I squeeze his hand. ‘I can’t believe you did this. It’s perfect. You know this is one of my favourite Christmas songs, don’t you?’
‘I might’ve asked Stacey. I wanted it to be special.’
We’re still in darkness, but the way is lit by fairy lights now, twinkling and sparkling in every direction. Every streetlamp is glowing orange and every post is wrapped with white lights. The rainbow-coloured candle bulbs stapled along the eaves of each shop are shining, and the green garlands draped above our heads are covered with white lights chasing each other in sequence. The giant baubles I remember from the olden days are suspended from each ceiling support by huge red satin ribbons, and curtains of white lights are cascading down like a waterfall, interspersed with blue snowflakes, while my favourite Christmas song plays quietly above us.
‘I just wanted you to know someone’s listening.’
‘You. From that first night in the storeroom, you’ve listened to me. Even though you hated Christmas and I’m sure you weren’t interested in Nutcracker Lane at all, you still listened to me. And now look at it. You’ve made it perfect again.’ I let go of his hand long enough to spin around with my arms out, indicating all the lights around me. He laughs when I nearly clonk him round the head with the two nutcrackers in the bag as we wander back up the shimmering lane and I try to make myself behave like an adult.
‘James …’ I pick up his hand again, wondering when I ever became such a hand-holder. It’s not something I’ve ever done before, but I feel like something’s missing when my fingers aren’t entwined with his. ‘Thank you. This is amazing. I never thought I’d see it like this again. If this is the end of Nutcracker Lane, this is the best way it could’ve ended. Thank you for making this year so incredibly special.’
‘It won’t be.’ He sounds a lot more confident than I feel. ‘Thank you for showing me how special this place is.’
The song changes to the very fitting “Walking In A Winter Wonderland” and we’re both wandering as slowly as possible. I don’t want this to be over yet, and he’s doing the same and hopefully that means he doesn’t want it to either.
He stops when we get to the magical nutcracker and moves my hand so it’s hooked through his elbow instead as he lays his arm on the picket fence and rests his chin on it.
‘You okay?’ I hang the bag containing the nutcrackers over one of the fence posts and use my free hand to reach out and stroke his hair just once, an excuse to touch him, twisting my arms like a pretzel because it’s such an awkward position.
‘Just thinking about magic,’ he murmurs as his eyes drift shut, and even though I was only going to touch his hair once, he tilts his head towards me and it’s not that easy.
‘You? Thinking about magic? Have you been at the painkillers again? Are you about to start asking “how many iguanas are there in a mile?” or other nonsensical questions?’
He laughs. ‘No. Being with you makes me feel like a kid at Christmas. I forget everything I’ve always hated, all the practicality, all the cynicism. You make me believe in anything.’ He sighs and shakes his head at himself. ‘What would your Christmas wish be?’
‘Nutcracker Lane,’ I say without thinking about it. I turn around and look at the twinkling lane.
‘What, all of it?’ He turns around too, leaning back on his elbows against the fence.
‘No. I don’t know. I just want it to survive. To thrive. To still be here next Christmas. Hopefully all year through, but I’m not holding my breath about convincing Scrooge to turn it into a nutcracker museum. I think that’d take more than a Christmas miracle.’
‘Three weeks ago, you told me anything’s possible at Christmastime. Make a wish.’ He looks upwards. ‘The stars are twinkling just right, and if I opened a door, I reckon the wind would ripple his beard …’
Three weeks and one night ago, I made a wish and I think it might’ve come true. It feels like magic is dancing in the air tonight. There’s an icy breeze foxtrotting down the lane, so real I can almost see the air glittering and hear the faint tinkling of jingle bells. When I look up through the glass ceiling, I can make out constellations in the winter sky. It’s a night for making wishes.
I go inside the fence and take a walnut from the vending machine, keeping an eye on James in case this is some sort of wind-up and he’s going to film it and put me on YouTube or something, but when I look back at him, his chin is resting on his arm across the fence again and he’s watching me with a soft smile on his face.
He gives me an encouraging nod as I walk up to the nutcracker, place the nut into his mouth and reach around to pull the lever, something I’ve done many times before but somehow feels different tonight, enchanted somehow, like this wish is the important one.
I look up at the nutcracker’s rosy-cheeked wooden face, the benevolent and homely face that you’d picture on a beloved grandpa, and I can’t help smiling at him as I bring his lever down and the shell starts to split. ‘I wish for Nutcracker Lane … in whichever way it’s going to survive and prosper for as many years as
