Christmas on Primrose Hill

by Karen Swan

  ‘He thinks I’m a crazy chick?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘It would seem so,’ Jules shrugged, laughing quietly.

  ‘That’s amazing, right?’

  ‘Coming from the likes of Jamie Westlake? It’s the highest form of flattery, I reckon.’

  Nettie turned with a sigh, resting her forehead on the window. ‘He thinks I’m a crazy chick,’ she murmured happily.

  ‘So, about tomorrow . . .’

  ‘Hi, Dad.’

  Her father looked up from his spot at the table as he heard the door close. He was wearing a headtorch and had that faraway look in his eyes that he always got when working on one of his special projects. This one was a 1:24 scale model of HMS Victory and seemed to Nettie to be like knitting with matchsticks.

  ‘Hello, Button,’ he smiled. ‘How was your day?’

  She paused momentarily from unwinding her scarf. How exactly should she tell him that she’d been arrested in Trafalgar Square, while dressed as a giant blue bunny, for having a bath of iced water poured over her on the hallowed fourth plinth? Even if it was for a good cause, it was still ridiculous. And it wasn’t like the number of views on YouTube, or her legion of followers on Twitter, was going to mean anything to him – not compared with an arrest sheet. They needed to have the police on their side. She felt a twist of anxiety in her stomach, knowing she’d let him down today. ‘Oh, you know – dull.’

  ‘Well, only this week and next to go and then you’ve got a fortnight’s rest. You look like you could do with it. You’re white as a sheet.’

  ‘Mm, I’m cold. It’s perishing out there,’ she said, hanging up her coat, scarf and bobble hat, and walking down the hall to him. She planted a kiss on his cheek. He smelt of toast. ‘Wow. That’s looking great.’

  Her father’s brows knitted together. ‘Mmm. I don’t know whether it’s my eyes failing or my hands, but I can’t seem to make it work properly. I’m all butterfingers, having to redo everything twice.’

  ‘You’re tired too, Dad. You should just . . . you know, rest for a bit. You never stop. I take it you were working in the orchard today?’

  ‘Can’t stop, love. Who’s going to get those saplings in if I don’t? Everyone else is busy with their jobs.’

  ‘As are you,’ she said, patting his shoulder and walking towards the fridge. ‘Those books don’t write themselves, you know.’

  ‘I know, but it’s different working for yourself. I can dictate my own hours.’

  Nettie glanced back at him. She knew perfectly well what hours those took – he pretended to her that he worked during the day while she was at work, but she heard him tapping away on the keyboard through the night, knowing he was unable to sleep. Those ‘power naps’ he took in his chair throughout the day were all that passed for his rest, and he kept his days filled up, never allowing himself time to stop and think, to feel, to remember. Instead, he threw himself into community projects that meant endless meetings with councillors and support groups, his days spent canvassing signatures, his evenings taken up with reading reports. He was the person who’d first suggested the idea of a Primrose Hill Christmas Market when Camden Council had turned round and said they didn’t have the budget for Christmas lights; it was he who had lobbied for a community orchard to revitalize and regenerate the patch of scrub on St George’s Terrace; thanks to him, there were now pretty hanging baskets in Erskine Road; and he had been key in spearheading the campaign to reopen the library and hand over its running to a team of local volunteers when the council had closed it due to cuts. ‘Have you eaten?’ she asked.

  ‘Just finished. Sardines on toast. I wasn’t sure if you were eating out tonight or not.’

  She groaned. ‘As if I’m going out with Jules again, ever.’

  ‘I’ve heard that before,’ her father chuckled. ‘Still cut up about her boyfriend, is she?’

  ‘Well, she’d deny it to the death if you asked her, but I’d say so. I mean, it’s been nearly a year now, but she’s . . . I don’t know, just partying too hard.’

  ‘Grief displacement,’ her father said, nodding sombrely as he resumed trying to glue together sticks smaller than nail clippings. ‘It’s not unusual.’

  Nettie glanced back at him, almost bemused by his diagnosis. Could he really not see the parallels? She wondered whether he’d received a text from Gwen too. ‘So did you make your word count today?’

  ‘Hmm? Oh, um, no, not quite.’

  ‘But the deadline you set was January, wasn’t it?’ Her father had always insisted that a deadline – even a self-imposed one – was crucial for condensing and focusing the creative spirit.

  ‘Indeed, but I’ll make it up tomorrow. I just had a . . . block, you know. Worked it out now, though.’

  ‘Great,’ she murmured sceptically.

  ‘Ah, but one thing I did manage to get done,’ he said, pushing his chair away from the table and walking past her to the back door. He opened it and reached for something outside.

  Nettie felt herself tense, bracing for what she knew was coming. She had been expecting it any day for the past week. Her father straightened up, bringing inside a small potted spruce, the bonsai of the Christmas-tree world. It was only just over a foot tall, its fronds as wispy as a teenager’s stubble.

  ‘Oh, it’s looking good,’ she said encouragingly as her father carried it in. ‘Much healthier looking than last year, anyway.’

  ‘Yes. It’s liking this bigger pot,’ her father said, pleased. ‘Where do you think we should put it? Sitting room?’

  She pulled a face. ‘Probably on the table again? It’s still a bit small, don’t you think, for going on the floor?’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. It still looks too much like a cat’s scratching post, doesn’t it?’ He laughed lightly, pain in his eyes.

  ‘Maybe next year,’ she offered.

  ‘We won’t need it next year, Button,’ he said stoutly. ‘Do you want to put some newspaper under before I set it down? God knows I’ll get in trouble if I leave ring marks on the table.’

  Nettie ran to the recycling bin and grabbed yesterday’s papers, arranging them on the table, then filled a shallow dish with water. Her father set down the miniature tree in the middle of it, and Nettie fetched a small box from the cupboard under the stairs. From it, she pulled out a small red tablecloth and draped it round the base, obscuring the dish and papers; then she took out three baubles – one was a softly felted Christmas fairy dangling from a golden thread, so that from a distance it looked like she was actually flying; the second was a plump gingham goose; the third a tiny china robin with the reddest of red breasts.

  ‘Here, tell me what you think. I bought the new one this morning,’ he said, reaching up to the shelf where her mother’s favourite potteries were kept (all made by Nettie at school and woe betide anyone who touched them) and handing over a small brown paper bag, the top neatly folded over.

  She lifted out an intricately carved wooden snowflake with tiny jingle bells in the centre.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  Nettie handled it like it was an injured bird. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Yes, I thought so too. Your mother will love it when she gets home.’

  Nettie handed it back to him without meeting his eyes and he carefully placed it centre front on the miniature tree. But even on a tree as tiny as theirs, the four baubles did a scant job of decorating it.

  ‘It gets bigger and prettier every year – just like you,’ her father said quietly, placing an arm round her shoulder and squeezing it tightly. ‘This Christmas is the one, Button, I know it.’

  She dropped her shoulder on his head, wishing she could share in his certainty. ‘I know, Dad.’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Just think of Jamie!’ Jules shouted as another gust of wind reared up from behind her and blew her hair in front of her face.

  ‘That’s easy for you to say!’ Nettie shouted back, but with a tremor in her voice. She gripped the rope tighter, keeping
her eyes dead on Jules’s as the expert did the final safety checks.

  ‘Here, here have another tot,’ Jules said, running over and handing across the hip flask again. Somehow, she managed to make a fluoro safety vest look like a fashion statement.

  ‘But I’ve had five already.’

  ‘Yeah, and you still look like you need the bottle. Go on.’

  Nettie nodded and took another shot. The liquid amber burned her mouth, her throat, her stomach; but it did blur, slightly, the terror that was darting around her like a firework in a box.

  ‘Are you sure this harness will work?’ she asked, turning to the safety instructor again.

  ‘Admittedly it is our biggest size. We usually use this for lifting cows,’ he chuckled. ‘Luckily you don’t weigh the same. It’s absolutely fine.’

  ‘You’ll be fine, Nets,’ Jules echoed, placing her hands on Nettie’s shoulders.

  Nettie tried to smile back, but she knew she was mad, stark raving mad, to be putting herself through this. She did not like heights. It was her Official Fear. For some, it was spiders or small spaces or the dark or rubber-soled boots. For her, it was standing 308 metres above London with only a rope to keep her alive. The city – her home town – was very, very far below her, cars like scuttling beetles, pedestrians no more than pin-dots from this height. Buildings rippled away into the distance, morphing into an indistinct grey that merged with the far sky. On nearby ledges, charcoal pigeons ruffled their feathers and stared down across their domain.

  ‘So remember, Mike’s filming all this. Caro’s shooting from the ground looking up.’

  ‘It doesn’t make me feel better to know that if I fall, the entire thing will be recorded, Jules.’ She pointed a stern paw at her friend. ‘And you are not to use it if I do.’

  ‘As if!’ Jules laughed. ‘Anyway, if you did fall, wearing that thing you’ll probably bounce.’

  Nettie whitened on the spot.

  ‘Hey, hey,’ Jules said, paling too and giving her a big hug – well, as big as she could get with Nettie in the bunny suit. ‘It was supposed to be a joke. I’m just messing with you. Listen, you’ll be fine. Stop looking like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like you’re going to burst into tears.’

  ‘But I think I might.’ Nettie bit her lip just as the health-and-safety officer came over with the White Tiger media executive, Scott Faulkner, and a photographer from the Evening Standard. ‘Oh, do you want a . . . ? Yes, of course.’ She quickly pulled the rabbit head on and tried to lock her knees as the lens clicked.

  ‘Right,’ said Jonno, the crazy-damn-fool climbing professional who was doing the abseil with her and looked as relaxed as if he was about to drift on a lilo in a pool. ‘You set to go?’

  She shook her head, but he laughed and patted her shoulder like she was joking. ‘That’s the spirit. Come on, then. Just remember we’re in this together.’

  He went and stood by the edge, seemingly unperturbed by the sheer drop a foot to his right. It made a mockery of the steep slope on the ice course in Lausanne last week and Nettie wondered, for the thousandth time, exactly how, in the course of a few days, her life had been usurped by a timetable of daily dares that were damn near killing her with fright. He tugged and pulled at her body harness, which was about to become the only thing separating her life from death, for a final time.

  ‘OK, we’re good to go. Now just remember, stepping over is the hardest part. What did I tell you to do?’

  ‘Lean back, feet flat, trust in the equipment,’ she replied in a monotone.

  ‘Exactly. Trust in me. Trust in yourself, Nessie. This is going to be fine. You’re going to want to do it all again as soon as it’s over.’

  ‘I’m really not,’ she said quickly, her voice thin with fear that she was placing her life in the hands of a man who couldn’t even get her name right.

  ‘That’s what they all say. Just trust in me.’ His brown eyes were steady upon her and she nodded out of politeness, trying to remind herself this guy was a professional. The White Tiger insurance team had been all over this like a haemorrhagic fever and she must have filled out thirty forms. They wouldn’t be letting her do this if it wasn’t safe – not because they cared about her, but because her omeletting the pavement in their name really would be bad publicity.

  She stepped back so that her heels overlapped the edge of the roof. Half of her was now officially hanging over London, and adrenalin was rushing in torrents through her system, making her limbs tingle, her stomach flip. Everything was suddenly clearer – the white clouds in the grey sky (God, it was such a dreary day; please don’t let her die on a dreary day), the still-bright green ‘Fire exit’ notice by the door, the puffs of smoke coming from some far-off chimney stacks in the Hampstead Heath direction and suggesting a retired gentleman reading his papers in the library of his Victorian house, while she . . .

  She tried to focus. Trust in the equipment. Trust in Jonno.

  She looked across. He was already dangling back in the harness, his feet propped against the glass wall like he was lying in bed, watching her.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked.

  Of course she wasn’t. It was a ridiculous question. Who was ever ready to step backwards off the Shard, one of the highest tower blocks in London, and pretend to be a whale for Chrissakes? And yet her body was disobeying both logic and instinct as her hands – visibly shaking – closed round the rope.

  ‘That’s it,’ Jonno murmured. ‘Now just lean back. That’s all it is. Just a lean. The equipment will do the rest for you.’

  She couldn’t move.

  ‘I know it’s hard. This is the ultimate test of mind over matter. Just take your time.’

  Take her time? How did eighty years sound?

  And yet slowly, in degrees, she realized she was beginning to lean back, her legs bending as she took one foot off the roof and placed it lower, on the wall instead. The paws of the bunny suit weren’t grippy, but they were long enough to create some sort of base to push on and she held the pose for a few long seconds, her eyes scrunched shut, her lips unwittingly moving as she willed herself to move the other leg too, her hands registering that the rope was tight, her harness already pulling round her as she leaned into it. Instinct told her everything would free-fall – that the ground would rush up – and she felt her arms and legs go liquid with fear. But everything held. She wasn’t falling yet.

  With her eyes still closed, she moved the other foot in a rush of courage. Perhaps she moved it too quickly, eager to be done with it, for the movement threw her off balance and the other leg slipped off the glass so that she was suddenly dangling above the far-distant street.

  She screamed. Jules screamed. Nettie screamed again.

  Jonno grinned, reaching over and steadying her as she twirled and spun on the rope, clutching it desperately, her eyes wide open now behind the mask. Oh God, she was going to die. She was going to die on a dreary day dressed as a mutant rabbit. ‘No worries, Nessie. That happens to most people. Me too, first time I tried it.’

  His voice was so quiet, so calm, that Nettie had to stop screaming to hear him. She had also realized that although she was still dangling, she wasn’t actually falling. Trust in the equipment. She was shaking from head to toe.

  ‘Ready to put your feet up now? You’ve done the hardest bit.’ Jonno was still holding her rope and she had stopped pivoting.

  She nodded frantically. Anything – anything – that meant she was touching the lovely solid glass-and-concrete structure, and not space, was a welcome prospect, even if it was just the soles of her feet.

  Sucking in her tummy – thank God for those circuits classes – and bringing up her legs, she planted them one, two hard on the glass. The building didn’t move. It would take her weight, it seemed.

  ‘Good girl. Now the rest is easy.’

  She watched as he demonstrated the next step, trying very, very hard not to notice how far below him the horizon was.

&nbs
p; ‘Now your turn,’ Jonno said, bringing his hands back onto the rope like it was nothing to have only a karabiner stand between your life and your death.

  Nettie bit her lip and looked up apprehensively. Jules was standing between the health-and-safety woman and the White Tiger CSR man, her hands raised in a prayer position to her nose and looking even more scared than Nettie. Catching Nettie watching her, she immediately straightened up and gave Nettie a jaunty wink.

  For some reason, Jules’s nerves made Nettie feel reassured and a sudden rush of whisky-fuelled adrenalin shot through her. Fuck it!

  ‘There you go, Nettie!’ Mike said, zooming in on her with his camera as she took her hands off the rope and threw her arms back over into an arch, like a whale breaching the water. Her legs left the smooth safety of the Shard’s glass walls and she tipped so far back she could see the pavements, behind and beneath her.

  ‘That’s it, Nettie!’ Jules hollered.

  ‘And again, please,’ she heard Mike call. ‘I think I might have missed that go.’

  Above her, Nettie could hear Jules letting rip at him, and as she dangled from the rope, upside down, London now her sky and adrenalin and whisky mixing in her bloodstream, there was nothing else for it – she began to laugh.

  Their breath hung in the air like steam-train puffs, a white trail that lingered behind them like a floating breadcrumb trail as their feet pounded the frozen ground in unison, hands pulled into loose fists. Em had set a firm pace today, her red ponytail like a warning flag in Nettie’s peripheral vision to keep up, and they had done their circuit of Regent’s Park in almost record time.

  They reached the top of the steps and Nettie jogged on the spot as she ‘allowed’ Em to go down first (i.e. tried to catch her breath) before following after, her eyes on the black slick of the canal, a murky spine of ice in the water reaching towards the banks.

  It was dark on the towpath, even though the street lamps shone, and Nettie felt the familiar frisson of nervousness she always felt when coming to Dan’s in the winter months. He was a gentleman, of course, always insisting on walking her all the way home after their many suppers, but she did sometimes wish he would live in a normal house like most normal people. His mother, in Nettie’s opinion, had a lot to answer for.