The Little Christmas Shop on Nutcracker Lane

by Jaimie Admans

  She asks if I remember the inflatable snowglobes that used to be outside. I haven’t thought about them in years, but I remember how much I loved them when I was little – they were like a bouncy castle, but covered by a transparent dome, and the bouncy bit was filled with fake snow and there was a wind machine that blew it around so you felt like you were inside a big, bouncy snowglobe. They’re another thing on the long list of things that have been cut since the days of my childhood.

  She tells me her grandson is expecting a baby of his own and always said he hoped he’d bring his own children here one day to play inside the bouncy snowglobes, and she looks forlorn as she comments about how different things are now.

  ‘He’s taking advantage because you owe him for the broken nutcracker,’ Stacey says after I walk the lady to the door and wave her off.

  ‘I don’t think he is,’ I say. ‘He couldn’t have cared less about it.’

  ‘I know he bought us hot drinks this morning, but he can’t send his customers over here for us to wrap his goods for him. If he can’t do it, he should hire someone who can. He’s our competition, Nia. We can’t help each other out like this.’

  The sadness hits me out of the blue, wiping out how good it felt as that woman picked out her favourite bow and ran her fingers through our ribbon selection to choose the perfect match. She’s not wrong. We shouldn’t be doing favours for other shops. That’s the problem with Nutcracker Lane now. We can’t care about our co-workers. It’s every man for himself. ‘I don’t mind, Stace. I think it took a lot for him to ask that. He doesn’t seem like the type who finds it easy to admit he can’t do something.’

  ‘If that woman couldn’t have got it gift-wrapped, maybe she’d have reconsidered buying it. He would’ve lost a sale and you might’ve given him a sale by doing it for him. And now you’ve done it once, it’ll be the first of many – you watch.’

  ‘Is this what we’ve become?’ I’m leaning on my folded arms on the counter opposite Stacey and I bang my head down and press my forehead into them. ‘Splitting hairs about a single sale? He needed a favour and I was only too happy to help. Nutcracker Lane shouldn’t be trying to stop that, and as it is, quite frankly I’m not even sure I want to work here next year.’

  The realisation that that’s the reality now is enough to make me blink back tears. ‘It shouldn’t be like this. Doing that reminded me of what Nutcracker Lane used to be like when everyone helped each other and it was about making Christmas the best it could be for everyone who visited here. That’s what’s missing from the place this year – goodwill and community spirit. This stupid competition and the Scroogey twit who organised it – pitting us all against each other rather than letting us be friends and help each other out … That’s where we’re going wrong. Do you remember when it was like one big happy family here?’

  I stand up straight and push my fringe back. ‘We should be happy to gift-wrap his items while he’s injured. Do you remember how the jumper shop used to line the florist’s poinsettias up along their window display, red and white ones alternating between the jumpers, and now they won’t because someone might walk out without buying a jumper but go across to buy a poinsettia at the florist’s instead, or how the florist used to dress up floral displays in children’s Christmas jumpers and point customers across the lane if they asked about it? What about how Hubert in the sweetshop and Carmen in the chocolate shop used to have free samples of each other’s products for customers to try, and the hat shop and jumper shop used to offer each other’s customers a discount if they bought things from both of them?

  ‘I saw Rhonda and Mrs Brissett walk past each other yesterday and neither of them even looked at each other, and they used to eat lunch together every day. This whole thing is so wrong. There’s an atmosphere in the air and customers can sense it. That’s going to kill off Nutcracker Lane faster than anything else.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what Scrooge is aiming for.’

  ‘It goes against everything Nutcracker Lane has ever stood for. Christmas isn’t meant to be about profiteering – it’s meant to be about hope, and joy, and family, and saying goodbye to the year that’s passed and appreciating the good things in life.’

  ‘What are you going to do about it? Hubert said he’d been trying to get Scrooge on the phone but it just rings out. He’s either gone for the year or he’s screening us.’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’m not the only one who feels like this.’ I point towards James’s shop. ‘Wrapping that snowglobe reminded me of the good parts of Nutcracker Lane that have been forgotten in the last few days. Maybe we just need to remind the others …’

  She gives me a look of scepticism, but it’s the most hopeful I’ve felt for a while. Surely we can fight this if we stand together and not divided?

  ***

  Simon is working late so Stacey left at half past three to collect Lily from school, and it’s nearly six o’clock before I’ve finished tidying and cashing up for the night. Since we made some changes to the window displays earlier, there’s been an increase in people stopping to look, and it turned into quite a busy afternoon – so busy that I’ve even managed to stop obsessively watching James’s shop and trying to think of reasonable excuses to go over there. I’m out the back putting tomorrow’s cash float ready for the morning when there’s a knock on the door, and I rush through from the back and across the shop floor to open it.

  ‘I was hoping you’d still be here.’

  ‘My favourite Grinch.’ I feel myself light up at the sight of him. The name is supposed to be an insult, but it no longer sounds like one. It might help if I could stop smiling so wide that my face is already aching. He’s only been here for half a second, but at least his smile matches mine.

  He’s leaning on the doorframe with his good shoulder, and as I’m up a step on the shop floor, I’m taller than him for once. A section of his hair has flopped over his forehead and my nails dig into my palms as I clench my fists to stop myself reaching out to tuck it back.

  ‘What do I owe you?’

  ‘What?’ I look down at the wallet in his good hand.

  ‘For the gift-wrapping. I said I’d settle up with you later.’

  ‘Oh! God, don’t be so daft – you don’t owe me anything.’

  ‘No, really, it’s your paper, bows, ribbons, and most importantly, your time.’ His fingers work to pull a note out of the brown leather wallet and my hand shoots out to stop him, my fingers tingling as they cover his hand.

  ‘Don’t you dare. You don’t owe me anything, end of story. The world is a really sorry place if people can’t help out their broken-armed friends once in a while.’

  He raises an eyebrow but I hold his gaze and he eventually looks down at my hand on his. ‘I got the impression your friend wasn’t happy with me.’

  ‘She’s just thinking of the competition between the shopkeepers. She thought you were taking advantage because I owe you for the giant nutcracker.’

  ‘You don’t owe me anything. Don’t worry about the nutcracker. You’ve given him a whole new lease of life …’

  He doesn’t mean … No, it’s not possible. He means because it’s being mended, not because it came to life. Probably. I shake my head as my mind wanders off to the story of the ballet and the magical nutcracker prince again.

  ‘So how are you?’ My hand is still on his. Why is my hand still on his? Why am I not removing it? ‘You look better than you did last night.’

  He grins and his cheeks take on a red tinge. ‘I’ve made an effort not to twist my upper body or steal any nutcrackers today, so I’m functional. Marginally.’

  The zip of his wallet is sticking into my palm, but his warm skin is under my fingertips and it feels nice to stand here with my hand on his, like a little throwback to yesterday.

  ‘I wanted to see you anyway – I wanted to say thank you again for last night. I was too embarrassed to say much with an audience this morning, but I’m so sorry for the whole thing. Leaning on you,
making you hold my hand, making you listen to my business woes … I think there was even singing at one point, wasn’t there? And then topping it all off by falling asleep on your sofa … I’m so sorry, Nia. Now you know why I don’t take those painkillers in public.’

  My hand tightens on his. ‘You were fine. You have nothing to be embarrassed about. I’m just glad you’re looking better today.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how comfortable your sofa is? I haven’t slept properly since the accident, but using the cushions to prop myself upright meant I stayed in one place and didn’t put the pressure on my ribs that lying down does. I was so surprised when I woke up and realised I’d had a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘Good. No offence, but you looked like you needed it.’

  He smiles up at me and I smile down at him and his fingers wriggle out from under my hand so they can curl over the top of mine and hold them tighter. ‘Nice jumper choice today, by the way.’

  I glance down at my black jumper with a large rainbow-coloured Christmas tree in the centre of it. It’s so bright and cheerful that it makes me happy every time I look at it.

  ‘Sorry, you’re probably busy. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I should go …’ He looks vaguely back to the opposite side of the lane but makes no move to let go.

  Why isn’t this weird? It should be weird, right? Standing here smiling, half-holding hands with someone who’s hardly more than a stranger. I didn’t get any extra work done last night and I should be going home early and getting some new things cut in my shed so I can paint them when the shop’s quiet tomorrow, but I can’t make myself push him away.

  ‘Thanks for your advice about the windows,’ I say in a burst of inspiration for a way to make him stay a bit longer.

  ‘It looks a lot better.’ He moves his hand out from under mine, puts his wallet back in his pocket, and wanders across to my side of the window on the left of the door, and I step out and follow him.

  ‘It’s still under construction. Stace had to leave early but we were going to change the whole thing. I thought of making it look like a living room to showcase my decorations with a small tree in the corner and a little wooden fireplace with some painted flames coming out of it, and then putting in miniature mannequins to look like a family wearing Stacey’s jewellery. We’re not sure what to do with the other side yet.’

  ‘You need to take out all these awful foil things.’

  ‘They’re not—’

  He doesn’t let me finish the protest. ‘They might be nostalgic, but your products are buried by them. Standing here, I can’t tell what you make and what’s just a decoration you got from the pound shop to make the window look nice. I get that you’re trying to make it look festive, but what you’re actually doing is hiding your own decorations.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I’m taken aback by his honesty, and impressed by his ability to hit the nail on the head. He’s right. It’s the best feedback we’ve had since starting this, even though my Nineties-style tinsel lamettas are not awful.

  ‘I’ve got plenty of those little plain wooden nutcrackers if you want some to put in – they’d look quite fetching wearing necklaces and earrings.’

  I can’t help giggling at the mental image. ‘As much as I love the idea of jewellery-wearing nutcrackers, you don’t have to do that.’

  ‘It’s no problem. The old owner must’ve bought a whole shipping container of them and the new owner can’t have any use for them because he wants the majority shifted before they go for firewood.’

  ‘Firewood?’ I say in such horror that it makes him laugh.

  ‘Don’t worry, no nutcrackers will die on your watch. I’ll bring some over tomorrow. I don’t want to keep you any longer tonight.’

  ‘Yeah, I should …’ It’s my turn to gesture vaguely back towards the door of the shop.

  ‘Yeah, me too.’ He sounds as sad as I feel. ‘Thanks again for last night. And for the gift-wrapping today.’

  I take a step back and he does the same. ‘So, I’ll see you around then …’

  I force myself to drag my eyes away from his and turn away and I hate the sound of his footsteps crossing the lane behind me. I don’t want him to go.

  ‘There’s a chilli mac and cheese in the slow cooker,’ I blurt out.

  ‘About that ending of Elf,’ he says at the exact same moment.

  We both turn around and grin at each other across the lane. ‘I made way too much. It’d be a shame for it to go to waste.’

  He comes nearer again. ‘And how am I ever going to be un-Grinched if I miss the end of Elf?’

  ‘Exactly.’ I nod sagely. ‘So you pretty much have to come over again tonight, right?’

  He closes his eyes and nods like it’s a relief, and I can feel the tension drain from me too. I indicate the shop over my shoulder. ‘I just need to finish cashing up. Give me five minutes.’

  ‘I’ll get my coat.’

  Since I got the keys to the shop, I’ve not yet left Nutcracker Lane as early as six o’clock, but now I can’t get out fast enough. I sort the cash float for the till in record timing, grab my coat and bag, and when I get back onto the shop floor, James has let himself in, dumped a pile of the fifteen-centimetre plain wood nutcrackers on the counter and is arranging some of them in the window display. He holds one up to show me with a pair of Stacey’s tiny acrylic candy-cane earrings slid into the white hair on either side of its head and a gingerbread man necklace resting on top of its beard.

  ‘Cross-dressing nutcrackers. What more could you want for Christmas?’ I throw my hands out in a shrug.

  James is wearing the same baggy black hoody he had on last night. It looks totally out of place with his uptight work outfit of charcoal slacks and a long-sleeved blue check shirt with the tight collar buttons undone, and I get the impression it’s probably the easiest thing to shrug on with his arm in plaster.

  ‘You could have a Christmas party in the other window.’ He uses the nutcracker in his hand to point to Stacey’s side. ‘There are so many display stands of jewellery that they look like clutter. If you emptied it out and put up sparkly backing paper, another tree in the corner hung with your decorations, a flashing disco ball or something to attract attention, you could have all these nutcrackers standing around like they’re at a party, all wearing a necklace and earrings each. Their plain bodies will make each piece stand out. They can all hold something, so how about miniature wine glasses?’ He taps his thumb on the hole in the hand of the one he’s holding, meant for a sceptre or sword or some other accessory to go through. ‘Make it look like they’re at a Christmas party enjoying themselves.’

  ‘Cross-dressing drunken nutcrackers. It just gets better.’ I can’t help giggling at the thought.

  ‘You want people to remember you.’

  ‘I’ll make a mini photocopier and have one photocopying his bum. No one will forget that.’

  He grins, and when he sees I’m ready to leave, he positions the last nutcracker and darts across to open the door and holds it for me to go through first, only stepping aside to let me lock up behind us.

  It’s raining outside tonight and nowhere near as cold as it was last night when we start walking up the darkened lane towards the magical nutcracker at the entrance.

  James suddenly stops. ‘Do you hear that?’

  ‘No, what?’

  He doesn’t say anything but puts his hand to his ear like he’s listening to something. I listen too, but all I can hear is the pattering of rain on the roof above us.

  ‘Nothing. The sound of silence.’ He lets out a relieved sigh. ‘We’ve been out here for a whole two minutes and no one’s “fa-la-la-ed” at us yet. That’s some kind of record.’

  ‘How can you be talking about squiffy nutcracker parties one minute and then be so grumpy the next?’ I screw up my nose at him, even though his way of putting things makes me smile. The carol singers have been walking up and down a lot today, cycling through the usual repertoire of songs like “We Wish Yo
u A Merry Christmas”, “The First Noel”, and “Silver Bells”, and while I never get tired of it, the same can’t be said for him. ‘Your Grinching would be much more reasonable if we weren’t on our way to watch Christmas films.’

  He looks over and slowly raises an eyebrow. ‘Films?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know how far into Elf you dropped off, but there can’t be more than half an hour left, and it’s barely six o’clock. That gives us plenty of time to expand your Christmas film horizon. Which ones have you seen?’

  ‘Christmas films?’ He makes a face. ‘None of ’em.’

  ‘Oh, come on. National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation? That’s the best Christmas film ever.’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘The Santa Clause?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘It’s a Wonderful Life?’

  ‘I saw a bit of it years ago. Doesn’t it go on forever? I think I died of boredom halfway through. I imagine “death by It’s a Wonderful Life” is a common cause listed on death certificates.’

  I glare at him for insulting one of the best Christmas films ever made. ‘How about The Muppet Christmas Carol?’

  ‘Muppets?’ He screws his face up. ‘I’m an adult.’

  ‘The Muppets are not just for children. The Muppet Christmas Carol is one hundred per cent the definitive version of that story. The original Dickens pales in comparison to the Muppet version.’

  His eyebrows knit together so hard that he might need a seam picker to untangle them.

  ‘Home Alone? Die Hard?’ I try again.

  ‘I’ve seen Die Hard.’