by Jo Thomas
‘I’d like to make gingerbread,’ I say finally, ‘a gingerbread house.’ And again I think of Heinrich. It could be the perfect date for us. We could really find out whether or not we’re a match if we can work in the kitchen together, share our passion for baking.
‘Write it down,’ Pearl insists, and points to my notebook. I make a note, then flick through the pages where my date details will go. I think about Sam sitting me down at the kitchen table and helping me decide on all the things I should look for in a man. Let’s hope Heinrich is the last in my dating diary.
I think about him and how he reminds me of my seventeen-year-old love. He makes me feel young again. And safe. Like everything is mapped out. I get the feeling I’d always know where I stood with Heinrich.
‘I’ve always wanted to skate,’ says Maeve, looking out from her wheelchair to the space where the rink will go. I look at Pearl, who raises her eyebrows and nods to the book.
‘Oh, I’m not sure …’ I start.
Pearl gives me a firm look and I do as I’m told and write it down. I seem to have a habit of doing as I’m told when it comes to Pearl.
‘I’d like to see a Nativity … a living one,’ says Alice.
‘And wear a Christmas jumper,’ says Ron.
‘I love a Christmas jumper,’ says Norman.
‘Decorate a Christmas tree. Simply. No tinsel!’ says John, brightening up and getting into the swing of it. ‘Violet hated tinsel.’
‘Stroke a donkey!’ says Norman.
‘See a shooting star!’ says Di.
‘Get tipsy!’ says Pearl. ‘And find a man wearing lederhosen!’ She giggles some more. Everyone looks at her and laughs. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard laughter like that. And apparently it’s the same with them: they suddenly stop, surprising themselves, giving little coughs.
‘Find gifts that mean something and don’t cost the earth,’ says Alice, and we slip gently back to earth.
‘Well, these memories don’t cost anything … not really,’ I say, trying to lift the mood. ‘I think we should try to do as many of them as we can before we leave on Sunday. Don’t you, Pearl? And when we have, we’ll scatter Elsie’s ashes. We’ll find the best place to keep her Christmas spirit alive.’
Pearl looks at everything I’ve written down.
‘We’re making memories. No regrets, isn’t that what you said?’ I ask her.
‘It is!’ She nods. ‘We’ll do the list, even if we die trying!’ There’s a moment’s silence, then everyone laughs again and agrees.
‘Let’s find out if there’s any of that Christmas spirit we used to know and feel left in the world,’ says Pearl.
And Anja claps her hands in delight. ‘It’s a time for making memories.’ She looks around at the market, as if she’s trying to imprint it in her mind. I want her to enjoy this time as much as us, to have the memories to hold on to if the worst happens and the market doesn’t survive.
I agree and think about Heinrich. If ever there were the right ingredients to fall in love, I have a feeling this list has them all. If I can get him along for the ride, I’ll find out if Heinrich really is kind and generous, and has a sense of humour. And if I am the woman who ticks all his boxes.
‘Good luck with that,’ says Maeve, and I’m not sure if she’s talking about me and Heinrich or her ice skating.
FOURTEEN
As we leave the square, moving away from the noise and the partygoers, Heinrich guides me through the crowds, with his arm around my shoulders. My ears are buzzing after the gig in the New Town square. It was like I was a teenager all over again and I can’t help but smile. I have no idea who the band were, but they were loud and everyone seemed to be loving their sound. Heinrich had known I’d like them, he said, judging by my other musical taste, and he was right, they were great. Even if I did feel my age. There were lights all around the square, projections on the buildings of different-coloured falling snow, and the glühwein definitely hit the spot. Heinrich wasn’t drinking and I only had a couple. He has to be up early to work on his cake and I’m dying to ask what it’s like, but I know I can’t with both towns sworn to secrecy.
He takes me towards the river. I peer up at the white-and-rose-pink lit castle, and the white lights of the Old Town scattered across the hillside away from it and at its foot, like glittering snowflakes. I catch my breath. It’s beautiful. Then Heinrich stops and turns to me. I look up at him and he looks down at me, then bends and places his lips firmly and confidently on mine, as if he had the whole procedure mapped out. I try to relax into the kiss, and when he finally pulls away, he’s smiling.
‘Good?’ he says.
I smile back and up at him. ‘Good.’ We’ve got this sussed. It was good. And we’re being open and honest with each other and that’s great.
‘And I’ll see you tomorrow?’ he says, more like a statement than a question.
‘Yes, lovely. I have some things I need to do with my friends,’ I start.
‘The old people you drove here,’ he says directly.
‘Um, yes. My friends,’ I reiterate.
‘Do you have friends your own age?’
I’m thrown for a moment. Not really. But is that the wrong answer?
‘Some,’ I lie. There’s my Facebook baking group.
‘Okay, let’s make a plan for tomorrow.’
‘I’ll message you,’ I say, and I can tell he’s a little on the back foot, not knowing exactly what the plan for tomorrow is. But I tell him I’ll let him know as soon as I can.
I turn down Heinrich’s offer to escort me back to the guesthouse, preferring instead to walk across the bridge and give myself time to think about that kiss. It’s cold now, really cold, but clear. Gone are the drizzle and gloom of the morning. I roll my lips, tasting his kiss on them. Gentle, soft and really quite nice, lovely even. He’s a very neat kisser. I pull out my notebook. I could get used to that kiss. I want to remember everything about this trip. But I can barely write with my gloves off as my hands are so cold. I put away my notebook and walk back across the bridge, away from the bright lights and the disco beat that has started now the band has finished. I’d have quite liked to stay later, but with the competition only days away Heinrich needs an early night to keep a clear head, he tells me. I’m not sure if that’s about me or the competition or both.
My feet ache and it’s only ten, but I’ll have to be careful not to wake Pearl when I get back to the guesthouse. It’s been a long day and I can’t wait to get into bed and allow myself to wonder what it would be like to go to bed with Heinrich. As lovely as the kiss, I expect. I think about some of the awful goodnight kisses I’ve had on first and last dates and shudder. This one was lovely. No clashing of noses or cheekbones, no scrape of stubble, or the taste of tandoori chicken as happened once. And it was real, which is more than my last date was. I like him and, by the sound of it, he likes me. I’m happy, determined to message Sam when I get in and tell him all about my successful date. I’m back in the saddle and I’m glad. I have a spring in my step as I head towards the market square, cutting through the little cobbled street, past the bakery where I first met Heinrich.
As I pass, the lights in the bay window are still on, creating that warm orange glow down the narrow street. There is something about the shop that just draws me to it. It’s beautiful, almost magnetic. I feel a sense of loss, something from the past, something missing, but I don’t know what it is, a feeling of belonging perhaps. I go to look in the window, and as I move closer, I suddenly see William appear from a back room, holding a cup of coffee and heading for a work bench. I reel back into the shadows. The last thing I want is for him to see me staring into his shop. He’s the competition now, Heinrich’s competition, and as I’m … What am I? Dating? Stepping out? ‘Talking’, as the younger generation seem to call it, these days, before officially ‘coming out’ as boyfriend and girlfriend. But I’m way too old to be talking about ‘talking’ and ‘boyfriend and girlfriend’. ‘Par
tner’ is a better word.
From a distance, near enough to where I was this morning, I see William bend over his work bench. Around his head is the red and white bandana, tying back his unruly dark hair from his eyes. I feel as if I’m spying, but it is captivating to watch him work, so focused on the job in hand. I wonder what his competition piece is. And the rumours about the Cologne curse. I think about what he might have meant about life going back to how it was. I turn away, and suddenly I hear a shout from the end of the street. ‘Come back!’ It’s an English voice I recognize, and now there’s a commotion. Not again! They can’t be following me still …
I walk quickly towards the square and see a donkey. If I’m not mistaken, the shepherd leading it around the market square is …
‘Norman?’
‘Ah, Connie love. Glad you’re here. We’re short of a Wise Man, if you fancy it.’
I stare at him incredulously. ‘Norman, what are you doing?’
‘The Christmas list!’ He gazes at me as if everything is perfectly normal. I wonder if it’s me or him who’s the odd one here. ‘This is Axel. He lives with Christian, the hot-chocolate-seller, just up the mountain.’ He jerks a thumb in the direction of the castle. ‘Anja said they were looking for people to help out with the living Nativity. Not enough cast members this year, apparently. So we offered to help. Everyone’s here!’ He points to a wooden stall under the clock tower, lit up and full of straw. There in the stable, among the straw, is … everyone. I throw back my head and laugh with joy at my friends, lit up in the stable against the night sky.
‘So that’s one ticked off the list, then!’ I can’t stop smiling, looking at them all.
‘Two, actually. Remember the donkey!’ Axel pulls on his rope and drags Norman off around the market to the laughter of the others in the living Nativity scene.
‘Haven’t laughed so much in years!’ says Graham, holding his stick with both hands to steady himself.
‘It’s all right for you! I’ve still got rope burns from being dragged around that market.’ Norman’s grinning.
‘Here, have a top-up.’ Di pours him some more glühwein from the Thermos jug on the table as we sit on a bench under a wooden roof, bars around the outside keeping out the wind and cold, the fire pit burning in the middle, white fairy lights all around and gentle music playing in the background.
As we sit around sipping, suddenly I feel something wet in my hand on my lap. It’s William’s Fritz. Once again he goes around and greets each of us with a wagging tail and his head in our laps. Each of us greets him, smiling, even Maeve. My heart lurches as I hear the dog’s name being called. Once again, embarrassment at my mistake this morning washes over me. William walks up to us, hands shoved into the pockets of his big worn coat, smiling.
‘Sorry!’ He puts up a hand. ‘Good evening, all!’ He nods to each of us and I lower my head to my terracotta mug. I can feel him smile – he knows how uncomfortable I feel and finds it amusing.
‘I hear the Nativity scene was a great success this evening. Thank you,’ he says. ‘Let me get you some more glühwein.’
Some of the group say that would be lovely, others try to turn him down but end up saying, ‘Oh, go on, then.’
I say, ‘Not for me, thank you,’ intending to head straight for bed, but I’m not sure he heard me.
He goes to the bar, orders a jug of glühwein and a beer for himself. Clearly not as dedicated as Heinrich, who headed off for an early night to get up early to work on his creation for Sunday.
Fritz greets the other few drinkers in the bar – stallholders having a nightcap before closing up – who know him well, pat him fondly and greet him like he’s a regular, which he probably is. William brings over the jug and just the smell is intoxicating. The scent of cinnamon mixed with woodsmoke from the fire is like a warm blanket being wrapped around me and, surprisingly, no one is feeling the cold. William thanks everyone again, and I shrink into my big scarf to avoid catching his eye. Then he heads back to stand at the bar with the stallholders. Out of the corner of my eye I see him taking a long draught from his beer, closing his eyes, then putting down the bottle and opening them. I can’t help watching him. He has things on his mind, clearly. Suddenly he looks at me and I turn away quickly, like I’ve been caught red-handed. I feel the blush around my neck and in my cheeks that always appears when he’s around.
Then, as quickly as he came, he waves to Fritz, bids everyone at the bar goodnight and leaves, the dog happy to follow.
‘To the Christmas list,’ says Pearl, and raises her glass. ‘And the first two ticked off.’
Looks like we’re going to try to fulfil each and every one and my heart flutters as I remember the gingerbread date I have planned with Heinrich. I wonder where it might lead.
Back at the guesthouse we weave our way to bed, Maeve to the downstairs room and the rest of us upstairs, Di guiding Graham. Pearl gets into bed and quizzes me on my evening. When I’ve answered all her questions and described the band, the square and every last detail, we say goodnight and she settles into her pillows. I switch off the light and hope she sleeps well. She did a lot of tossing and turning last night. Right now, I’m wide awake. Sam has messaged asking how my day has been and I message him back telling him about Heinrich, the market and the living Nativity, ripples of laughter bubbling up in me every time I think of Norman, Axel the donkey, and Maeve as the Virgin Mary, her big blue dress like a tent, covering the wheels of her chair! It may have been a tablecloth. I think about Fritz, greeting us all in turn, making sure he didn’t miss anyone, not even Maeve – particularly not Maeve – and making a fuss of Pearl.
My stomach rumbles and I wish I could make tea and toast, like I used to when Sam came home from a night out. I couldn’t sleep until he got back. It’s different now. Now I don’t know what he’s up to, or who he’s with.
I check on Pearl, who looks to be sleeping lightly. And then I look at the photographs Sam has sent through: arriving on the slopes with his attractive, dark-haired girlfriend Amy, with goggles on her head, smiling as much as he is in all the images. That’s what I miss: someone to share things with, to watch a sunset and say, ‘Wow, look at that!’ To cook a roast dinner on a Sunday and open a bottle of wine. I miss the sharing. To be honest, I’m not sure I ever had it. When I met Tom, Sam’s dad, I thought I’d found love. But after Sam was born, the sharing seemed to fizzle out, and I think that’s what I missed most. He’d eat at separate times, go to bed at different times, and had taken a job working away so that he just came home at weekends. The sharing disappeared and I’d love to have it again. I was lonely in our marriage for a long time before Tom left. Sharing is how I want to show love and feel loved, I suppose. Sharing the cakes I baked with the pensioners saved me, really.
I think back to those nights at Christmas, making the gingerbread houses with my grandmother, sharing that time with her, making memories together. Then I remember the gingerbread heart in my handbag, the one Heinrich gave me. My stomach rumbles so loudly, I worry it might wake Pearl. I reach in, pull out the heart and peel off the wrapping, as excited as a child on Christmas Eve. Pearl seems to be sleeping soundly.
I snap off a piece. The smell is gorgeous as I put it into my mouth and scroll through Sam’s Facebook pictures, wondering what else I can tell him about Heinrich’s and my first date, other than that he seems to be who he says he is, is clean and smart, and I had a lovely time. Suddenly I sit up. What on earth?
FIFTEEN
I feel like … I don’t know what I feel like. I’m sitting upright in bed, chewing gingerbread. It’s not just my mouth that feels alive. Every bit of me feels alive, warm, fuzzy, like I’ve been hugged. My mouth is warm with spice. I break off another piece and chew it, slower this time, registering all of the flavours and letting it take me wherever it wants to. I feel as if I’m at home, as a child, with my grandparents and all the excitement of Christmas Eve, knowing I’ll never be able to sleep. I remember feeling so excited, happy and l
oved. Just like Alice with the hot chocolate, I’m right back there. Nothing bad could happen. Life was wonderful. We didn’t have a lot of money, but there was my grandmother’s gingerbread, which I’d helped to make. The house smelt of it for days after she’d baked the gingerbread house, now in pride of place on the dresser. As we decorated it, I’d put one Smartie on the house and one in my mouth.
I remember the carefree laughter. It was the same laugh I remember hearing in Sam. A laugh I remember from when I met my boyfriend on that school exchange trip. Before I met Sam’s dad and became pregnant and life took a different path from the one I was expecting. I don’t remember laughing like that for a very long time, except tonight, at the living Nativity. I haven’t laughed like that with any of my online dates. Especially not after the one who stole everything from me, my confidence and dignity with it. That was why Sam had bought me the notebook and insisted on ‘the list’.
Why did I suddenly go off piste or, at least, off list, ignoring all the signs? Was I just flattered that someone could want me as much as they said they did? I take another bite of the gingerbread heart, which seems to rebalance my world. If it hadn’t been for Pearl I would never have considered online dating again. Things could be going my way at last. I take another bite of the gingerbread and wonder if Heinrich and I will laugh together with carefree abandon.
I pick up my phone from among the dips and folds of the duvet and go to message my Facebook baking group. Then I open my Messenger tab. Sam is always telling me off for keeping too many tabs open, but it’s easier if I want to dip in and out of a conversation, or have a conversation on the go with more than one person, like when Heinrich messaged this evening. I’ve become pretty dextrous at swapping between tabs as I chat to him, Sam and the group. He’s messaged me now: Goodnight. Looking forward to our next date tomorrow. Is there anything you would like to do?
