Page 11 of It Happened on Christmas Eve
‘I will,’ I say, walking over to a shelf filled with sparkling stars made with little diamonds and pearls and gold and silver glitter. They’re beautiful! One of them, though, is extra special. It’s smaller than the others. It’s made out of copper, twisted and bent to form a star. At each bend in the copper there is another tiny copper star. It’s really elegant and unusual. I pick it up and enjoy the pleasing heaviness of it in my palm. Then I see the price tag. Fifty nine quid!
‘Fifty nine quid!’ I yell, unable to help myself.
‘Well, it’s hand-made by a local artist,’ Denise sniffs, heading over to the till and ringing up the purchase.
‘I do like to support the arts,’ Adam says, wheeling himself over to the counter where while Denise carefully wraps up the star and baubles. ‘It’s my duty as a writer to support our creative community.’
‘You’re a writer?’ Denise breathes.
‘Yeah. I write that seriesThe Newcomers. The one about the teenagers who find that spaceship? It won the YA book prize three years ago and book four in the series has just been released.’
I roll my eyes, peek through all the sparkly decorations in the window and look outside. Shit. People are finishing work now which means Tesco is going to be chock-a block. I curse myself for leaving it too late to do an online order.
We eventually leave the shop, Adam having cheerfully agreed to mentor Denise’s granddaughter who also wants to become a professional writer. The bags and trees and crutches are piled precariously upon Adam’s thighs, making the wheelchair extra hard to push.
‘Ready to go home now?’ I say to Adam, already moving as swiftly as I can, which is not very.
Adam responds by lifting a hand to his ear, as if he’s in an old black and white movie and can hear something compelling in the distance. ‘Is… is that carol singers?’
I prick my ears and hear the sound of a group of people singingGood King Wenceslas, which is surely the shittest of all the Christmas songs. My head thumps a little harder in protest at the very sound of it.
‘Follow the singing!’ Adam declares, pointing a finger in the opposite direction to his house.
I stop short of stamping my foot like a toddler in a tantrum.
‘I thought we were going back now?’ I hiss. ‘I still need to get my food shopping from Tesco and it’s getting busier and busier out here.’
Adam wheels himself round so that he’s looking up at me.
‘Listen, if we could just go and see the carol singers for a little bit I will pay for your food shopping.’
Of course! Rich kid thinks he can flash the cash and get whatever he wants. But a free food shop would not be totally unfortunate. Maybe I could get some extra stuff. And maybe I could get all the extra special Tesco Finest brand rather than the cheap Tesco own brand I usually get. And maybe I could pick up some bits and pieces to take to the food bank, if he's paying. And maybe I’ll buy some nice new books and a new bra while I’m at it!
‘Deal,’ I shrug, being careful not to let my face display my plans to spend a ton of his money.
‘Yes!’ Adam pumps his fist and I wonder, once again, how much codeine he’s taken.
Chapter Seven
Christmas Eve 5:30 p.m.
I follow the sound of the carol singers and turn a corner into Ladbroke Grove Road, where it seems the ordinarily private park has been opened for locals. I must admit I’m intrigued. I walk past the park every day on my way to work and have never gotten to see inside. I once peeked my head through the fence and was stopped by an American woman who told me that I needed a key, just like the one she has for Gramercy Park in New York where she lives. When I asked how she had a key for Ladbroke Square Gardens if she lived in America, she said she was on holiday and had specifically chosen an Airbnb with exclusive use of a private park. I did not like her.
I push Adam onto the gravelled path, we wheel around a corner and I gasp. It’sbeautifulin here. The fir trees are all covered in tiny pale lights and it looks so magical in this moment that my usual aversion to fairy lights is all but forgotten. Ooh, there are colourful little pop up carts serving drinks and food from local vendors! If I didn’t hate Christmas, I might think this was pretty cool.
There’s a group of about fifteen carollers standing under a gazebo, dressed in various shades of red and white and very seriously singingGood King Wenceslas. One of them is carrying a bucket for donations for Battersea Dogs Home, and though the garden is busy, people seem to mostly be walking past the carollers in favour of the pop up food and drinks carts. One little boy even puts his hand over his ears. I give him a sympathetic glance.
‘They need to sing something a bit more lively,’ I muse as we head over so I can put some money into the bucket.
‘You’re so right. I always thinkGood King Wenceslasis the dullest of all Christmas songs.’
‘That’s what I was thinking!’
‘We should do something about it,’ Adam says.
‘No, we shouldn’t.’
‘We should! For the sake of the dogs!’ Adam pulls a very noble looking expression and before I can protest any further, he has plonked the Christmas tree, shopping bags and crutches onto the ground beside the wheelchair and suggests that if I don’t want him to fall and break his other leg, I should probably help him up onto his feet. With a reluctant sigh I do, trying to keep my balance as he stumbles into me a little. I press my hands against his chest to steady us both and am surprised by how toned he feels, even beneath his woollen coat.
