by Annie O'Neil
Instead of stuffing the envelope in Mr Winters’ hand and running away, she opted for a benign smile. The type she’d give a parent who insisted their child couldn’t possibly be disruptive in class when, in actual fact, they were completely and totally disruptive in class.
‘I’m not selling anything,’ she said, doing her best to channel her inner Drea who would, no doubt, accept absolutely none of this door-slamming guff. ‘I’m delivering your post.’ Jess held out the card, which she’d ironed because she was still a little bit scared of him.
Mr Winters had on a similar ensemble to yesterday, but today’s sweater vest was maroon. Because it was cold, he was also wearing a thick navy parka and a green-and-blue tartan scarf knotted round his neck. It suited him and, against the odds, made his blue eyes seem kinder.
‘Right. I see,’ he said, eyes on the red envelope. ‘Isn’t that normally the postman’s job?’
She held the letter out to him, positively itching to say it was from his grandson, but, fairly confident he would become apoplectic at the (illegal) invasion of his privacy, she kept that little nugget to herself. She’d figure out a way to get the business card to him. Maybe pop it through his letter box when he went out to the shops. Actually … if he opened it right now she could sort of chuck it on the hedge and be all, Oh look! You dropped something. Yes. This was a most excellent plan.
‘It was delivered to mine. Accidentally.’ She pointed to her house, just a few doors up, then held the envelope out again. ‘I’m Jess, by the way. Jess Green.’
He looked at her in a way that suggested he hadn’t the foggiest idea why she was introducing herself to him.
‘It’s just that—’ she pointed at the letter in her hand. ‘I know your name, you see. Mr Arnold Winters,’ she read in a voice that probably would’ve worked for a town crier but not so much when you were trying to make nice with the street grouch.
He took the letter and stuffed it into his pocket without looking at it.
Wait. What? No. That wasn’t the plan. He was meant to open it so she could get the business card to him. Plus, she wanted to watch him read it. Witness him process the fact he had a grandson out there who clearly wanted to mend whatever fences had been broken between him and his son. Will’s father. Who she presumed was hundreds of miles away in Scotland. Mr Winters was wearing a tartan scarf. Maybe it’d been a gift his son had given him before whatever happened happened. No wonder poor Mr Winters was so grumpy. He’d not spoken to his son in who knows how many years. Twenty? Twenty-five? That’s how old grandsons starting new businesses were, right?
A fresh despair tore at Jess’s heart. If she wasn’t going to have a merry Christmas someone should and suddenly, quite desperately, she wanted that someone to be Mr Winters. Would he even open it? He had to open it. This whole pay-it-forward thing was more complicated when it involved long-lost grandsons and the grandfather in question wasn’t fulfilling his role of opening the ruddy card so she could nudge him towards getting in touch.
‘Looks like a Christmas card,’ she said.
‘Hmmm,’ he grunted, returning to his handiwork with such exacting care that Jess wondered if he was a British version of Mr Miyagi.
‘I’ve not seen you at any of the advent calendar events. Biscuit decorating tonight. At Chantal’s,’ she added, because there seemed to be a collective glow of joy whenever her name was mentioned.
Mr Winters didn’t respond.
‘So …’ She said after a few moments of silence, well aware she really was stretching the boundaries of a one-way conversation. ‘Got any plans for Christmas?’
He glanced up at her then went back to work. ‘Nothing beyond the usual.’
A titbit! She pounced on it.
‘Oh? And … ermm … what’s the usual?’
‘Wake up, see the day through, then go to sleep again.’
Ah.
That had roughly been her plan. Maybe throw in a few Celebrations, some cheesy television that would doubtless make her cry, and a ready meal from M&S that at least hinted at a Christmas feast so she could realistically lie to her parents about eating better, but … honestly? Hearing her big Christmas Day plan come from Mr Winters made it sound pretty depressing.
‘Not joining anyone for Christmas dinner?’
Again, he gave her one of those hooded, blue-eyed glances of his, clearly irritated by the fact she was still standing there. No. It wasn’t irritation. It was pain.
‘No.’ He turned around, tried to pocket his shears in the same pocket he’d shoved the envelope, couldn’t get them in, looked at his pocket, tugged out the envelope, glared at it, then began to walk up the short brick path towards his house.
Desperation to keep him there clawed at her. He was an envelope-opening away from discovering he had a reason to be happy. She simply had to get him to open that ruddy Christmas card. Then he’d know there was no need to spend the holiday alone and at least one of their Christmases wouldn’t be sad and lonely.
‘What are you putting in the flower beds?’ She called out in a last-ditch attempt to get him to stay.
He stopped, looked at the bare earth, the straight line of his shoulders abruptly sagging. When he turned back round he looked as though he’d aged about a hundred years. ‘I was thinking of tulips this year, but my knees won’t allow for it, so I might just leave it.’
Tulips. The place would look amazing with tulips. Pink, red, candy-striped, whatever. The possibility that he might not have tulips looked as though it was crippling him.
‘No! No. You shouldn’t leave it. I’ll help. My knees work.’ She did a peculiar series of squats and lunges to prove to him that, yes indeedy, her knees were in tip-top shape. She hoped he couldn’t hear the crunchy noises. It’d been a while since she’d done any form of exercise.
He squinted at her, looked down at one of the patches, then back at her. ‘Don’t volunteer for something you don’t want to do.’
‘But I do want to help! Really.’ She lowered her pitch down from the upper register she’d been speaking in, looked him straight in the eye and said, ‘Really. I do. I’d love to help you plant tulip bulbs.’
He nodded as if he were working out whether or not to accept her offer, then turned around again without saying anything.
Jess stood there a moment, not entirely sure what to do, but Mr Winters had already reached the first step of his porch, making it fairly clear he did not want her help. But he hadn’t exactly said no …
Before he got to the door, she lowered her voice another octave then said, à la the Terminator, ‘Okay, Arnold. I’ll be back.’ Then instantly regretted it. Would he even know who Arnold Schwarzenegger was? Mind you, she’d already done weird calisthenics in front of him and made quite the show of delivering an envelope she should’ve just put through his letter box like a normal person, so what did it matter if she acted like a nutter?
He nodded, then went inside.
A nod! Success! Now she could help him garden, pretend to find Will’s business card, restore harmony to his life and ensure he had the very merriest of Christmases.
When the door to number 4 opened, a huge waft of sugar, ginger and spice hit Jess straight in the face. It was bliss. Like entering a North Pole biscuit factory and, from what she could see, it kind of was.
‘Hi!’ said the pretty mixed-race woman. She had a welcoming smile and a wondrous head of to-die-for hair. She was probably about Jess’s age, if that. She had on dark leggings with a snowflake pattern dancing across them, a cherry-red top and a seasonal pinafore complete with dollops of icing and a handprint’s worth of glitter. She exuded warmth. ‘Come in, please. I’m Chantal and I’m guessing you’re Jess from number fourteen?’
Jess nodded and gave a hip height wave. ‘Got it in one. I love the pinafore.’
Chantal looked down at it and smiled as if noticing it for the first time. ‘
Fun, isn’t it?’
‘Orla Kiely?’ Jess guessed.
‘Nope. I made it. My auntie sends me the fabric from Nigeria. But I can see where you got the Orla Kiely vibe.’ She made an adorable scrunched-nose face. ‘Ready to join in the madness?’
She stepped to the side so that Jess could get a full view of the scene.
It looked like a Christmas film set. Trestle tables had taken centre stage in the open-plan lounge all the way through to the kitchen/dining area. They were covered in red and white polka-dotted oilskin cloths and, though she’d arrived at the appointed time, were already teaming with people – old and young. The Gem’n’Emms were there en masse, happily helping their children with errant piping bags, tiny silver and gold sugar beads and, of course, glitter. Heads were bent, concentration was intense, but there was plenty of talking and laughing as people finished decorating a biscuit then showed it to their neighbours before, in quite a few cases, eating their newly crafted piece of edible art.
‘Hello, Josh.’ Chantal was looking past Jess towards her little brick path that led to the street. ‘Zoe! Eli! You ready to decorate some Santas?’
To a chorus of yeses, Jess turned and found herself face to face with an extremely attractive man. He was the right kind of tall (not crick your neck tall, but ‘can you reach that tin for little ol’ me’ tall). Short, neat, dark hair. The greenest eyes Jess had ever seen in her entire life. He was like Jake Gyllenhaal after a proper buff and polish. With stubble.
‘Hi.’ He put out his hand and gave hers a quick, warm, shake. ‘I’m Josh.’ He pointed down the street. ‘We’re number twenty. I warn you now. Don’t get your hopes up.’
‘Jess. Number fourteen. Snap?’
Why did she keep answering things as questions?
Chantal ushered them all in. As she steered the children towards a couple of empty seats she said to Josh and Jess, ‘I’m sure you’ll both do something brilliant.’ She lowered her voice to a stage whisper, ‘Or fear the wrath of Drea.’
‘Sorry, what was that?’ A familiar Australian voice asked from behind them. When Drea plopped an arm around Jess and Josh’s shoulders, Jess instinctively stiffened and forced herself not to wriggle away. ‘Good.’ Drea grinned. ‘You two have finally met.’
They each shot Drea a confused look then Josh gave a cute little shrug, ducked out from under Drea’s arm and excused himself. ‘Gotta make sure some of that icing ends up on the biscuits, eh? Son? Budge up. Make room for your old dad, eh?’
Drea kept her arm draped around Jess’s shoulders as Chantal floated off to get another platter of biscuits from the oven and Josh was consumed in a bustling chorus of Gem’n’Emms calling out ‘Hey, Josh!’ and ‘All right kids?’ ‘How’s all the Christmas preps going? ‘Can we get you anything? Glitter?’
‘Lovely, isn’t he?’ Drea said in a low voice.
Jess made an indeterminate noise she hoped meant yes and not really on the market for a boyf.
‘Best eye candy on the street. And single. Well. Widower.’
Jess’s hands flew to her heart. ‘Oh, God. I’m so sorry. For him, obviously. And the children.’
Drea gave one of her pragmatic ‘life’s not always a bed of roses, doll face’ nods. ‘She passed away about a year after the little one was born. Eli. So … four years back I think? Five? Cervical cancer.’
‘That’s awful.’
‘From all accounts it was.’
‘Weren’t you here?’
‘No. I lived over in Nottingham then.’ A tiny muscle flickered at the top of her jawline as if even thinking about Nottingham brought back unwelcome memories.
There was quite clearly a story there. Then again, Jess supposed everyone had a story. Happy. Sad. Mysterious. It wasn’t just her and her Cheese Sandwich Incident hiding behind the door of number 14. There were stories everywhere. Even at the beautifully appointed number 24 where poor Mr Winters and his knackered knees were hiding behind tightly closed curtains. Again.
She scanned the sea of faces on the off-chance he’d had a change of heart. Some were becoming a tiny bit more familiar. The Gem’n’Emms, of course. She’d have to be extra diligent with them, figure out who was who as they all had young children who’d no doubt be coming through her classroom over the coming years. Drea. Josh. A new name to add to her list. Who else did she know …?
‘Right!’ Smiley Drea was back in action. ‘Let’s get you settled, shall we?’
Before she could protest, Jess was shuttled over to where Josh was overseeing his children. Drea deftly commanded a jolly-looking chap in a set of mechanics overalls to ‘find another chair and sharpish, Kev’ and before she knew it, Jess was sitting next to Josh with Drea seated across from the pair of them, shooting Jess intense ‘get in there’ looks.
‘Gosh,’ Jess said, breaking eye contact with Drea and trying to absorb all of the action playing out along the trestle tables.
‘I know, right?’ Josh made a comedy face that looked a lot like a man panicking about how on earth he was going to match this evening.
The spread was impressive. Chantal was clearly no stranger to mass catering. There were platters of plain sugar cookies and gingerbread cookies in all sorts of shapes. Stars, reindeer, Santas, trees, presents, snowmen, candy canes. Not to mention tiny mountains of gorgeous little meringue kisses in swirls of red and white that had been scented with peppermint if the fresh wafts of mint were anything to go by. Chantal must’ve been baking for days.
As if on cue, Chantal appeared and handed Jess three small piping bags with red, green and white frosting in them. ‘There’re more colours spread out along the table. Glitter, mini-snowflakes, whatever you want. Enjoy.’
Jess was dazzled. ‘Is she always this amazing?’ she asked Josh.
‘This isn’t the half of it,’ Josh said. ‘You should see her stall at the summer fête. Puts Mary Berry to shame. Don’t even try to compete. Just enjoy.’ He grinned then examined the tray of biscuits in front of them. ‘Here you are.’ He handed her a sugar cookie in the shape of an angel. ‘This looks a suitable one for you to start with.’ When their fingers brushed as he handed it to her she blushed.
What a div!
She spent a few pointedly focused minutes giving the angel a white gown, adorning it with green trim, green eyes, a red smile and red hair, before looking up to see if she could locate some glitter. She found hundreds and thousands and used those instead.
‘Wow!’ Josh called to his children. ‘Look at that, Zoe, Eli. Jess has outdone your ol’ dad, eh?’ Josh showed them his efforts. It was a Santa. Sort of. His belt was wonky. His trousers were green and his beard was blue. It looked exactly like the type of biscuit one of her students would make. She loved it, and the part of her stomach that knew he was single made an out-of-practice flip.
The children laughed at his and oo’ed and ahh’d at hers.
‘Yours is perfect,’ she said when their eyes met.
‘Liar,’ he countered.
They shared a smile.
She blushed again. Idiot!
‘Where’d you learn to decorate so well?’
‘I’m an art teacher. Well. Year three teacher now. At the school. Primary. The one over there.’ She pointed in the direction she thought the school might be, willing herself to stop talking.
Josh crowed, ‘No wonder you’re so talented! Lucky us, eh kids? Having the next … ummm … who’s a famous artist? Picasso? Manet? Monet?’
She snorted and picked up a star-shaped sugar cookie. It was easier to look at that than Josh because her tummy kept sending out little darts of approval whenever their eyes met. ‘I think the chances of out-painting the likes of Monet with icing and hundreds and thousands is relatively slim.’
‘I don’t know …’ He pretending to give her biscuit a proper inspection through a monocle. When he spoke, he sounded as though he’d
walked straight out of Buckingham Palace. ‘I would say hundreds and thousands lend themselves perfectly to impressionism.’
She contained a laugh and countered in an equally highfalutin voice, ‘I think you’ll find they’re far more suited to pointillism.’
He arched an eyebrow.
She arched one back.
‘When you two are done flirting, do you mind if I use one of those piping bags with the white icing?’
They both looked across the table to meet the amused, but expectant expression of a white-haired woman with dark brown eyes, and a slightly sharper look from Drea. Jess was certain Drea had pointed the older woman out the other night. Just as her name was about to leap onto the tip of her tongue, Josh handed her his bag of icing then gave Drea a quick nod Jess couldn’t quite read.
‘’Course, Martha. Forgive me. I’ve been hogging it.’
Martha Snodgrass! Of course. Best name ever.
‘Not at all. And I was just teasing,’ Martha gave the air between her and Jess a little swipe. ‘Martha Snodgrass,’ she said with a genteel nod of the head, her hands too occupied with icing to shake.
‘Jess Green,’ Jess said mimicking the head nod.
‘Ah! The new girl. The one at fourteen?’
‘That’s the one.’ Jess smiled, still a bit taken aback at how much people knew about her. She was pretty sure the neighbours flanking her in London for over a year hadn’t had any idea of her existence.
‘If you don’t mind my saying, you’re a welcome replacement.’
‘Oh?’ Jess sat up straight. She’d not heard anything about the previous tenants, other than that they were a couple with a second child on the way so wanted to move a bit further out where they could get a larger back garden.
