Joe and Clara’s Christmas Countdown

On the last night, when he was steaming drunk after too many tankards of beer to count, he’d given a handful of euros to one of the girls. She couldn’t have been much older than Simone was now, her thick red lipstick clown-like and gaudy, her black dress short, tight and low- cut. There had been a sadness to her face, and her eyes darted around the shadows of the surrounding alleyways as she took the money. At the time Joe had thought she was afraid he was going to attack her, but with hindsight he thought the girl was scared in case her pimp saw her taking money from a potential client without earning it. He’d wished he could speak German, but as it was he could only say ‘Danke’ as he gave her the money, which he later realised meant ‘thank you’ rather than ‘please’. It weighed heavy on his mind and heart that he’d never know her fate.

He was snapped out of his thoughts as Clara shouted, ‘Don’t you just love it here?’ Even at full volume her voice could barely be heard above the blend of laughter and chatter and the mellow Christmas panpipe music blaring out over the speakers.

Joe didn’t love the crowds, but the way Clara’s face was shining perked him up enough to smile; that and the sight of the bratwurst sausage logo coming into view.

‘We made it,’ Joe said breathlessly as they joined a queue of people waiting for hot dogs. ‘And I promise they’re worth the fuss. I reluctantly came with Simone last week because she wanted to start her Christmas shopping and we ended up eating two of these beauties each.’

‘Two? But they’re enormous!’

Joe looked to the ground, guilty as charged. ‘I know. But honestly, when you’ve tasted it you’ll see why one wasn’t enough. They’re incredible. And we had to make the most of it, because once the markets are gone for another year there won’t be the opportunity to have them again until next November or December.’

‘Ah, so you’re making the most of the opportunity by aiming to eat your annual quota of hot dogs in a month.’

‘Exactly.’

The round-faced man in the hut was wearing a gigantic furry hat with earflaps that hung down like spaniels’ ears. It was at odds with the professional-looking apron he was wearing, the combination giving him the air of an eccentric elf. He beamed as he rubbed his palms together. ‘Good evening!’

‘Good evening,’ Joe echoed. ‘Can we have two of your finest hot dogs, please?’

The man nodded as he pressed the meat into a bread roll. The sausage was too long, poking out at both ends, and Joe was already salivating at the thought.

‘Onions?’ the man asked.

‘Yes, please,’ Clara replied quickly. ‘And lots of them.’

Joe pulled a face and shook his head. ‘No thanks.’

Clara looked on in disbelief. ‘A hot dog without onions? What are you, some kind of maverick? Next you’ll be saying you don’t have red sauce.’

‘I don’t.’

The look of sheer horror that passed over Clara’s face at that revelation made Joe snort with laughter.

‘I can’t believe I’m willingly spending time with someone who has such terrible taste in hot dogs. I bet you’re one of those weirdoes who has mustard too, aren’t you?’ The man offered the hot dog to Clara, loaded high with the soft, curled onions. She reached straight for the bottle of red sauce and drew two thick lines of ketchup along the top of the sausage. ‘Red sauce is the only way forward when it comes to hot dogs.’

Joe accepted a hot dog from the man and handed him a note in payment. When Clara reached for her purse, Joe stopped her. ‘My treat,’ he said, as she gratefully withdrew her hand from her bag and bit into her food.

‘Mmmm,’ she said, her eyes closing as she chewed the hot dog. ‘This is amazing.’

Joe couldn’t hide his pride, as though he’d made it himself from scratch. ‘I know, right? And I think it tastes better because we’re out in the cold and there’s all the smells. It tricks your senses into thinking it’ll taste a certain way and then it doesn’t at all. It’s a million times better.’

‘I couldn’t eat it like that, though,’ Clara said, nodding her head towards Joe’s plain hot dog.

‘I like it naked.’ As soon as Joe realised what he’d said he waited for Clara to pounce as she undoubtedly would.

‘If that’s not too much information then I don’t know what is,’ she said, with a salacious giggle.

Joe glanced coyly at the floor before meeting her eyes.

‘Oh, stop acting all innocent and virtuous, you don’t have to get embarrassed,’ she said. ‘We’re only having a laugh.’

She wrapped her mouth around the hot dog sausage and although he knew it wasn’t meant to be sexual – she was only eating, after all – Joe was aware of his cheeks getting warm. All the innuendo was making him hot under the collar.

‘I’m a vicar’s son, remember? I am innocent and virtuous.’

As though to prove the point he fluttered his eyelashes, and Clara laughed. It was a beautiful laugh, Joe thought, full on and loud and brimming over with positivity. Being around Clara was certainly a tonic. The heaviness that weighed down his heart lessened in her presence.

‘Yeah, right. I bet you’re not as innocent as you make out. No one is.’

‘That sounds like an invite for me to ask about your deepest, darkest secrets.’

‘Uh huh.’ She shook her head. ‘No way. This is about you, not me! Come on. Share something that’ll surprise me.’

Joe thought for a moment as he chewed on the sausage. The herbs and spice exploded on his tongue, fizzing like fireworks against the roof of his mouth. What could he share? Nothing about Michelle, not yet, and nothing about his ambivalence towards many aspects of life, either. He wracked his brains for something witty and light-hearted. There were plenty of minor exploits from his youth, but nothing shock-worthy. The time Billy dared him to go into the ladies’ toilets at The Club on the Corner and Deirdre had been lurking outside waiting for him because one of the girls had snitched on him. He’d got into a lot of trouble over that. Or when he’d downed the best part of a bottle of White Lightning behind the bus shelter, again a dare from Billy. Billy was almost always involved when he got in trouble, now he thought about it.

‘I kissed a boy once.’ The words were out of his mouth before he could think about what he was revealing.

‘Really?’ She looked surprised. ‘Even if I’d had a hundred guesses, I wouldn’t have predicted you were going to say that.’

‘Sometimes there’s more to people than meets the eye.’

‘You can’t say something like that and just leave it there,’ she said, looking forlornly at the now-empty napkin. All that was left of her hot dog were a few stray crumbs and a smear of red sauce. ‘Come on. Spill the beans.’

‘There’s not much to spill. It was during my first month at uni. The guy I lived next to in halls had a friend come to stay.’ He could picture him clearly in his mind’s eye, even now – the slicked-back blonde hair, the sharp, pale features, the all-black clothes. ‘He looked like the actor who played Draco Malfoy in the Harry Potter films.’

Clara nodded her approval. ‘Not bad.’

‘We all went out to a club, everyone from our floor, and when we got back someone suggested we played spin the bottle. There were maybe ten of us still up, all steaming drunk. And when he spun the bottle, it landed on me. I thought he’d kiss the girl I was sat next to instead because he’d been flirting with her all night, but he didn’t. He walked straight across the middle of the circle and lowered down onto his haunches, placed his hands on my cheeks and kissed me.’

Clara fanned her hand in front of her face. ‘Sounds hot.’

‘It wasn’t. Not for me, anyway.’

Michelle had been there, sat on the other side of the circle, watching in amusement, not remotely threatened by someone else kissing him. If roles had been reversed he’d have been squirming with jealousy, but then Michelle had always been easy-going, a free spirit. She’d teased him mercifully about it forever more. At least, as forever more as they’d been granted, which hadn’t been long enough.

‘Were there tongues?’

Joe pressed his lips firmly together, wondering what had made him willingly share something so personal with Clara, who he barely knew. He’d not breathed a word of this to anyone who hadn’t been there, not even Billy.

‘Yeah.’

‘You’re a dark horse, Joe Smith. Snogging men after a drunken night out. I wouldn’t have had you down as the type.’

‘It was a game,’ he shrugged. ‘And it wasn’t for me. Anyway, why is it me revealing all this stuff? Make it fair, come on. Tell me more about you.’

‘I might go down in your estimation if I tell you too much.’

‘Not a chance.’

‘When I was fourteen I let Darren Wilder touch my boobs at the school disco.’

Joe laughed. ‘That’s not shocking, that’s just teenagers being teenagers.’

‘I graffiti-ed the toilets in the Imperial War Museum once on a school trip.’

‘What did you write?’

‘Clara was here,’ she laughed.

‘Stealthy,’ he nodded. ‘I like it. But it doesn’t shock me.’

‘I once climbed out of my window to go to an Avril Lavigne concert at the Apollo because I knew my mum wouldn’t let me go if I asked.’

‘Now that’s shameful. Avril Lavigne? Really?’

‘She had some classic tunes, I’ll have you know.’

Joe snorted. ‘Whatever you say.’

‘She did!’ Clara laughed, playfully slapping his arm. ‘I bet even you liked Sk8er Boi.’ She proceeded to sing it theatrically, and Joe found himself joining in. He hadn’t realised he still knew the lyrics after all these years.

‘Ha! I knew you were a closet fan.’

‘Simone liked her.’

‘She did not, you liar. She’s not the right age.’

‘It’s only that one song. It’s a catchy tune.’

‘It’s immense,’ Clara agreed. ‘But enough talk about Avril. Are you ready to hit the stalls? Because I noticed one back there that I’d like to have a look at.’

‘The one with the alpaca-wool hats?’ he grinned. The stall had stood out for Joe, the brightly coloured garments catching his eye. There had been shawls and ponchos hanging on a rack and one of those twizzly stands covered in hats with earflaps, like the one the sausage-seller had been sporting. Then there had been knee-high socks, thick and striped, and pairs of mittens that looked warm and snuggly, similar to the ones Clara had been wearing the evening of the light switch-on, but in an array of garish clashing colours.

‘Haha,’ she said, poking out her tongue. ‘That wasn’t the one I had in my sights, actually. There was a stall with wooden ornaments that I thought would make nice gifts. My mum is as nuts about Christmas as I am, so I always get her a new decoration as part of her Christmas present.’

‘Cool,’ Joe replied, before looking through the crowds to try and locate the stall. There were so many, and every hut looked alike. He hoped Clara could remember where it was because otherwise it could take a while to find. ‘Any idea which direction we need to head in?’

Clara wafted her hands around. ‘Somewhere towards the middle.’

Joe couldn’t help but smile at her vagueness. ‘We’d better get searching then, hadn’t we?’

And they amiably linked arms and headed off in search of the perfect gift for Clara’s mum.

* * *

‘Aren’t they gorgeous?’ Clara said, as she ran her fingers gently over the smooth curves of a carved reindeer. The wood was varnished, yet the colour remained delicate and pale.

Joe wasn’t usually won over by ornaments, but even he had to admit they were beautifully made. The attention to detail was phenomenal and the intricate nativity scenes had particularly caught his eye.

‘Handcrafted in Scandinavia,’ said a ruddy-faced blonde in a fisherman’s sweater. ‘And all individual. You won’t find two the same.’

‘That’s what I like about them,’ Clara enthused. ‘That they’re all unique.’ She picked up a small reindeer, not much bigger than her thumb. ‘I think something like this would be best. Our place isn’t really big enough for one like that,’ she laughed, nodding towards the largest of the reindeers. It came up to Joe’s waist, and he wondered who would ever buy a decoration that big. He supposed they appealed to people who had mansions, or those families who turned their gardens into a winter wonderland for a month so it became a bizarre local attraction.

Clara handed the miniature reindeer to the stall-holder with a decisive nod. ‘I’ll take this one.’

As she handed over the money in exchange for the wooden trinket, now wrapped in shimmering silver tissue paper, she beamed.

‘My mum’ll love it. Thank you,’ she added, waving to the man as they moved on to the next stall, where a wild-haired lady was waxing lyrical about her homemade scented candles.

‘I’ve tried to conjure up some more unusual scents,’ she said, every word deliberate and pronounced. ‘Everyone likes vanilla, but I wanted to give them more of a Miranda vibe.’ Sensing Clara’s bemusement and mistaking it for confusion, she added, ‘I’m Miranda.’

‘Right,’ Clara said, stifling a giggle.

Joe elbowed her in the ribs, hoping it would encourage her to keep a straight face, but it only caused Clara to pull her hand to her face and clamp it over her mouth to hide her glee.

Something about Miranda’s manner was comical. She was intense, and Joe picked up on how the way she spoke, as though she was thinking about every word that came out of her mouth, was so at odds with how Clara blurted anything that came into her head the moment she thought it.

‘I create original blends that add the traditional Christmas aromas to the most popular scents.’

Clara moved closer and examined the labels, plain white with an embossed gold script. ‘Vanilla Berry, Cinnamon Rose, Sea Breeze and Balsam … Interesting combinations.’

‘Have a smell,’ urged Miranda, shoving a candle under Clara’s nose with such force that she jumped back in surprise. ‘This is Sunrise and Snowflakes. It’s a combination of summer mornings and winter nights.’

‘Wow,’ Joe said, swallowing down a laugh that was bubbling in his throat. ‘There really is something for everyone.’

Clara wrinkled her nose as she inhaled. ‘This smells a bit gingery,’ she said. ‘And maybe bergamot too?’

‘You’ve got a good nose for scents.’ Miranda’s bob of the head suggested she was impressed by Clara’s ability to pick out the key ingredients in her bespoke candles. ‘I bet you’re a woman who uses her senses to their full potential.’

She gazed intently at Clara, which Joe found unsettling, so he could only imagine how it must feel for Clara being in the spotlight like that. And what was she rambling on about, Clara using her senses to their full potential? Joe was beginning to feel both trapped and weirded out by Miranda and her scented candles, and was keen to escape. Not least because he didn’t fancy being coerced into buying a candle he’d never light.

‘Oh Clara, look!’

He started to wave frantically at a group of young people eating churros a few feet away. Never mind that he’d not seen the youths before in his life, if it got him and Clara away from Miranda and her candles, he didn’t really care.

Her eyes darted to where he was looking, just as a girl with bright-green hair gave an awkward smile and waved back.

‘We really should go and say hello,’ Joe said pointedly. ‘It’s a long time since I last saw … erm …’ he wracked his brain for a name that he could pretend belonged to the girl, ‘… Erin.’

‘We must,’ said Clara, a flicker of recognition in her eyes. Joe was relieved she’d understood what he was trying to do and that she was willing to play along. ‘Nice to meet you, Miranda. I hope you have a successful evening.’

‘Don’t waste that nose of yours!’ Miranda called after them as they walked away as quickly as they could.

‘Thank you,’ Clara gushed when the pair were safely out of Miranda’s earshot. ‘I was beginning to wonder what she was going to say next. Talking about using my senses to my full potential and all the other mumbo jumbo,’ she laughed.

‘It might not be mumbo jumbo,’ Joe reasoned. ‘I was thinking we might put our sense of taste to good use again in a minute. That doughnut stall is just over there,’ he said, nodding towards a crowd of people queuing for the sugary delights.

‘And the Gluhwein. You did promise,’ Clara reminded him.

‘You’re right, I did.’

Clara linked her arm through Joe’s once more. ‘Now you’re talking. Tasting that is the kind of sense I don’t mind using to my full potential,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’

Clara

Monday, December 4th 2017

The gloomy grey clouds hadn’t lifted all day, and the darkness they cast around the office at The Club on the Corner wasn’t encouraging Clara to work. The paperwork she’d been staring at was also tedious and depressing, so much so that she’d almost caved and opened the stollen she’d bought for Joe. The sweet bread-like texture dissolving in her mouth would have been an antidote to the charity submissions she’d been working on all day, first at home and then at the office. If the cake hadn’t taken so bloody long to wrap the previous evening she’d have opened it first thing; all that would’ve been left of it would be a Hansel and Gretel trail of crumbs leading from her house to the club. Or halfway to the club, more likely. It would never have lasted her all the way to work.

Stollen was another of the traditional Christmas foods that she couldn’t resist, and the brand she’d bought from a European supermarket on Ayres Road was her absolute favourite. It was packed with so much dried fruit that it wasn’t far off being a Christmas cake, and the icing sugar dusted on top was thick and generous. Most importantly was the marzipan rope woven through the centre of the dough, the sharp almond tang the perfect finishing touch. Her grandparents’ next-door neighbours were Austrian and gifted her family one of the cakes each year, and the sight of the distinctive wrapper alone was enough to set Clara’s mouth watering.

At the Christmas market Joe had mentioned in passing that he’d never tried stollen and she’d immediately known it was the next gift she’d get him. She only hoped he liked it as much as she did, because she’d gone for the biggest they’d had in stock.

Clara looked at the clock, noting it was later than she’d thought. She really should start setting up for the session, especially as it was doubling as a much-needed fundraising event. Deirdre had decided a bake sale was a relatively easy way to bring more money into the club, but Clara wasn’t in the mood for swarms of adults descending on the place. She loved being with the youngsters, finding them much easier to talk to than their older counterparts. They were more straightforward, less prone to game-playing. If they had an issue with you it’d come firing out in a hormone-fuelled rage.

Picking up her bag, along with her mum’s spotty cake tin, she headed downstairs, hoping people wouldn’t laugh her misshapen Smartie cookies out of town. Clara never professed to be a baker and didn’t aspire to be one either, and she’d only brought something along to the event to show her support. If no one wanted to buy them, she’d throw a tenner into the margarine tub they used for collecting money and take them back home herself.

* * *

Deirdre was flapping. She often got like this when there was an event, keen to show the club in its best light. Plus, of course, there was the near desperation, the need to make as much money as possible from this bake sale to keep the club open and available to as many young people as possible. Clara understood all that, but the tension in the kitchen rubbed off on her as soon as she walked through the door.

‘Oh, Clara. Thank goodness! I thought you were never going to come down.’ Deirdre peeled back the lid of a Tupperware container and examined the contents – mince slices – before adding the box to a pile. ‘I’ve got a system,’ she said, her voice hurried and flustered. ‘Buns and cupcakes near the kettle, biscuits next to the microwave and big cakes and Christmassy goods here on the table.’

Clara cast her eyes over the offerings. There seemed to be an awful lot of buns, plus an abundance of Cornflake Crispy bites, which were Deirdre’s speciality. She made them for every event, every time.

‘I’ve brought some biscuits,’ Clara said, putting her tin near the microwave with a tray full of beautifully iced gingerbread men. ‘They don’t look that appealing, though, I’m afraid.’

‘They’ll be fine,’ Deirdre said, ‘people buy anything at these bake sales. They’re not fussy.’

Clara didn’t rise. Much like the chocolate cake in the corner hadn’t. It was as flat as a pancake.

‘Who brought that in?’ Clara asked, pointing at the paper-thin cake.

‘Oh, that was Joe,’ Deirdre said with a laugh. ‘I don’t think he’s much of a baker. Bless him for trying, though, eh?’

‘It’s not so bad,’ Clara said, surprised at how quickly she jumped to defend Joe’s efforts. The cake was thin, but the chocolate buttercream smothering it still looked tasty and tempting. ‘And, like you said, people aren’t fussy. They’d buy anything if they thought it’d support the youth club.’

‘I hope you’re right, because if we don’t raise some money fast we’ll have to cancel the Christmas disco.’

‘We’ll find the money somehow,’ Clara said optimistically. ‘There’s been a Christmas disco every year since the club opened. We’re not going to start letting the kids down now.’

‘You’re right,’ Deirdre agreed, as she opened a tin. The tempting waft of chocolate brownie flooded out and Clara’s mouth started to water in response. ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way.’

Clara rummaged in her bag for her purse. It was buried at the bottom, beneath a pile of crumpled receipts, an empty chocolate-bar wrapper and a couple of emergency tampons. Wasn’t that always the way? She took her rubbish and posted it in the bin, and removed the present for Joe, placing it on the work surface until she found the purse. Unzipping it, she took out a newly-minted coin.

‘Well, for starters, can you bag me up a piece of that brownie? And make it a large one. It looks amazing.’ She placed the pound coin in the margarine tub, the two-tone disc mingling in with the float of silvers and coppers.

‘Brianna Moore’s mum made it, so you know it’s going to be good.’

‘Ah, that explains why it smells amazing,’ Clara replied, inhaling deeply to get another hit from the sweet aroma. Mrs Moore had started up a small bakery on the same row as The Club on the Corner, and apparently the orders had been flooding in. She’d been especially busy over the summer with wedding cakes, and Clara imagined she’d be in demand over the Christmas period too, for those who had neither the time nor skills to cobble together a Christmas cake.

‘I’m going to buy the ginger loaf she contributed,’ Deirdre said with a wry smile. ‘And she’s donated a voucher for a celebration cake too as a raffle prize. I was going to ask if you’d stand on the door as people arrive to encourage them to buy a strip or two.’

Clara snorted. ‘Encourage? Bully them into it, more like.’

‘It’s a fantastic prize. Everyone likes cake. We could take a lot of money on that raffle, if we’re lucky.’ She picked up a bag and peered into it, looking most dissatisfied by the contents. ‘French Fancies,’ she said, with a disparaging shake of her head. ‘Shop-bought.’

‘Mr Kipling’s?’

Clara licked her lips. She loved French Fancies. They reminded her of childhood birthday parties, the bright icing drizzled with purest white zig-zagged lines brought back happy memories.

Deirdre shook her head. ‘Own brand.’

‘Oh.’

Clara was momentarily disappointed, until Joe strode into the room, a woven jute bag in each hand.

He held them up proudly. ‘More supplies!’ he announced.

Deirdre smiled half-heartedly. ‘You been busy doing more baking, Joe? You shouldn’t have.’

‘Oh no,’ Joe laughed. ‘It took me hours to make that chocolate monstrosity, there was no chance I was going to do any more baking. I got Mum to make something instead. She hadn’t realised the cake sale was tonight until I told her – she’d written it in the wrong space on the calendar.’