‘It’s nothing like that. I don’t want or expect anything from you. I know this can’t undo how much I’ve hurt you, but I wanted to prove that I want what’s best for Nutcracker Lane, and you are what’s best for it. Even if you hate me. Even if you never want to talk to me again, Nutcracker Lane needs you at the helm. And the other shopkeepers – they are what makes Nutcracker Lane so special. They’re the heart and soul of this place. All of you are the ones who’ve kept the festive spirit up here despite the circumstances. I don’t want to be their employer, a boss they’ve got to answer to; I want us all to have an equal say in what goes on here. For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m part of something here – a real little community – and everyone deserves an input into a community.’
It would be so easy to drift closer and my fingers twitch with the urge to touch him, to run them over his reindeer shirt, but I force myself to stay rooted to the spot. Trying to remind myself that this is Scrooge I’m dealing with – there has to be a catch somewhere. ‘You really think the museum thing is a good idea?’
‘I think it’s a fantastic idea. Adopting nutcrackers, make-your-own workshops, guided tours and school trips, wish-granting, giftshops, themed afternoon teas – everything you said. I talked to my folks last night and my dad cried with happiness. They want to meet you. I know things are weird and I know it’s going to take more than this to prove you can trust me, but Mum’s putting on a Christmas Eve tea tonight and she wants you to come. They remember you and your grandma, and they trust you with Nutcracker Lane a heck of a lot more than they trust me.’
I want to snap something about it serving him right, but he looks so genuine, and no matter what has happened, I find it hard to distrust him. On this. On everything else, I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him using a teaspoon as a catapult.
‘Please, Nia. You’ve shown me that every moment counts and I’ll never get this time with my family back. It’s the last Christmas Eve I’m ever going to spend with my father and I want you to be part of it.’
His voice wobbles and that does it for me. My eyes fill up with tears again and I blink furiously, attempting to hold them back. I give him a single nod, trying not to let him see how much of an emotional wreck I am this morning.
‘Can I pick you up at half past seven tonight?’
Another nod.
‘Are you going to thump me in the ribs if I try to hug you right now?’
I nod again, but this time a giggle bursts out too.
It makes him grin and he holds both hands up like he’s surrendering, and his lips twitch into a smile. ‘Okay. Point taken. But I’m not giving up on us. Someone once told me that magic can happen at Christmas. Even the impossible.’
He salutes and turns to walk away, and it takes every ounce of my willpower not to run after him, throw my arms around him, and kiss him like there’s no tomorrow.
In that instant of thinking he might really have turned into a nutcracker, the thought of never seeing him again made me feel like I’d been punched in the chest … hard enough to wonder if learning to trust him again wouldn’t be so impossible after all. Stranger things have happened on Nutcracker Lane.
Chapter 19
Why am I so nervous? Why am I holding James’s hand on his parents’ doorstep? Why did I ever agree to this? It’s 8 p.m. on Christmas Eve and I have at least a thousand things that need doing to prep for the Christmas lunch tomorrow, but instead I’m looking up at a three-bedroom detached house in a pretty area, with a garden that doesn’t look as well kempt as it clearly once was.
His hand squeezes mine, and in my head I’m telling myself to extract my fingers and step away. Nothing changes the fact that he lied from the moment I met him, and that is not something that can be undone by even his grand gesture this morning. That’s the sensible corner of my brain. What I actually do is squeeze his hand back and look up to catch his eyes, and he gives me a muted smile as Mrs Claus opens the door.
She’s not actually Mrs Claus, of course, but that’s how I remember her from Nutcracker Lane, back in the Nineties when she and her husband used to be there every day. He’d walk from one end of the lane to the other, dressed as Santa, jingling a Christmas bell and “ho-ho-ho-ing”, and she’d hand out freshly baked cookies and stop to chat and take photos with children.
‘Nia!’ Instead of stepping back and letting us inside, she comes out onto the step and envelops me in a bear hug. ‘You have no idea how wonderful it is to finally meet you. Again. I know we’ve met before in years gone by, but lately, we’ve heard so much about you.’
It makes my heart swell as I hug her back. James has been talking about me. Maybe they’re as fed up of hearing about me as Stace is of hearing about James.
‘Come in, come in.’ When she releases me from the hug, she keeps hold of my hand and tugs me inside, calling into the house. ‘They’re here!’
It’s certainly the warmest welcome I’ve had in a while. She lets us into a burgundy red hallway with wooden floors and a festive rug running the length of it, and waits while we take our coats off and hang them on hooks by the door and leave our shoes underneath. She gives James a hug too, and takes both our hands and pulls us through the hallway, around a tight corner, and into a wide, spacious living room.
James’s dad is sitting at the dining table, his laptop in front of him and a pile of papers to one side. A mountainous stack of open files on his other side have slipped and scattered across the table.
‘I’m Judy, this is Raymond.’ She pauses. ‘Sorry, you already knew that, didn’t you?’
I did, but it’s been years since I saw them, so it’s nice to be reminded.
Judy’s got blonde-grey hair, smooth and straight to her shoulders, and she’s wearing a tinsel headband with a pair of Christmas trees sticking out like cat ears, and I’m glad I went for my understated silver headband with a small pair of elegant, sparkly reindeer antlers. I wasn’t sure what to expect, if this would be formal or posh, or if they’d be happy to see me or annoyed at me for blundering into their family Christmas Eve.
Raymond is wearing a Santa hat, which hides his head, bald from treatment, and they’re wearing matching his and hers Christmas jumpers depicting the bodies of Santa and Mrs Claus, so their own heads emerge from the neckline. It’s adorable in a way I hadn’t expected.
‘We’re so pleased you could come. Thank you for making time for us on Christmas Eve – you must have a lot to do.’ Raymond reaches out to shake my hand, and then quickly closes his open laptop and starts shuffling away paperwork.
Working. Even at this time on Christmas Eve night. Like James said he would be.
Judy disappears into the kitchen and refuses any help when I offer, and Raymond leans across to push a chair out for me, and I can’t help looking around as I sit down.
It’s a spacious living room, at least three times the size of mine, but there’s a cold and clinical feel to it. There’s a hearth but the real fire has been taken out and replaced by a screen that has digital flames waving on it, and in a corner by the floor-length curtains, stands a three-foot-tall plastic tree with bent branches, like someone’s just got it out of a box. There are no haphazard piles of presents stacked under it. The only lights are fibre-optic strands sticking out of the crushed branches, and the decorations are worn-looking plastic things fused to the tree itself.
James’s words about Christmas being a box-ticking exercise float through my head.
There are hardly any decorations. A few touches here and there, like a candle on the mantelpiece and a pair of robin cushions on the sofa, but nowhere is really decorated for Christmas. It looks sleek and minimalistic – more like a magazine photoshoot than a family Christmas. When I was growing up, chaos would have descended by this time of night – everyone would be wearing their new Christmas pyjamas, the TV would be on, the cooking would’ve started, and everyone would be playing with the one present they’d been allowed to open on Christmas Eve.
From
everything James has said, I expected his parents to be quiet and reserved, and I still can’t quite reconcile the fact they’re the owners of Nutcracker Lane who I used to see there all the time, who were on first-name terms with my grandma and always used to stop for a chat. When I was little, I remember being convinced they were the real Santa and Mrs Claus, and I imagined them living in a warm and homely castle in the North Pole. This house is the opposite of what I expected.
James has taken the seat next to me, although the table is so huge that it feels like there’s at least a mile between us, physically and metaphorically. He smiles a gentle half-smile when I catch his eyes, and then jumps up to help his mum when she reappears with a tray full of bowls, but she shoos him away in case he drops something with his one hand.
Judy sets out bowls of buffet food, more suited to a summer salad bar than Christmas Eve dinner. It’s all neatly arranged lettuce leaves and summer veggies like tomatoes and cucumber, and finger sandwiches, breadsticks and dips, and a cheese and cracker selection. It’s nice but it’s not exactly festive. Maybe it’s easier. She knew I was coming for dinner and didn’t have a clue what I might like, so it makes sense that there’s a selection.
‘You’ve been busy,’ I say as I thank her and help myself to a mini sausage roll.
‘Oh gosh, no. Fresh from the caterer. I would never have the patience to do all that.’ She looks thoughtful as she sits down. ‘Sorry, it’s probably not the kind of family Christmas you’re used to. We do Christmas all year round. By the time it’s December, we don’t have the headspace left for a real Christmas.’
Well, she’s got a lot on her plate. I know they’re worried about the business and Raymond’s illness and how she’s going to cope when the worst happens. If I was dealing with what this family are, I wouldn’t have time to potch about with Christmas dinner either.
Raymond has taken some food but isn’t eating, and I can’t help noticing his hollow cheeks and pale skin, a world away from the jolly Santa he used to be.
‘Nia, I must apologise for rejecting your application every year. If we’d known …’ he starts.
‘It’s okay. I think everything happens for a reason, and it turns out that this was the perfect year to finally get accepted.’ I look over and catch James’s eyes again, and he smiles, but I quickly avert my eyes when I catch Judy watching us.
Things aren’t right between us – I know that. He was almost silent on the way over in the car. He put a Christmas radio station on quietly for me, and I got the impression that he didn’t want to push me or pressure me in any way. The gift of a share in the lane was one thing, and I think he’s terrified of making it seem like he’s trying to buy me off or expecting anything in return.
‘I love your ideas for the lane,’ Raymond says, still not touching his food. ‘When James told us, we both smacked our heads and wondered why we’d never thought of something like it ourselves.’
‘Our past few years have been so caught up with budgeting and profit margins that you forget what it’s really about. I haven’t even been able to steel myself to go down there because I knew it would upset me too much, and with Ray …’ She trails off.
I fight the urge to get up and give her a hug.
‘And him and his arm right before opening day.’ Raymond picks up the conversation, indicating towards James and I follow his line of sight.
His arm. James’s cheeks are red and there’s a plea in his eyes when he looks at me. They have absolutely no idea that his injuries extend further than a broken arm.
‘It’s all been too much this year,’ his father continues. ‘I’ve got so caught up in searching for ways to cut costs and hunting for prospective investors, and other potential sources of income to save the lane, we didn’t even consider the possibility that the lane could save itself.’ He grins a toothy grin at me. ‘With the right people on board, that is.’
It makes me go warm all over and I can’t help the little thrill that goes through me at the thought of being part of Nutcracker Lane permanently.
‘We haven’t been the right people for a while now …’ Judy says.
‘All of these.’ Raymond waves a thin hand towards an armchair where the files are now dumped. ‘Potential investors who wanted Nutcracker Lane to become something else. We couldn’t bear to sell it and see it destroyed, but my energy has gone into … other things.’
The unspoken words hang in the air. Judy swallows hard.
‘James taking over the accounts was a godsend, although we’d started to think it had gone too far downhill to be saved. Of course, we didn’t know quite how bad things were …’ A look flies between him and James.
It makes me understand something I didn’t really understand before now.
Just like they clearly don’t know how badly he’s hurt, James tried to save them from the worry of Nutcracker Lane’s finances. When he took over a few years ago, he must’ve been trying to fix it himself, before they realised how bad things had got. His solutions like budget cuts and rent increases and reduced opening hours were “perfect on paper”. Maybe they would’ve worked for any other retail establishment. Maybe he really was just doing the best he could as someone who hates Christmas and didn’t see the importance of Nutcracker Lane … until he saw it for himself.
‘This year is the first time things have started looking up.’ Raymond taps the closed lid of the laptop still on the table beside him.
‘For all of us,’ James says.
I look over and meet his eyes again and he gives me a small smile. There’s an awkwardness between us and he’s been quiet until now, and I think he’s still being careful not to make this about anything other than business.
‘James said you have old nutcrackers from years gone by …’ I say before they sense the awkwardness too. I have no idea how much they know about what’s happened between me and him, but it’s probably as little as possible.
‘A garage full of them!’ Raymond’s eyes light up. ‘Even more at our head office. We have nutcrackers dating back years, a copy of every nutcracker ever made by the factory. And I’ve always been in touch with German museums from the Erzgebirge region where nutcrackers are said to have originated. I’m sure they’d be happy to let us borrow some pieces, and there’s bound to be some cross-advertising opportunities for us and them …’ He hesitates and then corrects himself. ‘You and them. Not us. It’s long past time for us to hand over the reins.’
‘And you don’t …’ I swallow and try again, unable to think of the best way to word it. ‘You don’t mind James giving me, and the other shopkeepers, such a huge share of your company, something you built up from scratch? I know how much it means to you,’ I say, because it’s obvious. Their eyes light up when they talk about it. It’s not that they stopped caring, like the rumours circling the lane have suggested, it’s that there’s so much else going on in their lives – an unthinkable, life-changing illness that’s obviously had a heartbreaking effect on them all.
‘Nutcracker Lane would be nothing without the shopkeepers. Those loyal people have stuck with us through thick and thin. And I know you as a customer. I know you’ve been coming to the lane for as long as any of us can remember. James has made no secret of how much you love it, and if you hadn’t come along this year … well, I dread to think what would’ve happened to it under his control. And now look at him.’ He smiles at his son. ‘Wearing a Christmas jumper. Getting excited about nutcrackers and granting wishes and something called summer globes, whatever they are, but I’m sure they fit in somewhere.’
James starts telling them about our idea for helping Nutcracker Lane fit in with the seasons, and by the time we’ve finished giving them a run-down of everything he and I have already discussed, he’s pulled his chair over and has got his right elbow on the table, leaning around me to gesticulate with his broken arm, his fingers brushing my shoulder occasionally, and the sparkle is back in his Disney prince brown eyes. I feel myself fizzing with excitement as their enthus
iasm and ideas spark off more from both of us. Judy pulls her chair closer to Raymond until they’re holding hands on the table, lost in memories of Nutcracker Lane when they first took over the factory and expanded around it.
‘Your enthusiasm reminds me of us when we were your age,’ Judy says wistfully. ‘And this one …’ She points at James. ‘Whatever you did to him, feel free to keep doing it. He’s like a different person since he met you. If you can make him love Christmas, you’re capable of anything.’
‘I think “love” is going a bit far,’ James mumbles, although the smile twitching at his mouth says otherwise.
When I go to the bathroom, I catch sight of a door ajar to a hospital-like room downstairs, presumably because his dad isn’t strong enough to climb the stairs, and it makes my breath catch. Before my grandpa died, we all knew that he wouldn’t be with us the following Christmas, and it made everything so bittersweet. My mum and grandma tried hard to make it a Christmas to remember, but I caught my grandma crying in the kitchen because it was a time that would be impossible to forget for all the wrong reasons.
When I come back, Judy has cleared the table and instead of the multiple buffet bowls, there’s now a neatly stacked tray of perfect Christmas cookies, and I slide my hand across James’s shoulder as I sit down, glad he hasn’t moved his chair back to its original position.
I can feel his eyes on me and I pick out a blue-iced snowflake cookie. ‘Did you make these?’ I ask Judy, remembering her cookies from years ago.
‘Oh, heaven’s me, no. Who has time for that? I ordered them from the caterer too.’
I glance at James, who’s picking the icing off his cookie silently.
The illusion of a perfect Christmas. Christmases are messy and rushed and chaotic. Cookies are made with love and flour fights, and iced with unsteady hands. Rudolph always looks like he’s had a few too many sherries and snowmen look like they’ve been on the business end of a rugby scrum. There are mismatched decorations everywhere, a tree dropping needles and slurping water at a fast enough pace to ensure a daily panic about dehydration. But everything in their house is picture-perfect, and everywhere I look, I can imagine James at Christmas, the lonely little boy who grew up wanting more than material things and resenting the festive season itself for always bringing disappointment.
The Little Christmas Shop on Nutcracker Lane Page 31
