Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
This is going to get confusing, isn’t it?
Two Nicks. Should I number them? Or perhaps I should call them by their surnames: Coles and North.
That sounds like they should sell organic fruit and veg boxes and deliver them to your door.
Nick A and Nick B? Old Nick or New Nick?
This is a very seasonal dilemma, in any case.
Either way, I’m currently walking through the nearby street market with Santa Nick, on an enforced lunch break that Helen demanded I take even though I have a cheese sandwich in the work fridge.
‘The man has come all this way, Kay,’ she said. ‘The least you can do is feed him.’
‘I could give him half of my sandwich,’ I told her. But by that point, she had my lip gloss out of my handbag and was applying it for me.
I do love this street market around the corner from the library, bustling with noise and life.
In a sea of half-empty high streets and identikit shops, I enjoy walking past fruit stalls where men in fingerless gloves and bobbled woolly hats are trying to sell me boxes of mangoes and hocks of ham.
As Christmas approaches, the stalls are decorated with tinsel and lights, the bakery stall sells boxes of freshly made mince pies and that man with the roast chestnuts sits on the corner, waiting.
I swear he’s following me around. Santa Nick walks next to me in jeans, a checked shirt, brown boots, a navy reefer coat and a grey woollen hat.
The ladies who sell the artisan cheese boxes and chutneys elbow-nudge each other as he walks past, but he remains completely oblivious.
‘I’m glad you brought a change of clothes,’ I say, looking over at him as the winter sun catches the angles of his face.
‘Thank you for letting me change in the staff room, I’m not sure I could have done this dressed as Santa,’ he says.
It wasn’t me who let him change. That was all Olga who was excited about him being half naked in the library.
‘You’d have fit right in, there’s another Santa over there,’ I say, nodding towards one with a charity bucket outside a pub whose glasses are his own and whose beard looks highly flammable.
He may also be drunk but it’s Christmas so I don’t judge.
Nick looks unimpressed by my attempts to be slightly comical and glances over at me, forcing a smile.
‘You were excellent by the way, a very good Santa. I am so grateful.’
He nods sheepishly. ‘I have a big family. I’m used to kids.’
‘Do you have kids of your own?’ I ask.
‘No. I have a cat.’
‘You fathered a cat? You’re a miracle of science then…’
‘Well, no, I rescued her.’
He didn’t get the joke. I choke with a sense of embarrassment. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Kay.’ My eyes move from side to side. I have the same name as his cat? ‘It was a joke. Her name is Bonnie.’
I don’t laugh. ‘Does she have a brother named Clyde?’ I ask.
‘That’s the dog’s name,’ he says. OK, the jokes are getting through. Maybe? This feels slightly less painful. I wrap my checked woollen overcoat over me and try and hide my smile in the scarf wrapped around my neck. ‘So how do you know Lucy then?’ he asks.
‘University. Same drama society. Have you met her sisters?’ I ask.
‘I think Beth and Emma have dropped by the farm?’ he says. ‘So you’re also an actress?’
‘Oh God no. I was a backstage, scriptwriter sort. I did English Lit at university and now I…’
‘Work at the library…’ he says. Is that a dig at where my degree took me?
‘I also… that third book you read today. The one about the bears…’
‘A Beary Merry Christmas. Yeah, I didn’t get the rhyme scheme on that title…’
‘I wrote that.’
I see his mouth round in shock. ‘Oh, that’s not to say the rest of the book wasn’t excellent. You wrote that?’
I nod. I did. ‘Yeah, that Christmas rhyming was to capitalise on the season, but I work with an illustrator and we’ve written a series of books about those bears.’
‘So you’re famous?’
‘Naturally, paps are waiting around the corner,’ I joke.
He looks at me almost quizzically. ‘Well, I think that’s pretty cool. Do you write under your own name? Kay Redman, right?’
I pause for a moment to hear him say my whole name, the way the growl of his voice almost whispers it. ‘I write under a pseudonym. K. M. Barrett. The idea was that if I ever wanted to diversify into erotica then it wouldn’t sully my reputation.’
‘Is that what you were thinking?’ he asks. ‘You’d write erotica?’
My cheeks glow a little at the thought. ‘No, it was hypothetical. I’ll stick with families of bears in bow ties for now.’
He smiles. I bite my lip because you can sense it’s not a natural stance for him, to let go, to be free with his emotions, and I think back to what Lucy said about him being anal.
Given we’ve just spoken about erotica, this, of course, makes me giggle to myself.
I hide my mouth in my scarf again. He looks over at me curiously.
‘Well, let me at least support you. I’ll buy copies for my nieces and nephews. ’
‘Thank you,’ I say, surprised by the gesture. ‘Did you say your friend’s van was up here?’
‘Yeah, I think so,’ he says. It turns out I don’t have to buy Nick a kebab, as he knows one of the food vans up here in this market and suggested we pay it a visit.
‘He does stints on the farm, we got him in for autumn events. I provide him with his pork.’ Don’t laugh.
He’s talking about produce. He works on a farm.
Don’t be juvenile. Plus, I don’t think he gets me.
Whatever this is, if I compare it to the other Nick, the chemistry and the banter is really not flowing as well as it should. ‘And this is it.’
We stop at a small food van with a couple of tables out front decorated with bottles of condiments and a fair bit of festive greenery. I look up at the name of the van. ‘Getting Piggy Wit’ It’. I burst out laughing. ‘That is amazing.’
There’s that half smile again. As soon as the owner clocks Nick, he waves his hands in the air, a huge grin on his face. ‘Nicholas North, my old mucker. How are you, mate?’ The owner wears a t-shirt with his company logo on, a bandana and apron, and leans over the counter to shake Nick’s hand.
‘I was in the neighbourhood. Hank, this is Kay, she works at the local library. Kay, this is Hank,’ he says.
He swiftly raises his eyebrows to Nick who returns a stern look.
I do think back to when the other Nick introduced me the other night, how the introduction wasn’t as quick or authentic.
‘The library? The old building near the park? Love that place. How’s the book drive going?
I keep seeing flyers for it everywhere. I’ll drop by some stuff one day. ’
‘It’s going OK. And yeah, thank you – you’re welcome any time,’ I say.
‘Excellent… so I’ll assume you’re here for some scran?’ he says.
‘Yeah, I’ll have a hog roast special, chilli relish on mine and extra crackling? Kay?’
I stop for a moment mainly because I’m mesmerised by the smell of the roast pork, sage and cranberry, and the fact he has a bucket of crackling just sitting there.
‘Umm, I guess the same. Do you have apple sauce?’ I ask.
‘Does the Pope like Jesus? Of course, lovely. Make it myself.’
Am I drooling? I think I am. How did he know I absolutely adore a hog roast?
Did Lucy tell him? It’s the sort of thing you don’t see a lot – the vans and stalls make an appearance around autumn and wintertime, and even then, the quality varies.
I once went to an evening wedding reception that was putting on a hog roast, though I didn’t care much for the cousin who invited me.
I watch as Hank masterfully slices through rolls and starts layering them with meat and trimmings.
‘So how’s the family? I think Nell has asked us to do a couple of weekends, yeah?’ Hank asks.
‘Yep. Look forward to having you there. Family are all good. Busy with Christmas. Did you get your tree?’
‘Of course. Absolute beauty. It’s what my boy’s good at. Pork and wood,’ he says, chuckling at his own joke. That was funny, but Nick looks down, blushing and shaking his head. As he does, Hank turns to me, pointing at Nick and putting a thumbs up, mouthing the words top bloke. I nod.
He finishes creating our rolls and then wraps them in paper, handing them over. I go into my handbag to get my wallet. ‘How much do we owe you?’
‘Nothing,’ Hank says. ‘Put your money away.’
‘But I owe Nick here.’
‘Then you’ll have to think of another way to repay him.’
‘Hank,’ Nick warns him.
‘Mate, you are the reason I can keep this van open and have a livelihood. Begone with both of you, tell your mates, do that social media stuff. I’ll see you at the farm and you at your lovely library,’ he says.
Nick whispers his thank yous as we walk away.
I don’t wait. I take that loaded bap in my hands, all warm and fragrant.
I inhale it deeply and then take a bite, my teeth snapping at crispy crackling, the apple sauce tart and slightly warm against the tender meat and soft bread of the bap.
I don’t care for anyone called Nick now.
I’m going to run off and marry this sandwich. I sigh and close my eyes.
‘You OK?’ Nick asks me, interrupting this love affair.
‘I’m in love…’ I say, my mouth full.
‘With Hank? He’s engaged I’m afraid,’ he says, biting into his roll effortlessly. How does anyone look good eating like that? I eat messy. I know there is stuffing on my upper lip.
‘This is astounding. This is one of the best things I’ve ever put in my mouth.’
He stops chewing for a bit. I know what I said and I don’t care for any alternative meanings there because that is the goddamn truth. If I know this man is here then sod my cheese sandwiches, I am coming here every day until the library shuts down for Christmas.
‘Shall we keep walking?’ he asks.