by Annie O'Neil
She jogged to the door, relieved at the distraction from the yawning loneliness she knew would consume her if she let herself dive down the rabbit hole of her past. She missed her parents in a way she’d never missed them before. She owed them a debt of gratitude she knew could only be repaid by pulling herself together and proving to them she had what it took to soldier on.
She picked up the smattering of letters, genuinely delighted to see there were a couple of festive-red envelopes amid the circulars and ‘Welcome to BT/British Gas/Scottish Power’ bills she’d received so far.
She plopped down cross-legged on the tiled floor and tore the first one open.
It was completely white save for two circles – one black, one red – and a caption that read Rudolph lets Dasher take the lead in a blizzard. She laughed, opened it up and glanced to the bottom of the note to see who it was from. Her heart cinched. It was from her mate, Amanda at St Benedict’s.
BABES! Wanted to make sure you had something to pop onto that lovely mantelpiece of yours in your fancy new digs. A year on and still missing you dreadfully down here in the big smoke. W(h)ine o’clock continues, but isn’t the same without you. Parents are still dreadful. Nativity is even more dreadful (new art teacher isn’t a patch on you). Counting down the days until the hols. Hope you’re settling in before you start at your new ‘real-life’ school. Catch up over the Easter break, maybe? An adult playdate? I can bring supplies from Londontown or you can come down and remember what it’s like to be rammed into a sardine tin on the way to work. Xoxox Amanda.
Jess conked her head against the wall. She missed Amanda but hearing from her brought back all sorts of squirmy, uncomfortable memories that made her feel exactly as she had when she’d been called into the Head Teacher’s office last December. She’d leave responding to the ‘playdate’ suggestion to another time.
She picked up the next red envelope and slid her finger under the triangle of flap that sealed it. She pulled out the card. It was on lovely unbleached paper and featured a photo of an otter somewhere island-y and some tiny Christmas tree potato stamps round the edges.
She opened the card. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw something flutter out, but she couldn’t see anything so started to read:
Dear Grandad,
I hope you don’t mind me calling you grandad seeing as we’ve never met, but I was hoping this card could serve as an introduction. My name’s Will. I’m one of Robert’s boys. Until recently my brother Callum was still in Scotland where, as you probably know, we grew up. I wanted you to know I’ve moved to Greenleigh, which is only about twenty miles down the road from you. I run a small catering company which is keeping me busy, especially with the holidays on fast approach. I’m not so busy, though, that I wouldn’t have time to meet you. Perhaps on Christmas if you’re not too busy? I can bring some food over for us to share. I would’ve gone home, but we’ve got bookings on every day apart from ‘the big one’ and, as I said, I’d really like to meet you. I’ve called the company The Merry Victualler. We’re on all of the usual social media if you want to look us up.
I’ll leave it there. I thought a letter would be the best way to introduce myself all things considered.
Wishing you the very best,
Will Winters
Winters?
Grandad?
Jess swallowed down a lump of guilt. This obviously wasn’t her letter to read. She flipped the envelope over.
Mr Arnold Winters
24 Christmas Street
Boughton
Crumbs. Not only had she opened and read someone else’s post – an actual crime! – she had opened and read the post of the sad, lonely possibly racist/sexist/slave-keeping murderer at the end of the street who had never met his grandson. She thought of Drea’s face when the rumours had started flying. Had it been protective irritation or actual annoyance? If what people were saying was true, it was unlikely he’d be throwing a big Christmas Eve bash. Mind you, who knew what people were saying behind her back at St Benny’s. She resolved to make zero judgement until she’d met the man herself, which she would do by hand-delivering the letter to him rather than cowardly stuffing it back in the post.
She examined the envelope. Luckily she hadn’t torn it open as she had Amanda’s card. She went into the kitchen and opened the box of office supplies she was writing catalogue copy for and found a little tube of Gorilla Glue. She applied a generosity of the super glue to the entire length of the flap, then sealed it. Properly. Waved it in the air to dry it. Rubbed the heel of her palm along it to make extra sure it was closed and appeared to have never, ever been opened by a complete stranger.
She grabbed her jacket from the back of the breakfast bar stool and headed to the door. Her heart leapt into her throat.
There, on the floor, was a business card.
Will Winters
The Merry Victualler
Old-fashioned victuals with a modern twist
Catering for all events
On the back was his phone number, address and email.
That’s what must’ve fallen out of the card when she opened it. She’d been sitting on it or something. She tried to ease her fingernail underneath the seal of the envelope. Nope. No movement. Course not. She’d just used ‘Impact Tough™️ Formula’ on a piece of paper with a glue that guaranteed to dry in ten seconds.
Her tongue went dry as she put the card in her pocket, thinking she’d make up some story about how it had been taped to the outside, then thought better of it because, derrr … total lie. Will had written the name of his company into the card and maybe, if she was really crafty, she could get Mr Winters to open it while she was there and pretend he’d dropped it or, if worst came to worst, slip the card into his mail flap under the cover of night. While wearing a burglar mask. That would never attract anyone’s attention. Wearing a ski mask as she capered from lamp post to lamp post of her lovely suburban cul-de-sac. Then she could spend Christmas in prison for two offences. Mail-tampering and whatever dressing as a burglar and posting a business card she’d accidentally stolen was.
Before she could talk herself out of it, envelope in hand, heart pounding, winter coat zipped up to her throat, she left her house and headed down the street.
The sun was already beginning to set – the clear, bright sky darkening to a lovely midnight blue. There was a crisp bite to the air, but not the type of freezing cold that made you hunch your shoulders and look down as if ploughing your way through a blizzard. A handful of wreaths were hanging on a few front doors. A couple of them were as deliciously fancy as hers was, so she was guessing that they, too, had come from Kai and Rex’s shop. A few Christmas trees were already blinking away in front windows. Some real, some faux. A couple of houses were definitely competitively decorating. One had gone for the full, garish, cover-every-surface-in-blinking-lights-and-glowing-plastic-Santa/reindeer/snowmen effect, while the other was actually quite magical. It looked like a gingerbread house complete with icing-style ‘snow’ dripping from the eaves.
There were, of course, some houses that hadn’t done anything at all. It was only the third of December and everyone had their own traditions. Jess’s family was a First Saturday of December Call to Action kind of home. With just the three of them, everyone’s roles were well defined. Jess and her mum called all of the shots and her dad did their bidding right up until Christmas Eve when, after they’d returned from the carols mass at their local church, he got to put his feet up and be pampered with hot toddies, Christmas Eve pyjamas and a new pair of slippers (yup, every year).
A couple of mums with pushchairs were heading down the street towards the primary academy, where she could hear the whoops and calls of children playing outdoors drifting across on a light breeze. It was a quick walk up and around Christmas Street and down the next road. From her bedroom window she could just make out the stone frontage of the buildin
g. Apparently there was a cut-through down the bottom of the street near Mr Winters’, but not an official one. Either way, it was a route she’d be able to do blindfolded in a few months’ time. The mums waved and called out, ‘See you tonight.’ Which was nice. But awkward. She kind of wanted to sit tonight out. In London people always said, yeah, yeah see you there, and then wouldn’t show, giving one of a panoply of acceptable excuses (traffic/work/transport). She wasn’t sure how that would work here. It would a) be a lie, and b) feel rude. These people didn’t know her at all and were making an effort to make her feel welcome. Already she knew that rebuffing their efforts wouldn’t sit right.
She arrived in front of number 24 and took a minute to admire it. It was a lovely house. Rectangles of stone. Tiled roof. There was a small covered porch held upright with two slim pillars that, if wrapped in red ribbon, would look like candy canes. Not that she’d gone all ‘hey, let’s decorate’ or anything, it was just … there was something about the house that made her think there weren’t any plans to decorate. All of the curtains were shut tight against the day apart from one where – oh! There was a man there. An elderly man who would’ve looked amazing in period clothing. Jane Austen kind of era. Or Dickens. Maybe more Dickens because he was quite frowny. Kind of like Clint Eastwood when he played curmudgeonly old men who didn’t like any of their neighbours.
She waved and smiled.
His frown deepened.
She held up the envelope.
He yanked the curtains shut.
Jess tried to tell herself that he’d been standing at the window for precisely that very purpose. To close the curtains. But did he have to do it so dramatically?
Her fragile mood morphed into a self-righteous sense of British resolve. She was being neighbourly! Delivering a letter to its rightful owner (after reading the contents, inadvertently stealing the business card then supergluing the whole thing shut again, sure, but … ).
She went to knock on the door above the very large No Leaflets, No Junk Mail, No Sales People, No Canvassers, No Religious Groups, No Cold Callers sign.
Thorough.
She wasn’t any of those things. Just as her hand connected with the door it flew open.
‘Can’t you read?’ Mr Winters demanded, fulfilling the whole crotchety Clint Eastwood role to a tee.
He was immaculately turned out. Clean-shaven. Crisply ironed shirt underneath a grey-on-grey lattice-patterned sweater vest. Precise creases ran down the centre of his trousers. Shoes, not slippers, and shined, no less. His blue eyes were bright and alert and his thick head of white hair was combed with similar precision to his well-ironed clothes. This was not a man biding away his time in an armchair waiting for the Grim Reaper to show up and take him. This was a man with purpose.
‘Well?’ He demanded again. ‘What is it? Can or can’t you read?’ He tapped a slightly arthritic finger on the sign.
‘Yes,’ Jess stuttered, completely taken aback at his brusque demeanour. ‘I’m not—’
‘I don’t want your business. Your message of hope. Your offer. I don’t do bulk buys, believe in whoever your god is, or Christmas. Is that clear?’
‘But I’m—’
‘No.’
He slammed the door in her face.
What the actual—?
She’d never had that happen to her before. Had a door slammed right in her face. Couldn’t he see she’d been trying to help? Her stiff British resolve didn’t know what to do with itself. She felt as bewildered as she had when she’d been called into the Head Teacher’s office for assault.
A ringing sound in her ears drowned out all of the street noise. Her skin went prickly and she felt a blast of heat crash through her. No. It was cold. Really cold. Then why was she sweating? Her heart was hammering to the point she struggled to draw a normal breath. This time she was sure she was having a genuine panic attack. Just as she had when the Head had explained to Jess that she would have to take some unpaid time off to consider her behaviour and, of course, be prepared to address the assault charges.
To avoid having a complete meltdown on Mr Winters’ porch, she blindly stumbled down the steps and through the small wooden gate and, eyes down, made a beeline for her house, trying and failing to get her breathing under control.
Once there, the tears truly began to fall in a proper ugly cry. She didn’t get it. She had been trying to be helpful. To deliver a – oh, bums. The letter was still in her hand. And a bit crinkled now. Why hadn’t she just thrust it at him or put it in his letter box?
Because she’d been taken aback, and chances were high that if she had shoved it through the brass letter flap he might’ve ripped it up without reading it and then poor Will the Merry Victualler would spend the rest of the month being sad because he too had been rejected by the grumpiest grandad in the West.
None of which made her feel any better. Mr Winters’ vile behaviour had shot her right back to that place where her childhood bed, a hot-water bottle and endless reruns of Friends were the only things that would keep her thoughts from swirling deeper and deeper into the darker recesses of her mind.
She glanced at the clock. It was just past four. The street lights were pinging on, as were the lights on the Christmas tree in the house across the street.
Mirroring Mr Winters’ dramatic movements, she yanked her own (newly hung) curtains shut on the world. She’d had enough of today. She’d start again tomorrow. She needed time to find the Jess she thought she knew – and, more importantly, liked – beneath all of this panicky behaviour. No way was she fit to see Mr Winters again today. But she would try tomorrow. She would march down the street and knock on his door and give him the letter because she was a kind person. No matter what the board of governors at St Benedict’s thought. The bastards.
A restless nap, three cups of tea and several repeat episodes of Bake Off later, the doorbell went.
She reluctantly sloughed her duvet from her shoulders and forced her feet to transport her to the door. Her curtains weren’t so foolproof that whoever was knocking wouldn’t have seen the flickering light of the television.
She pulled the door open.
Drea. ‘Hell’s teeth, doll. You look like shit.’
What a charming Australian greeting. Jess shrugged. Whatever. It was probably true. She’d know if she ever found the energy to hang the mirror up above her hall shelf.
‘Can I help?’ she asked, hoping her tone meant, please go away and leave me alone.
‘We’re missing you over at number three.’ Drea tipped her head towards the house across the street where, yes indeed, there were loads of people. ‘We’re stringing cranberries and popcorn together.’ She peered into Jess’s decoration-free lounge. ‘Looks like you could do with a few swags on your mantel.
Jess shivered and faked a sneeze. Her red-rimmed-crying eyes could double for winter-cold eyes. ‘Sorry. I – I’b dot feeling good.’
Drea backed away. ‘Ah, fair enough doll. Soz. I don’t do colds.’ She pointed at Jess’s stairwell. ‘You better get yourself into bed.’
Jess faked another sneeze and gave a sorrowful nod of agreement. Yes. She should. And maybe not get up until Christmas was over and the residents of Christmas Street could go back to being like they were in London where it was unheard of to talk to your neighbours unless you really, absolutely needed to. Like, no milk in the house at all type of emergency. Murder. That sort of thing. ‘Doh-kay.’
Drea blew her an air kiss. ‘If you’re feeling better tomorrow, be sure to come to number Four. It’s a bit earlier. Seven o’clock. Chantal’s Christmas biccies. You won’t want to miss them. Neck a bottle of Day Nurse if you need to. It’ll be worth it. But don’t sit next to me if you still have germs.’
‘Dank you!’ Jess gave her a wave goodbye then, after tidying up the mountain of tissues and tea mugs balanced on the arm of her new sofa, plodded up to h
er bed reciting the mantra her mother had repeated over and over during those first few months after St Benny’s had made it clear they believed an eleven-year-old bully over a thirty-one-year-old teacher.
Tomorrow’s a brand-new day.
Tomorrow’s a brand-new day.
Tomorrow’s a brand-new day.
4 December
‘I thought I said I don’t want whatever it is you’re selling.’
Jess cocked her eyebrow at Mr Winters, a visual distraction so that he wouldn’t look at her knees, which were shaking. Yet another not very delightful ‘gift’ she’d received after the Cheese Sandwich Incident. Physically shaking when she was feeling intimidated. The other was an eye twitch. Things had to be pretty bad for the eye twitch to kick in. You would’ve thought it’d be the other way round, but go figure. This was how her body was dealing with it. Luckily it was cold so she had an excuse.
Mr Winters was outside his house today. He stood just inside the white picket fence, sweeping his path into even more pristine condition. It matched his exacting hedges, the precision-edged flower beds. The man certainly admired a straight line. Ex-engineer maybe? Architect? Whatever. He was human. And all humans had it in them to be kind. Except for, maybe, axe murderers.
Her mother, who had rung again in the morning full of apologies for the ‘calendar snafu’, had been right. Today was a brand-new day. One in which she refused to be treated as if she was a bad person when she’d done absolutely nothing wrong.
As if to prove the world was full of nice things, when she’d opened her front door to collect her first-ever milk delivery (in bottles!), she had also found a shoebox filled with strings of popcorn and cranberries along with a note from ‘Drea and the Gang’ saying they’d missed her and hoped she enjoyed her decorations. She’d hung them along her mantel and surprise, surprise, they did add a cosy touch to her not very lived-in house. A solid reminder that she had moved to this neighbourhood because it felt exactly like that: a neighbourhood. It firmed her resolve not to leave Will and his victuals hanging. Not when she’d been the recipient of such kindness from strangers. Giving the letter to Mr Winters would be paying it forward. As such, she’d forced herself into the shower, brushed her hair into submission, pulled out the straighteners, done some work on her fringe and dressed herself as if she actually cared. Sometimes a girl did have to work on things from the outside to get them to really sink in.
