Joe and Clara's Christmas Countdown

by Katey Lovell

  ‘She’s really arty, isn’t she? Dance, singing, crafts …’

  ‘It’s her passion. She’s one of those irritating people who’s good at everything, and she’s always been great at sports as well as being naturally bookish, but being creative is what sparks her the most. You should see what she can do with a sewing machine. She’s started making bags and selling them on Etsy, and they’re brilliant. Better quality than you’d see on the high street,’ he added, with evident pride.

  ‘It doesn’t surprise me. She’s a talented young lady.’ Clara pushed the door open with her backside before gladly setting down the items she’d been carrying on the table. ‘She’ll go a long way, that sister of yours.’

  ‘She will,’ Joe smiled. ‘When she was four she told me she wanted to make the world a happier place. What kind of four-year-old says stuff like that? Anyway, she does make it a better place, just by being herself. My world, anyway.’

  ‘You two have such a great relationship.’

  Joe looked quietly pleased, but carried on spreading out the felt-tipped pens and glue sticks across the table tops. ‘I guess. She’s my sister, and I’m probably biased, but I think she’s pretty incredible. I just hope Simone sees me as more than just an embarrassing older brother.’

  ‘She doesn’t think that at all,’ Clara assured him. ‘It’s obvious how much admiration she’s got for you.’

  ‘You think so?’ His eyes were alight at the suggestion.

  ‘I don’t just think so,’ Clara smiled. ‘I know so.’

  ***

  ‘Look at all the glitter on the floor,’ Deirdre grumbled, as she shuffled into the hall. ‘I hope the Hoover doesn’t give up the ghost again. I don’t fancy sweeping this lot up with the long-arm brush,’ she added, scanning her eyes across the now-sparkly surface.

  The room resembled Santa’s workshop, with offcuts of patterned wrapping paper strewn all around as the cracker-making factory was in full swing. The young people were enjoying the opportunity to put their creativity to the test, minus a few of the older lads, who deemed it uncool, and Tiffany, who didn’t want to do anything that might mess up her newly applied nail extensions. Clara had to admit they looked pretty badass – blood red like a cartoon villainess except for the ring fingers, which were silver and glittery – and for a fleeting moment she wished she was the type of woman who had the energy (and the finances) to prioritise manicures. She’d only had two in her life: once when she was a bridesmaid for her cousin and they had a pamper party as part of the hen do, and once when she’d decided to go all out for her birthday celebrations. New hairdo, spray tan, false nails and every available surface waxed until it was as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Dean had barely noticed her efforts. Even when prompted he’d only offered ‘you look good’, rather than the ‘stunning’ or ‘beautiful’ she’d hoped for, and it had made her doubt it was all worth it. Whilst she still swore by her regular cut and blow-dries at her favourite salon, she wasn’t falling into the trap of paying a small fortune to a beautician if it made little to no difference to her overall appearance. None of it had felt like her style, anyway. It had all been a front, a mask, and an expensive and elaborate one at that.

  ‘If it’s not, we’ll get this lot picking up every last speck of glitter,’ promised Joe. He had a mischievous glint in his dark eyes as he added, ‘Can’t see you helping out with that, though, Deirdre. Not with your old knees.’

  ‘Less of the old,’ warned Deirdre, pursing her lips tightly together. ‘I’ll have you know these knees aren’t complaining because of their age. If anything, they’re worn out from overuse!’

  ‘How do you overuse your knees?’ asked Simone. ‘All the gymnastics you were telling us you used to do?’

  ‘The gymnastics played its part, but it was the all-night raving at the Hacienda that did the lasting damage,’ she said, mournfully. ‘I was always the first on that dance floor and last off it,’ she said with a faraway look on her face. ‘Those were good days.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone needs to know about your nights out on the town,’ Clara interjected with a pointed look. She’d heard stories of party-girl Deirdre before, and they weren’t suitable for easily influenced teenage ears. ‘Look at how well we’re doing with the cracker- making.’ She gestured towards the plastic crate overflowing with finished handmade crackers. ‘Joe’s checked every single joke to make sure they’re alright.’

  He looked up, worried. ‘I don’t think they’ll be rivalling the Morecambe and Wise Christmas Special any time soon, but there’s nothing rude. This is as bad as it gets,’ he said, passing Clara a slip of card with a cheeky joke written on it. The writing was barely legible.

  ‘That’s not rude, that’s just rubbish,’ said Clara, laughing despite herself before handing the joke to Deirdre.

  ‘Tariq thought it was hilarious,’ Joe countered.

  ‘I should have known it would be one of his,’ Deirdre said with a fond smile. ‘Bless him, he’s not got a future as a stand-up comic.’

  ‘We’re running out of stuff to put in these crackers,’ Clara remarked, noting how the tacky gifts and chocolates were now looking decidedly sparse. She suspected the kids had made a dent in the chocolates, especially given the tell-tale chocolatey residue in the corner of Brianna’s lip creases, but she didn’t feel she could judge them for nibbling, not when she’d munched her way through a good percentage of the toffees earlier in the day as she worked on the presentation. She’d been glad of the sugar kick. ‘Do you think we’ll have enough to take with us when we go?’

  ‘Oh, that looks like plenty,’ Deirdre said. ‘But why don’t we make up more to distribute to other groups in the area too. I bet the food bank would be glad of them.’

  ‘That’s a great idea,’ Joe enthused. ‘Some of those families won’t be getting presents this year, so a seasonal touch will make all the difference.’

  ‘Then it’s decided,’ Deirdre replied, her accompanying nod laden with finality. ‘We’ve got the carol singing at the old folks’ home tomorrow night, and any crackers left over can be taken to the food bank with the other donations. We’re going to make up food parcels there next week,’ she reminded Clara. ‘Quite a few of this lot have volunteered to help out already, including Tariq and his terrible sense of humour.’

  ‘I’d not forgotten, I’ve started stockpiling hot-chocolate sachets and mini marshmallows to donate. It doesn’t seem much, but it screams Christmas to me. It’s not fair that the people who rely on the food bank miss out on treats at this time of year, so I wanted to donate more than dried pasta and tins of baked beans.’

  She thought back to the hot chocolate she’d had with Joe, the memory of the rich flavour flooding her mouth. It had been Christmas in a cup, and although what she could offer these families wouldn’t compare to the out-and-out luxury of that drink, it felt nice to know that her little gesture might make someone’s Christmas that bit more memorable.

  Joe sidled up to Clara, before leaning down so his mouth was close to her ear.

  ‘Simone’s been busy making gifts to donate too,’ he revealed, his voice low and deep. ‘She wanted to give something special too.’

  ‘That’s so sweet.’ Clara’s heart swelled at the thought of Simone going the extra mile to help the families who were in need. What a lovely family the Smiths were. ‘What’s she been making?’

  ‘She’s crocheted flower brooches and sewn some patchwork cushions too. And she’s going to make some dolls’ clothes on her machine with fabric that was donated to the church. It’s good quality, but too small to make anything bigger with. One of the parishioners works at a factory so she rescues any offcuts that she thinks might be useful.’

  ‘Are you coming to the food bank with us?’ She mentioned the date and Joe checked the calendar on his phone. ‘We’d be grateful for an extra pair of hands. It can be a bit like organised chaos when this lot try to “help”,’ she said, raising her fingers into quotation marks.

  ‘It
’s an odd-numbered day, so I should be taking you somewhere Christmassy.’

  ‘I’ll probably be too tired after,’ Clara said, with a pout of sadness. ‘It’s physically demanding lifting those boxes of tinned foods, and mentally exhausting keeping this lot in check.’

  ‘Looks like I’ll have to come along then, and we’ll add that to our list of Christmas experiences,’ Joe said.

  ‘Great.’ Clara smiled in return, a warm fuzzy feeling filling her chest. She was enjoying the time she was sharing with Joe. ‘We’re doing a good job of keeping the countdown going.’

  ‘We are,’ Joe agreed, ‘although I’ve not had a present yet today.’

  ‘If that’s a hint, it’s not very subtle.’

  ‘I wasn’t going for subtle, I was going for sledgehammer,’ he grinned. ‘I could get used to having a present to open every other day.’

  ‘They’re not much to get excited over,’ Clara said apologetically, ‘especially today’s.’ She picked up a homemade cracker from the top of the filing cabinet and handed it to Joe. ‘I made you a cracker.’

  Joe laughed as he accepted it, rattling the cylindrical core to try and guess the contents.

  ‘I made sure to put one of the highest quality gifts inside.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he said, bringing the tip of his index finger to the corner of his mouth. ‘Could it be a fake tattoo or one of the joke spiders?’ he teased. ‘I could have great fun with my mum with one of those. She hates creepy-crawlies, especially spiders. That one scene in Home Alone had her screaming in terror.’

  ‘I can confirm there are no mini arachnids. It’s much better than that.’

  ‘Can I open it now?’

  He fingered the wisps of red floristry ribbon that kept the cracker tied. Clara had used a scissor’s blade to curl it into tight ringlets, which added a professional flourish. It had a more finished look than the ones the children had made, except for Simone’s, which were reminiscent of something you might find in a gift boutique. She’d added tiny bells she’d brought from her own craft box, along with shiny silk ribbon that she’d tied into perfect symmetrical bows.

  Clara shook her head adamantly. ‘Not until we’ve got this lot packed away. I think we’re about done, though, so you won’t have to wait too long.’

  Joe groaned. ‘I don’t want to wait at all.’

  ‘The sooner you get cracking with the Hoover, the sooner you’ll be able to open it.’

  ‘Never have I been more desperate to tidy up,’ he said, with an exaggerated sigh, placing the cracker back on top of the cabinet.

  ‘It’ll be worth it,’ Clara replied, before adding, ‘even if you are destined to have to wait a little while longer.’

  She laughed at her own joke, knowing the contents of the cracker. She was still laughing as Joe lugged the heavy upright Hoover out of the cupboard.

  ***

  It was very nearly ten o’clock by the time the hall was in a decent state, and Clara was struggling to stifle a yawn as she stacked the plastic chairs away. Whether it was the previous night’s antics catching up with her, or simply the result of a long day trying to control a group of over-excited teens and pre-teens she wasn’t sure, but either way she couldn’t wait to get home, pull on her favourite brushed-cotton pyjamas and fall into bed.

  ‘This’ll do,’ Joe said, propping the mop he’d been using to scrub the most persistent sticky marks off the floor against the wall. ‘It’s not perfect, but it’s been given a good once-over. Do you think it’ll get the Deirdre seal of approval?’

  As though on cue, Deirdre entered the room, smothered by her patterned rain mac. The leopard print wouldn’t have looked out of place on Scary Spice back in her heyday, but Deirdre looked worn out, and Clara could tell the walking stick she was increasingly relying on was bearing more weight than usual.

  ‘Looks clean enough to me. Let’s get off home. It’s been a long day.’

  Clara caught sight of the cracker, still on top of the cabinet where Joe had left it before catching his eye. They couldn’t leave until he’d seen what was inside.

  ‘I’ll lock up.’ Clara reached down to check her keys were attached to the belt loop of her jeans with a climbing hook, the way they always were, and felt a rush of relief when her hand connected with the coolness of the metal. ‘We’re almost finished here, so you go. You look done in.’

  ‘I feel it,’ Deirdre pushed her glasses back up onto the bridge of her nose with a laboured sigh. ‘I wouldn’t last an all-nighter at the Hacienda these days.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be able to. It’s all apartments these days,’ Joe pointed out. The conversion had been a major news story, with some music fans up in arms that such a significant city landmark could be repurposed for housing, whilst other dedicated musos (and ageing nostalgics looking to recapture their hedonistic youth) clamoured at the opportunity to claim a piece of Manchester’s musical heritage.

  ‘Alright, clever clogs, stop being pedantic. I meant my dancing days are long gone. A mug of Ovaltine and Coronation Street on catch-up and I’ll be ready for bed, and I won’t take much rocking.’

  ‘Sleep well,’ Clara called, as Deirdre waved and headed into the corridor. ‘See you tomorrow!’

  The banging of the heavy front door echoed through the old building. Clara shuddered. She’d been here alone many times before, and despite the vast spaces and creaky floorboards (not to mention the unfounded rumours that the place was haunted) she’d never felt anxious. Not that she felt anxious now, but there was something about being here, in an otherwise empty building, with Joe, that was different to being with him in a pub, or a coffee shop, or a crowded Christmas market. It was more intimate here, somehow.

  She giggled nervously as she reached for the cracker.

  ‘It’s time for you to find out what I put in here. I thought long and hard about it, so you’d better appreciate the effort.’

  ‘Want to pull it?’ he asked, gripping one ruffled end and pointing the other in Clara’s direction. The cheap wrapping paper crackled in his fist. ‘You never know, you might get lucky and win the goodies yourself.’

  ‘Surely that’d defeat the object. It’s a gift. I made it for you.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll rip it,’ he replied with a grin, pulling at the paper until it unfurled. The contents of the cracker spilled out onto the floor below. ‘Wow,’ he said, taking in the amount of goodies that had been released. ‘You certainly packed it full.’

  There were the chocolates, a varied selection to make up for the box she’d given containing only toffees. A stick-on moustache, because they’d been joking about how Tom Selleck was the only man able to sport a caterpillar on his upper lip and still look sexy. Her favourite joke, written in her neatest writing on a slip of lilac paper. He groaned as he read it aloud.

  ‘ “What kind of bees make milk? Boo-bees.” That’s terrible, Clara. Worse than the ones Tariq was churning out at a rate of knots.’

  ‘I’ll have you know that was my favourite joke as an eight-year-old.’

  ‘And still your favourite twenty years on?’ he said, a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Nineteen, actually. But yes, it’s a classic joke that stands the test of time and appeals to all audiences. I can’t bear pretentious quips that try too hard to be clever. I prefer to keep it simple.’

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked, bending down to retrieve a small plastic packet from the floor. ‘I didn’t see these on the tables earlier.’

  ‘That’s because I bought it especially for you,’ she said. ‘Haven’t you seen a fortune-telling fish before? Every year I used to get one in my Christmas stocking. Taking turns for the fish to tell us our emotions was one of the best bits of the day.’

  Joe shook his head. ‘I haven’t got a clue what you’re on about.’

  ‘Hold out your hand,’ Clara instructed. He did as he was told as she took the flimsy red cellophane fish out of the packet and placed it in the palm of his hand. It curled immediately, the head and tai
l meeting to form a circle. ‘That means you’re passionate,’ Clara said with a confident laugh.

  ‘That proves it’s not the most reliable form of fortune-telling. I’ve been single for years. There’s something fishy about this fish,’ he punned. ‘Come on, let’s see what it says about you.’

  Clara obediently held out her hand and Joe carefully placed the fish in the curve of her palm. She felt a rush of warmth dash up her arm at the contact, but the fish didn’t move, not even a flicker.

  ‘Uh oh. That doesn’t look good,’ Joe said with a grimace.

  He studied the piece of paper to read what the lack of movement predicted for Clara’s future.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me what it means,’ Clara replied sadly. This had this happened to her before. Only once – the Christmas after her dad had left. ‘Dead fish. I’m destined for a lonely existence with nothing but a house full of stray cats to keep me company. I should have known. There’s you with a future chock-a-block with passion and I’ll be alone with no one to love or love me,’ she said melodramatically.

  ‘It’s a piece of cellophane,’ Joe reminded her sensibly, removing the motionless fish. Even as he picked it up between his thumb and forefinger it curled. ‘It has no bearing whatsoever over your future.’

  ‘But what if it does? What if I am destined to be alone? I might never find another person who’ll love me.’

  ‘Not possible.’

  ‘It might be, if I don’t learn to trust again.’

  ‘Anything that knocks us takes time to recover from. It’s part of the process. You trust me, don’t you?’

  Clara’s heart pounded as their eyes connected. She could have sworn he was looking right into her soul.

  She did trust Joe. It was her own judgement she doubted. She’d fallen foul of giving her trust to those who hadn’t earned it before.

  ‘I don’t want to be bitter forever.’

  ‘You won’t be,’ he assured her. ‘The right person will come along and everything with Dean will become a distant memory.’