‘What are you doing?’
‘Replacing some of the things I sold today. Trying to, anyway. I don’t see why anyone would buy this trash.’ He pulls out a polar bear soft toy and squeezes its belly so it flashes and growls a “Merry Christmas”. ‘I mean, why? Why does a polar bear flash? Why does it wish you a merry Christmas?’
‘Says the man whose shop is guarded by a plastic Santa inexplicably doing the Macarena!’
‘Exactly – so it’s outside where I don’t have to put up with it.’
I roll my eyes as he uses his foot to tip the box on its side and one-handedly rifles through it, pulling out tinsel and lights and tossing them aside.
‘So is this where you’re getting your stock? Just stealing it from the storeroom?’
‘Stealing it?’ His head jerks up to look at me but it obviously hurts something because his right hand curls around the cardboard and his chin drops down to his chest as he breathes slowly through his nose. ‘I’m doing what I’ve been told to do. Following orders, not stealing,’ he says eventually, but his voice is quiet, and he sounds like he wants to be annoyed but he can’t quite muster it.
‘These are Nutcracker Lane’s decorations!’
‘Exactly. They belong to the new owner of Nutcracker Lane and whoever that is wants them sold.’
‘He must be a monster, even worse than that horrible accountant!’
‘I’m sorry,’ James says eventually. ‘I’m just doing my job. What are you doing down here at this time of night anyway?’
‘It sounds stupid but I remembered some of this old stuff and wanted to see if any of it was still here. I thought we could put some of it up again.’
His eyes, which have been heavy-lidded until now, go wide. ‘You don’t have permission to do that.’
‘Of course not, but someone has to do something. Nutcracker Lane is dying in front of us. No one cares about it anymore. And why am I talking about it to you? You hate Christmas. What do you care if our special little Christmas village closes down?’
He’s quiet for so long that I think he’s not going to answer. ‘I liked it when I was little. It was different back then. I was different back then.’
‘You’ve been here before?’
The corner of his mouth tips up. ‘Didn’t every child in Wiltshire and the surrounding counties come here when they were little? If you didn’t come with your family, there were school trips every year …’
‘Yeah.’ I can’t take my eyes off him, and not just because of the soft, nostalgic smile on his face, but because his skin has gone from pale to a distinctly grey tone and he doesn’t look like he’d stay upright in a light breeze. ‘So you haven’t always been a Grinch then?’
‘For long enough that I can barely remember a time befor— Oh, he’ll do.’ He pulls a three-foot-tall wooden nutcracker soldier out of the box. ‘Nutcrackers are always popular.’
I haven’t realised I’ve drifted closer as we’ve been talking until I’m leaning on the other side of the box. ‘You can’t sell him!’ I reach across and grab the nutcracker out of his hand. ‘I know him!’
‘Personally?’ He raises an eyebrow, and I give him a scathing look.
‘No. He and his family used to stand in the entrance foyer. There was one of each size, from tiny to life-size. They were lined up in size order like a family of Russian dolls.’ I rub my fingers across the dusty wooden drum around the nutcracker’s waist, a drumstick in each of his hands. ‘One of them was a musical one and it played the tune of “Little Drummer Boy” and the sticks moved up and down. It was amazing.’
‘Well, find me the others and I’ll sell them as well.’ He reaches across the box, gets his hand around the nutcracker’s head and pulls it out of my grasp, but as he twists away, he lets out the harshest cry of pain I’ve ever heard and the nutcracker clatters to the floor as his hand shoots to his chest under the sling.
‘James, what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing, I’m—’
I assume he was going to finish that sentence with “fine”, which he is very clearly not. His face has gone from grey to so pale he’d camouflage against a white wall. His eyes are squeezed shut and his teeth clenched. A vein is throbbing in his forehead as he lets out a string of swearwords. He sways on his feet and I’m certain he’s about to keel over.
‘Come on, there’s a box over there. You need to sit down before you fall down.’ I slot my hands around his right arm and tug gently. I don’t know where he’s hurting but it’s obviously more serious than a broken arm and I don’t want to touch him anywhere that’s going to make it worse.
There are tremors going through him. I can feel them through his black T-shirt, but he lets me tug him gently towards the far wall, his breathing fast and ragged.
‘Sit.’ I use his good arm to urge him downwards onto a long box against the back wall of the storage room.
Sweat is beading on his forehead as he positions his back against the wall and sinks down with a groan, and I sit on my knees in front of him and put my hands carefully on top of his knees. ‘What’s wrong? Where are you hurting? This is not just your arm, is it?’
‘Broken left side.’
I eye his left side but it doesn’t give anything away. ‘Which part?’
‘All of it.’ His eyes open into slits. ‘Feels like, anyway.’
His hair has fallen forward and stuck to his forehead and I reach up and brush it back. ‘Shall I phone an ambulance?’
‘No. God, no.’ His good hand reaches up and closes softly around my wrist. ‘No more hospitals. Just go, Nia. You don’t have to worry about me.’
I almost laugh
