by Katey Lovell
The choir filed into the pews ready to begin the performance, and a hush of anticipation silenced the audience.
As the recital began, Joe allowed the music to sweep over him and around him and through him, stirring his emotions, and he was reminded of the power of music. Of how not only one genre can bring you pleasure; sometimes something completely different to what you think you like reminds you how wonderful it is to be alive. And as he stole one last look at Clara he thought that perhaps going to see Take That with her might not be so terrible after all.
***
‘So, what did you make of it?’ Joe asked as they made their way back along the aisle towards the exit of the Cathedral. He was curious to know what Clara had thought of the performance. Much of it had been passive listening, until the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’, where the audience were invited to get on their feet and belt out the rousing chant.
‘I don’t know if I’d want to see it again,’ Clara answered diplomatically, ‘but I’m glad you invited me. And the Cathedral looked beautiful all decorated for Christmas. I was mesmerised by the candles. That, along with the haunting melody moved me more than I expected.’
‘It was kind of hypnotic, wasn’t it? I feel like I’ve been under a spell.’
They each took a mince pie that was being offered by a portly gentleman on the door who wished them a Merry Christmas and a safe journey home, and as the succulent mincemeat flooded into Joe’s mouth, a boozy aftertaste assaulting his taste buds, the realisation hit that they were already more than halfway through Advent.
Joe wasn’t ready for their time together to be over, and the Christmas Countdown was the perfect excuse to spend time with Clara away from the club. He’d taken to going home from The Club on the Corner and looking fondly at the gifts she had given him. Everything from the cheesy CD to the fortune-telling fish, which had caused so much upset revived flashbacks that caused him to smile to himself, knowing no one would understand the significance of these items except himself and Clara. It felt special.
Clara was special too. She had character, and was funnier than he’d given her credit for. More sensitive too. She was kind-hearted and willing to try new things, and so committed to keeping the youth club running. He couldn’t help but be attracted to that wholehearted enthusiasm. But he was taken aback by how the more he liked her, the more physically attracted to her he became. She was striking, with her angular haircut and sharp jawline, almost elfin in appearance; and so far from the type of girl Joe usually went for that it had caught him by surprise how she suddenly seemed beautiful to him. But she was beautiful, so totally, utterly beautiful in his eyes, and it was hard to believe he could ever have thought otherwise.
The twinkling city spread out before them as they headed towards the tram stop, and as the headlights of the yellow-fronted vehicle came almost immediately into view, Joe could barely hide his disappointment. The night was coming to an end all too quickly for his liking.
‘Thank you for taking me,’ Clara said, as the tram drew to a halt besides the otherwise empty platform. ‘I’d never have gone to something like that without you inviting me. You’re broadening my mind.’
‘It was my pleasure.’ Joe pressed the button to open the sliding doors and a beeping sounded out in the darkness. ‘I had a great night.’
‘Me too.’
And before he could process it properly, she’d risen onto the tips of her toes and stretched up to planted a kiss on the underside of his jaw, before boarding the tram and leaving him, bewildered, on the platform.
As the tram pulled away Joe touched the spot where her lips had been with his fingertips. If he didn’t know better, he’d have sworn his skin was aflame.
Clara
Saturday, December 16th 2017
‘I can’t believe it.’ Joe’s face was alight with joy. Clara highly doubted there were many people, least of all men of Joe’s age, who’d be as thrilled to receive a Game Boy this Christmastime. ‘Where on earth did you get it from? It’s not like you can walk into John Lewis and pluck one of these babies from the shelf.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Clara replied with a laugh. The hours she’d spent scouring the internet for the exact model Joe had lusted after were worth it, though. He was beaming with out and out delight.
‘So where did you buy it?’ Joe persisted. ‘EBay?’
Clara nodded. ‘I got involved in a bidding war for this. It was almost as bad as the time I set my heart on replacing the Wedgwood vase of my gran’s that I broke.’
‘Oh dear. How did you break it?’
‘Playing with one of those little bouncy balls. I insisted I’d be able to catch it and kept throwing it against the lounge wall, even though she told me not to. She’d warned me I’d end up breaking something and, of course, she was proven right in the end when her favourite vase was smashed to smithereens on the hearth. She didn’t shout at me, but the disappointment on her face was enough to make me cry my eyes out. I felt so guilty.’
‘When was this?’
‘Ooh, I must have been ten. I’d got the ball out of a party bag from Millie Ferdinand’s birthday trip to McDonald’s and it was all I’d played with for a week, until that day. After that I threw in it the bin in a rage.’
Clara felt a pang of mournful longing for the cheap toy. She’d barely thought about it for years, other than when her regret had caught up with her and she’d put her heart and soul into replacing the much-loved vase. Her mum had never been keen on balls in the house, mainly because her gran was a big fan of porcelain. Figurines of smartly dressed women in flowing ball gowns, mugs commemorating royal weddings (the mugs had lasted longer than the marriages in most cases, Clara realised), and the favoured vase which Clara had never seen filled with flowers of any kind. ‘It’s far too precious for that,’ her gran had exclaimed, aghast at the suggestion.
‘And you replaced the vase?’
‘Years later. I found an identical one on eBay and thought it might ease my conscience, but I didn’t know it was worth as much as it was. Maybe it wasn’t, I could have been totally swindled out of my money.’
‘I hope you didn’t pay over the odds for this,’ Joe said, holding the bright-blue Game Boy aloft. ‘Although whatever you paid, it was worth it. You’ve made eight-year-old Joe Smith very happy indeed. And twenty-eight-year-old Joe Smith too.’ He looked in the bag to where a collection of small game cartridges were sealed in individual air-tight ziplock pockets. ‘There are all the classics in here.’ He pulled one out at random, marvelling at it and Clara couldn’t hold back her laugh. He might just as well have been eight years old again, because his excitement really was that of a kid at Christmas.
‘Don’t worry, I didn’t rob a bank to fund it.’
‘I wouldn’t put it past you.’ Joe grinned.
‘Ha-ha,’ Clara replied. ‘As if.’
‘It’s perfect,’ Joe said, wrapping his arms around her. Clara was so taken aback by the unexpected contact that she almost lost her balance. The height difference between them put her at a distinct disadvantage when it came to staying upright, and Clara automatically wrapped her arms around Joe’s waist to stop herself from falling. She found her cheek pressed hard into his chest, so hard that she feared the pattern of his knitted jumper might leave an imprint on her skin. ‘Best present ever.’
‘Better than a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle onesie?’ she asked, eyebrow cocked.
‘Yep. That was a great gift too, but I’ve wanted one of these for twenty years.’ He looked down at the gadget in his hand, his face lighting up as though love-struck. ‘Imagine how you’d feel if you finally got the present you always wanted as a kid.’
When he pulled back, the gulf between them seemed enormous to Clara. With yesterday’s kiss and then the hug, their relationship had taken a turn to becoming more physical.
‘The little record player,’ Clara said with a mournful pout. ‘If only. I doubt my mum even remembers I wanted one in the first place.’
‘That’s what Christmas lists are for,’ Joe prompted. ‘You should write one to give to Santa. If you’re good between now and then he might pop down your chimney to deliver you one on Christmas night.’
‘We haven’t even got a chimney.’
‘Then how does he bring you your presents?’ Joe asked.
‘He’s got a magic key, obviously,’ Clara said, her tone light. ‘It lets him in to all the houses and flats that don’t have a chimney to come down. That’s what my mum always used to say.’
‘And that’s supposed to be reassuring? I’m not sure the idea of a strange man with a key that can open any door would help me get to sleep on Christmas Eve.’
‘Even if he was bringing presents?’
‘I can’t be bought,’ he said, piously.
Clara spluttered. ‘Coming from the man who’s rubbing his hands together with glee every time he gets a countdown gift?’
‘That’s different,’ he said, carefully putting the handheld console back in the bag with the cartridges.
‘How so?’
Joe looked up, and Clara sensed a strange tension. She understood now what people meant when they said the air could be cut by a knife, because that’s how she felt, as though she was suspended or frozen. The world seemed to be in slow motion, then Joe turned away and the spell was broken.
‘Forget it,’ he said finally, before smiling and holding the bag of goodies aloft. ‘You’re probably right.’
There was an uncomfortable pause. Usually their silences were peaceful rather than empty. Something had shifted, but Clara couldn’t put her finger on what.
‘I’d better go and find Deirdre,’ she said finally. ‘She wanted me to help her with something.’ She didn’t elaborate. She couldn’t elaborate, because it was an out and out lie.
‘Thanks again,’ he called, as Clara left the hall and made her way up the staircase.
She ran her hand along the banister, reassured by the solidity of it against the palm of her hand, and she suddenly wondered why she was running away. They were friends, that was all. Nothing to be scared of, nothing to flee from.
Clara inhaled, dust and Pledge filling her nostrils. Then she turned around, skipped down the stairs and, head held high, walked back into the hall, where she found herself face to face with Joe.
‘If I start my letter with an apology, do you think Santa will forgive me for all the bad things I’ve done this year?’ she asked with a grin.
Joe grinned back, all awkwardness alleviated. ‘It’s worth a shot,’ he said.
‘Then I’d better get writing.’ Clara reached for a pen and piece of paper from the cupboard and took both items to the table, before starting to furiously scribble words on the page. She glanced at her watch. ‘Ten minutes until we open the doors and mayhem ensues. Do you reckon I can get it done before then?’
‘With all the sins you’ve got to own up to, I doubt it,’ he ribbed.
‘Oh, go and polish your halo somewhere else,’ Clara said jokily. ‘Some of us have grovelling to do.’
But Joe didn’t go. Instead he pulled up a chair next to her, switched on his Game Boy and lost himself in his game, the high-pitched bleeping background noise as Clara scrawled her wish list on the page.
Joe
Sunday, December 17th 2017
‘Joe? Can you help me please?’
Tiffany was struggling, a fully stuffed bag for life in each perfectly manicured hand. Shannon’s handiwork had lasted.
‘Coming!’
The food bank was loud – or rather the kids were – and their enthusiasm for the task at hand was almost tangible as they sorted through the packets of pasta and porridge. Some of these kids didn’t have much themselves, but behind their bravado and attitude they loved helping others. The carol performance at Autumn Days had shown it, and this only proved the point further.
He relieved Tiff of the weighty bags and heaved them onto the long table that ran along the back wall of the room.
‘Here you go, Jordan. A few more bags for you to sort through.’
‘It’s never-ending.’ Jordan’s tone wasn’t accusatory. It was matter of fact. The people of Manchester had given generously to the appeal, either buying extra to leave in the donation bins at the local supermarket or bringing it directly to the food bank. But Joe knew that although it might look like a lot, what the charity had to give barely scratched the surface. Demand was at an all-time high.
‘I’ll give you a hand,’ Joe replied, pulling a family-sized box of Cornflakes from one of the bags and adding it to the crate marked ‘cereals’. ‘Clara’s got some of the others unloading a delivery of donations from the back of a van. It’s come from one of the local pre-schools. I guess everyone wants to help out someone in need this Christmastime.’
‘It’s good that people want to help at Christmas, but how does the food bank survive the rest of the year? There must be families who rely on places like this to eat all year round, not just in December.’
Joe nodded, impressed by the youngster’s thought process. Then again, Jordan was mature. He’d had to grow up fast, what with the responsibilities of looking after his mum.
‘They’re always appealing for donations. The church has a basket where people can donate, and I know some of the local supermarkets do too. But you’re right, I think Christmas makes people more aware, both of how much they’re spending and of how lucky they are.’
‘I know I complain sometimes, but at least I never go to bed hungry.’ Jordan added a pot noodle and two packets of Cup-a-soup to a box marked ‘just add water’. ‘The lady who showed us the system for sorting donations told us some people that come here don’t have any way of cooking food, not even a microwave. That’s why there’s a box for hot food that just needs hot water. Makes me feel grateful.’
‘You’re right, we’ve got lots to be thankful for. But that doesn’t mean you have to be strong all the time, or that you can’t have a moan now and then. Sometimes it’s good to let it out and clear the air.’
Joe bit his tongue as he realised his words were nothing more than lip service. He’d still not told Clara the whole truth about Michelle. He was frightened that to say the words out loud would ruin everything, just as he was starting to live again.
‘No one likes a whinger.’
‘You’re far from a whinger,’ Joe said. ‘I know your mum’s grateful for all you do.’
The more he’d heard about Jordan’s situation, the more admiration he had for the lad. Not only did he care for his mum, he also looked after his younger brother. The Club on the Corner was his respite, a break from supermarket trips and hurried school runs, the Hoovering and pegging out the washing.
‘Anyone would do the same.’
The boy’s body language signified that the conversation was closed, although Joe silently thought there were many Jordan’s age who wouldn’t do the same. Jordan never made a fuss, he accepted his role and went about it methodically. Joe could see why Clara had a soft spot for him – he was a good lad.
‘Incoming!’ Clara’s voice boomed out around the room, and as she entered, followed by an entourage of kids armed with further supplies of dried and tinned foods. ‘This should keep you lot busy for a while.’
Rather than the groan Joe would have expected, the teens set straight back to sorting the food and toiletries. They saw it as a challenge, one they were totally up for.
‘They’re doing us proud, aren’t they?’ beamed Deirdre. ‘Miranda can’t sing their praises highly enough.’
‘They have good auras, these young people. Every one of them has a pink glow. That’s indicative of a positive, caring energy,’ explained the woman. Joe recognised her immediately. She might not be wafting her homemade candles about and wittering on about Clara’s exceptional sense of smell, but her wiry auburn hair was impossible to mistake.
‘Hi, Miranda,’ he smiled feebly, hoping she wouldn’t remember him.
‘I’ve seen you before,’ she said, thoughtf
ully bringing her finger to the corner of her lip. ‘Miranda never forgets a face, I pride myself on it.’ She scrunched her eyes into slits as she mused, her lips pursing as she took in every pore of Joe’s face. ‘Don’t tell me, it’ll come.’
Her intense studying of his features left Joe unnerved, and in the end he couldn’t take it any more.
‘Were you at the Christmas market?’ he asked, knowing full well that was the only place the two had ever crossed paths. If he’d seen her elsewhere he would have remembered – and probably crossed the road to avoid her.
‘That’s it!’ she exclaimed, clasping her hands together. ‘Now I remember. You were with that pretty little thing who had an incredible nose.’
‘Clara’s not a thing,’ Joe mumbled under his breath, but Miranda’s eyes widened and he knew she’d heard. Either that or she’d read his mind; he’d not put it past her.
‘Yes,’ Miranda continued, brushing her cloud of hair over her shoulder, ‘Your girlfriend has quite the gift. There aren’t many people who can distinguish between my unique blends as well as she can.’
Joe coughed, which extended into a splutter. ‘She’s not my girlfriend’ he stuttered when he finally managed to control himself. ‘We work together.’
‘Oh, is she here?’
Miranda’s face lit up like a Belisha beacon at the news. Between that and her flame-like hair she was practically florescent. Joe had no experience of auras, positive, negative or otherwise, but if Miranda had one, he’d have bet on it being luminous orange.
She pushed up onto the balls of her feet, creasing the leather of her battered cherry-red Doc Martens as she scanned the room. Her eyes flickered rapidly, skittish like butterfly wings.
‘Coo-eee!’ she called as Clara entered the room, barely visible behind the enormous cardboard box she was cradling.
‘Hello?’ Clara answered.
‘It’s me, Miranda. Creator of the most unique and sensual candles this side of the Pennines.’ The joy at their reunion was evident in her voice, but Joe heard the despondency in the generic greeting Clara returned.
