‘Annual leave? He could’ve been stacking up holidays all year?’
‘So he can spend them working? And in a Christmas village when he hates Christmas? It doesn’t add up. I keep thinking about the other thing he said – the “while I still can” bit. Is this some sort of twisted bucket list thing?’
‘Maybe he is going to turn back into wood on Christmas Eve.’ She elbows me even though I can’t take my eyes off him. ‘Go and ask.’
I let out a burst of laughter. ‘Firstly I’m not going over there to ask him if he’s really a nutcracker soldier, and secondly, I don’t want to know. I don’t want to get involved, Stace.’
‘Because you like him too much?’
‘No, because … no more men. I can’t take another relationship that’s going to end with me crying into a tub of ice cream. And look at him. There’s no way he doesn’t have a real-life Rapunzel counterpart to his Flynn Rider looks. What’s the point?’ I say, because I’m about the furthest thing from Rapunzel you can get with my round face and fringe that was recommended to make my face look less round and I’m never quite sure if it works or not, which is why said fringe is currently at a length where I either have to commit to it and cut it again or tackle months of growing it out, at which point I will inevitably decide I miss my fringe and start the whole cycle again.
‘Have you seen how many times he’s looked over here this morning?’
‘No, I’ve seen how many times he’s wobbled on that flipping thing. He’s not looking over here, he’s trying to get his balance.’
She lets out a huff that says exactly how frustrated she’s getting with me. ‘And he’s good with his hands. Well, hand. Look at that lettering.’
‘You see? He said he works in an office and only picked up his shop keys yesterday morning, but look at how well that painting matches up. Are you seriously telling me he didn’t hand-paint the rest of that sign too?’
‘So what if he did? It’s not impossible to work in an office and be good with a paintbrush in your spare time. You’re looking for holes. Because you like him too much.’
Before I have a chance to deny it, James gets down off the stool again and looks over here, directly at us. He’s still holding his paintbrush but he salutes us with his right hand and the widest grin.
‘Oh my God, he is literally the personification of Flynn Rider.’ Stacey fans a hand in front of her face. ‘Look at that smile.’
Oh, believe me, I am looking at that smile. I’ve thought of very little else apart from that smile since yesterday morning. ‘And on that note, I’m going to go and do some work so we might have a chance of beating him in this competition. The more stock we can get out, the more chance we’ve got of selling it.’
As if on cue, another customer calls James back inside, and Stacey makes a noise of disappointment. ‘It’s a shame he didn’t fall on that Macarena-ing Santa. If anything deserves to be crushed from a great height, it’s that.’
‘Finally, one thing we can both agree on. That and our empty shop.’ We both cast our eyes around until we’re looking at each other again. We’re the only two people who have been in here for hours. It’s not a great start for our second day.
***
Stacey left at five so she, her husband Simon, and Lily could have a family evening together, and I’m still in the back room working. My tools are in the shed at home, so I do all my cutting and make the bases of everything there, but cutting MDF wood creates dust so it makes sense to bring them into work to paint when the shop’s quiet rather than risk the dust settling into the paint. It’s been quiet all day.
I look at the array of Christmas jumper hanging decorations set out in various stages of priming and drying on the workbench. One of my favourite things about crafting is how you can get a little production line going by painting all the same colours at once and let your mind go without having to think about anything. I love Christmas jumpers and hand-painting miniature wooden ones in any design I can come up with is one of my favourite things. Red with snowflakes and sparkles, a night sky with Santa’s sleigh being pulled across it by reindeer, a tiny forest of snowy Christmas trees, and many more. They’re a big hit with buyers too.
When I finally catch sight of the clock, it’s gone 8 p.m., and I stand up and stretch my back out and wander onto the darkened shop floor. Everything’s silent outside and darkness has long since fallen. The lights on the Christmas trees have been turned off as their owners have left. Nutcracker Lane’s late opening hours to meet the demand of visitors who wanted to come after work or school or to see the Christmas lights in the dark are long gone now. It used to be open until 10 p.m. most nights, but the traditional nine-to-five opening hours were enforced on the shopkeepers a few years ago by E.B. Neaser as a budget-saving measure.
I open the shop door and stand in the doorway, wishing the café was open for a peppermint hot chocolate. I can’t help noticing there’s a light on in the back of James’s shop, although his front window is dark and the giant Santa outside is mercifully quiet.
Everything is so quiet. Walking through Nutcracker Lane at night used to be a magical experience. My grandma and I would often take this way home, even after the shops were shut, because the trees would be sparkling, heavy with ornaments and tinsel, and the garlands would still be twinkling, hung in boughs from the roof.
I wonder if any of that stuff is left. There’s a huge stockroom in the basement level of Nutcracker Lane, and it used to be packed to the brim with decorations, props, and lights, and shopkeepers were free to go down and help themselves to anything they wanted. I wonder if we could use some of it. I mean, there are no staff here anymore; there’s no one monitoring what we do. What if we found some of that old stuff and put it up? What if we made Nutcracker Lane a bit brighter? It would probably be ages before anyone noticed the increase in electricity being used, and surely even E.B. Neaser couldn’t complain about the shopkeepers trying to make things better for everyone?
I close the shop door behind me and start walking towards the end of the lane. There’s a corridor between the Christmas craft shop and the snowglobe shop that leads to a staff-only door, and I tap in the code and let myself into a narrow corridor that runs underneath Nutcracker Lane. It sounds like some mystical underground vault full of Christmas magic, but it’s actually quite scary and the first time I came down here last month, I went back to the shop to get Stacey and made her come with me because I thought I might get lost or find a serial killer lurking down here. In reality, it’s a cold basement with squeaky lino flooring and multiple storage rooms, some of which haven’t been opened for years. It’s not where Santa stores his sleigh for the rest of the year like my granddad used to tell me when I was little.
I’m also not alone. As I get further along the hollow corridor, I realise one of the doors to a storage room is open and there’s light spilling out. I gulp. ‘Hello?’ I call out, unable to hide the tremble in my voice.
‘In here,’ a voice calls back. Hopefully a good sign. I had visions of catching the bloke who plays Santa down here in a compromising position. What he does in public is bad enough – the thought of what he might get up to behind closed doors is enough to give anyone nightmares.
‘Ah, my arm breaker,’ the voice says as I get near the doorway and I’m already breathing a sigh of relief at it being James and not the Santa bloke doing something unthinkable with bodily excretions.
‘Hi, Grinch.’ I put my head round the door and spot him in a corner, examining a set of plastic light-up reindeer that used to be put on the roof every December.
He looks up and smiles as our eyes meet across the room. ‘I know that’s meant as an insult but it doesn’t sound like one.’
‘It is.’ Why can’t I stop smiling? No matter how much I tell myself not to, a great big smile spreads across my face every time I see him. And somehow he looks even more gorgeous tonight than he did earlier. He’s got elegant cheekbones and a pointed kind of dainty nose, and the stubble cov
ering his angled jawline is scruffier than it was yesterday.
He looks like he believes me about as much as I believe myself. ‘Interesting jumper choice,’ he says as he straightens up and moves away from the reindeer. ‘Not quite as exciting as yesterday’s flashing one.’
I look down at my snowman jumper. ‘I buy a Christmas jumper every year. I love them. I usually keep the flashing ones for special occasions, like opening day and Christmas Eve.’
‘Yeah. I think light-up jumpers should be saved for special occasions too. Like when hell freezes over – would that count as a special occasion?’
I go to snap something sarcastic back, but as he moves, a look of pain crosses his face and he seems to be shuffling rather than walking. ‘Are you okay?’
‘All the better for seeing that jumper.’ He gives me a tight and completely mocking smile, but there’s obviously something wrong. His face is pale and the dark circles under his eyes look much bigger than they did yesterday.
‘Seriously, James. You don’t look well.’
‘I’m fine.’ His left arm is still held across his chest by the sling, and he moves around the boxes, opening them with his right hand and peering inside. ‘It’s a shame spiders don’t count as Christmas decorations.’
I shudder. ‘I saw you renamed your shop?’
‘Yeah, thanks for the advice. And about pricing. I reduced everything and made loads of sales today.’
‘Good,’ I say, even though what I’m thinking is “bollocks”. Despite what he says, the last thing I’m supposed to be doing is helping the competition. I shouldn’t have said anything. I should’ve let him get on with selling his hideously overpriced all-singing all-dancing decorations. Our shop has been empty today and his has been heaving. And his decorating is spot-on. He certainly doesn’t need my advice on that front.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Replacing some of the things I sold today. Trying to, anyway. I don’t see why anyone would buy this trash.’ He pulls out a polar bear soft toy and squeezes its belly so it flashes and growls a “Merry Christmas”. ‘I mean, why? Why does a polar bear flash? Why does it wish you a merry Christmas?’
‘Says the man whose shop is guarded by a plastic Santa inexplicably doing the Macarena!’
‘Exactly – so it’s outside where I don’t have to put up with it.’
I roll my eyes as he uses his foot to tip the box on its side and one-handedly rifles through it, pulling out tinsel and lights and tossing them aside.
‘So is this where you’re getting your stock? Just stealing it from the storeroom?’
‘Stealing it?’ His head jerks up to look at me but it obviously hurts something because his right hand curls around the cardboard and his chin drops down to his chest as he breathes slowly through his nose. ‘I’m doing what I’ve been told to do. Following orders, not stealing,’ he says eventually, but his voice is quiet, and he sounds like he wants to be annoyed but he can’t quite muster it.
‘These are Nutcracker Lane’s decorations!’
‘Exactly. They belong to the new owner of Nutcracker Lane and whoever that is wants them sold.’
‘He must be a monster, even worse than that horrible accountant!’
‘I’m sorry,’ James says eventually. ‘I’m just doing my job. What are you doing down here at this time of night anyway?’
‘It sounds stupid but I remembered some of this old stuff and wanted to see if any of it was still here. I thought we could put some of it up again.’
His eyes, which have been heavy-lidded until now, go wide. ‘You don’t have permission to do that.’
‘Of course not, but someone has to do something. Nutcracker Lane is dying in front of us. No one cares about it anymore. And why am I talking about it to you? You hate Christmas. What do you care if our special little Christmas village closes down?’
He’s quiet for so long that I think he’s not going to answer. ‘I liked it when I was little. It was different back then. I was different back then.’
‘You’ve been here before?’
The corner of his mouth tips up. ‘Didn’t every child in Wiltshire and the surrounding counties come here when they were little? If you didn’t come with your family, there were school trips every year …’
‘Yeah.’ I can’t take my eyes off him, and not just because of the soft, nostalgic smile on his face, but because his skin has gone from pale to a distinctly grey tone and he doesn’t look like he’d stay upright in a light breeze. ‘So you haven’t always been a Grinch then?’
‘For long enough that I can barely remember a time befor— Oh, he’ll do.’ He pulls a three-foot-tall wooden nutcracker soldier out of the box. ‘Nutcrackers are always popular.’
I haven’t realised I’ve drifted closer as we’ve been talking until I’m leaning on the other side of the box. ‘You can’t sell him!’ I reach across and grab the nutcracker out of his hand. ‘I know him!’
‘Personally?’ He raises an eyebrow, and I give him a scathing look.
‘No. He and his family used to stand in the entrance foyer. There was one of each size, from tiny to life-size. They were lined up in size order like a family of Russian dolls.’ I rub my fingers across the dusty wooden drum around the nutcracker’s waist, a drumstick in each of his hands. ‘One of them was a musical one and it played the tune of “Little Drummer Boy” and the sticks moved up and down. It was amazing.’
‘Well, find me the others and I’ll sell them as well.’ He reaches across the box, gets his hand around the nutcracker’s head and pulls it out of my grasp, but as he twists away, he lets out the harshest cry of pain I’ve ever heard and the nutcracker clatters to the floor as his hand shoots to his chest under the sling.
‘James, what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing, I’m—’
I assume he was going to finish that sentence with “fine”, which he is very clearly not. His face has gone from grey to so pale he’d camouflage against a white wall. His eyes are squeezed shut and his teeth clenched. A vein is throbbing in his forehead as he lets out a string of swearwords. He sways on his feet and I’m certain he’s about to keel over.
‘Come on, there’s a box over there. You need to sit down before you fall down.’ I slot my hands around his right arm and tug gently. I don’t know where he’s hurting but it’s obviously more serious than a broken arm and I don’t want to touch him anywhere that’s going to make it worse.
There are tremors going through him. I can feel them through his black T-shirt, but he lets me tug him gently towards the far wall, his breathing fast and ragged.
‘Sit.’ I use his good arm to urge him downwards onto a long box against the back wall of the storage room.
Sweat is beading on his forehead as he positions his back against the wall and sinks down with a groan, and I sit on my knees in front of him and put my hands carefully on top of his knees. ‘What’s wrong? Where are you hurting? This is not just your arm, is it?’
‘Broken left side.’
I eye his left side but it doesn’t give anything away. ‘Which part?’
‘All of it.’ His eyes open into slits. ‘Feels like, anyway.’
His hair has fallen forward and stuck to his forehead and I reach up and brush it back. ‘Shall I phone an ambulance?’
‘No. God, no.’ His good hand reaches up and closes softly around my wrist. ‘No more hospitals. Just go, Nia. You don’t have to worry about me.’
I almost laugh at the irony. ‘You might be a Grinch, but you’re clearly in agony and if you think I’m going to walk away and leave you here, you’ve got another think coming.’ I keep brushing his hair back and his eyes drift closed again. His breathing is harsh, rapid and shallow, and I do what every adult does in a situation like this – look around for a better adult. An older adult. An adult who might know what to do. A more adult adult.
‘Take four-second breaths,’ I say, thinking of a meditation technique I once learnt. ‘Four seconds in through your no
se, hold for four seconds, then exhale through your mouth for four seconds. It’s relaxing.’ I do it too, encouraging him to join in, my little finger tapping his right knee in four-second bursts.
I don’t stop reaching up to tuck his dark hair back, and his hand is still on my wrist and I’m not sure if his fingertips are rubbing minutely or if it’s the tremors, but it doesn’t seem like he wants me to stop, so I don’t, and after a few long minutes, our breathing is in sync, and he’s not panting quite so severely.
‘James, seriously,’ I say gently. ‘What’s broken?’
‘Arm, two ribs, cartilage damage, and an impressive amount of bruising.’
‘What happened?’
‘I told you, I got knocked over. It was my own fault. On a business call, yelling at someone who didn’t deserve yelling at, stepped out without looking where I was going, collided with an oncoming car.’
Things start slotting into place in my brain. ‘So when you said you got knocked over … it was by a car?’
He nods almost imperceptibly.
‘You were hit by a car! Oh my God, I’m so happy!’ I push myself up onto my knees and pull his head down towards my chest, so overjoyed by the realisation that I can’t stop myself hugging him right this instant, even though I’m being careful not to hurt him or jostle him in any way, and I end up half-smothering him somewhere between my boobs and my shoulder.
When I release him, his head drops back against the wall like it’s too heavy for him to hold up, but he’s blinking at me slowly, half a smile playing on his lips. ‘And there was me thinking you didn’t like me. I’ve never known anyone to be so pleased about a road traffic accident before.’
‘I thought …’ I think better of admitting I still had half a mind on the idea that he might be the wooden nutcracker come to life. ‘Never mind. I could see you were in too much pain for just a broken arm. I’m glad I was right.’
‘I’m glad my pain makes you so happy.’
I give him another scathing look but I still can’t stop myself smiling. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I meant I’ve been worried about you.’
The Little Christmas Shop on Nutcracker Lane Page 6
