The Magic of Christmas Tree Farm

by Erin Green

  ‘Phuh! She’s not. How were we supposed to cope with MS as a two when she couldn’t cope as a three?’

  ‘Nina.’

  ‘No, don’t Nina me… me and Dad did MS together for seventeen years. Jilly made her decision a long time ago. She’s made a new life – she can live with it.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘But nothing. End of.’

  We sit in silence, sipping our drinks and crunching peanuts.

  ‘Is this any better than last night’s date?’ asks Zach, after a ten-minute truce.

  I stare from beneath my fringe.

  ‘No, but at least I feel more like myself with you. Last night didn’t feel comfortable… which is why it can’t happen again.’ I look across to Selena, laughing with her girlfriends by the open fire. ‘He’s probably more suited to the likes of her than me.’

  ‘Maybe, but he thinks differently.’

  ‘And you?’

  Zach shakes his head.

  ‘See, you never answer a straight question, do you?’

  He sighs heavily.

  ‘Nina, it’s not what I think that counts, is it?’

  Ten

  Nina

  Monday, 17 December

  Everyone in the village knew that Dad was ill. They just didn’t know what he was suffering with, despite their efforts to find out. For years, he refused to be drawn into their conversations. Like the stubborn git that he was. His rationale was that if they didn’t know, they wouldn’t interfere, but he was wrong. People had eyes in their head. I think it became a guessing game for most of the village folk, so they interfered more than he desired.

  Having had a few good days after cleaning the cottage, I can’t go backwards. I’m supposed to be happier.

  It’s three o’clock in the morning; the cottage is silent – it’s the worst time of night for a trip down Memory Lane.

  ‘Is it the “c” word?’ a kid once asked me during school break-time. ‘My mum reckons it is.’

  My lack of reply only induced more stares, nodding and whisperings around the village. They’d talk even more during his lengthy remissions, when he’d appear ‘better’ than before.

  Hardly surprising that I’ve locked myself away for the last twelve months like a cocooned lava hiding from the world, whilst deep inside change is occurring.

  The seventeenth December, this time last year, we had just eight more days before he died. I’d have worked a busy shift at the farm, walked home to change and gone straight to the hospice. Did we watch TV? Talk? Or argue? We argued a lot, in a bickering manner, when we got on each other’s nerves. I can’t remember. I’m no psychologist, but I reckon it’s a coping mechanism to numb the pain.

  A year on, have I resurfaced?

  The thick fug of grief hasn’t lifted, so maybe not.

  I won’t sleep now so I get up, make tea and search for the biscuit barrel, returned to its original and rightful home in the top cupboard.

  *

  At seven thirty I enter the yard to the merriment of ‘Last Christmas’ piping through the overhead speakers. I’m the last person who should be encouraged to reminisce about last Christmas.

  ‘Nina!’ hollers Zach, his hands cupping his mouth, standing before the snug. ‘Quick!’

  ‘The boss is calling a staff meeting,’ beckons Kitty, standing beside him. I can see other staff wandering in the same direction, so hastily follow suit cutting through the snow. It’s not as if I’m late for my work shift – I don’t see what all the fuss is about.

  We cram into the snug, where it is standing room only. I search amongst the faces, so many contract workers that I don’t know or rather don’t know their names. Where do they all go after December?

  ‘Where’s Shazza?’ I ask Kitty.

  ‘Bram said she’s called in sick,’ comes her reply.

  We’re all exchanging quizzical glances; we never have staff meetings. Boss Fielding stands at the far end of the cabin, and begins to call for order with Jackie by his side. This is unusual for them; they don’t usually address the staff en masse.

  ‘Sorry to bring you together so unexpectedly, but I wish to make you aware of the current situation that…’

  We’re losing our jobs. We’re all being sacked. Christmas has been cancelled! Yay! Fanciful ideas flit through my head.

  ‘As you know, we have a group of local teenagers who are trespassing during the evenings, which is causing us concern. Last night, they cut through the fence again and we’ve found a selection of cider bottles and spent fireworks scattered up at the south clearing. We need you to keep your ears open for names of the culprits – this needs to stop. Someone is going to be hurt and the onus will be on us should that happen. Later today, we'll be meeting with a security team to discuss our options to monitor the premises after closing each night, so if you hear anything in the local community please come and report it. If we can provide the names the police have agreed to visit the teenagers for a chat and warn them of the dangers.’

  A round of head nodding occurs before we are dismissed to get ready for the day.

  ‘Seems serious,’ I whisper to Kitty, as the boss sidesteps through the crowd to leave.

  ‘In today’s blame and claim culture he’ll be in the firing line if someone gets seriously hurt.’

  ‘Makes you wonder why Shazza’s off today,’ I add. ‘It feels underhand mentioning it, but the twins are convinced she knows what’s what.’

  Kitty pulls a quizzical face.

  ‘All eyes and ears open, is what I suggest,’ says Kitty, departing towards the cashier’s cabin.

  ‘Nina!’ calls Boss Fielding, from the door of the snug. ‘Can I see you in five minutes, please?’

  *

  ‘Morning,’ I say, as cheerfully as possible to cover my melancholy, as I approach Boss Fielding brushing fresh snow from the wooden steps outside his office.

  ‘There’s a change to the notice board tasks… as you know, Shazza’s just called in sick so…’ I watch as he turns back inside his office door, grabs a plastic storage box and hands it to me. The box is filled with a jumble of green Lycra fabric. I glance from fabric to Boss and back to the fabric before he speaks. ‘Could you do a couple of hours of elf duty at the grotto? It’ll be a quiet day given it’s a school day, but we’ve got two minibuses arriving from the local nursery as part of a Christmas outing.’

  I simply stare at my boss.

  ‘Elf duty?’

  My muddled brain suddenly screams, ‘Elf!’

  The boss turns, attempting to go inside his office.

  A sudden panic fills my body.

  ‘Oh, no, no, I couldn’t. Seriously, Boss… please, no, not today,’ I protest, offering the plastic box back to him.

  He turns around swiftly; his brow lowers.

  ‘Now, Nina, only yesterday you said you’d prefer—’

  I know what I said; I don’t need reminding.

  I stare up at him with woeful eyes.

  ‘Switch between the two grottos, please, and make sure it’s a good day for the kiddies. Quick now, chop chop.’ His hands gently push the box back into mine.

  How am I going to muster up the spirit to entertain nursery children when it’s difficult enough climbing from my bed, dressing and attending work each day?

  *

  Holly

  ‘I’m not happy about this, Holly,’ says Mum over breakfast. ‘A day away from school won’t hurt your grades and those girls will get their just desserts.’

  My mouth falls open. My mum never allows us to have time away from school. She hates the idea of enforced snow days.

  ‘No way. If I don’t go in today everyone in the year group will jump to the conclusion that I was involved. If I’m present, at least I can correct any false facts. Otherwise, they’ll play judge and jury, condemning my reputation forever. No, Mum, I’m going,’ I declare, across the cornflakes.

  ‘Phew! Like you’ll hear the gossips today… It’ll all be snide remarks behind your back
and whispering in the toilets,’ adds Hannah, giving a knowing smile.

  Hannah’s not wrong. This issue isn’t about to blow over, but still, I need to save face, stand up to my accusers and attend school.

  *

  Demi’s face tells me she doesn’t need bringing up to speed.

  ‘The word on the street is that you’ve been nabbed colluding with Paris and her girls—’

  ‘And since when did we believe the word on the street?’ I ask, my eyebrows lifting.

  Demi shrugs before asking, ‘Are you grounded?’

  ‘Kind of. My mum thinks it involves Alfie. I’ve told her countless time it doesn’t but, hey, you know my mum.’

  ‘Knows everything, your mum,’ mutters Demi, kicking up the snow as we walk.

  ‘She thinks she does!’

  We both fall into a fit of giggles. Demi gets it.

  *

  Angie

  ‘“Tell me, please?” – that’s what you asked him? You shouldn’t have said that, Angie, surely that’s one can of worms you don’t need to hear about?’ mutters Jilly as I relay the ice skating story. Instantly, I regret sharing.

  When will I ever learn? Why can’t I be a strong, silent, independent type that keeps her inner goddess in charge of all her precious secrets? But no, I have to blurt and share… then, once criticised, I feel wounded. Stupid for sharing.

  ‘And?’ asks Jilly, eager to hear the details.

  I hesitate. Is there still time to put my inner goddess in charge? Or have I missed the boat?

  ‘Angie?’

  ‘Jilly, maybe I shouldn’t… you know, some things are private… I really shouldn’t have said.’

  Jilly stares and giggles.

  ‘Says the woman who once told me many moons ago about Nick’s insatiable liking for—’

  The office door bursts open and in walks Troy, the latest intern, his neatly trimmed beard hiding the face of a teenager.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. What the hell was Jilly about to say? Silk? Massages? Ice cubes? Or… I gulp, then blush. Yes, I do remember sharing some fairly intimate moments during a lingerie party at someone’s house after a few too many white wines. So what, if handcuffs and chocolate sauce had been our thing in the early days, surely it’s everyone’s thing at some point?

  I watch as Jilly peers at the paperwork Troy offers her. She must have the memory of an elephant to have squirrelled away that piece of information for so long.

  Even I’d forgotten that little detail.

  Jilly flirts with the youngster before he dashes from the office to escape the older woman.

  ‘What?’ she says, looking bashful.

  ‘Toy boy?’

  Jilly frowns.

  ‘I’m old enough to be his bloody mother and then some.’ She gives a cheeky wink, before continuing. ‘Anyway, where were we? Ah, yes, your Nick.’

  ‘No more… I have work to do.’ I busy myself as my mind replays last night’s scene in my head. It may keep my mouth from blurting details across the office to Jilly.

  But really, I need to get my head around what happened last night. What I told Jilly wasn’t the whole story. In fact, Nick took me by surprise.

  ‘Do you remember when Alfie was about six and we were having a rough time coping with all the changes of routine and each weekend was bicker, bicker, bicker?’

  I nodded. How could I forget? I was literally the stressed-out new mum at the school gate, with my hair scraped into a ponytail and no make-up, being the morning’s entertainment for the others.

  ‘I thought about leaving the marriage back then.’ His tone was sombre, hesitant and yet loving.

  I nodded, taking in this new revelation.

  ‘You thought it was all about you when the reality was…’ he inhaled deeply ‘…I’d met someone at work…’

  Was I hearing this correctly?

  ‘She started working in the draft office downstairs and we got chatting… and a polite good morning turned into regular coffee-break chats and before I knew it, I felt I was… falling for her.’ He looked up and held my gaze. ‘Do you get me?’

  I nodded, speechless. My mind drifted back to that awful time. With a young child, full of energy who I was convinced had some hyperactive condition, an aversion to sleep, a death wish and a fondness for attending A & E. I was a total wipe-out as regards anything outside Alfie’s routine, be it my own health, socialising or even my husband. I was closed, insular to everything other than my Alfie.

  ‘Nothing happened, I want to make that quite clear, but… it could have, very easily. I felt…’

  Don’t you dare say it, I thought.

  ‘…lonely and misunderstood.’

  He bloody well said it! My blood boiled. How sodding misunderstood could a man be who left the house every morning at eight and returned at six o’clock to clean shirts, a cooked meal and a freshly vacuumed lounge? If anyone was misunderstood and lonely at that time it was me, stuck at home all day waiting for a child to come home, so my exhausted body could entertain, educate and nurture some more. There were months when I never left the house apart from the school run or grocery shopping.

  ‘Anyway, I suggested that we stopped meeting for coffee before we hurt other people and… well… she left the company soon afterwards.’

  Be mature, talk it through, don’t lose it now, not when he’s got to this stage of the game. Listen. Respond calmly.

  ‘And you’ve never met up with her since?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘And thought about her?’

  ‘Sometimes, but never in the way you probably think.’

  Bloody hell, how honest is he? I couldn’t have admitted half that and I’ve done so much more. Is it me or is my blood boiling more this morning as regards Nick’s confession than it was last night?

  ‘Angie… are you wanting coffee or not?’ asks Jilly, waving at me across the desks.

  ‘Oh, yes, please.’ I watch as Jilly leaves our section. I make a mental note to not discuss my private life at work. I’m having a hard enough time keeping up with the revelations as it is.

  *

  Nina

  I’m dressed from top to toe in green Lycra, complete with a pointy hat adorned with a pair of pixie ears, freezing my ass off, in the company of twenty-four children aged four and below. I want to die. The screaming, whining and wailing is on a par with the soothing decibels created by a pneumatic drill. Six nursery assistants are busy nattering in a huddle, oblivious to the hullaballoo that is occurring around their knees. I am aware of every single voice. Though I am more aware that, given the nature of stretched Lycra, my underwear is clearly on show every time I turn about. I know, despite the averted eyes of the grotto team: all svelte beauties who are wearing suitable underwear because they’ve been ‘elfing’ since Saturday, that my red M&S briefs with lace detailing are the topic of conversation. Who knew that even little children could understand that ‘the lady’s underwear’ shouldn’t really be on display, but can’t refrain from pointing and whispering? I’ve done my best to stay positive and smile throughout. But I can’t keep this up for much longer.

  I’ve ushered along a group of children, creating happy and lasting memories, much to the delight of my boss. The second group appears to be noisier and more excited, if that’s possible.

  ‘Hello and welcome to Santa’s grotto,’ I yell, dredging up every ounce of enthusiasm I can muster. ‘Who’s ready to meet Santa?’

  A deafening cheer fills the sales yard. How can such tiny bodies make so much noise?

  In crocodile style, I lead them along the grotto path, their wide eyes looking warily around at the giant spruces looming overhead, the diminishing light and unexpected flight of disturbed birds. They all jump out of their skins when the chainsaws of the cutting crew make a surprise start in the distance.

  I slow the pace as we approach the snow-covered grotto.

  ‘Now, boys and girls, I need to see your best fairy steps as we near Santa’s grotto,’ I
whisper with dramatic effect. ‘Santa’s happy when he hears tippy-toes in the snow.’ The children react with chuckles and smiles, eager to please the elf in the red pants. I am trying my hardest, knowing that the expectation of any event is sometimes the greatest and lengthiest part of a childhood memory.

  Their tiny eyes grow wide, catching sight of twinkling fairy lights amidst brightly coloured fake presents stacked high either side of the entrance. Old Bill and I created an amazing winter scene befitting any Santa, and Mother Nature has been kind enough to put the icing on the grotto by topping it with a generous helping of fresh snow each night.

  Everything seems to be going so well.

  Standing at the entrance, I am systematically feeding two children at a time into the inner section, where a relay of elves asks for their first names before secretly squirrelling the information to Santa in preparation for the initial meet and greet where he magically knows their names without asking. Squeals of delight can be heard as two little bodies, supervised by their nursery assistants, are led around the corner to the great throne to meet Santa. Other elves take it in turns to capture the images on digital cameras to be saved and emailed to the nursery later on.

  But now, I wish I were anywhere else but here.

  For here, striding towards me, his tumble of brown curls bouncing, his winter coat flapping wide, is Luca, the Range Rover guy. Worse still, each hand is clasping a young boy’s hand, last seen play fighting each other.

  I rarely pray, but it seems the natural thing to do.

  Please, dear God, let the earth open wide and swallow me whole. Now. Now, please. Now!

  It doesn’t.

  My cheeks burn as he steps nearer. He automatically smiles at me before doing a double take and staring. His eyes travel down the length of my body to my toe-curling elf boots and slowly back up. I watch in horror as his mouth twitches uncontrollably and he tries his damnedest to fight it.

  Seriously, someone kill me now!

  ‘Hi and welcome to Santa’s grotto,’ I say, in my cheeriest elf voice. ‘If you’d like to step inside, my elf friends will organise your party in preparation for meeting Santa.’ I speak directly to his left ear. His dark eyes are somewhere to my right, staring straight at me. I break my focus and busy myself eagerly smiling at both children; boys aged about five and seven. The older one sticks his tongue out at me, but his father fails to see or correct as he is still staring at me, and probably my red underwear.