Finding Love at the Christmas Market

by Jo Thomas

  I walk back over the bridge towards the Old Town, checking my pictures as I go, when I’m practically bowled off my feet. I look down to see William’s Fritz, happily snaking around my legs.

  ‘Hello, lovely boy.’ I bend down and greet him, feeling as happy to see him as he is to see me. I hear the whistle. The dog doesn’t. I straighten, patting him, and spot William, leaning out of his front door, little flakes of glittery snow falling around him and the awning where the gingerbread is hanging. I catch my breath. It’s a beautiful scene. That gingerbread was so good and so different from what I’ve just seen being made. William comes outside now, his arm waving in my direction, trying to attract the dog’s attention. His dog stares up at me and, just for a moment, my heart flutters, like the snowflakes around me and those lit up outside the little shop in the orange glow from the windows and the big lantern in the street there. I want to capture the image but I won’t. Just in case he thinks I’m photographing him.

  He drops his arm, looks at me and the dog, and shakes his head. I give Fritz one last rub of the ears, then point towards his master. But he doesn’t move. I try again, and again he doesn’t move. A little giggle bubbles up in me. He’s reminding me of a naughty toddler, friendly but firmly refusing to go in after playing. He’s just looking at me, big pink tongue catching the little snowflakes, wagging his tail. I laugh. Then I take hold of his collar and gently turn his head towards the bakery. But he’s not playing ball. Just sitting and looking up at me. I have a new friend.

  I walk around him, pointing towards the shop, and this time he follows, in the direction of the bakery. His warm breath mists as it hits the cold air. But still he is looking up at me, not down the cobbled lane to William. I take a deep breath and walk a few steps towards the shop and the dog follows. I stop. The dog stops and sits. I point again. I don’t want to have to get too close. Just being this close brings back all the embarrassment of having that conversation with him online. What was I thinking? I can’t believe I could have mistaken my baking-group Facebook page for his shop’s, open because I’d looked it up when I was first meeting Heinrich. And then carrying on talking to him! Like he really was a member of my baking group. He’s not. He’s in competition with Heinrich and I need to remember that. I’m with Heinrich and he’s the opposition, however sad I’ll be for the Old Town when Heinrich wins.

  William waves and whistles again, making me jump, as we near the shop. To my relief, Fritz spots him and runs joyously back to him, to be patted and then returned to the warmth of the shop, wagging his tail, seemingly delighted he’s brought home a new friend. I slow right down so I don’t have to get too close, but I don’t stop walking altogether. I don’t want William to think I’ve made a complete fool of myself, even if that’s how I feel. Maybe I want to bluff it out. I lift my chin a little, which always makes me feel a little braver.

  ‘Um, thanks,’ he says, retreating into the shop. ‘He’s—’

  ‘Deaf,’ I finish. ‘Yes.’ I’m not sure what else to say. It’s like I’m standing in front of the man I met yesterday morning all over again, flushing, rattled, anxious, terrified I’ve made another mistake. I wrap my arms around myself, like a barrier, not letting anyone close. Since my last dating disaster, I’ve tended to keep everyone at arm’s length. It feels safer that way. That’s why the list is so important. I hadn’t known I could misread a situation so badly and now the only way I can judge things is in black and white. For a moment, we stand awkwardly, not knowing how to end the non-conversation.

  ‘Well, thanks again for bringing him back,’ he repeats, and waves a hand.

  ‘No problem,’ I say, grateful he doesn’t want to chat. Why would he? We’re not friends. And definitely nothing more … As he said, if he was going on a date, I wouldn’t be what he was looking for, and he definitely wouldn’t tick any of the boxes on my list. I shove my hands into my pockets, put my head down and walk on past the shop, feeling awkward as I pass him, as if I should have talked to him, found some common ground to establish polite boundaries and not appear rude. But I don’t. I keep walking and wonder at which point he goes back into the shop and shuts the door, or if he’s still there, watching me go. It isn’t until I get into the town square that I take a peep behind me. He’s gone. I breathe normally again.

  In the middle of the market, under the cover of the open-sided terrace, the fire pit burning brightly, I see Pearl and the others. Ron seems to be dressed as an angel and is handing sweets from a tinsel-covered sack to the occasional passer-by. The others are looking at a piece of paper and there are chairs all around them.

  ‘Hello? What’s going on here?’ I say, as I climb the couple of steps to the terrace.

  ‘Oh, Connie love, there you are! How was the gingerbread-making? Can we tick it off the list?’

  I hesitate. I wonder whether to lie, and just say yes, but something in me makes me shake my head. I hold out the gingerbread Santa in the box. They peer into it and say nothing.

  ‘Let’s just say Heinrich’s set-up is a little more commercial,’ I say.

  Pearl raises an eyebrow.

  ‘It’s a factory, is it?’ says Norman, straight to the point.

  ‘Well, um, yes. But amazing!’ I say. Because it is. Perfectly precise and high-performing. ‘Very impressive. By the way, why is Ron dressed as an angel?’ I ask Pearl.

  ‘He’s the Christmas angel. Goes around the market greeting children. Ticks another one off the list on the Christmas list. Ron was supposed to be the Archangel Gabriel in the school Nativity play, but got tonsillitis and had to stay at home. He’s never forgotten the disappointment.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I say, as if this is all perfectly normal. ‘And John?’

  Pearl shakes her head. ‘Not sure. Goes off in the morning, walking, and comes back in the evening without a word.’ She shrugs sadly. I put a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘So, what’s going on here?’ I point.

  ‘Outside cinema,’ Pearl announces, holding out an arm. ‘Anja has borrowed a projector and we’re going to be playing It’s a Wonderful Life tonight at six o’clock sharp! There’ll be snacks.’

  ‘Won’t it be cold?’ I ask, worrying about Maeve and Graham.

  ‘Not in these!’ And Pearl hands out hand-knitted Christmas jumpers. ‘Got a deal on them at the stall here in the market. Everyone is buying jumpers with Christmas logos and pictures on, these days. These are the real deal! A knitted Christmas jumper.’

  Norman takes the jumpers from Pearl with a smile and hands them around. ‘Boosted Frieda’s sales! She’s the jumper lady.’ She points. ‘We bought you yours as a Christmas present.’

  ‘Thank you, Pearl!’ I kiss her soft cheek.

  She smiles at me. ‘You do so much for all of us,’ she says softly.

  ‘If it wasn’t for you, some of us wouldn’t see anyone for days on end,’ says Alice. I feel choked thinking of Elsie. I wish I’d done more, popped in more often.

  ‘Oh, and I’ll take one for Heinrich too!’ I shove my hand into my handbag for my purse, searching for my euros.

  Pearl raises her eyebrows and tilts her head.

  ‘Thought I’d invite him here this evening to meet you all. This will be perfect.’ I look around at the white lights strung from the terrace to the bars, the steam rising from the glühwein, the smell of cinnamon and sizzling sausages on the food stalls around us and the cosy seating area around the fire pit.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ says Pearl. She squeezes my hand. At least if they meet and like Heinrich, they’ll stop asking me ‘if I’ve met someone yet’, like I’m the only person online dating who hasn’t met their perfect match. By the law of averages, it has to be my turn, surely.

  I make my way back to the guesthouse. There, I open my phone to upload my pictures for the Christmas memory album and to post in my baking group – my actual group this time. Ping! I jump with excitement and indignation at the same time. There’s another message.

  TWENTY

  How
was your date?

  It’s him. William.

  Sorry if I seemed rude earlier. I had some lebkuchen that needed to come out of the oven. Thank you for bringing my dog back. It was rude of me not to ask how your date went.

  I look at the message and think about ignoring it. I walk away from my phone, but I don’t close it. I just keep a watchful eye on it, although I have no idea why. I begin to get changed, though not in front of the phone. My hackles are up. I’m going to ignore him. I’m not going to respond. I think about him standing in the doorway of the bakery, thanking me for returning his dog. I’m not going to respond. He’s goading me, teasing me. I pull off a boot. He’s trying to start an argument. But why? Just because I’m here with Heinrich? Is that it? Or because Heinrich and I have put the effort into finding what we want, each other, and he can’t bear to see Heinrich happy? I pull off the other boot and throw it down next to the first. I go to respond, then turn away. I’m not going to reply, I tell myself, and brush my thick hair roughly, enjoying working through the tangles the wind had made. What if he’s just being polite? What if I could help resolve this feud between him and Heinrich? Find a way that they both get what they want and put an end to the rivalry. But I’m not going to respond. I pull out my make-up bag and start to reapply my lipstick, putting on far more than I intended. I stare at myself in the mirror. But what if I’m the one being rude? I sit heavily on the bed, wiggle my toes in their two pairs of socks and look at the screen. I’m still not going to respond.

  At his work bench, William looked at his computer screen. Maybe he shouldn’t have sent the message. But there was no way of taking it back now. Actually, he had no idea why he had. Just felt he should have said something when she saw him outside the shop and brought his dog back. Fritz had taken a shine to her and her friends. Who was this woman with her posse of pensioners? And what was she doing here, meeting Heinrich on a date? How had they got together? But the last thing he wanted to think about right now was Heinrich. Or his new girlfriend, for that matter. He had work to do. He rubbed his eyes. He was tired. But that was the life of the cake-maker and baker, like his father before him. He looked up at the picture of him and his father on the wall, taken the last time they’d won the cup, just as the bell tinkled, and the door opened, bringing with it a chilly gust but a welcome sight.

  ‘Hey, Paps!’ William was always happy to see his father, although he wished he wasn’t on a walking stick and clearly aching from the arthritis.

  ‘You look tired,’ his father said, in German. ‘You should get out. Go and see that boy of yours.’

  ‘I try, Paps, but it’s not easy with the competition coming up and, frankly, Marta is making it difficult for me. She knows the hours I work.’

  ‘Tsk. You need time off. The competition can wait. Go to the film this evening, in the square. Take your son.’

  ‘It can’t wait, Paps. We have to lift the curse. We have everything riding on it this year, what with the ice rink.’ He waved at the square. ‘This has to be the year we finally win the competition again.’

  ‘I wish I could help. These damn hands.’ Joseph looked down at them, in fingerless gloves, and banged the walking stick on the flagstone floor.

  ‘Don’t worry, Paps. I’m going to make you proud of the shop this year, and the town.’

  His father looked at him. ‘You just need to be proud of yourself. Make your son proud of you.’

  ‘Right now, he sees me as the bad guy. The one who chose baking over him and his mother. I don’t know how to change it. I didn’t choose baking. It’s … just what I do. It’s the hours. Well, you know that. You’ve been doing it all your life.’

  His father nodded. ‘Maybe it’s time this place had a revamp. We should bring it into the modern world. Heinrich and the family are doing big business.’

  William liked the shop as it was, but maybe Joseph was right. Now, though, he wasn’t going to give in to the idea.

  ‘Let the cake speak for itself, Paps. It’s going to be as modern as it gets. There is no way Heinrich can beat it this year. Not unless he has spies in every corner of this town.’

  ‘I hope so, son. The town has a lot riding on it. They’re relying on you,’ he said, lifting himself stiffly from the stool he’d sat on to one side of the old wooden counter. He turned to leave. ‘I’ll bring you back coffee. I want to go and listen to the choir singing before the film-showing in the square. Always loved the choir.’

  ‘Great. I must get on,’ said William. He went to shut down the laptop and put it away. The last thing he needed was any more distractions. He had to work, he thought, just as his father had done. The brass bell tinkled again, and he watched his father step out into the cold, snow-sprinkled afternoon, bent against the breeze.

  Ping! A message popped into his inbox, stopping him in his tracks as he went to shut the computer, and making him smile. It was a rare feeling these days, smiling.

  Fine, thank you, I type briskly, because I’m really not intending to reply at all. But at least I’m not being rude and ignoring him. I’ve been polite. I mean, I’ve no reason to ignore him. He’s the cake-maker in this town, part of the community. I don’t want it to be awkward when I see him, especially if Heinrich and I were to … get together. I’d be here. Visiting.

  I message Heinrich too. His time for picking up messages is between one and two p.m., so I should just get in on time. Hi, Heinrich. They are showing It’s a Wonderful Life in the square here tonight at six p.m. I would love it if you could join me and meet my friends. I press send, and as I do, a message pops into my inbox, making my heart jump into my mouth, worrying it’s William replying. But it’s not. My heart settles. It’s Heinrich. Our messages must have crossed. My parents would like to know if you’d like to join us for dinner tonight at 7 p.m. until 9.30 p.m.

  Heinrich is clearly very hot on timekeeping. At least I know where I am with him and he doesn’t let me down. I wait a second and another message comes through from him: he’s just seen mine. No problem. I’ll arrange my parents for tomorrow, he says, and I smile but am also terrified again. I was scared enough meeting him, but now meeting his parents! That makes us official! I remember Sam telling me to enjoy the journey. I need Heinrich to meet Pearl and the gang first, just to make sure I’m doing the right thing. If Pearl likes him, I’ll know it’s right. I place my hand on my notebook.

  Ping!

  My head snaps back to the screen.

  How was your gingerbread masterclass?

  Phffff!

  I could just ignore him. But this is a man who knows gingerbread, or lebkuchen, as he’d corrected me.

  Did you find out all you wanted to know?

  My fingers hover over the keyboard. Not in as much depth as I would have liked, I reply. But I did get to try Bethmännchen.

  Ah. A pastry made from marzipan. And did you like it?

  Yes! What else is in it?

  It’s done with almond, powdered sugar, rosewater and eggs. They are usually baked for Christmas Day. Lots of chocolate shops around Frankfurt sell them.

  And what about stollen? I think about my baking group and how I can report what goes into stollen. Before I know it, I’m drawn into a conversation and the minutes tick by.

  Ah, but I much prefer Christmas cake to stollen.

  No, no! That’s a very British thing! He puts a smiley face after it, making me smile.

  Show me one! he says.

  I hesitate and then think, Why not? I’m building bridges here between Heinrich and William. This is my way of helping the two get along and maybe for the competition to come to an end, if that’s what it will take to save the Old Town market and the businesses there.

  I resettle myself on the bed and send over a picture of a Christmas cake I made this year. He’s impressed and sends me one of his.

  I’m speechless. It’s incredible, I type, looking at last year’s competition cake. And it didn’t win?

  The other end of the conversation goes silent. I look at t
he screen. Did the connection drop out? I check the Wi-Fi and my charger cable, which I’ve had to attach as the battery has worn down during this conversation.

  Hello? I type, feeling as if I’ve been ghosted, with no idea as to why.

  How rude! What was I thinking, chatting to this man as if we’re friends? He’s been rude from the moment I met him!

  Ping!

  Sorry, got to go. I have a date! he messages.

  Oh, fine, no problem. It was … nice to chat, I was going to say. But he’s offline, no longer active on Messenger, and I’m left standing in an empty chat room, reminded of how I felt when I was last faced with silence at the other end of the message line. God! What was I thinking? That was … Well, if I’m honest, it was great just talking about baking, fascinating even, but weird, as it was that grumpy sod from the bakery I was talking to. It just felt like the most natural conversation in the world. I’ll try to talk to Heinrich more about baking when we meet. I look at the time on my phone clock.

  ‘Oh, God! Heinrich!’ My whole body leaps into panic mode. Nerve endings included.

  I slam the phone shut, pull on my big thick Christmas jumper with reindeer round the chest, grab my scarf and hat and run out of the room. How could I have lost track of time like that? I really don’t want to mess this up. I couldn’t bear to get it badly wrong again. As I’m running down the dark wooden stairs, with swags of greenery wound all the way down to the lights and decorations in the hallway, I’m replaying the conversation about stollen with the picture of William’s cake from last year in my head. I’m coming to really like this place. How could you not like a town with cake and baking at the heart of it?

  Anja is at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Someone looks happy. All okay? Going well?’ She beams, her cheeks red and rosy.