by Erin Green
Nothing bad ever happens here. In fact, nothing bad ever happens at Christmas Tree Farm. The funniest moment of today’s shift was Arthur’s poor attempt to dash for freedom – thankfully we caught him in seconds and no one was injured. The worst thing that ever happened was when Gertrude the donkey escaped for a weekend to roam free amongst the fifty-five acres. Even that ended well when she eventually came home hungry for carrots.
To my right, a flash of red catches my eye. On the nearest Blue spruce sits my fat robin, a fiery redbreast upon spindle legs, his head twitching inquisitively as he watches me.
Instantly, I feel calmer.
‘Hello,’ I whisper. I’m not one for superstitions or urban folklore but he frequently appears when I’m alone, be it here or in the sales yard. I probably sound stupid talking to a tiny Robin but… I’ll do anything to feel better for a few minutes each day.
Slowly, I reach out my hand, my fingers quivering with excitement. Nothing.
Who am I kidding? The robin sits and bobs on his spruce branch, peering at my hand before flying off in the direction of the holiday rentals; six sturdy cabins nestled amongst the mature spruce edging the lake.
In the distance, an embankment creates a secluded landscape, hedged with immature Fraser firs. When the wind is blowing in the right direction their distinct spicy fragrance drifts towards you, but not today. I select a flat stone from those scattered at the water’s lapping edge and skim it across the surface, just as my dad taught me as a child. The stone flies ahead and bounces four times before it disappears into the murky depths.
I’m losing my touch. As a youngster I could do at least five, if not six bounces.
A year ago, I stood here and endured a torrent of rain. My face stung with the relentless pelting, Mother Nature masking my sobbing tears for my father.
I can’t do that today, despite the rain being imminent. I’ve clocked off, the boss will be closing the site shortly to return to the farmhouse, and so I need to derobe my layers in the snug before heading home.
Dad’s never coming back. I know that. Tuesday sees the start of my two free days from work and I’ll make a start by organising his possessions. Tonight, I might remove his boots from the hallway, his mug from the coffee table and even empty his ashtray. Might.
*
Arriving home before the rain begins feels like a personal accomplishment for the day – overshadowing the couple of hundred spruces I sold.
The village streets are a blaze of flashing fairy lights and inflatable Santas decorating each cosy home. My cottage looks bare in comparison.
Dragging my jacket from my shoulders, I struggle to find a hook on the full coat rack, so hang it from the newel post. My shoulders ache, my stomach rumbles. I’ll eat and have a shower later, if I manage my first task. I step over and around each pair of his boots and with some trepidation head for the lounge.
Buzzing around the lounge, I repeat the winter’s night routine from my schooldays, when dad was still at work, and I’d arrive home first. I switch on the standard lamps and switch on the TV; the curtains are already drawn. ‘In for the night’, was how he’d term it. Just the two of us, cosy at home for the rest of the evening. How I wish I could return to those days of just him and me. Evenings at home spent moaning about the rubbish on TV, our disgust and sometimes tears at viewing the day’s news from around the world while we balanced dinner trays on our laps and chomped our evening meal. Who’d have thoughts that our shared irritations of life would be the thing I would want to relive and not the Christmases, the birthdays and milestones of life. Isn’t it crazy what the grieving heart desires?
I stand by the hearth staring at his coffee table. My aim is to complete my task quickly and efficiently. I won’t think about anything or anyone. I won’t imagine him seated on the sofa, will ignore his voice replaying in my mind, and his deep throaty laugh. I’ll simply pick it up, walk to the kitchen, empty and wash the ashtray. I have a choice regarding drying. I can either wipe with a fresh dry dishcloth or leave it to air dry, bottom side up, on the draining board – a sight that had greeted me most days of my life. Despite my slovenly cleaning habits, I can’t bring myself to wipe it dry on a clean tea towel.
My vision blurs as tears cascade over my lashes.
‘I can’t do this,’ I mutter to the empty lounge.
I glance at the end seat of the sofa where his frail body used to rest.
We denied Dad’s MS in our daily world, ignored the medical advice, the group sessions and offers of support or help, to ease and rectify the suffering. We got up each day, we went to bed each night and MS stood quietly watching from the corner of the lounge biding her time.
It’s now or never, as nothing good ever came from keeping a pile of grey ash.
Three
Nina
Monday, 10 December
From inside the snug, we hear the thump of boots on the wooden steps.
‘Quick, look sharp,’ whispers Kitty as we run towards the door.
‘Ah, Boss…’ I swoon, a big smile in place.
‘You ladies need to get a wiggle on. There’s work to do and you’re gassing like old washerwomen. It’s all hands on deck up on the south side, tidying up the empty cider cans that those little bastards have left behind.’
Kitty gives me a warning stare, whilst pulling on her gloves, and hastily exits. I attempt to follow suit.
‘Given your layers, I’m assuming you haven’t read the daily task sheet this morning, Nina?’ He points towards the notice board, which we’re supposed to read each morning, but don’t.
I couldn’t lie, so shake my head.
‘You’re on the interview panel.’
‘Interview?’ My heart sinks. Put me on the cutting crew, the netting machine, or give me the labelling gun, even the worst job of all, the ‘scrub the yard clean’ team, but please don’t put me on an interview panel.
‘Five candidates… first one starts at half eight so best foot forward – you’re sitting alongside Jackie and Zach.’
I look down at my clothing layers, which I now don’t need.
‘Are the interviews for casual workers?’
‘Oh, yeah, casual all right.’ Boss laughs as he leaves me to de-layer without further details.
*
Angie
My Monday morning alarm ruins a dreamy rerun of a night of passion shared several months ago with an Italian called Fabio. I lazily drop my arm over the side of the bed and cancel the alarm noise, then lie back to enjoy the lingering afterglow of my gymnastics with the fabulous Italian stallion. A flashback comes to mind – it’s amazing how taut flesh can sway your willingness to experiment after eighteen years of marriage!
We met during a particularly hectic time in my divorce from Nick. I was trying to organise papers, estimate costings for child maintenance and prove bank balances. When, bingo, Fabio showed up on a dating website that had been lacking in interest and intent for several weeks. It was a gamble, as online dating always is, but boy, oh, boy was he generous with his time, his moves and his carnal knowledge.
I giggle, pull the duvet up to my chin, and grin like a Cheshire cat.
The beautiful Fabio taught me things about my body that even I didn’t know. Seriously, it’s amazing what knowledge a woman can gain from changing partners, even if it is for just a few weeks.
If the truth be known, Fabio had been entirely false in every detail, apart from his amazing bedroom talents, and soon disappeared when he mistakenly revealed his role as a husband, father, painter and decorator, with a wife and three kids, masquerading as a single stud on the website SinglesFun.com.
‘Such a pity,’ I mutter, flinging the duvet back to start my day. Fabio could be a decent start to any woman’s day. In fact, if payroll queries prove difficult today, I may well have myself a Fabio flashback to help me through the mire that is Monday morning.
I quickly shower, eat breakfast and am dashing for the front door when my mobile pings.
S
orry to text so early… can we talk tonight… I’ve been thinking. N
My heart stops on seeing his text. Nick doesn’t text. Prior to this he hasn’t texted me in the entire eleven months that we’ve been apart, separated or divorced. Not even when I packed my suitcase and left the marital home without anywhere to go.
What the hell is this supposed to mean?
Shit! Don’t think, Nick. Seriously, not now that I’ve realigned my thinking and am making an effort to reignite our relationship and return to you after the long months spent refusing your request.
How am I supposed to focus on work if I don’t know what’s happening between me and Nick?
I press speed dial and listen impatiently to the ringing tone.
‘Hello?’
‘Nick?’
‘Angie? Sorry, I didn’t want to presume but…’
‘What, Nick?’
‘I wanted to say that I totally agree with what you said Saturday night. That we probably lost track of each other over the years and that, yes, I can see how things I did might have seemed to you at the time but, seriously… I do want this. I want for us to work.’
I slowly exhale.
‘So, if you’re willing to forget the other night, because I have a feeling it wasn’t what you’d truly wanted, I was wondering if, maybe later this week, or next weekend if you prefer, I don’t want to interfere with your work schedule… but anyway, how about we go on a proper first date… again?’
‘Nick…’ I can’t swallow the huge lump that is wedged in my throat.
‘Yeah?’ He sounds so vulnerable, so open to starting afresh.
‘Oh, my God, Nick… This is what I was trying to say to you but… you… oh, never mind. What and when are you thinking?’
‘I hadn’t got that far… but it’s a definite yes, we’re officially going to try again and get this, us back on track?’
‘Yes, Nick.’
‘Excellent. Have a good day, and I’ll phone you later with details. Bye.’
‘Bye.’ I press the button and end the call, hugging the mobile to my chest.
Has that just happened? He sounded so positive, so on board. Bloody hell, this might actually be happening for us. Wow, this is going to be a great Christmas after all.
*
Holly
I call round for Demi just before half eight, as I always do on school days.
‘Are we supposed to hang around with him from now on, then?’ asks Demi, as she slings her bag on her shoulder and pushes her blazer sleeves up to her elbows for our short walk to the school gates.
‘No, it isn’t that intense. He asked why I’m never at youth club and then offered to call for me next Tuesday.’
‘So, you’re going out?’
I stare at her.
‘Did you not just hear me?’
‘Yeah, but Alfie Woodward asked to call for you, in which case – you’re going steady and if not yet then defo by Tuesday after youth club especially if he walks you back home… OMG if he buys you a Zube tube drink at the youth tuck bar then you’re going out!’
‘What is a—?’
‘See, you know nothing. Seriously, you need to get with it. They cost a quid, seriously a quid, and most of the lads won’t buy you one but if Alfie buys you one this Tuesday, and I think he’s gonna buy you one – otherwise what was the point in him asking to call for you? – well, then… he’s serious.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
‘He defo will.’
I stare at my best friend. This ‘going out’ situation is entirely new to me. To Demi it is old hat. We may be only sixteen, but she’s already snogged half our school class. I’ve snogged no one. Apart from a peck on the cheek in a Wendy house from a five-year-old boy at primary school
‘If he wants to snog you are you gonna let him?’ asks Demi as we walk past Mr Phillips and Mrs O’Dwyer chatting whilst on gate duty, manning the school entrance.
‘Demi!’ I snap, glancing between the teachers.
‘They don’t hear anything. Well, are ya?’
I blush. I totally might, if he is respectful for the rest of the night, but if he starts messing around and pushing his luck then there is no way I’m falling for cheap stuff like Demi has in the past. Simply no way.
‘OMG, you are! But don’t do tongues, right – it’s way gross unless they’ve brushed their teeth. And if you change your mind about Alfie, you can always dump him at youth club and then come out with me afterwards. We’ve found somewhere new to go after dark.’
I eye Demi cautiously. She’s my best mate but she lacks common sense at times.
If Alfie Woodward smells of Colgate when he picks me up on Tuesday, I may well do tongues; otherwise it’s a no-goer!
*
Nina
We sit in a row behind Boss Fielding’s desk, each with a pad of lined paper on which to take notes, though I always end up doodling on mine. A single hard-backed chair sits opposite, with a clean glass and water jug for company.
‘You could have warned me,’ I whisper to Zach, sitting on my right, positioned in the centre seat. Jackie’s empty chair is on the far side, but she’s nipped to collect the first candidate.
Zach smiles.
‘Enjoy it. It’s better than a morning spent working in the yard.’
He’s right, but only just. Isn’t it a bit late to be taking on more casual workers? It’s not as if the crews aren’t coping; in under three weeks they’ll find themselves looking for work again. I never had an interview, simply a work trial.
The cabin door opens.
‘If you please…’ says Jackie, in her warmest, most posh interview voice, holding the door open for the candidate. Today, she’s looking smart and sleek wearing numerous floaty scarves. Usually her alluring feature is her vibrant red hair and large earrings set against our embroidered uniforms.
He fills the doorway immediately, his bright red suit, black boots and magnificent beard making my eyes pop.
Zach gives me a sideways glance.
Is this a joke?
‘We’re employing our own Santa this year,’ mutters Zach. ‘That way Dad can give the orders, saving us the embarrassment from last year.’ I heard of the incident: the agency Santa was slightly tipsy on Christmas Eve and walloped a child for drooling on his best beard. Boss Fielding had to compensate the parents for the distress caused, for which he wanted to wallop the Santa.
I watch as the Father Christmas clomps his way across to the candidate chair and settles down.
I want to laugh out loud. Boss Fielding was right – you can’t get more ‘casual’ than his role.
Jackie takes her seat, straightens her notepad and introduces the panel. I love the way she bolsters our roles as if we’re important – calling me a treasured member of Sales is pushing it a tad too far.
‘So, Mr Claus, we’d like to ask a series of questions. Each candidate will receive the same questions and there’s time at the end for any additional information that you feel we ought to know prior to selection,’ explains Jackie.
I didn’t even know I was interviewing; I haven’t got a question. I stare at Jackie, hoping to communicate my needs.
‘Firstly, can you explain why you wish to be our Father Christmas here at Christmas Tree Farm?’
I watch as the candidate smooths his long white beard before resting his huge hands upon his rotund belly. He definitely looks the part, given his ample size and tiny wire-framed glasses. He gives a decent answer regarding our associations with all things Christmassy. I scribble a note, because I feel I ought. As he draws breath, Zach jumps in with a question.
‘Can you tell me about your career as a Father Christmas?’
As I sit back and listen, watching his mouth move beneath the layers of white whiskers, I wonder: would I have been frightened of him as a child?
‘Thank you. Over to Nina for the next question.’
I jump in my seat. I didn’t hear his answer and now I’m expected to ask an insig
htful question.
‘Santa, nice to meet you… I was wondering… Could I ask…? Have you ever…?’ All eyes are on me and I can’t think of a single thing to ask. I wouldn’t have known my name should Santa have asked me.
Suddenly, I know.
‘What’s the best thing a child has asked you to deliver on Christmas morning?’
‘Lasagne.’
The panel chuckle.
‘Seriously, lasagne? I bet their parents were pleased about that request.’
Santa goes on to explain it was her favourite meal, so that was all she wanted. As he talks I’m congratulating myself on such a creative question. But am pulled up when he asks me one.
‘And what would you like?’
‘Me?’ I stare along the panel, tears springing to my eyes before I realise. ‘I’m not doing Christmas this year,’ is all I can muster. I don’t wish to elaborate; if he has an ounce of true magical spirit, he’ll know why. Surely, it’s only Scrooge and the bereaved that avoid or cancel Christmas?
Santa gives a gentle smile. I hastily note: candidate one copes well when faced with an unexpected answer.
‘Moving on,’ says Jackie, eagerly. ‘How many elves will you need to assist you during a shift?’
‘Are you allergic to reindeer?’ asks Zach, soon afterwards.
All too quickly it is back to me.
Why wasn’t I given prior warning regarding the interviews?
‘What’s your reply when children say they don’t believe in Santa?’ I ask proudly, sensing the other two are impressed by my questions.
‘I ask them to prove that I’m not real. They never can.’ His blue eyes twinkle as he gives a deep belly laugh. I like him; this would be my kind of Santa.
‘Is there anything else you would like us to know?’ asks Jackie, her pen poised for detail.
Santa shakes his head.
Ouch, bad move – you should always give a little additional information even if it’s just about your love of the job.
‘Could I ask one last question?’ I ask, unsure where my sudden confidence springs from. ‘Can we hear your best ho, ho, ho?’
