Miracle on Christmas Street: The most heartwarming and hilarious Christmas read of 2020

by Annie O'Neil

  Jess took a sip of the wine and agreed, it was a nice one. Another little sliver of something lodged inside Jess’s chest, the part that was intimidated by Drea, slipped away into the night. She was a really kind woman. Organising the neighbourhood for the living advent calendar. Fostering a sense of togetherness even if it came with little squabbles and – they all clapped as an exuberant five-year-old happy danced at his family’s success on the race track – the triumphs. Peering through mail flaps when a neighbour couldn’t find it in her to get out of her jim-jams and onto the business of actually doing something to feel proud of. Which made her remember …

  ‘Drea?’ She handed her back the water bottle.

  ‘Yeah, doll?’

  ‘I noticed Mr Winters hasn’t come to any of the events.’

  ‘He’s probably hiding from you,’ Drea shot back without bothering to look at her.

  ‘What? Why? What makes you think that?’ Jess asked, horrified.

  ‘He did it to me when I first moved in.’

  ‘Why?’

  She flicked her hand dismissively. ‘I wanted a Christmas tree.’

  ‘What? Why did you go there?’

  Drea nodded towards Mr Winters’ house. ‘It used to be the farmhouse for an old Christmas tree farm. Either he sold the land or whoever owned it sold the land and I got it into my head that he had a little Christmas tree farm back there.’

  They both looked to the end of the street where there was a small woodland beyond which were a string of playing fields that joined up the primary and secondary schools beyond them.

  ‘Does he?’

  Drea shook her head. ‘No. Bloody nice back garden, though. The man’s got a gift.’

  ‘Not for the gab,’ Jess said sadly, accepting another sip of icy-cold wine from Drea’s water bottle. Another cheer went up from the crowd. It made her heart constrict that Mr Winters wasn’t out here, enjoying the fun. Even Mrs Snodgrass, who clearly liked playing the role of Resident Curmudgeon, was made up at her recent win (she’d taken out one of the Gem’n’Emms and Josh who was wearing a bobbing pair of reindeer antlers). Surely, a man who had no family and no friends that she could see would enjoy the comfort of a neighbourhood gathering. Being old and alone had to be scary enough, but being old and alone at Christmas when he had the chance to be looked after by his grandson …

  A thought occurred to her. Maybe he had got in touch. Perhaps that’s why he wasn’t here. He’d looked up Will’s company and had driven to meet him. Her stomach went all squidgy at the thought of the two of them sharing mince pies and mulled wine. No. He shouldn’t drink and drive. Especially not this time of year. She reimagined the scenario. Mince pies and hot chocolate? Maybe. Or what if … oh, no she didn’t like the direction this was going. What if Mr Winters had got in touch, but had hunted Will down at one of his events and started shouting at him about whatever it was that had transpired between him and his son all of those years ago? Accused him of meddling. Interfering where he should’ve left well enough alone.

  The squidginess turned hard and cold. This was all Jess’s fault. If she’d kept the Christmas card, Mr Winters would be none the wiser. Then he’d be home and safe and yanking his curtain shut like normal.

  Just then a car pulled into the cul-de-sac. It headed straight down the road and pulled to a halt at the edge of the crowd, at which point the driver – Jess couldn’t see as she was on the far side of the crowd – pressed his horn. Again and again and again.

  People scrambled out of the way amid a flurry of ‘Hold your horses’ and ‘Cool your jets, mate’ and ‘Bloody impatient old buggers.’ A child began to cry. Unexpectedly, the car lurched forward with a heavy screech of shifting gears. Parents grabbed children into their arms and hurled abuse at the driver. Kevin dove to pull his card table full of miniatures out of the way, while a handful of others quickly took up the ramp and track the cars had just been racing down.

  When the car passed by Jess, she felt the blood drain from her face. It was Mr Winters. He looked as pale as she felt. He also looked frightened and angry. His hands were wrapped round the steering wheel of his sturdy-looking Volvo estate, his eyes trained on his house at the end of the street. He drove slowly and steadily, the car bumping up onto the short drive that sat alongside his front garden. He parked the car then disappeared out of sight on the path that led round to the back of the house.

  Jess didn’t blame him. If he was as shaken up as she felt, she would’ve wanted to run away and hide as well.

  ‘The man’s a bloody menace!’ someone shouted.

  ‘I think a couple of us should go down and have a word.’

  ‘Don’t send anyone nice.’

  ‘No way are we going to his on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Can you imagine the type of party he’d throw?’

  ‘Probably puts arsenic in his eggnog. Kill the lot of us.’

  ‘Bloody shambles. Couldn’t he see there were children? He could’ve seriously hurt someone!’

  ‘It’s like that man in … where was it? California? Mixed up the brake and gas pedals, didn’t he? Killed hundreds.’

  ‘No, it was less than that.’

  ‘Whatever. People died.’

  The street fell silent.

  Then, as if the matter had been settled, one of the Gem’n’Emms scooped a toddler up onto her hip, grabbed another child by the hand and turned to Drea. ‘You need to uninvite him. I do not want that man anywhere near my children.’

  Drea gave her a look that would’ve silenced the meanest of despots. ‘This is a street-wide advent calendar.’

  Emma or Gemma huffed. ‘He’s not exactly the community type, Drea. Why don’t you throw the Christmas Eve party? All of this is your fault anyway.’

  ‘My fault?’ Drea repeated, her words edged with ice.

  ‘Well, it was your idea,’ faltered the Gem’n’Emm. ‘It’s just … we all thought this was going to be a bit of fun but it takes up time no one has, especially at this time of year when there’s the children’s nativities and school plays and end-of-term concerts, not to mention all of the things they’re doing down the church—’

  ‘Fine.’ Drea repeated in the same neutral but tiny bit scary tone. ‘Call it off.’

  People exchanged nervous glances. A few muttered what’s going ons rose from the crowd as everyone came together in the centre of the street.

  ‘No. Now that’s not—’ Emma or Gemma threw an anxious glance at a man, presumably her husband, who obediently came and stood beside her, ‘I didn’t mean call the whole thing off.’ She gave a nervous giggle, echoed in different pitches by the other Gem’n’Emms.

  ‘No, seriously. Don’t worry about it.’ Drea said, now speaking as casually as if she were telling someone not to worry about returning a book they’d borrowed three years ago. ‘If it’s that much trouble, especially at this very, very special time of year featuring harmony and forgiveness, forget about it.’

  ‘No!’ Emma or Gemma protested. ‘I – we – we like it.’

  ‘But not if a sad, lonely old man who couldn’t get to his house because we were in the middle of the street takes part? Is that the condition? Is that how you want this to play out?’

  Emma or Gemma threw a nervous look over her shoulder. ‘No, I, uhhh—’

  Drea pounced. ‘Right! Good. So we’re all back on board. See you all tomorrow at number seven.’

  Again, there were a few indecipherable mutterings, but no one contradicted Drea’s announcement that things would carry on as planned.

  As everyone headed back to their homes or huddled in small groups on the pavement, Drea pulled Jess to the side. ‘I need you to back me up on this.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘About old man Winters.’

  They both looked down at the end of the street. Mr Winters’ house was still pitch-black save … oh
… there was a light on, just visible through the stained-glass window above his door.

  ‘Let’s have a coffee mañana and come up with a plan. Unless you’re busy,’ Drea added.

  The way she tacked on the last bit made Jess bristle. She had things to do. Descriptions of pushpins to write. Boxes of books she’d read when she was twelve to unpack. An Ikea bed frame to assemble.

  ‘Ten’s fine.’

  ‘Good.’ Drea flashed her a proper warm smile. ‘Thanks, doll. It’s good having an ally in all of this.’

  Aww. That was nice.

  They shared a smile.

  ‘Who is it tomorrow?’ Jess asked after refusing another sip of Drea’s wine.

  Drea rolled her eyes. ‘The hippies.’

  They both looked over to number 7. There was nothing that screamed hippy about the first in a line of three row houses. The wreath on their door looked homemade and their recycling bins were full. Was that the tell?

  ‘Is it a bad thing that they’re hippies?’

  ‘Not if you like flax seed and patchouli,’ Drea intoned. ‘They’ll probably smudge us all then give us homemade fat balls for the birds and lecture us on climate change.’

  As if on cue, a middle-aged woman with a mix of brown and grey hair woven into a wiry plait that circled her head like a … well … not a halo exactly, appeared before them in a waft of patchouli and sage. She was wearing a thick wool jacket with the distinct mustiness of the men’s section of a charity shop and sturdy boots that looked as if they’d been cobbled by a hobbit. She handed them each a piece of paper.

  Drea looked at it then asked, ‘Why are you letting me know about last year’s climate change march?’

  ‘Oops, sorry,’ the woman chirped, suddenly all smiles. ‘I was reusing old fliers so as not to waste.’ She flipped Drea’s paper round to the other side where there was a handwritten note.

  Drea gave it a quick scan. ‘Clothes trade?’

  ‘Exactly,’ the woman said.

  ‘You want me to bring clothes I don’t want out onto the street for a big jumble sale?’

  ‘No.’ Hippy Woman frowned in a way that suggested she was used to being misunderstood but didn’t understand why. ‘It’s a trade.’

  ‘You want me to trade?’

  ‘Yes.’ Hippy Woman put her smile back on. ‘We’re on our third year of not buying new clothes.’

  ‘Great.’ Drea smiled at her. ‘So what’s that got to do with the advent calendar?’

  ‘You know what they say,’ Hippy Woman said as if the answer was hanging right there in the frosty air between them.

  ‘No,’ Drea said. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Waste not want not?’ Jess suggested.

  Hippy Woman gave her a kindly, but very patronising pat on the arm. ‘Everything in excess is opposed to nature.’

  Drea made a dismissive noise. ‘How about this instead? Moderation is a fatal thing. Nothing succeeds like excess.’

  ‘Well!’ Hippy Woman said through gritted teeth, her tone falsely bright. ‘If that means you’re volunteering to bring lots of things to give away, I’m sure everyone will be thrilled. You’ve always had such … interesting … taste in clothes.’

  Drea didn’t even bother to mute her laugh as the woman walked away. ‘Poor thing. Her husband made her stop colouring her hair years back. I think letting the grey grow in has given her a martyr complex. Anyway, love,’ she briskly continued. ‘I’ve gotta dash. I have a conference call with the team back in Oz. Be good and I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?’

  Without waiting for a reply she waved goodbye over her shoulder and headed down the street to her house. Jess turned to her own house, her gaze catching on an upstairs window at Mr Winters’ as she did. He was there, looking out onto the increasingly empty street, but was far away enough that it was impossible to read his expression. She waved. He pulled the curtains shut. She knew the feeling. Letting anyone beyond her parents know how broken she’d felt over the past year had been terrifying. Even that had been a level of raw that had frightened her. She couldn’t bear the thought of Mr Winters alone in that big house. No childhood bedroom to hide away in. No mum and dad to bring him hot chocolate or Wagon Wheels. She knew she couldn’t be that sort of replacement. The family kind. But she could find a way to assure him he wasn’t alone. Amanda used to call it Jess’s teaching Super Power. Divining which children were the gregarious ones, the shy ones, the bullies. Shifting the balance of the class so that they all knew where they stood: equally, together. There were no favourites in her class, but there were children who needed extra coaxing, extra assurance that they had been seen.

  If she could do that. Tap back into that super power, she knew that first day at Boughton Primary Academy would be a doddle.

  The light disappeared behind the curtain. Jess gave it a nod. ‘It’s okay, Mr Winters’, she thought. ‘I see you. You are not alone.’

  7 December

  Jess did a final spell check and sent off the document. Her freelance copywriting gig wouldn’t make her a millionaire, but it, and her new project of luring Mr Winters out into the world, stopped her from obsessing about whether or not she would still have that old ‘Jess Green sparkle’ when she began her now job. Describing paperclips and report folders to wondrous effect would also enable her to buy a hugely calorific meal for one on Christmas Day. Not that she’d googled her options even remotely obsessively when she’d woken up in the middle of the night wondering if ‘being a Mini’ meant she’d be alone for the rest of her entire life (a new panic she’d added to her ever-growing list).

  Mercifully, the internet had reliably informed her that there was a veritable cornucopia of ways to delight her palate should she choose to gorge herself silly on seasonal fare. M&S had a ready meal for one – turkey, spuds, sprouts, the works. If she felt like pushing the boat out but did not actually know what any of the ingredients were, Waitrose had a Heston Turkey Dinner featuring a quail with gold leaf, goji berries and something else beginning with ‘g’ she wasn’t entirely sure was a food group. Lidl had a frozen chicken dinner that included a rather succinct square of chocolate cake. In the end, all of the googling had made her really sad. There were so many choices of meals for one. Which meant there would be countless people eating Christmas dinner on their own. All of which was making her lean towards buying a pizza and all three of her favourite flavours of ice cream and considering Christmas a do-over for next year.

  Before turning her laptop off, she refreshed her email (again), then checked the junk mail (again), only to determine that no, she still hadn’t missed a return email from Will Winters. Which surely meant – not that she was catastrophising or anything – that Will was definitely in the process of putting out a restraining order on her and had very likely cautioned his grandfather never to speak to her again. Which made her really, really sad.

  Sure Mr Winters was grumpy. And last night had definitely not thrown the best of lights on him as a lovely neighbour or his ability to drive, but …

  Underneath it? She thought she saw what Drea saw. Sadness. The type that permeated your cell structure. Shaded the way you saw the world. The type of sadness she’d felt when she’d been accused of hurting a child when, in actual fact, she’d been trying to help one. A fresh, dynamic energy gripped her nervous system.

  As soon as Drea came over, the two of them were going to plant Arnold Winters’ tulip bulbs. Whether or not they had his permission. Sometimes people were so sad they didn’t know what they wanted. He knew he wanted tulips, but for some ridiculous reason, was denying himself the pleasure.

  A text pinged through from Drea. She was still on her conference call. Couldn’t get out of it. Wouldn’t be able to make their rendezvous. Soz doll face. Catch up laters?

  Jess’s spirits plummeted. She’d been looking forward to going to Mr Winters’.

  So … what was stopp
ing her? She didn’t need a safety buddy. She’d spoken to him on her own before. She could do it again.

  A determination she hadn’t felt in ages gripped her.

  She bundled the office supplies she’d finished into the ‘done’ box, pleased to see it filling up. So far she’d ticked off the super glue (easy to laud the merits of), three different styles of mini-staplers, ten different varieties of stapler-taker-outers (#NotTheirRealName) and all of the Easter-themed office supplies. Who knew bunny-shaped Post-its could be so alluring?

  Focusing on all of the fluffy-chick-topped pens, coloured egg stationery and miniature bunny fairy lights (so cute!) had been a nice distraction from all of the other things she didn’t want to think about, but every time she finished, real life was still there, staring her in the face. Until now. This was the first time a real-life idea gave her back that bouncy feeling she used to feel every day heading off to St Benedict’s.

  Not only would she get some tulip bulbs and bring them to Mr Winters, she would get him a wreath. Kai and Rex’s wreath was the one thing guaranteed to make her smile every day and not just because it was gorgeous, but because it had been a gift from strangers. Strangers who had hit her in the face with a snowball, true. But then she was a stranger who had opened Mr Winters’ post, so … kind of the same thing?

  Twenty minutes later she was parked up just off the high street and working her way past festive window displays towards Berry’s Blooms. Every single shopfront was wreathed in lights or baubles or swags of evergreen or all three. A stark reminder that she still hadn’t done anything at her own home. She was bringing some Christmas cheer to someone else so hopefully that would even things out.

  She kept her eyes peeled for the archway that led to the courtyard where their shop was. Apparently, it had been a jam factory back in the day. When her eyes caught on the old-fashioned sign hanging proud of the archway, her breath caught in her throat. It was surrounded by a wreath made entirely of pineapples and plums. It looked amazing. And then she saw the archway. It was covered in a panoply of dried fruits and holly and mistletoe just begging everyone who passed through it to take a selfie. Which she did. She’d send it to her parents to prove she was having a wonderful time and not remotely considering whether she should sell her new house and quit her new job before she’d had a chance to get attached to either of them. When she turned the corner into the courtyard, her heart skipped a beat. Rather than the garish displays some of the stores had opted for, Rex and Kai had decorated not only their shop, but the entire courtyard to look like a magical winter woodland. The brick walls were hidden beneath beautifully decorated Christmas trees. Each tree was bedecked with a delicate whorl of fairy lights, giving teasing glimpses of a rich array of frosted pine cones, beautiful wooden ornaments, oranges studded with cloves and, yes, pomegranates held in place by a criss-cross of green velvet ribbons. The smattering of benches that were dappled about the courtyard were covered in thick sheepskin rugs and small fire-pits with Swedish logs crackled away in front of them. Strings of delicate lights in the shape of stars were hung like bunting above her. A man in a thick wooden hat was honest-to-goodness roasting chestnuts over an open fire at the far end of the courtyard. It was like stepping into a Dickens storybook with set dressing by Selfridges. Amazing.