I lock up and slip the keys into my bag and turn around to take in the 11 p.m. atmosphere before the place fills with shoppers tomorrow morning. Well, hopefully. It’s been many years since Nutcracker Lane was as packed as it used to be when I was little and my grandma used to bring me here to visit Santa, see the lights, and buy a new decoration for the tree that year, and of course, make a wish on the magical nutcracker.
It’s deserted at this time of night. Even the Victorian-style streetlamps that line the lane on either side and emit a warm orange glow in the evenings are off, but there’s still the faint whiff of peppermint from the production of peppermint bark in the sweetshop next door today.
The only thing that’s unusual is the empty shop directly across from me. I can never recall seeing an empty shop on Nutcracker Lane before. Getting a shop here is more difficult than scoring an invitation to afternoon tea at Buckingham Palace with the Queen. Not that I’m likely to manage that either, but since I started making decorations and selling them online, I’ve applied every year to rent a shop for the season, and this is the first year I’ve been a successful applicant.
It’s odd to see the log cabin opposite completely dark inside, with nothing in the windows and no sign above the door, not even a Christmas tree outside. Were they really that short of applicants this year? I know things have been deteriorating, but an empty shop is unprecedented. A shiver runs down my spine, and not just from the chill in the air as a cold breeze blows through the lane. Is this a sign of things to come? Is Nutcracker Lane really going downhill so fast that they can no longer fill all the shops?
I turn away and start walking towards the exit. Even with the lights off and the log cabin shops shut, the lane still looks festive. Without any gingerbread baking in the Nutcracker Lane bakery, the balsam scent of the Christmas trees mingles with the faint peppermint from earlier, making me wish I could stay here all night and breathe it in.
‘Goodnight, Mr Nutcracker.’ I approach the supposedly magical giant nutcracker. When I was little, I thought he was the most magical thing in the world – even better than Santa. He was the talk of the town. Everyone knew about the magical wish-granting nutcracker on Nutcracker Lane. He’s old. I don’t know how old, but he’s carved of solid wood, and his mouth and the lever at his back to operate it are his only moving parts, unlike modern-day nutcrackers that are all pins and dowels and glue. He’s an older version of the nutcrackers we see everywhere today, with eyes and a moustache carved into dark brown polished wood, and inlaid cherry-stained wood to make his rosy red cheeks, instead of being painted on like they are these days. He has the same white furry beard, long and slightly threadbare now, and his once-bright soldier’s outfit, painted in shades of yellow and red, is faded and chipped after so many years of cracking nuts. He holds a carved candy-cane wand and his black boots are encased in cement and buried in the floor to prevent him being stolen.
He’s the main attraction of Nutcracker Lane, and he stands proud, over eight-foot tall, in the middle of the big court inside the entrance. He’s surrounded by a wooden fence, Astroturf, and white-spotted red mushrooms with little wooden doors on their stems to make up an elf garden.
Next to him are a few large plastic cases of various nuts – walnuts, hazelnuts, and a fake nut alternative for allergy sufferers, and there’s a sign up that reads – Nutcrackers are brimming with magical powers. It’s long been said that if a wish is made at the exact moment a nut is being cracked, when the stars shine bright and the wind rustles his beard, and you can almost hear the sparkling of Christmas magic in the air all around, the nutcracker will grant the wish. Try it!
Surrounding the nutcracker’s feet are a bed of broken nutshells where people can throw them, ready to be composted after Christmas, and there are steps up to the handle so even little ones can reach, although a far more popular position is on the shoulders of parents, the way my granddad used to lift me up to crack a nut and make a wish.
The poor old thing might need a fresh coat of paint and some wood filler, but he’s stood here for as long as I can remember – if anything, he’s the most reliable man in my life. He’s here every year without fail. Every year as strong as stone, like an old friend you look forward to catching up with in the festive season, who brings a smile to your face when you remember them throughout the year.
This old nutcracker has seen so many years go by. Things aren’t how they used to be, but he’s still here, watching over his lane, even though wish-granting is a thing of the past now, and it’s been a long time since Christmas magic sparkled around here.
‘You’re the kind of man I need, Mr Nutcracker,’ I say to him as I go to walk away. ‘Goodnight.’
And for the weirdest moment, a chill goes down my spine as the breeze through the lane suddenly picks up and ripples his beard. It’s a crisp, clear night and I look up and see the stars twinkling through the glass roof and a crescent moon glowing to the east.
I glance back at the nutcracker, half-expecting him to have moved, what with the similarity to the sign about the stars twinkling and the wind rustling his beard.
I turn around and walk
