The Christmas Wish List

by Heidi Swain

  ‘If I could just ask you to sign in?’ asked Alison Anderson, the school’s receptionist. ‘And wear this lanyard, then Dolly can take you through to the staffroom. It’s lovely to see you again, Hattie.’

  Alison was the epitome of efficiency, running not only the school office with extraordinary proficiency but the staff as well. Nothing ever fazed her and she always had a solution to every problem. Mr Matthews often joked that the school would descend into chaos if she ever phoned in sick but we all knew he actually meant it.

  ‘And don’t worry, all your checks are up to date,’ she added before turning her attention to the queue of parents waiting to try her patience even before the morning bell had rung. ‘I’ve put all the paperwork on Mr Matthews’ desk.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Anderson,’ I said, trying to smile.

  That was my ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card scuppered then.

  ‘Right,’ said Dolly, ‘I’m going to have to leave you to it, I’m afraid. Andrew knows you’re here and will be along in a minute. Is that all right?’

  My stomach was churning as if I was a new pupil rather than a grown-up trying to do the school a favour. I couldn’t remember ever feeling like that before.

  ‘Yes,’ I squeaked. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  The staffroom was already deserted and I could hear the photocopier in the next room churning out A4 as people called to one another along the corridor. My eyes were drawn to a huge sheet of cartridge paper which had been stuck on the whiteboard and almost completely covered one of the walls.

  It announced ‘the countdown to Christmas’ and listed all the things which were going to be happening during the last few weeks of term. Dolly had been right. There were a fair few things on our Wish List which could be ticked off just by turning up on the right days. My stomach churned again as I looked at the busy calendar. What with the school schedule and Dolly’s list, there really was going to be no escaping Christmas this year.

  ‘Hattie,’ said Mr Matthews as he rushed in looking harassed. ‘Sorry to keep you hanging about.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I told him. ‘I’ve only just arrived and I was looking through the Christmas plan.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, a deeper frown forming, ‘as you can see there’s plenty to do so your timely arrival couldn’t be more appreciated. I was hoping to give you the lowdown on what we were thinking you could help with as well as a quick tour as a few of the rooms have been repurposed, but I have to see a parent.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘I can come back later if it will be more convenient. I know we have to go through safeguarding before I’m assigned a class.’

  Someone began whistling ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’ in the corridor and at the sound of it, Mr Matthews’ frown was instantaneously smoothed.

  ‘Coming in for that later might not be a bad idea,’ he said as he rushed back to the door, ‘but don’t worry about the tour. You stay there, I know just the person who can help with that.’

  I waited as instructed, straightening my lanyard and wondering if I’d packed the best outfits for dealing with the onslaught of glitter and glue which no doubt awaited me.

  ‘That would be such a help,’ I heard Mr Matthews say as he walked back to the staffroom, ‘it’s not even nine and I’m already swamped.’

  ‘You know me,’ a voice answered. ‘I’m always happy to help if I can.’

  ‘That you are,’ answered Mr Matthews as he came back in. This time he was smiling rather than looking harassed. ‘I take it you already know our school caretaker and groundsman, Hattie?’

  ‘Do I?’ I asked doubtfully.

  I thought I recognised the other man’s voice, but surely it couldn’t be?

  ‘You’re more familiar with me in my taxi driving and head of festive illumination roles really, aren’t you, Hattie?’

  ‘Beamish,’ I said, taken aback.

  He was the last person I had been expecting to see in school and I wondered if there was any area of Wynbridge where he didn’t play a crucial role. He’d got looking out for the elderly sorted, as well as town sports and chauffeuring, and now it appeared that even the youngest academics were covered by his all-encompassing skillset.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Matthews, ‘Beamish. He’s hardly been with us any time at all really, but he’s already our male equivalent of Mrs Anderson.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean by that,’ Beamish laughed.

  ‘You mean that Beamish here is an expert in his field of expertise, don’t you, Mr Matthews? Just like Mrs Anderson in the office.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Mr Matthews confirmed. ‘And Mrs Cook in the kitchen. Although,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘Beamish has so many fields of expertise that, by rights, he should be one of the largest landowners in the county.’

  Mr Matthews laughed at his own joke, but was pulled up short when Mrs Anderson’s head appeared around the doorframe, a stern expression on her face.

  ‘Andrew,’ she hissed, ‘Mrs Jones is waiting.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, banishing the laughter, ‘I’ll be right there. Hattie, I do apologise for not being able to give you a better welcome back to the school, but . . .’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I told him. ‘I understand. As I said before, I can easily pop back at the end of the day and we can talk about everything then.’

  ‘Bless you,’ he said, rushing off, ‘and bless you too, Beamish.’

  ‘Right,’ said Beamish, clapping his hands together once he had heard Mr Matthews’ office door close, ‘as that’s us well and truly blessed, I suppose we’d better get on. Shall we start with the tour?’

  Not all that much had changed since my last visit but some of the rooms were now being used for different things and there was a new kitchen area where the children had cooking and science lessons. I knew that Dolly ran a cooking club, as well as a knitting group, and that with the exception of the summer term, when the weather was generally more favourable, she was always over-subscribed.

  Whichever room we poked our heads into Beamish was greeted with smiles from both the staff and the children, who had now been led inside and were getting ready to begin their day of learning.

  ‘We’ve recently made a wildlife area,’ Beamish explained as we reached the kitchens which were set behind the large school hall. ‘There’s a pond with a dipping platform and lots of bug homes and bird boxes. I would show you that too, but it’s a bit muddy and I’m not sure your smart boots would appreciate it.’

  ‘You could give her a fireman’s lift!’ someone hollered from the depths of the kitchen.

  Beamish pushed open the door and leaned inside.

  ‘I’m not sure she’d appreciate that,’ said Beamish. ‘We hardly know each other.’

  ‘You can practise on me, if you like,’ said a plump girl wearing a blue hairnet and matching tabard apron.

  ‘You leave him alone,’ said Mrs Cook, the matriarch in charge.

  She’d worked at the school for, well not quite as long as Dolly, but not far off. Every September, with the new intake, she had to put up with the hilarity her name caused but she bore it all with good grace.

  ‘How are you, Harriet?’ she asked, appearing with a ladle in one hand and a spatula in the other. ‘I heard you were coming back. You really are a glutton for punishment, aren’t you? And at Christmas of all times! You’ll be exhausted come the big day.’

  ‘My goodness,’ I laughed, ‘good news travels fast around here, doesn’t it?’

  ‘This is Wynbridge, love,’ she said with a wink, ‘nothing stays secret for long.’

  When we found ourselves at the car park, I told Beamish I would walk back to the cottage and come back, as I’d promised Mr Matthews, at the end of the day.

  ‘I’m heading into town for some materials,’ he explained. ‘I’ll give you a lift if you like or, if you’re feeling strong, you could give me a hand first and then I’ll drop you back at Dolly’s after.’

  ‘What are you collecting?’

&n
bsp; ‘Some timber. The stage needs a couple of repairs and the teachers need to be using it for rehearsals to get the kids used to the space as soon as possible. We don’t want anyone diving off the front like last year.’

  I thought it best not to ask. I knew that by the end of term I’d have enough educational anecdotes to dine out on for months. Not that I could imagine Jonathan would find them particularly amusing, should I ever decide to tell him about my time in school.

  ‘All right,’ I agreed, ‘I’ll help you first, although I’m sure you could get it all delivered.’

  ‘We would as a rule,’ he said, pointing out where he’d parked the truck, ‘but the van the store uses is off the road today.’

  ‘Couldn’t you order from somewhere else, or try online?’ I suggested. ‘It would probably be cheaper.’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘we shop local around here. Now,’ he smirked, ‘you go and sign yourself out with Mrs Anderson and when you return you can tell me if you would prefer to sit in the front or the back.’

  I gave his comment the full eye roll it deserved and sauntered back to the reception.

  *

  I mulled over what Beamish had said on the journey to the timber yard, the ‘shop local’ part that is, and I realised that the ethos most likely extended far beyond buying big stuff like we were collecting. I had noticed there had been a few individual stalls selling homemade and hand-crafted gifts at the switch-on, including one run by the Cherry Tree Café team, and folk couldn’t seem to get enough of everything.

  Perhaps I should add local shopping to the Wish List? Or maybe even try my hand at making something myself? But then who would I give it to? I could just imagine the expression on Jonathan’s face if I presented him with a bag of homemade festive fudge or a handmade card. Like me, he might not have gone in for the fun and frolics which made Christmas for most people, but he was always happy to accept an expensive designer gift.

  His idea of something special was the latest bit of tech or an aftershave blended to his own specifications. I couldn’t imagine that anything crafted by my own fair hands would cut the mustard with him. Jonathan appreciated the finer things in life, as did I now too. I quickly banished the homespun idea, knowing it would be a waste of time and effort and feeling a little annoyed that I had been sucked into thinking about the list again.

  ‘How do you fancy a coffee at the Cherry Tree Café?’ Beamish asked, once the truck was loaded with timber. ‘I know it’s still a bit early, but it’s criminal that you’ve been here for practically half a week and not been in.’

  I was beginning to feel a little peckish now my first day at school nerves had settled, but couldn’t resist the opportunity to question Beamish’s work ethic.

  ‘Shame on you,’ I tutted, ‘and during the working day. What would Mr Matthews say?’

  ‘Thank you for turning up at five this morning to sort out the dodgy boiler again, probably.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. I should have known better.

  ‘I haven’t had any breakfast yet.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I blushed.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he grinned. ‘I’m only winding you up. Although, I was there at five sorting out the boiler.’

  He really was worth his weight in gold. I didn’t think I’d ever met anyone as indispensable in so many areas. From what I had discovered so far, he was always on hand to help anyone and everyone at the drop of a hat and I wondered if there was a reason why he always kept himself so busy. It made me feel a little guilty when I considered my own life. I hadn’t been doling out many acts of kindness lately and, as uncharitable as it might have been to think it, Jonathan was no better. We were both pretty self-centred, placed firmly at the top of our own lists, whereas Beamish, I was sure would add himself at the very bottom of his.

  ‘What would everyone do without you, Beamish?’ I laughed.

  He ducked his head and shrugged, but didn’t answer.

  It was a struggle to stop my jaw hitting the floor when we crossed the café threshold. I almost got a sugar rush just from walking in. The scent of cinnamon and orange filled the air and I made a bee-line for the jars of iced gingerbread characters which were lined up along the counter. The café was always pretty, but even I had to admit, dressed for Christmas it was exquisite.

  ‘If you take a seat,’ said a lady wearing a candy cane patterned apron, ‘One of us will be over to take your order. Good morning, Beamish,’ she added with a smile.

  Ladies’ favourite, as well as worth his weight in gold it seemed. Although that wasn’t really fair because, from what I’d deduced so far, he was every bit as popular with the men too.

  ‘Good morning, Angela.’ He smiled back.

  We found a table in what had originally been the area set aside for Lizzie Dixon’s crafting classes. Lizzie, Beamish explained, now ran her classes and courses in the gallery.

  ‘And of course, they have the vintage caravan tea room and seasonal market stall too.’

  ‘Wow,’ I said, ‘it’s quite a business they’ve built up, isn’t it?’

  I had always known that the perfect pairing of Jemma, the café owner and Lizzie, her clever crafting pal, were hard-working and a force to be reckoned with, but now their business was turning into an empire. I admired them very much.

  ‘It certainly is,’ Beamish agreed. ‘From what I’ve heard since I moved back, the town’s recent turnaround has been largely down to the dynamic duo.’

  After Angela had taken our order – a latte and a gingerbread man for me and an Americano and bacon and avocado bagel for Beamish – my interest in him was somewhat piqued.

  ‘So,’ I began, ‘you haven’t always lived in the town then?’

  My assumption about him being a local who’d lived his whole life here was obviously wrong and I should have realised that as soon as I’d made it; he was such a good friend of Dolly’s that had he lived here for ever we most likely would have met before.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘but I did grow up here. I left when I went to university and only moved back for good a couple of years ago. Not that I realised that I was moving back for good at the time.’

  I surmised that he would have quite possibly been around when I last visited. He was probably even working at the school when I went in to renew my paperwork, but I was certain I would have remembered him if I’d seen him. He had the sort of face and physique you wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

  ‘Why did you come back?’ I asked.

  ‘My dad died,’ he said, one eye on the kitchen, ‘so I came back to support Mum.’

  ‘Oh, Beamish,’ I swallowed. ‘I’m sorry.’

  I was sorry about his dad and my nosiness. I shouldn’t have asked.

  ‘I knew straightaway that there was something more than grieving wrong with my mum the second I saw her,’ he carried on, rearranging the napkins as Angela appeared with our tray.

  He stopped talking while she unloaded the delicious-looking food and drinks.

  ‘And I was right,’ he continued, after she had returned to the kitchen, ‘Mum had cancer. She died six months to the day after Dad.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said again, feeling even worse than before.

  He looked and sounded absolutely wretched and without thinking, I reached across the table and laid my hand on top of his. He turned his over and grasped mine. I felt a buzz, an unexpected tingle as his warm fingers closed around mine.

  ‘Thank you, Hattie,’ he said. ‘I’m waiting for it to get easier, even took on the job at the school because I thought it would help, but so far . . .’

  ‘It hasn’t,’ I finished for him, squeezing his hand tighter and ignoring the fluttering sensation in my chest.

  Perhaps this was the reason why he kept himself so busy. Perhaps working so hard and helping everyone else was his way of coping with his grief.

  ‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’ he asked, letting go of my hand.

  It was only then that I realised my phone was ringing. I pulled i
t out of my pocket and then put it straight back.

  ‘It’ll keep.’ I told him.

  I didn’t think that having just held hands with another man, and still feeling the palpitations the moment had elicited, made it quite the right moment to answer a call from my beau, even if nothing more than compassion had prompted my spontaneous gesture.

  ‘Well this looks good,’ said Beamish, picking up his knife and fork. ‘Just what I need.’

  I drew my spoon through the love heart decorating the top of my latte and waited until my own heart had stopped skittering quite so much. If Beamish had felt anything when we touched, he certainly wasn’t letting on. I decided not to dwell on it and moved the conversation on.

  ‘Do you think you’ll ever leave Wynbridge?’ I asked. ‘I mean, you don’t need a degree to be a school caretaker and Christmas illuminations expert so I’m guessing you once had a very different life to the one you’re living now.’

  ‘Oh, I did,’ he said. ‘I was an architect working in a busy London firm so it was, as you say, completely different, but I don’t miss it in the least and no, I’ll never leave. Not for more than a couple of weeks anyway. I only wish . . .’

  His words trailed off.

  ‘What? What do you wish?’

  ‘I wish I’d spent more time here before I lost my parents,’ he said sadly, ‘but there was always something to stop me coming back. I kept telling myself I’d wait until the next big project was finished, but then there’d be another one, more impressive and with a tighter deadline than the last. In the end, my time ran out. We always think we have enough of the stuff but we don’t and what we do have we often take for granted and end up wasting.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ I said, snapping a leg off my gingerbread man.

  ‘I know I’m right,’ he said, looking straight at me, ‘and I know this is none of my business, but Dolly mentioned that you don’t talk to your parents.’

  I sat back in my seat. Ever since he’d told me what had happened to bring him back to his hometown, I’d been thinking about Dolly’s addition to the Wish List; that she wanted me to get in touch with Mum and Dad.