‘This year is the first time things have started looking up.’ Raymond taps the closed lid of the laptop still on the table beside him.
‘For all of us,’ James says.
I look over and meet his eyes again and he gives me a small smile. There’s an awkwardness between us and he’s been quiet until now, and I think he’s still being careful not to make this about anything other than business.
‘James said you have old nutcrackers from years gone by …’ I say before they sense the awkwardness too. I have no idea how much they know about what’s happened between me and him, but it’s probably as little as possible.
‘A garage full of them!’ Raymond’s eyes light up. ‘Even more at our head office. We have nutcrackers dating back years, a copy of every nutcracker ever made by the factory. And I’ve always been in touch with German museums from the Erzgebirge region where nutcrackers are said to have originated. I’m sure they’d be happy to let us borrow some pieces, and there’s bound to be some cross-advertising opportunities for us and them …’ He hesitates and then corrects himself. ‘You and them. Not us. It’s long past time for us to hand over the reins.’
‘And you don’t …’ I swallow and try again, unable to think of the best way to word it. ‘You don’t mind James giving me, and the other shopkeepers, such a huge share of your company, something you built up from scratch? I know how much it means to you,’ I say, because it’s obvious. Their eyes light up when they talk about it. It’s not that they stopped caring, like the rumours circling the lane have suggested, it’s that there’s so much else going on in their lives – an unthinkable, life-changing illness that’s obviously had a heartbreaking effect on them all.
‘Nutcracker Lane would be nothing without the shopkeepers. Those loyal people have stuck with us through thick and thin. And I know you as a customer. I know you’ve been coming to the lane for as long as any of us can remember. James has made no secret of how much you love it, and if you hadn’t come along this year … well, I dread to think what would’ve happened to it under his control. And now look at him.’ He smiles at his son. ‘Wearing a Christmas jumper. Getting excited about nutcrackers and granting wishes and something called summer globes, whatever they are, but I’m sure they fit in somewhere.’
James starts telling them about our idea for helping Nutcracker Lane fit in with the seasons, and by the time we’ve finished giving them a run-down of everything he and I have already discussed, he’s pulled his chair over and has got his right elbow on the table, leaning around me to gesticulate with his broken arm, his fingers brushing my shoulder occasionally, and the sparkle is back in his Disney prince brown eyes. I feel myself fizzing with excitement as their enthusiasm and ideas spark off more from both of us. Judy pulls her chair closer to Raymond until they’re holding hands on the table, lost in memories of Nutcracker Lane when they first took over the factory and expanded around it.
‘Your enthusiasm reminds me of us when we were your age,’ Judy says wistfully. ‘And this one …’ She points at James. ‘Whatever you did to him, feel free to keep doing it. He’s like a different person since he met you. If you can make him love Christmas, you’re capable of anything.’
‘I think “love” is going a bit far,’ James mumbles, although the smile twitching at his mouth says otherwise.
When I go to the bathroom, I catch sight of a door ajar to a hospital-like room downstairs, presumably because his dad isn’t strong enough to climb the stairs, and it makes my breath catch. Before my grandpa died, we all knew that he wouldn’t be with us the following Christmas, and it made everything so bittersweet. My mum and grandma tried hard to make it a Christmas to remember, but I caught my grandma crying in the kitchen because it was a time that would be impossible to forget for all the wrong reasons.
When I come back, Judy has cleared the table and instead of the multiple buffet bowls, there’s now a neatly stacked tray of perfect Christmas cookies, and I slide my hand across James’s shoulder as I sit down, glad he hasn’t moved his chair back to its original position.
I can feel his eyes on me and I pick out a blue-iced snowflake cookie. ‘Did you make these?’ I ask Judy, remembering her cookies from years ago.
‘Oh, heaven’s me, no. Who has time for that? I ordered them from the caterer too.’
I glance at James, who’s picking the icing off his cookie silently.
The illusion of a perfect Christmas. Christmases are messy and rushed and chaotic. Cookies are made with love and flour fights, and iced with unsteady hands. Rudolph always looks like he’s had a few too many sherries and snowmen look like they’ve been on the business end of a rugby scrum. There are mismatched decorations everywhere, a tree dropping needles and slurping water at a fast enough pace to ensure a daily panic about dehydration. But everything in their house is picture-perfect, and everywhere I look, I can imagine James at Christmas, the lonely little boy who grew up wanting more than material things and resenting the festive season itself for always bringing disappointment.
Judy must clock the look on my face because she says, ‘I hope
