Candy Canes and Buckets of Blood Read online

  Esther put a hand on his thigh and gave him a squeeze.

  “We’ll park up, get some food inside you and take a view of things,” she said.

  Sometimes, she read him like a book. Life might be a meaningless parade but some things made it more tolerable: food, beer, Esther.

  Dave turned off the main street as soon as possible, just to get out of the flow of traffic. Ten minutes later, after getting stuck in a cul-de-sac and receiving some seriously evil glares off another driver who had followed him into the cul-de-sac, he found a place to park: next to a stone barn on a lane down by the riverside.

  “Everybody out.”

  They assembled in the lane. The air was cold but there was no wind. There was a closeness to the atmosphere, a stillness too, as though their world was encased in a glass bubble, locked away from everything else.

  “Those away,” said Dave, pointing at Guin’s toys. They vanished into a deep pocket of her duffel coat.

  “And that too,” said Esther, gesturing to Newton’s phone. “He keeps checking Lily’s Instagram page,” she explained to Dave.

  “Lily has Instagram?” said Dave.

  “Yolanda helps her with it apparently.”

  “Yolanda’s the nice one, into that Japanese manga stuff, isn’t she?”

  “It’s away! It’s away!” said an exasperated Newton.

  “Doesn’t he like us talking about Lily?” asked Dave. “Or Yolanda?”

  “I don’t know,” said Esther. “We should conduct an experiment.”

  Newton growled. “Please, can we just…” He waved an arm viciously towards the town. “… go and enjoy the flipping magic of the season?”

  “Let’s.”

  Alvestowe was a small town, more of a village with ideas above its station. Situated in an elevated valley, its dimensions were constrained by the steep geography around it. Nonetheless it contained the bare minimum requirements for an English settlement: a church, a pub and a post office. These and the few shops were all close to a wide square at the centre of the town which was currently filled with the Christmas market. The market over spilled the square and extended some distance along all the roads leading in. Wooden stalls that were part-shed, part-Alpine chalet ran back to back up the centre of the roads, blocking them off to all motor traffic.

  Christmas lights hung from all the stalls and in a criss-cross web across the streets from drainpipes to gutters to lampposts. They were turned on, even though it was daytime and their weak multi-coloured glow was sickly and pathetic.

  There was an “Oof!” Dave turned to see Guin on the floor and a long-haired woman in big glasses and a Russian army surplus hat with furry earflaps standing over her.

  “Sorry, I didn’t see her,” said the woman.

  Newton had offered Guin a hand up but she was ignoring it.

  “Watch where you’re going,” Dave told Guin.

  “Me?” said Guin and pointed at the open hardback book in the woman’s hands.

  “No harm done,” said Dave. The woman moved on, continuing to read as she went. “Come on. Up you get.”

  “I could have broken bones,” said Guin.

  “You’re fine.”

  “Some paramedic you are.”

  “Oh, look,” said Esther. “Zwetschgenmännle.”

  “The what-the-what now?” said Dave. Guin was on her feet and joining Esther at the stall. Zwet-thing-thingy was apparently German for people made from dried fruit.

  “They use wire for the skeleton underneath,” said Guin knowledgeably.

  “They’ve been made this way for over two hundred years,” said Esther. “It’s very authentic.”

  Ah, authentic, thought Dave. That word was like catnip to Esther.

  “Which ones do you like?” Esther asked Guin.

  “I thought we were getting food first,” said Dave.

  “Technically, these are food, dad.”

  “Okay, food without a face.”

  Esther gave him a look and took her purse out of her bag. “Newton, take some money and buy this man some—”

  “Hey, I’ve got money,” said Dave.

  “Please don’t argue,” muttered Newton.

  They weren’t arguing, not even bickering, but Dave knew the lad had a low tolerance for arguments. The boy’s Pavlovian response was to make everyone a cup of tea and offer them a biscuit; a sort of physical manifestation of the Keep Calm and Carry On spirit. Newton would be an absolute godsend if the Second World War came round again.

  “Not arguing. Flirting,” said Dave with a wink for Esther. He slapped a hand on Newton’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go find something that could kill a diabetic at fifty paces.”

  It wasn’t difficult. Soon enough, he was munching on a giant chocolate-covered pretzel and looking at the Christmas tree dominating the centre of the market. It was wrapped in spirals of fairy lights, dotted with candy canes, sleigh bells and baubles and its base was surrounded at by silver Christmas present boxes.

  “S’good,” said Newton, waving his pretzel.

  “At a fiver each, they ought to be,” said Dave.

  “Supply and demand, squire,” said a stout man next to him who was also looking at the tree. Underneath an expensive-looking wax jacket he wore a cable-knit cardigan and a patterned cravat. Dave found himself thinking that you didn’t see many men wearing cravats these days. Those who did were either middle-aged thespians or, possibly, twats.

  “People demand five quid pretzels?” said Dave.

  “They’re prepared to buy them,” said the man. “It’s the golden quarter.”

  “Is it?”

  “October through to December. Key sales period for retailers. It’s all ebb and flow, my good man. It’s the sea I sail on.”

  Twat then, thought Dave.

  Something rustled in the boughs of the Christmas tree, shaking the sleigh bells. Dave wondered if there was a bird or squirrel in there. The bough weighed heavily. A fat bird or a tubby squirrel.

  “It’s this season that keeps the retail industry afloat,” said cravat and wax jacket. “Importing Black Friday from the US was the best thing to happen to this country.”

  “My mum supports Buy Nothing Day,” said Newton, taking another big bite of pretzel.

  “And what’s that about?” said the man, unimpressed.

  With a mouth full of chocolatey pretzelness, Newton attempted to explain. Since everything you needed to know about Buy Nothing Day was pretty much contained in the title, Dave thought he did a brilliant job.

  The cravat man looked appalled, as though Newton had just displayed the symptoms of a terrible, contagious disease. He shook himself, turned up the collar of his coat and looked up at the tree.

  “You know who turned on the lights this year?” he asked.

  Dave shook his head. How could he?

  “It’s an important job,” said cravat man. “Very symbolic. Marks the start of the season. You need an important dignitary. A local celebrity.” The man looked about him as though to check who was listening in. “I would have done it if they’d asked. I can turn on lights.”

  Dave frowned. “I … think we all can.”

  The man laughed. It wasn’t a natural laugh. “I mean I bring the kudos, squire. The gravitas.”

  He looked at Dave expectantly. Dave looked back. The man waited. Dave didn’t know what to say.

  “Duncan Catheter,” said cravat man.

  “Yes?” said Dave.

  “The king of construction. I’m a black belt in housing development. Not yet met a green belt I can’t conquer. You get it, squire? I’ve put more roofs over people’s heads than anyone this side of Skipton. And I’ve got graphs to prove it. I tell you—” Duncan Catheter was warming up to his theme, “—if I’d been around at that first Christmas and young Mary and Joseph had come to my door, I’d have said, ‘No room at the inn? No room at the inn? Why are you bothering with inns? I can get you a small but reasonably priced starter home, two down, two up plus a box
room for your boy Christ. Five percent deposit, no problem. Handy for the shops and the better kind of schools, if you know what I mean.’” The king of construction nudged Dave in the ribs.

  “Not sure that I do,” said Dave and smiled politely.

  “You can tell your friends.” said Duncan, oblivious. “And, if you see the organisers of this thing, point out that they’ve missed a trick.”

  “Oh, yeah. I will.”

  The tree rustled again. The tubby squirrel had apparently moved on.

  Duncan Catheter slapped his own belly contentedly. “A bloody good Christmas tree. All the trimmings. All the goodies. Reminds us what life’s all about, eh?”

  “Yeah,” said Dave, wondering if he meant life was like the shiny empty boxes under the tree, all surface and no content, or if he meant the tree itself, ripped out of its natural setting, dressed up in gaudy colours and presented to the world to ultimately die in a pot – a small but reasonably priced starter pot – that was too small to support it.

  “Are you enjoying your pretzel?” said Newton.

  “What?” said Dave.

  Duncan Catheter, the king of construction, had moved on. Dave looked down and realised the chocolate coating was melting on his fingers. Newton had scoffed his.

  “I can get you something else if you prefer,” said Newton.

  Dave put on a smile. “No. This … this is great. Might need something to wash it down with.”

  ***

  6

  There must have been a hundred or more stalls in the market, tightly packed to create a twisting maze of lanes across the town square. In the jostling tide of day-trippers and serious shoppers, Esther made sure she and Guin stayed close.

  They were ostensibly looking for the boys, but each stall was a distraction. Esther and Guin were both creators. Esther had scored a lot of brownie points with Dave’s girl when she’d given her free access to her craft boxes. Their personal crafting philosophies diverged strongly. Esther loved to make with a purpose: to follow a pattern or set of instructions, preferably an authentic one that meant she was continuing a grand, preferably ancient, tradition. She had dyed her own yarn with collected onion skins. She had subjected her loved ones to meals that followed medieval recipes. She had created vast quantities of Seminole patchwork according to traditional plans.

  Guin, on the other hand, was not one for following plans. For her there was no pleasure to be gained from seeing a crocheted blanket completed, no joy in knowing the yarn she was using had been dyed with onion skins. She crafted without aim, with no concept of rules. The little crocheting Guin had done had been sporadic and random pieces, malignant tumours worked in wool. She was not at all interested in studying a craft and producing something in the style of anything. Guin looked at crafts only with the intent of seeing what she could cannibalise for her own little projects.

  By midday, Esther and Guin had progressed only a short way into the market and were currently standing in front of a stall selling traditional nutcrackers, nearly all stylised as soldiers. Guin picked one up and worked its mechanism, watching its little jaw move.

  “They are very beautiful,” said Esther. “Although I’m not sure I approve of military toys.”

  “Isn’t toy,” said the stallholder, propelling himself bonelessly from his stool and coming closer. “Nutcracker.”

  “Sorry, yes,” said Esther. “Military nutcracker.”

  “Just nutcracker,” said the stall holder.

  “Oh, yes, I do understand,” said Esther. “And I know this is an authentic design. I’m just never happy with toys – or any items – that glorify warfare. Just one of my things.”

  The stallholder frowned, uncomprehending. “Not for warfare. Nutcracker.” The man seemed to have a limited vocabulary. He looked tired. Esther could easily imagine that a week or however long of dealing with Christmas shoppers from morning till night would rob anyone of the power of rational speech.

  “Of course,” said Esther. “I’m just talking about the design.”

  “Can I buy one to take apart?” asked Guin.

  “I don’t think that would be appropriate,” said Esther.

  “Nutcracker,” said the stallholder. “Peanuts.” He produced a knobbly peanut, popped it in a bearded nutcracker’s mouth and cracked it. “Nutcracker!”

  “Got it,” said Esther.

  “Hazelnut,” said the stallholder. He put a hazelnut in the nutcracker’s mouth.

  “Here comes dad,” said Guin.

  “Oh, good,” said Esther, edging away from the stall. “Maybe we can move on…” But Dave and Newton were too quickly upon them.

  The stallholder smashed the hazelnut. “See. Nutcracker.”

  “We’ve been looking all over for you two,” said Dave. The carrier bag at his side clinked heavily.

  “Looking really hard?” said Esther.

  “Walnut,” said the stallholder, putting in another nut.

  “You definitely weren’t by the mead stall,” said Newton. “We spent a lot of time looking there.”

  “We?” said Esther.

  “Me,” said Dave. “Not sure what he was saying half the time but he was very insistent and—” he took one of the bottles out to peer at the incomprehensible angular writing on the label “—I’m sure this is full of meady goodness.”

  “My dad also likes mead,” Guin told Esther.

  “I was thinking,” said Dave, “I could do with a new hobby.”

  “Alcoholism?” said Newton.

  “Home-brewing,” said Dave, “but I’m willing to branch out.”

  “Even brazil nut,” declared the stallholder, even though no one was listening.

  “Snowflake!” said Newton abruptly and pointed at a drifting flake. “They said it would snow today.”

  “One snowflake doesn’t necessarily mean it’s snowing,” said Esther.

  “How many snowflakes do there have to be?” asked Guin.

  “And if a snowflake falls and no one is there to see it, has it really fallen?” said Dave.

  Guin put on a deeply thoughtful expression. “Wow.”

  “Even almond!” said the stallholder.

  “Okay, Confucius.” Esther herded the family away from the stall. “Time to move on.”

  “See!” the stallholder called after them. “All the nuts! Nutcracker!”

  ***

  7

  They ate gingerbread men and drank hot chocolate. They wandered down every lane and cut-through of the market and discovered whole sections they had entirely missed. The rest of the world shuffled and squeezed through the alleys, while tinny music from hidden speakers competed with the grumble and natter of a thousand visitors. A few more brave flakes of snow wafted about here and there.

  Newton bought a blanket for Lily that his mum clearly thought was too expensive but didn’t say. Guin bought herself a wooden box painted with a cheery arctic scene that she declared would be used for ‘things’. When her dad asked her what things, she repeated, “Things!” Newton’s mum found a stall selling hand-thrown earthenware pots. She eagerly questioned the stallholder about their production methods until the stallholder pretended another customer needed his attention and wandered off. She seemed not to notice. Dave bought everyone foot-long hotdogs. Newton thought the supposedly pork sausages didn’t quite taste like any pork he’d eaten before but said nothing, not wanting to make a fuss. They stood and ate them between a carousel ride and a large nativity display near to the town post office.

  The human figures and animals in the nativity, all only slightly smaller than actual life size, appeared to have been carved from single pieces of solid wood. It gave their faces angular, severe expressions. Newton found those expressions disconcerting.

  “Now, that could be a good hobby for you,” his mum said to Dave.

  Dave glanced at the nativity. “Messiah? I think it’s been taken.”

  “No, my love. Wood carving. You’re good with your hands.”

  Guin scof
fed.

  “You work with your hands,” Esther corrected herself, suddenly breathless.

  “Have you seen my bed?” said Guin. “It slopes so much I have to hold on in the night.”

  “Exaggeration,” said Dave.

  “Beds are big things,” said Esther. “Tricky.”

  “It’s from IKEA,” said Guin. “There’s instructions.”

  “I like making flat-pack furniture,” said Esther.

  Newton watched Guin take her little robot figurine out of her pocket. He saw several of its limbs were made from the interlocking bolt and screw components of flat-pack furniture. No wonder her bed sloped if it had all those bits missing. Guin opened the box she had just bought and laid the metal man inside it like it was his bed, or a coffin. She closed the lid firmly.

  Newton looked at the polar bears on Guin’s new box and asked her, “Why don’t polar bears eat penguins?”

  “Depends,” she said.

  “On what?”

  “If this is an excuse to tell me a fact everyone knows or if it’s a really bad joke.”

  He inhaled deeply and plucked a fresh joke from his memory. “Okay, what did one snowman say to the other?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “‘Can you smell carrots?’”

  She tried not to smile. She almost succeeded. “Are you trying to make me like you?” she accused him.

  “I’m trying to make you happy.”

  “Don’t I look happy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t you know what happy looks like?”

  “Sort of like this,” he said and smiled widely.

  “I think that’s more mad psychopath.”

  “They’re easily confused,” he said.

  “There’s some lovely hand-carved cuckoo clock house things on a stall down there,” Esther said to Dave.

  “If I can’t make an IKEA bed, I can’t make a cuckoo clock.”

  She tutted at him. “I’m just saying, come take a look. I like them.”