‘Exactly.’ I look over my shoulder at our darkened little shop opposite. ‘It’s a million times better than our rustic wooden decorations and Nineties-style foil garlands and sets of lights taped round the windows. You can see Tinkles and Trinkets from space. There are probably aliens on Jupiter right now scratching their heads and trying to work out who turned the lights on.’
‘Well, it’s not better, it’s different. Personally, I like the nostalgic side of Christmas and think all this singing and dancing stuff is distasteful tat.’
‘Does it look like familiar distasteful tat to you?’ I cock my head to the side and try to hear the strains of a tune the nutcracker model factory is playing, but it’s drowned out by the toy with the dying batteries and the creaking of the Macarena-ing Santa.
‘I can’t see anyone inside.’ Stacey cups her hands around her eyes and peers through the glass, but the glare of the lights is too bright to see anything beyond the window display.
‘I don’t understand how it can have been empty last night. No one could’ve got this done so quickly, could they? It must’ve been a whole team of people.’ I peer in the window too, but all I can make out is rows and rows of shelves. ‘It’s like it’s sprung up from nowhere.’
‘Like magic.’ She slots her arm through mine and yanks me across the paving stones to Starlight Rainbows. ‘It’s not worth worrying about. We sell totally different types of decorations and there’s room for all of us on Nutcracker Lane.’
I give the dazzling shop one last glance. Every other log cabin on our lane has been setting up for a month now. We all got our keys on the first day of November, and since then, everyone has been back and forth unloading stock and setting up their displays. Except this one. And in the space of the nine hours since I left last night, this owner has managed to create the most spectacular display of all.
I unlock our little wooden door and turn the wood-burned wreath sign on it over from “closed” to “open”. Our shop smells of fresh-cut wood from my decorations and that inimitable scent of tinsel and foil Christmas decorations when they’ve been shut away for a while. I flip the light switch and pick up a letter that’s been posted through the letterbox.
‘You were here for hours tweaking last night then?’ Stacey looks around like she can tell every earring I adjusted on her jewellery side of the shop.
‘I was priming some nutcracker bunting so it had time to dry before today.’ I switch the electric wax burner behind the counter on to fill the shop with the scent of vanilla and balsam and dump my bag on the counter as I split the letter open and unfold it.
‘Factory space!’ I stare at the letter in horror. ‘How could they do this? Listen …’ I start reading it aloud.
Dear esteemed Nutcracker Lane lease holder,
I am writing to inform you that commencing January 1st, Nutcracker Lane will be under new ownership. As the acting manager until the new owner joins us, it falls to me to ensure we will not be carrying deadweight into the new year. Next year will see things change for the better. Next year your leases will not automatically be renewed – instead, you will have to work for the privilege. Only the most profitable shops will be going forward to the next festive season – the rest will be sold off for factory space to the nutcracker factory next door. I will review your accounts in January and let you know in due course whether you will have a place on the improved and streamlined Nutcracker Lane next year.
Do your best this festive season!
Regards,
Mr E.B. Neaser
Head accountant and acting manager, Nutcracker Lane
‘Wow.’ Stacey runs a hand through her short hair.
‘Do you think this was hand-delivered? It’s early for the postman.’ I turn over the envelope in my hands but there’s not even an address on it. ‘Everyone must’ve got one.’
‘Not even a “kind regards” or a “best wishes” or anything. How rude. And he’s still using that stupid name. It’s like he knows we call him Scrooge and he’s mocking us.’
‘There’s no way it’s his real name,’ I agree. We’ve dealt with this guy before. There’s definitely nothing kind about him. We’ve already had three letters this year telling us of yet more budget cuts and restrictions and a rent increase for the privilege. He seems to take pleasure in it. ‘This is like a cross between a motivational speech and a condescending headteacher telling off naughty schoolchildren who have run riot with the crayons.’
I open the door and look outside to see Hubert from the sweetshop looking around too, the letter clutched in his hand.
Before I have a chance to speak, Rhonda who runs the Christmas hat shop, opens her door and steps out. ‘You got one too?’
Hubert and I both nod.
‘This is terrible.’ Mrs Thwaite opens the door of the Christmas candle shop two doors down, her letter balled up in her fist. ‘How dare they!’
‘This is the same Scrooge who’s been cutting the budget every year, and now he’s eschewed the budget and started on the shops themselves,’ Hubert says.
‘What are we going to do?’ I step outside to join them. ‘We’ve only just got our shop. I quit my job to work here. I was relying on it being renewed next year.’
That’s one of the reasons it’s so hard to get a spot on Nutcracker Lane. Once you’re in, all existing shop owners get first right of renewal, and this used to be such a lovely place that if you had a shop here, you wouldn’t give it up. Hardly any new leases come up each year and the competition to get them is fierce, and the owners have always been selective about which shops they choose
