Hanukkah at the Great Greenwich Ice Creamery: A heart-warming Christmas romance full of surprises

by Sharon Ibbotson

  ‘Hey,’ Cohen said, lifting a hand.

  The man nodded. ‘You’re Cohen.’

  ‘Um ... yes.’

  ‘Cohen, her strawberry?’

  And now Cohen was quiet, because … what?

  But the man only shrugged. ‘Names don’t translate well into BSL,’ he explained. ‘And finger spelling your name out, every time ... well, it can be time-consuming. Not ideal. So, most BSL users choose a sign for a name. River’s an easy one, obviously. She’s just River. But Cohen? There’s no sign for that. So, River’s been calling you Cohen, her strawberry.’

  ‘Oh.’ Cohen flushed, trying hard to keep down the smile that was threatening to break out across his face. River had remembered the first flavour of ice cream he’d had in the ice creamery. For a moment, he forgot his father, and all the painful connotations that ‘strawberry’ had for him. River was replacing them with something new.

  Something better.

  He smiled again. ‘Strawberry. I like that.’

  The man stared at him for another few moments, his eyes as hard as the lines of his face. Cohen shifted awkwardly.

  ‘I’m Billy. I help out here from time to time.’

  ‘Okay. It’s nice to meet you, Billy.’

  But Billy stopped him short. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not like that. Like this.’

  And then, slowly and deliberately, he made a quick movement with his hands. It was more signing than Cohen had ever had to take in before, but he watched patiently, before trying to copy the movement: a finger across his face, before bringing two fingers together.

  ‘The first movement is “nice”,’ Billy explained. ‘The second is “meet you”, like two people coming together. Like you and River.’

  Cohen wanted to smile, but the look on Billy’s face persuaded him otherwise.

  ‘Where did you learn to do this?’ Cohen asked. ‘With your hands? I mean, you aren’t deaf.’

  ‘For one thing, it’s not “this”,’ Billy replied clearly. ‘It’s BSL. And when you love someone who can’t hear, you’ll do anything – anything – to communicate with them.’

  Cohen thought he understood. But then, was Billy saying ...? Were he and River ...? Were they involved?

  ‘You mean River?’

  Billy almost smiled, shaking his head as though in disbelief.

  ‘No. Not River. I’m very much a taken man. In fact, my wife and I have a son. He’s three.’ Billy paused, regarding Cohen thoughtfully. ‘He was born deaf.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Cohen said.

  But Billy sat taller. ‘I’m not,’ His voice was firm, unwavering. ‘He’s perfect the way he is. And mate, if you want to get with River, you need to drop any pity you feel about her deafness. The deaf community is a proud one, and River ... she does a lot for it. My wife and I met River through Action on Hearing Loss, a support centre. In exchange for babysitting, Lucy and I help out in the ice creamery on occasion.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to offend you,’ Cohen said quietly.

  ‘I know.’ Billy nodded. ‘Look, the deaf don’t want pity. Understanding, yes. Compassion, yes. But pity? Never.’

  ‘I don’t pity her.’ Cohen was defensive, his hackles raised. ‘I admire her.’

  Billy must have liked that because the stiffness in his body seemed to melt, and he gave Cohen an approving grin. And damn, but momentarily Cohen felt sick with envy. Because Billy had smile lines, actual indentations in his skin that showed the world how happy he was. And once again, Cohen was given a tantalising glimpse into the lives of others. People who lived and loved and slept and woke and ate and drank without the screaming agony of never being enough. People who were so happy with their lot in life that they smiled enough to permanently mark their skin.

  ‘Good,’ Billy said firmly. ‘You admire her. That’s good. Maybe you’re different to the others.’

  ‘What others?’ Cohen asked tightly, another hot flash of jealousy searing his soul.

  But now Billy’s face dropped, the lines around his eyes dipping back into the crevices of his skin.

  ‘What others?’ Cohen asked again.

  ‘Look, mate ... they aren’t my stories to tell,’ Billy replied sadly. ‘They’re hers.’

  Cohen went to open his mouth, ready to demand an explanation. Suddenly, he recalled River’s questionnaire. The line that had made his heart thump painfully: I’ve been wrong about this feeling before. Now, he saw that sentence in a whole new light.

  What others? his mind asked, but he made himself pause and considered the situation. Of course, he wanted to learn everything he could about River, but he also knew he needed to be patient. He needed to allow River the space to open up to him in her own time. He needed to let her tell her own stories in her own way. So, he bit his tongue, nodding slowly.

  ‘Alright,’ he found himself saying. ‘I can respect that.’

  And again, Billy must have liked that. Because there was that smile again, with those damn lines.

  ‘So, look, it’s December and nearly Christmas. People are shopping for gifts and food, but they’re also stopping for ice cream so that the little ones behave. The place is jammed, and there’s no way River’s going to be able to close up shop without Rushi killing her, or, as is much more likely, you.’

  Cohen swallowed. He wanted to stay on the right side of Rushi – and by default, his mother – for as long as possible.

  ‘But River would like you to meet her at Trafalgar Square tonight, 8 p.m.,’ Billy continued. ‘Under Nelson’s Column. You know where that is?’

  ‘Of course I know where that is.’ Cohen was almost offended.

  Billy shrugged. ‘Sometimes the tourists don’t.’

  ‘I’ve lived here a year, I’m not a tourist.’ Cohen’s words were hot.

  Billy crossed his arms. ‘Tell me who Nelson was, and I'll believe you.’

  ‘Well, he was ... well, he had that ...’ Cohen stumbled. ‘Look, I know he had a boat ...’

  Billy gave a wide grin. ‘He had a whole navy, actually. But still, you just gave a better answer than my Lucy ever did.’

  Cohen raised an eyebrow. ‘Your wife is American?’

  ‘A California girl through and through.’

  Cohen had been to California. He remembered his father dragging the family there on vacation, the three of them squeezed into his dad’s beat up old camper van. Four, if you counted Tam, who Jim always let ride shotgun because ‘dogs get carsick too, Cohen’.

  ‘Don’t you ever think about going there?’ Cohen asked Billy, genuinely interested. ‘The sunshine there has got to beat the grey days here.’

  ‘Yeah, well, the sunshine does, but the healthcare system doesn’t,’ Billy replied. ‘I have a three-year-old son who’s going to need extra care over the years. The American insurance system would cripple us financially. At least here, the NHS provides all of his hearing aids, surgeries, social care, education as well as his speech development assistance. Lucy gets homesick, but she’s happy to stay here in London forever if it means our son gets his healthcare plus a decent quality of life.’

  And Cohen nodded without answering, because what could you say to that?

  Billy cleared his throat. ‘Look, River asked me to give you this.’ He handed over a thick, padded envelope. ‘She said you might have something for her?’

  And yes, Cohen did. He reached into his bag, pulling out the questionnaire River had given to him, praying to all the gods, both heathen and otherwise, that Billy wouldn’t read any of his heartfelt confessions. He was ready to open up to River… but he still felt trepidation about the rest of the world.

  ‘8 p.m. then, Cohen.’ Billy stood, the conversation clearly finished.

  Cohen held out his hand. ‘Billy. It was nice to ...’

  Abruptly, he stopped, pulling his hand back and thinking for a moment. Thinking of River and of her wonderful eyes and expressive hands. Finally, Cohen smiled, moving his hands firmly, if a little awkwardly.

  It was nice to meet y
ou, he signed.

  Billy smiled, moving his own fingers. You too.

  But Cohen couldn’t go yet. He couldn’t even think of leaving in that moment. Not without seeing River.

  And so, like the best of the British, he joined the queue for ice cream.

  The ice creamery was busy and the queue painful. Cohen, with a determination born of love, spent fifteen minutes sandwiched between a girl from Putney, who chatted the entire time on her cell phone, and a harassed young family with a child who sneezed constantly onto his jacket. By the time Cohen reached the counter, his patience was thin and his coat sodden.

  But he didn’t care.

  Because River’s smile was the perfect reward.

  He didn’t order and she didn’t move. She simply stood there, resplendent in purple gingham, staring at him. And he stood there, like the fool for her that he was, staring back.

  It was Billy who broke their moment. He tapped River on the shoulder, and then twice more, until she looked away from Cohen and towards him.

  ‘River,’ he talked as he signed for Cohen’s benefit. ‘You’ll see him tonight. Now, why don’t you give him this week’s special and get this queue moving again, okay honey?’

  And River blushed before reaching into the freezer and scooping a greenish ice cream into a cup for him.

  Jaded Green Tea, the sign next to the ice cream read.

  River pushed the cup towards him, her fingers briefly meeting his. His flesh interlocked with hers against the ice-cold rim of an ice cream dish, but heaven help him, if it wasn’t the hottest moment of Cohen’s previously cool existence.

  He was so so glad to be seeing her tonight.

  Because there was no way he could wait until next Tuesday.

  Chapter Six

  Melon

  Cohen could have gone back to the office. It was only one DLR ride, and there was still some paperwork that needed finishing up before he returned to the New York office. Fowler had sent it through earlier that month, with a note attached reminding him to get a bloody move on with it. Fowler was nothing if not to the point. I’ve got tickets for the opera at the end of the month and I don’t want to miss it to clean up another one of your administration disasters, Ford, he’d titled the email he’d sent through.

  But Cohen decided against it. For one thing, he wasn’t going back to the New York office. In fact, he’d decided against leaving London altogether. Time had stopped being a consideration, work was no longer a factor. He would stay in London, be with River and learn BSL. Hell, he might even take up a hobby. He’d always liked calligraphy, and he was damn good at tennis back in college. Cookery seemed to be in vogue these days, and he did enjoy his brief foray into breadmaking. Abruptly, Cohen wondered if Uncle Israel might send him that fruitcake recipe.

  And wasn’t that a thought? That he, Cohen Ford, might have time to bake. Time to spare.

  Time to live.

  Because it was time for him to start living. Time to finally enjoy life, like a real human being and not some masked automaton.

  So, screw it.

  Instead of turning towards the station, he buttoned up his coat and turned right towards the park, through the old Greenwich market where he stopped to watch a street artist paint.

  He’d never stopped to watch anything like this before. Never taken the time to enjoy little pleasures like a man in a paint-smeared smock putting brush to canvas, filling empty spaces with depth and colour.

  On a whim, he approached the artist and asked to buy the picture. It was a simple thing, just the sun setting over the Canary Wharf skyline, but the personal meaning Cohen found in the painting appealed to him. So, he handed the artist over two hundred pounds in crisp twenties to make it his. He imagined looking back on this image and remembering the day he decided to take hold of his life and make it his own; not what Canning wanted it to be, not what Esther wanted it to be, not what Jim wanted it to be and not even what River might want it to be.

  No. From this moment on, Cohen was his own person. He controlled his own destiny.

  ‘Come back next week. It’ll be dry by then,’ the artist told him, handing him a receipt. ‘I’ll have it wrapped and waiting for you.’

  ‘I will,’ Cohen replied. ‘Just one thing though ... where is this?’ He gestured to the painting. ‘I mean, where did you sketch from?’

  The artist grinned. ‘Not from round here, are you? This is the view from the Observatory, mate.’

  ‘The Observatory?’ Cohen asked.

  The artist pointed towards the park. ‘Cross the road, go through the gates next to the Maritime Museum and walk ten minutes up the hill. You’ll find it.’

  Cohen nodded his thanks, giving one more satisfied glance at his newest acquisition before throwing his hands into his pockets and following the artist’s directions.

  He’d never been in this park before. He’d seen it from office windows, of course, heard of it briefly as a pleasant place to visit, even laughed at the mistake in that Thor movie with his British colleagues ‘because you’d have to be an almighty God to make commuting to Greenwich by tube from Charing Cross happen’.

  But he’d never actually been here, and for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why. The winter sun weakly warmed his back while the breeze was cold against his face, and the contrasting elements fostered a feeling of contented happiness within him. It was enough to make him stop again, to make him pause and enjoy the moment. He found a coffee vendor outside the museum and picked up a macchiato, surprising himself and the barista by asking for a measure of syrup to be added.

  ‘No offence, but you don’t look like the kind of bloke who adds gingerbread syrup to his coffee,’ the barista remarked.

  Cohen shrugged. ‘I guess you don’t know what kind of person you are until you try being them,’ he replied.

  ‘Amen to that,’ the barista said, pushing a miniature sugared pie towards Cohen along with his coffee without adding it to the bill.

  ‘What’s that?’ Cohen asked, looking with trepidation at the shortcrust pastry before him.

  The barista smiled. ‘A mince pie. Christmas speciality.’

  Cohen resisted the urge to shudder. ‘Right. And it has … meat in it? Under all the sugar?’

  The barista grinned again. ‘Nope. Look, just give it a try. You said so yourself, you never know, right?’

  Cohen nodded, recalling his earlier words. ‘Yes. Yes, you’re right. Thank you.’

  The barista shrugged, almost sheepishly. ‘No problem. Merry Christmas, hey?’

  Cohen smiled. ‘Happy Hanukkah,’ he offered, surprising both himself and the barista once again.

  The barista nodded slowly. ‘Right. Yeah. Happy Hanukkah.’

  Cohen sipped his sweet coffee and clutched the pie as he made the slow journey up the hill towards the Observatory. And oy vey, Cohen thought, if he’d known this place existed he would have set the incline on his running machine a little steeper, because the hill was a bitch to climb and he was panting before he was even halfway up the slope.

  But at the view Cohen felt a quick thump of excitement. As he rounded the hedge, the steep hill clearing into a gentle incline, the panorama of London was just incredible. If he hadn’t already been so winded from just getting up here, the place would have taken his breath away.

  He sat on a bench, taking a bite of his pie. The taste was surprising to him, not strange or unappealing at all, but pleasantly sweet and spicy. A little like Challah, perhaps, but with a moist and rich filling, like you might find in a cherry blintz. In fact, the pie tasted a little like home, reminding him of his mother and, momentarily, he missed her desperately.

  But as he brushed the crumbs from his mouth, he also brushed away all thoughts of Esther, looking around and distracting himself with his surroundings. To his left was a red brick building, tightly held behind wrought iron gates. Royal Observatory Greenwich, a sign read. Beneath that was a twenty-four hour clock, and as Cohen peered through the gates, he got it.


  This, he realised with a start, was where time began. A line on the ground indicated the place from where all time was measured, and by God, he could have cried for pure joy.

  Because there was something deeply poetic in deciding to take time to live, here, in the place where time began, next to an observatory, the gateway to the stars. He was so taken with the concept that he spent half an hour watching the clock make its sweeping journey around the circle of numbers – just because he could – and he rejoiced in the passage of time, in the celebration of life itself. With each movement of measured time, there was a new second, a new minute, a new hour … a new Cohen.

  At that moment, he reached into his bag, pulled out the padded envelope Billy had given him earlier and opened it.

  Cohen frowned, because there were another four sealed envelopes inside. He examined them with interest, his heart fluttering at the sight of River’s appalling cursive. Open now, one read. Open at 8 p.m., another said. And then there were two more, of much more interest to him. Open in case of scenario A, and Open in case of scenario B.

  He opened the one he was instructed to, sat back and began to read.

  Hi Cohen.

  I’m sorry, this isn’t a questionnaire. Thank you, though, for indulging me by filling in mine. But very quickly, to keep things fair, my answers are as follows: on your shoulders, no, I’ve never been married, the day I nearly died, It’s a Wonderful Life (every time), and no, of course, I don’t want this to be only one thing. Although I will admit that sleeping with you is becoming a big priority for me.

  I have to say, I don’t normally let myself feel attracted to, well, anyone.

  But there is something about you, Cohen. Something almost, I don’t know ... familiar? Do you feel it too? When I first saw you, something in me came alive. I don’t even know how to describe it. It was like in that moment, my life made sense.

  I think I’ve been waiting for you, Cohen. I think I always knew that, one day, you’d come for me.

  I’ve never let my deafness bring me down. It’s part of me, part of my history and I’m not ashamed of it.