chapter seven

s e v e n

*

Outside is completely white. The sky is piercingly bright, reflecting the clear, unmarked snow that fell all night and hasn't stopped falling. There must be at least a few inches out there, deep enough to make my uneven garden look flat; the world is white as far as the eye can see, and the sight fills me with a soft glow that starts in my stomach and spreads throughout my body.

This is what Christmas should be like. It's a cliché, I know, but it's one I wholeheartedly adore: the whiteout December, gardens filled with awkwardly-rolled snowmen. To me, nothing says Christmas more than waking up to a sea of snow and joining my family around a log fire, the flames reflected in bulbous glass baubles. Last year, we all gathered at my parents' house, including India and her husband; this year, while they're have renovations, the responsibility falls on me.

My house is about half the size, but right before the previous owners put it on the market, they added a conservatory that doubles the living space: the back door in the kitchen doesn't lead out into the garden, but into a warm, glass-roofed sunroom that will serve as the main room on Christmas Day. It even has its own tree, a fake one I found in a charity shop for less than a tenner, and a discordant array of sofas and armchairs to make the space as cosy as possible.

It's only after several long minutes of staring outside in awe that I remember, again, that Casper's here. The moment I fall asleep each night, it's as though my memories are packed away tight and it takes a while for them to crawl back in the morning. And then I realise the date. Today's the fifteenth. My chest squeezes tight, so tightly I have to rub my sternum and screw my eyes shut, counting to ten. Twenty. Thirty. I reach forty-two before I feel okay again, enough to stuff my feet into my slippers and pull on a dressing gown over my pyjamas, and shuffle out of my room to the sound of Casper's snoring as I head downstairs.

I'm out of milk. Damn it. I'm usually pretty good at keeping on top of stuff like that but it's been an odd couple of days, with twice as much coffee and tea as usual, and the empty carton sitting in the recycling bin is proof of that. I don't even have powdered milk, or one of those pre-mixed lattes in a sachet, and I need my morning pick-me-up. I'm sure it's psychosomatic, but it's only a bad day that starts without a hot drink, and every hot drink I enjoy requires milk. For a splinter of a moment, it seems like the end of the world, until I mentally slap myself and stand up straight. I can go and get milk. Today will not start badly. It can't.

My pyjama bottoms look close enough to joggers that I don't bother to change to go to the shop. I just replace my dressing gown with a coat and kick off my slippers in exchange for boots, and spend long enough debating whether or not to write a note for Casper that I could've written seven in the time it takes me to decide not to. The shop is only a couple of minutes away – double that in this weather, perhaps, never mind the time it'll take to defrost the windscreen.

Once the snow starts to fall, so do the standards of everyone who uses this tiny village store. I'm not the only one to have thrown a coat over pyjamas. There are a handful of other people here doing the same thing as me, cursing forgetfulness and stocking up on the essentials. I add bread and butter just in case, even though it costs twice as much here as it does at the supermarket in Saint Wendelin, and suffer through polite conversation for as long as it takes to scan three items.

I love where I live, but I don't love this aspect of small-town life. Everyone knows everyone; everyone knows who I am. Everyone makes the same small talk every time I see them and it's like nails screeching down a chalkboard, the grating repetition of polite disinterest. I'm reminded of one of my S6 sociology classes, one of few things I've retained from school: Goffman's idea of civil inattention, something I think more people need to employ. The art of acknowledging the people in your vicinity without imposing on them, whereby a quick glance or a nod of the head is plenty.

I guess it doesn't work in close proximity, though, when I have to directly interact with Maureen behind the counter because if I don't, she'll gossip to her co-workers and before I know it, I'll have a phone call from Mum asking me what I'm doing acting grumpy in my pyjamas in a corner store. So I paint on a smile for Maureen as she asks how I am and what I'm up to, and I fob her off with vague answers because I know she's hardly listening anymore, and she tells me to have a good day when she gives me my change and pats my hand.

What is it with old people and touching everyone? It's bad enough having to hug my seven trillion aunts and uncles and cousins at every family gathering. I don't need Maureen's papery fingers stroking the back of my hand, but I'm too polite to do anything but give her a strained smile and get out of there.

All in all, from leaving the house to arriving back, I was probably only gone for ten minutes. It just happens to feel like a trawl across the country, like I'm returning home after a lengthy expedition armed with terrifying tales, rather than breakfast.

The coat gets hung up on the hook under the stairs and the dressing gown goes back on, and so does the kettle. While Casper catches up on sleep, which I'm fairly certain he's lacking, I pour myself a milky coffee and feel like a housewife from the fifties when I drink it in front of the kitchen window, staring out at snow-covered trees and glistening icicles forming wherever the snow starts to melt and changes its mind.

The bird bath is frozen over, too. I make a mental note to set fresh water outside, and hang up new bird feeders and netted fat balls for the pair of hardy little robins who call my garden home. They may be year-round residents, but I swear I only see them in the winter, with their iconic, puffy little orange chests and their sweet chirps. I can't take my eyes off them, a lump rising in my throat as I watch them fly from branch to branch, singing to each other.

Casper comes down with a blanket wrapped around him, face scrunched up in a yawn when I turn around at the sound of his socked feet on the kitchen slate – it looks great, but it absorbs all of the cold in winter and makes it agonisingly icy in winter.

"Sleep well?" I ask, glancing back at the garden only to see that the robins are gone.

"Mmm. Your spare bed is nicer than my actual bed. But I think I need to find some thicker pyjamas." He lets go of the blanket, draping it over a chair. "I woke up frozen solid."

"Are you sure you didn't just have a really good dream?"

He throws a tea towel at me; I catch it and wipe down the counter by the sink. "It'll be a while before I have one of those again," he says with an exaggerated sigh, rubbing his chilly, goose-bumped arms. "I'm doomed to a lifetime of flaccid nightmares for the foreseeable future."

He's caught me out and I stumble at what to say, before I eventually settle on, "Want a coffee?"

"Yes, please."

"What time's your shift today?"

"Eleven to seven." We both glance at the clock on the microwave, red lights blinking that it's just after nine. It feels a lot earlier, time warped by the snow. "Any chance I could get a lift in at about ten forty?"

"Of course. I just assumed that was part of the arrangement," I say, putting the kettle on to boil again. "You don't drive, right?"

"No. But I never assume anything. I'd be a dick to just assume you'll drive me ten minutes to work five days a week, while already letting me crash at your place." He hesitates for a moment. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. Like I said, I'm not at work until after New Year's, and you're a friend in need, so I'm here to help you with whatever you need. Isn't that what Christmas is all about, anyway? The spirit of generosity and helping people in need?"

"At least let me pay your petrol."

"Okay, you can pay my petrol." With a shrug, I set his coffee down in front of him and make a second for myself with what's left of the water. "If you want, we can go in early and find some warmer PJs."

"That might be a good shout." After finishing a third of his coffee, he holds up the mug and says, "This stuff's growing on me."

*

It won't come as much of a surprise that Saint Wendelin isn't the place to go when it comes to shopping. It calls itself a town but it's more of a big village without much in the way of supermarkets or big stores, limited to one main stretch of high street filled with odd independent shops, and a few snaking side allies. Right in the middle is a small square, a huge Christmas tree in the centre, where most of the action happens. The shops in the middle do best, so they tend to be the chains – that's where Costa and Caffe Nero sit on opposite sides of the square, along with a Claire's and a Shoe Zone and a handful of others.

Java Tea is a few hundred yards down the street, where there's a lot less foot traffic and a lot more of the kinds of shops whose existences always baffle me. Several hairdressers, more than you'd have thought a town of this size would need; at least four different charity shops; a seedy-looking pub that happens to be quite nice on the inside, if you can ignore the fact that it looks like a drug den from the outside.

But I can't criticise. It's home and I love it, and I choose to stay here year after year. I can't leave. The thought of wrenching my roots from the ground and trying to plant myself somewhere else is enough to make me feel nauseous.

The best option for clothes, without spending an arm and a leg for something that looks identical to the stuff Primark sells for a fiver, is the charity shops. The first two wield nothing of interest, though they can almost always be relied upon to cough up the goods when it comes to books, but in the third, Casper finds a thick jumper and fleece-lined bottoms.

While he's scouring the rails, I spot a selection of festive jumpers. None are my size – not much of a surprise when the majority of charity stock seems to be sizes eight to sixteen, considerably smaller than me – but there is a fetching red jumper in a men's medium. With a white crochet-style pattern of snowflakes and deer, it's subtly Christmassy, and perfectly Casper-sized, and it's only two pounds.

I know he'll look good in it, seeing as he looks good in everything, and it's one step towards unlocking his potential Christmas spirit. He may agree when I call him a grinch, but he's forgetting that even the grinch comes around by the end. I know for a fact that Casper has a heart, and it certainly isn't two sizes too small: there's hope for him yet, as long as I don't accidentally push him too far in the other direction. It's a fine balance, getting a grinch to appreciate the season.

He doesn't notice me buy the jumper, the transaction done and dusted while he's looking at the books. When I join him in front of the shelves, he jumps.

"Hey. You read a lot, right?"

"I do indeed. Judging by the five books in your suitcase, you don't?"

"Not really." He purses his lips, eyes glossing over the titles. No matter where I go in the country, Oxfam consistently has the best selection and this one is no exception. I spot several recent releases in good condition, most of the books looking like they've hardly been opened. "But I want to read more. What kind of stuff do you read?"

"Anything, really. A lot of young adult contemporary and fantasy; a lot of thrillers; a fair bit of romance. And, of course"—I tap the spine of a book with one of those generic seasonal titles—"I'm a sucker for Christmas books."

"Hmm. I think we might have quite different tastes."

"I basically have a library in my bedroom, if you want to check it out later. I think pretty much every genre imaginable is accounted for on my shelves."

Casper raises an eyebrow at me. "Are you inviting me into your boudoir?"

I try to counter the instant blush that burns my cheeks with a wink, and say, "I think I just did."

"Saucy minx." He laughs and tears himself away from the books.

I echo his laugh and tear myself away from him, absent-mindedly looking through hangers of clothes that won't fit while he pays for the pyjamas that I'll wash for him while he's at work. Charity shops may be treasure troves for bargains, but god knows where the clothes have been. I bet most people dig old stuff out of their wardrobe and throw it straight in a bag, no idea when it was last washed or worn.

"What're you up to today?" Casper asks, swinging his bag as we leave. Java Tea is only a couple of doors down and I follow him there, purse at the ready to buy a late morning muffin. The question catches me off guard and I almost lose my step, stumbling over my words and my feet.

"Nothing much," I mumble with a shrug. "I still have a lot of wrapping to catch up on. Now's time to enjoy being off work at last. It's been a long year."

It's been a long five years.

"Oh yeah? How come?"

I point at his watch and say, "We don't have time to get into all that right now. You need to get your apron on and clock in, and I'm going to have a muffin and a mocha and watch you work."

I'm furkling through my purse in search of a tenner, hiding amongst receipts and parking tickets and a million rewards cards, when he puts his hand over mine, fingers closing over my wrist.

"It's on me." He pushes my purse-holding hand back towards my bag. "A muffin and a mocha, coming right up. Which muffin do you want?" he asks, then holds up his hand and says, "You know what? Never mind. I'll surprise you."

There's no-one in the queue, so once he's found his apron and clocked in round the back, he emerges behind the counter with his beatific, customer-ready grin. He's the most extroverted and tolerant person I know, who has never let his smile slip even when he's dealing with the shittiest customers, thriving on interactions with the nice ones.

"The usual for Beth!" he calls out, pushing across a chocolate-sprinkled mocha and a raspberry white chocolate muffin. I've never had the muffin before, and it's been months since I last had a mocha. "On the house," he adds, and lowers his voice to a whisper to say, "Don't tell Julio."

"My lips are sealed. He seems a bit busy to notice anyway," I say. Casper frowns and looks up, and his face falls when he sees what I've just seen.

Julio's at the back of the shop with a box of tinsel and baubles, hanging decorations from the pictures on the walls and one of those little three-foot trees. He's even wearing a Santa hat, and a laugh of surprise bursts out of me when I see the string of fairy lights around his neck.

"Well." Casper leans heavily on the counter. "Looks like I need to find a new job."

*

Thank you so much to everyone reading this story; I'm loving writing it so much! ♥️