up a book bound with scraps of William Morris fabric; the paper was thick, good quality, beginning to yellow at the edges with age.

  It was a book of leaf studies: photographs, sketches in pencil, charcoal and ink. Some washed over with color. Some vibrant with oil pastels; an old waxy smell rose up from the pages. Actual leaves stuck in with glue crumbled to russet dust as Kate turned the pages.

  A third of the way through, the sketches became all about one tree. The pear tree. Watercolors and photographs. Dried leaves and pressed blossoms. Blossoms taken from the spring, before Matt’s family were killed. Kate sighed. No matter how much distance Kate put between herself and Matt, the roots of that pear tree would always be tugging at her soul, pulling her back to him. She closed the book and put it back in the drawer. And went to bed.

  * * *

  • • • • •

  Kate woke up early; it was still dark. She remembered being in Matt’s arms, recalled the taste of lips. The dark was full of Matt. She flung the curtains open, switched on the lights, and began to pack in earnest.

  By lunchtime she had filled several packing cases, ready to be moved into storage. She had also written out a rental advertisement, which she would place with the local paper after Christmas.

  Kate turned her attentions to her Christmas cake. Keeping busy was the only way to keep her mind from lingering on Matt’s lips. And his crazy hair. And his brown and gold eyes. And his slim athletic body . . .

  Stop it, she berated herself. It didn’t mean anything. He has a girlfriend.

  She kneaded the marzipan until it was almost too warm and soft to work with. Her woes of the previous day had transformed overnight into a kind of wild hopeful excitement; it was, she knew, completely inappropriate and yet she didn’t seem to have control over her own thoughts.

  She quite rationally put much of this down to being sex-starved and feeling trepidation about leaving Blexford. But she’d still had to hoover the house twice while listening to Christmas hits and singing along loudly, just to keep her mind from wandering.

  It would have been easier if he’d just stayed mad at her. Then at least she could feel angry and wronged. She could leave feeling she had the moral high ground. But the kiss had turned everything on its head.

  She’d dusted the whole house and scrubbed the bathroom until she was in danger of removing the enamel. She’d changed the sheets on her bed and washed the old ones. If she was burgled now, she could rest easy that the robbers would have no alternative than to declare her housekeeping skills a triumph.

  She felt like someone had switched her controls to fast forward. Perpetual motion was all that stood between her and the abyss.

  Kate started to get ready for her final date: the Twelfth Date of Christmas. She was meeting Drew at Fitzwilliam Park at six thirty p.m. by the Palace Royale coffee house. She watched A Christmas Carol in the bedroom as she dressed. There was no point dressing up too much as it was going to be freezing. She slipped on her best dark navy jeans and Petula’s latest creation. She pulled on a pair of thick hiking socks and blow-dried her hair, pulling it up into a loose bun and pinning it, so that little curly straggles of hair fell about her face and neck.

  By four o’clock she was perfumed and lipsticked and ready to go. She decided she would take a slow walk to the park and drink coffee in the Palace Royale until it was time to meet Drew. She shoved a book in her handbag—an Agatha Christie; she couldn’t risk anything with romance at the moment—and headed out into the snowy dusk.

  In her haste to escape Matt the day before, Kate had left her warmest coat in a heap on the floor. She wore instead a gray three-quarter-length duffle coat and wrapped a stripy scarf in pastel peach, green, and pink twice around her neck.

  Blexford hill, steep at the best of times, was impossible to get down without a sledge and even then, only the impossibly brave or the impossibly stupid would try it. Kate wasn’t chancing a broken leg before Christmas, so she took the long way down.

  A series of footpaths trickled down to Great Blexley through the hillside in a zigzag, alongside fields and garden fences. In places the snow reached the top of Kate’s boots.

  It was a quiet route and for the first time that day it gave Kate the unwelcome chance to be contemplative. The snow here was largely untouched but for the tracks left by dog walkers, and her only company were the sheep that baaed mournfully as she passed them, and the occasional surprised rabbit.

  The paths were mostly lined by high hedgerows, but occasionally there was a gap and here the world seemed to fall sharply away to
reveal the whole of Great Blexley sprawled out down below: twinkling lights, white roofs, church spires, and the sea at the end of it all, a strip of navy blue reaching up to meet the charcoal sky.

  It was already dark but the meager light from the out-of-the-way houses lit some of the way, and where there was none, Kate used her phone’s torch.

  She wondered what Matt was doing now. Regretting yesterday’s emotional outburst, probably. Kate had half expected to get a text asking her to forget it ever happened, or at least to keep it quiet. But she’d had nothing. She told herself that if he’d really meant it, he would have followed her, tried harder. But he was too proud for that. He’d probably have proposed to Sarah by now, spurred on by Kate’s rebuff.

  She trudged on. It was freezing, her ears were aching, and Kate wished she’d worn a hat, but she stupidly hadn’t wanted to ruin her hair. She pulled her scarf up higher around her face.

  She reached the town and was glad of the shelter lent by the buildings against the wind. It was markedly warmer here. She followed the road round until she reached the iron gates to the park.

  Patches of dark green showed where the snow had been dug out to make snowmen. Fat white blobby figures, with carrot noses and twiggy arms, dotted the park. There were snow animals too, and snow women with big round snow-boobs—one wore a string bikini. A striking snow Mr. Tumnus stood beneath one of the lampposts that lit the many paths and wooded walks through the park.

  The park was alive with people; it reminded Kate of a Lowry painting. She made her way to the Palace Royale and ordered a gingerbread latte. She took a seat by the window and looked out.

  From here she could see the outdoor cinema screen ready for the final Lightning Strikes date night. Kate wondered how many people had actually found love on their Twelve Dates journey; Todd and Mandy for sure.

  Stretched out in front of the screen were hundreds of striped double deck chairs, with tartan blankets on their seats and parasols stuck into the ground behind them. Kate’s book remained untouched as she people-watched from the warmth of the café.