‘Didn’t you have any build-up at all?’
‘Yeah – work.’
‘I mean when you were young.’
‘Schoolwork.’
I narrow my eyes at him because he’s being deliberately obtuse now. ‘How about writing cards?’
‘You mean killing the environment and destroying trees for the privilege of wasting money on postage stamps for someone you check in with once a year because neither of you can think of a polite way to stop?’
I roll my eyes. ‘Buying presents?’
‘Spending money you don’t have on things people don’t want that will be returned in January, regifted, or stuffed into the loft until they think they’re safe from you asking about them and can get away with chucking them out.’
‘Wrapping presents?’
‘Sticking yourself up with approximately seventeen thousand metres of Sellotape on non-recyclable wrapping paper that no one even looks at, which is just as well, because everything I’ve ever wrapped ends up looking like I’ve drunk three bottles of gin and broken both arms.’
It makes me howl with laughter and he’s grinning at me when I’ve recovered enough to look at him without giggling. That I can believe. ‘What about food you can only get at this time of year?’
‘Yeah, except the supermarkets put it out in September so you can get it for at least four months. Your three hundredth mince pie of the year kind of loses its sparkle.’
‘Festive baking?’
‘Firstly, you can buy boxes of mince pies for £1.50 in the supermarket so there’s no point, and secondly, you don’t want to know what happened the last time I tried to cook something. They’re still replastering the kitchen wall.’
I laugh again because he’s got a way of saying things that’s impossible not to laugh at even though I’m not quite sure if he’s joking or not.
‘And what’s the deal with Christmas fruitcake?’ he continues before I can counteract him. ‘Who would ruin a perfectly good cake with fruit? The only exception to the fruit in cake rule is the jam in a Victoria sponge.’
‘Oh, come on. It’s not Christmas in Britain until you’ve had a leaden brick of fruitcake that you don’t like and wouldn’t touch with a bargepole at any other time of year, covered with an inch-thick layer of marzipan and an even thicker layer of dried-up white icing. It’s all part of the fun.’
He makes a face and it sets me off giggling again. ‘The music?’
He points at the phone on the counter, currently playing Ellie Goulding’s cover of “River”. ‘Same old nonsense every year. You’re onto a winner here because I’ve never heard this before, but honestly, it’s the 10th of December and I’ve heard “Driving Home For Christmas” at least 78,472 times, and no one even is driving home for Christmas yet; it’s far too early.’
I can’t help giggling at his literal interpretation. ‘Films? I know you like Christmas movies now.’
‘There are these weird shiny round disc things called DVDs, and there’s no law against watching Christmas films at any time of year.’
‘Yes there is because if I watch them in July, I’ll get too excited about it and then be too disappointed that it’s still months away. Besides, you cannot watch festive movies when it’s thirty degrees and sunny outside. You have to watch them on a dark winter’s night with a mug of hot chocolate and a cosy blanket … Just like with festive books.’
‘Also, oddly, available all year round.’
‘What about seeing family?’
‘Family you happily won’t see again for another year?’ He bites his lip as if trying to let me know he’s only half-joking. ‘And there’s this really weird thing where if you want to see people, you can actually go at any time of year. Isn’t that an amazing invention?’
I give him a sarcastic grin. ‘Memories? Christmas is such a nostalgic time that makes you think of years gone by …’
‘Yeah, I just love thinking about that time Dad got drunk over the paperwork, Mum fell down the stairs, and for a real change of pace for the special dinner, we put the microwave meal in the oven, and when it came out, it was so charcoaled that if you chiselled it hard enough, there’d have been diamonds inside.’
‘Scented candles?’ I’m really clutching at straws now.
‘Fire hazards.’
‘What about the novelty clothing? Christmas jumpers, hats, and jewellery?’
‘They’re ridiculous.’
‘No, they’re not – they’re fun. I love people who aren’t afraid of looking daft and really throw themselves into it and embrace the silliness of the season. Christmas is all about walking around with poinsettia flower headbands, jingling reindeer antlers, and Santa hats on your head.’
‘All at the same time?’ He pulls a face.
‘Why not? There’s no such thing as overkill at Christmas.’ The grin I give him is tight and wary. There’s something about his humorous way of talking that makes me unsure if he’s only saying it to wind me up or if he’s serious. And if he is serious, it gives me a sobering pause for thought. He hates everything I like. If he really thinks this way, he’s never going to change. ‘You are the most cheerful miserable person I’ve ever met.’
‘Thank you.’ He lets out an unexpected laugh and puts his hand on his chest and ducks his head in what probably would’ve been a proper bow if he didn’t have broken ribs.
The song chooses that minute to change and “Deck the Halls” comes on. ‘One of my favourites!’ I grab his hand and tug him into the middle of the empty shop floor, the tables pushed aside to give us space to construct the shelves. I grab a nutcracker from one of the tables and hold it out to him like a microphone. ‘Come on, sing along!’ I try again, even though he’s refused every time I’ve tried to make him so far. ‘Go on, what are you afraid of?’
‘Nutcracker Lane’s double-glazing repair bill after I’ve shattered every piece of glass in the building.’
‘It’s stood here for forty years, I’m sure it can cope with a bit of “troll the ancient yuletide carol-ing” too.’ I sigh.
