One Christmas Star

by Mandy Baggot

  ‘I’m kidding,’ Ray said. ‘I’ll bring over a guitar.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Right, let’s get this heating working, oh, and I’ll have a couple of sugars in that coffee you promised.’

  Twenty-Six

  Chips out of the paper, covered in salt and vinegar, had never tasted so good. The temperature in the flat was an even twenty degrees thanks to the new thermostat and Emily had finally taken off the thick fleece dressing gown that had been over her clothes. After repairing the boiler, Ray had headed to Gino’s storage locker by foot to pick up whatever he could carry. Clothes mainly, and two of his guitars, one electric, one acoustic, plus whatever he had been able to fit into the largest of his backpacks. It didn’t say much for his superstar lifestyle that his possessions could fit into one large rucksack and instrument cases. He pushed another lightly crisped-outside-fluffy-inside chip into his mouth, watching Emily fighting with branches of a Christmas tree across the lounge. He had bought her chips too, with the last actual real cash he had in his wallet, but she hadn’t eaten very many. Instead she had nibbled at a few then headed into the depths of the cupboard to begin hauling out a box that contained this fake evergreen monster.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, reaching for the bottle of supermarket own-brand ketchup Emily had placed on the coffee table.

  ‘I’m going to decorate.’

  Ray’s eyes went to the smaller, more modern Christmas decorations that were already around the space. Was he missing something? It was already done in his opinion.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she answered, as if she had mind-reading powers. ‘But those tokens of Jonah’s aren’t really my style. They’re all very… Oxford Street and I prefer… Swiss chalet or German Christmas market. Traditional. Nothing like my parents would buy to impress their friends.’

  He was coming to the rapid conclusion that she had a difficult relationship with her parents. When she’d eaten the few chips with her fingers she had made a comment about how appalled her mother would be that they were eating out of paper with not even a deli fork between them. She’d then told him there were actually seven different types of fork…

  ‘It has a lot of branches,’ Ray commented, inhaling more food. He hadn’t realised just how hungry he was. Had he even eaten today? He wasn’t sure the vinegar the guy had splashed about like he was filling a swimming pool, was doing his throat any favours though. He mentally added vinegar to the irritants he probably shouldn’t ingest before singing.

  ‘Fifty-three,’ Emily answered, putting them into their colour-coded piles. ‘It’s meant to have fifty-five, but Simon got it heavily discounted and, well, when you have fifty-three branches already, you’re really not going to notice a couple missing.’

  ‘Who’s Simon?’ Ray asked. ‘Your boyfriend?’

  ‘Oh… yes… I mean, no. Well, actually… yes.’

  He watched her. She looked suddenly uncomfortable and now so was he. Chips were poised in mid-air in his fingers, salt making his skin sore. He didn’t know what to say and neither, it seemed, did she.

  ‘Simon was my boyfriend,’ Emily said, picking up a branch and fanning out the twigs. ‘He… passed away… last year. November. The beginning of November. A few weeks ago… last year.’ She swallowed. ‘I said last year already, didn’t I?’

  ‘God, Emily, I’m sorry,’ Ray said, dropping the chips back into the paper and putting the paper down next to him on the sofa. He felt like he needed to stand. But when he got to his feet, he had no idea what to do next. Go to her? Comfort her? Who was he to really do anything? He was the lodger paying her in engineering skills and songwriting… when he wasn’t even supposed to be singing.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Emily said, flapping the tree bough in the air and pulling her legs tighter into her body. ‘I mean, it’s not obviously OK, it’s not OK at all, but it happened and everything changed and… there’s nothing I can do about it.’

  There were a million things Ray wanted to ask. Like, how old had Simon been. What had he died of. How long had they been together. Instead he looked at a photo on the windowsill, strode towards it and picked it up. What was he doing?

  ‘Is this Simon?’ He should put the picture down. These were her memories he was thumbing now. Emily looked different in this photo. She was still wearing something unique – a blouse with a print of small brown birds all over it – but her face was a little fuller, her hair lighter. Simon was a good-looking guy and the way he had his arm around Emily’s shoulders, drawing her close so genuinely, relaxed, un-posed, told its own love story…

  ‘Yes,’ Emily said. She was getting to her feet now and she crossed the room to stand next to him. She took the photo frame from him and gazed at the picture. ‘We were so drunk in that photo. I blame the rhubarb gin.’ She was smiling as she looked at the image and then she folded the arm that had propped the photo up. ‘I should put this one away,’ she said. ‘Make room for more Christmas things on the window ledge.’

  ‘Only the good die young,’ Ray commented. If there was a prize for the most inappropriate comment, he would have just claimed it. ‘I mean, there has to be something in that, doesn’t there?’ What was he talking about? There was nothing in it. Nothing. Death was never good no matter how old you were.

  ‘I wonder what that tells me about Dennis’s mother?’ Emily said, sighing. ‘Sorry, it’s just Dennis, he’s one of the other teachers at work, slight addiction to sweets, he told me his mother is almost eighty-five. I was automatically assuming she was good but…’

  ‘Do you want some help?’ Ray asked. ‘With the tree?’

  ‘Oh, no, that’s OK. It’s an awful job really. You have to put all these branches into colour-coded piles and then you have to start with the red ones and then the blue ones and… you must have other stuff to do.’

  ‘Eating chips I’ve already eaten too many of and avoiding looking on social media. Yeah,’ he said. ‘My night is lit.’

  He watched her laugh. There was that light he had seen in her eyes in that photo. It was still there, somewhere, just under the surface. She was even more beautiful when she laughed.

  ‘Listen,’ he began. ‘I’ll help you with the tree and then you can tell me what sort of lyrics you think will be acceptable to your priests or vicars or whoever is coming to school next week. Deal?’

  She smiled softly. ‘OK. Deal.’

  Twenty-Seven

  The Christmas tree was up. In under two hours. It seemed that perhaps Emily and Simon hadn’t had the same skills in logical putting-together of the indoor spruce that Emily and Ray had. Mainly Ray, if she was honest.

  Ray was now playing the acoustic guitar, ripped jeans, bare feet, long-sleeved grey sweater over the rest of him. It should have been a non-descript kind of outfit, but on him it looked like perfection. Relaxed, easy, uncontrived perfection. The sort of combination that took most people considerable time standing in front of a full-length mirror to get right. And when he stopped playing it was to catch her staring right at him. Fantastic, Emily…

  ‘Sorry,’ he apologised. ‘I’m getting carried away. Inspiration strikes when you least expect it.’

  ‘You’re writing new music at the moment?’ she asked. She was still on the floor, crossed-legged, her hands wrapped around another mug of coffee.

  ‘Meant to be,’ Ray answered. ‘Should be.’ He smiled at her. ‘Won’t get any money unless I make it happen.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about the music industry,’ she remarked, taking a sip of her drink.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s the same as any other business. It has to make money. It has deadlines and contracts and stipulations and if you don’t meet all its given criteria then you’re off the rollercoaster, back down on the ground.’

  ‘That sounds harsh.’

  ‘It’s life.’ He strummed hard. ‘So, tell me, this class of yours, are they a musically talented bunch of kids?’

  ‘God no,’ Emily answered, almost spitting out her drink. �
�And we lost Mr Jarvis. Bless him, he did try and get them to sing in time with a metro… metro-gnome, is it? But the ticking set Felix off into a frenzy.’

  ‘OK,’ Ray said. ‘But your plan is to write a Christmas show in what? A month? And get them to learn their lines and all the words to the songs before a performance?’

  ‘The 20th December,’ Emily said. The date had come out all breathy. Like she was close to hyperventilation. ‘That’s when the show is.’

  ‘It can’t be done,’ Ray said, playing one chord, then changing his finger position and playing another.

  ‘What do you mean it can’t be done?’ Emily asked. ‘It has to be done. There’s literally no other option. I have to produce a show on 20th December. I’ve got parents throwing money at me for costumes and special effects. I can’t let everyone down.’

  And by everyone she really meant the headteacher. This was her chance to make Susan see she wasn’t just another ambitious newcomer with no depth to her long-term plans.

  ‘I don’t give up,’ Emily stated boldly. ‘Not with anything. Not ever. Even if the outlook is hopeless, I will still refuse to give up. I’m a last grain in the sand-timer kind of person.’ Except apparently when it came to picking up her life after grief and realising that she couldn’t survive on coffee and Jacob’s crackers alone… But Ray didn’t need to know that.

  ‘OK,’ Ray said, nodding. ‘Well, in that case, I just think you need to streamline your expectations a little.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Emily, it’s a tall order for anyone to learn a bunch of new songs in that timescale, but untalented ten-year-olds…’

  ‘I didn’t say they were completely untalented.’ Had she? That was awful of her. The trouble was they didn’t really have the time to perfect anything. It was all rush through the curriculum to make sure everything was covered – often inadequately and not particularly thoroughly – the time for plays or music or creativity had got less and less. Perhaps it was her fault they weren’t musically gifted. Had her lack of ability hampered her children?

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ Ray told her before she could dwell any longer. ‘How about I help you come up with some new lyrics to well-known Christmas songs, songs the kids are already going to know the tune to, and then we’ll work on one brand-new song for, I don’t know, the grand finale or something. That way there’s not quite so much work to do for them… or you… or me.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Emily said. She was hesitant because Susan had kept saying the words ‘show-stopping’ and ‘original’ all the time. Making up new words to old songs wasn’t quite what she had had in mind.

  ‘I think it’s your best bet,’ Ray said. ‘If you want a show to put on at all on 20th December.’

  She wrinkled her nose. Was it giving in? Should she really be capable of making new songs? Even with someone talented in the music industry telling her it was going to be supremely hard?

  ‘OK, listen,’ Ray said, sitting forward on the sofa and repositioning his guitar. ‘Instead of—’ he began to sing ‘—O, Holy Night…’

  His voice… it was like someone had come in and poured warm, melted chocolate all over her spine. Emily sat up a little straighter and tried to temper down the feeling. It was all deep and rich and profoundly sexy…

  ‘You could have…’ He sang again. ‘Here at Stretton Park, the holidays are coming.’ He was singing and playing the music and Emily’s mouth dropped open.

  ‘Did you just make that up?’ she gasped. ‘Just now? On the spot?’

  He laughed. ‘It’s one line.’

  ‘But it fits!’ she exclaimed. ‘It fits to the tune and it’s about our school.’

  ‘You sing it,’ Ray encouraged, playing the tune again.

  ‘Oh no,’ she answered, getting to her feet. ‘No, you’re the singer. I’ll be the writer-downer.’ She grabbed a notebook from the bookcase and a pen from a drawer and sat back down, scribbling the lyrics.

  Ray continued to sing. ‘And the nights are dark and clear.’

  Emily looked up. ‘Seriously! Two lines already?!’

  He smiled at her again. ‘I wish my record company was so easily pleased.’ He played the next line. ‘Your turn. What comes next?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Emily said, shaking her head. ‘I’m not a songwriter.’

  ‘Come on,’ Ray encouraged. ‘You don’t know that. Have you even ever tried?’

  ‘Obviously not. I’m a primary school teacher not… George Ezra.’

  Ray sang again. ‘Here at Stretton Park, the holidays are coming. And the nights are dark and clear.’

  Here at Stretton Park. Our… hearts are filled with gladness. Could that work? Ray was playing the next bit, humming along to the tune. Well, she couldn’t sing it, not out loud and she wasn’t sure it was even good enough to tell him. But this was her project. And she couldn’t expect Ray to come up with everything. She had to have confidence. You have to have more confidence, Emily. You are amazing. Believe it. That’s what Simon used to say when she was bitching a little about her non-promotion to Deputy Head. Confidence was also what Susan would be expecting when the diocese visited. She cleared her throat.

  ‘How about…’ Emily started to sing. ‘Here at Stretton Park, our hearts are filled with gladness?’ Emily put a finger in the air. ‘No, not gladness. Jesus! Our hearts are filled with Jesus. It’s for the diocese, the more Jesus we can fit in the better.’

  ‘You have a great voice,’ Ray told her.

  ‘Ha, you’re funny. I’m not singing any more lines by the way.’

  ‘Hey,’ Ray said, his eyes finding hers. ‘I mean it. You’ve got a really great tone going on.’

  Emily shook her head. ‘You don’t need to say that. You don’t have to say you like my singing to keep your room.’

  ‘You’re speaking to someone who has lost one rental this week and roughed it in a shed. I’m unafraid of being evicted,’ Ray replied seriously. ‘Take the compliment, Miss Parker. You have a great voice. And now I know that, you’re going to be pulling your weight in this songwriting.’

  One of those pretentious large lightbulbs she was going to be seeing with her parents the following Friday had suddenly inhabited her gut and was shining at the brightest setting. Ray said she had a great voice. He said he meant it. It was one of the nicest things anyone had ever said to her. After her mother’s criticism of her vocal abilities, she hadn’t really sung very much – only to Jonah and Allan when she’d been a little inebriated, not really ever to Simon. Not that Simon would have ever criticised anything she put her hand – or voice – to. He was… had been… always so supportive.

  Ray tapped the guitar with his fingers. ‘So, are all the kids in your class Christian?’

  ‘No, we have a wide mix. Muslim, Jewish, Humanist…’

  ‘And they’re all OK with the Jesus vibe?’ Ray inquired. ‘Does the show have to be a nativity? Or even, you know, religion-based?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Emily said immediately. ‘Definitely yes. Because we get funding from the church board and everyone knows that and the parents know that. I mean, they can, of course, ask that their children don’t participate in religious aspects of school life, but I always try to teach things in a non-conflicting way. Like with the “What Christmas Means to Me” projects. Anyone who doesn’t celebrate Christmas does “What The Holidays Mean To Me”.’ She took a breath. ‘But this show, this Christmas show at a Church of England school, has to contain God. Because, to the diocese that’s the whole point of Christmas. I mean, it is obviously the whole point of Christmas or there wouldn’t be a Christmas but…’

  ‘OK,’ Ray interrupted. ‘I get it. Angels and wise men and… innkeepers.’

  ‘Yes,’ Emily said, thinking of Jayden’s project and his model dad outside the clay pub. That was about as unconventional as it got.

  Ray sang the first three lines.

  Here at Stretton Park, the holidays are coming

  And the nights are dark
and clear

  Here at Stretton Park, our hearts are filled with Jesus

  That didn’t sound too bad! It actually sounded quite good, particularly Ray singing it. She wasn’t sure how Year Six were going to sound singing it though.

  Then Ray continued singing: ‘And long ago… his birth did save the world.’

  Emily held her breath. God, it was perfect. It was actually perfect. She scrabbled to get up off the floor, full of enthusiasm that needed to be released. ‘Oh my God! Ray! It sounds brilliant! Totally brilliant! I mean, I know the tune isn’t new, but maybe that really doesn’t matter, because it sounds so different.’ She punched the air. ‘Take that Mr “I’ve Written Something for Eurovision: You Decide” Jarvis!’ She gasped once more and then looked to Ray who was looking back at her. ‘Sorry… sorry, too much celebrating when there’s tonnes more to do, I know. Like a storyline. Elongating the nativity is easy enough, but it has to be funny… especially for the parents who have to sit on the tiny chairs for over an hour. I’ll definitely need some well-placed jokes about the latest disgraced celebrity and…’ She stopped talking, suddenly feeling sick. What had she just said?! She was a complete numbskull. ‘Oh my God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I really, really didn’t mean that.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Ray answered, putting his guitar down.

  ‘No, it’s not OK. It’s so not OK. I don’t know what I was thinking.’ She felt truly terrible. Who was this diva in charge of drama who had just descended like some sort of celestial critic deciding people in the limelight weren’t really people? Was this what power did to you? Would this be what she would be like as a headteacher?

  ‘Ray, I am so, so sorry. I got carried away and I promise, there will be absolutely no jokes about celebrities, whether they’re in crisis or not.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ray answered. ‘Justin Bieber is usually good for it.’