Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
‘And that was the end of that story, as the sun set amber on the horizon and the sky shone as blue as it ever did,’ Nick says, as he finishes the chapter of the book he’s been reading out in this super-festive day room.
I like the fact that Nick sits in a high wingback chair so it vaguely looks like a throne.
He reads very well. There’s good diction there, a wonderful tone to his voice.
In another life, he could make a good living out of doing radio ads.
‘He looked into my eyes, searching for a counterpoint to his own soul, to see if the sun could rise with me, for a lifetime.’
There’s a small crowd of about thirty residents sitting here listening, and I swear we all sigh at the same time to hear him, his tone making us all swoon, even the men.
I cock my head to one side at how he grins at that last line.
Who even are you? He closes the book and then rubs his hand over the cover, almost as if he’s thanking it.
An old lady in the front row in a pink cardigan sits up, as though the magic of his words may have cured all of her ills.
That said, the man next to her in his tartan slippers is asleep, but there was something about that reading that was a little bit magical.
Nick glances over at me and smiles. Yeah, that’s not allowed when you’re dressed as Santa.
This is plain wrong for him to transform himself into someone so alluring and attractive.
I don’t know what to do with the intensity of his look so I just put my thumbs up at him.
‘Now take off your clothes!’ someone shouts, and I sincerely hope it isn’t my grandmother.
However, I am grateful that this means Nick isn’t looking at me anymore.
Instead, he puts his hands in the air to calm down the furore and blushes deeply.
I don’t get this new New Nick. It turns out that when he’s around anyone aged sixty or above he transforms, and all his jolly spills out, he shares jokes, laughs and well, one of these ladies has him up and dancing, pressing herself up against him.
He gives her a little twirl and everyone claps again.
OK, calm down, Fred Astaire. I guess I should feel something – this is mildly endearing – but the fact is, I did this.
I came into this room and set up all the books, I laid out mince pies and teacups and now I’m sitting here working the tea urn, watching as he gets all the limelight in his Santa suit and kindly flair.
He is usually the most serious man I’ve ever met and now he’s dipping a lady in slipper shoes.
I take one of my mince pies, peel back the foil liner and take a confused crumbly bite.
‘Where on earth did you find him?’ Janey asks me, sipping on a mug of tea, not able to avert her gaze.
He’s done dancing now. We watch as he sits down at the day-room piano and starts playing.
Of course. Now he’s Elton John. Next he’s going to show us he can do magic tricks and paint us a picture.
A few start singing along, their arms linked as he conducts them in this makeshift singalong.
‘At a Christmas-tree farm,’ I mumble, noticing quite randomly that he has very good posture, the way his legs are slightly parted, the way the material of that costume clings to his thighs.
‘You’re funny,’ she says.
Oh, she thought I was joking. ‘No, seriously, he sells Christmas trees.’
We both look on as the man I thought was asleep suddenly sits up and impresses us with his vibrato.
‘That might be why he was offering to replace our plastic trees.’
‘Yeah, he likes a real piece of wood.’
‘Don’t we all, hun,’ Janey says, sniggering. ‘Well, this is the biggest crowd we’ve had in here for a while. Thank you again, it’s lovely for them all to do something a bit different and get a gift too.’
I see a man across the way unwrap a beautiful leather-bound edition of Moby Dick and a warm expression creeps across his face as he perches his glasses on the bridge of his nose to fold open the first page.
That’s all I’m here for, that moment when someone opens a gift and there’s a look of complete surprise, wonder and contentment that it’s exactly what they need in that moment.
‘You are very welcome,’ I reply. ‘While I have you here, can I ask about Nana? How’s she been?’
Janey comes over to sit by me, turning her chair towards mine.
It’s one of the advantages of being here that they always keep me in the loop, that the care feels very personalised, full of kindness.
‘She is a joy, full of laughs.’ She pauses.
‘She’s had some bad days recently where her frustration peeks through, but we’re keeping a check on that to gauge how it may be affecting her overall mood. ’
I nod and smile, watching Nana over Janey’s shoulder, tinsel wrapped around her head as she joins in a very animated version of ‘Jingle Bells’.
I didn’t realise she could kick her leg that high but it tells me that she is surviving here, she’s having fun, that despite my guilt and my worry, she is OK and there are people constantly looking out for her.
‘Can I also just check, the last payments have been coming from Mr Redman but with top-up from yourself, is that right?’ she asks.
I nod, taking a deep breath. When we put Nana here, we knew that it would come at a cost but we’ve been bumbling through trying to make it work.
I’ll need to sell a few million more bear books, possibly rent out one of her bedrooms, to make this all work, but we will continue to keep her here.
‘Then that’s totally fine – I will adjust the receipts to match. ’
‘Oh… and I have a book for you too,’ I say to Janey, digging through a box under the table. I hand over the package. ‘One day I saw that you were reading Rebecca Yarros and these books are similar if you’re into vampire kings – just beware, it’s all a little kinky.’
She opens the book and grins, leaning over to give me a little hug. ‘The kinkier the better, gets me through the night shifts,’ she winks. ‘Could I get a signed picture of Santa too? That would also help.’
‘What would help?’ a voice says from behind us.
My eyes widen to hear Nick standing there, wondering who’s taken over at the piano because it still seems to be playing. Janey smirks quietly to herself. ‘Alcohol. We should have done mulled wine. Helps them all sleep better too,’ she says, shrugging her shoulders at me.
‘I don’t think many of them need the alcohol,’ Nick comments, nodding at an old man with a walker who may be twerking.
‘Yeah, he shouldn’t do that. He’s just had a new hip put in,’ Janey says, scurrying over to intervene.
I can hear Nick laughing as she does. I can’t bring myself to look at him because I have absolutely zero poker face. Him connecting with my nana and dancing around this place being nice to the elderly is a little confusing for me.
‘I’ll take a cup of tea if you’re serving?’ he says.
I turn around, trying to act surprised and deeply nonchalant that he’s there, up close, some perfect embodiment of Santa.
Why does he smell so nice? Like freshly sawn wood and vanilla cookies.
‘I can do that…’ I say, putting a teacup to the black nozzle of the urn.
‘How do you take it?’ As I say that, I think how it could sound vaguely sexual.
‘Black, one sugar.’
‘Black? You have your tea black?’
‘Yes. I’m lactose intolerant.’
‘Then how do you drink all the milk the kids leave out for you?’ I ask, trying to focus on cups and saucers and also checking my reflection in the big shiny silver urn.
‘I sometimes pour it down the sink,’ he says.
‘Santa, that’s so bad.’ For some reason my intonation changes when I say that.
I’m standing by a tea urn, this is not the time to be remotely sexual and I don’t think that way about him anyway.
It’s not allowed. I hand him his cup of tea and look into his eyes.
‘There are also mince pies. I baked them myself.’
‘You did?’
‘No. I bought them in I’m afraid.’
‘You should have said, we have great mince pies at the farm. Next time.’
Next time. I’ve agreed to all of this, haven’t I? We’re likely spending all this time together and we haven’t really defined the parameters of our acquaintance yet. ‘That would be lovely,’ I say.
‘You never mentioned that thing about your nana’s Christmas tree. That we’ve spoken before on the phone?’ he says, curious.
I smile to myself. ‘You know what, I only worked it out myself a few days ago. When I was in your truck. Do you remember it?’
‘Unfortunately no. Was I rude?’ I nod that he’s at least self-aware. ‘I’m not a phone person,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. I think I do remember your nana though. Cobbled mews address?’
‘That’s her. She’s not someone you forget, my nana.’
I glance over at her fondly and I see his gaze following mine. ‘Your grandmother has some stories about you,’ he says, cradling his teacup in the palm of his hand.
‘Is it the one where I saved all those cats from a storm drain?’ I ask.
‘You did that?’
‘No.’ I was just trying to sound brave and hilarious.
‘She told me about how you once got your head stuck in the railings outside the chip shop and they managed to free you with a giant tub of frying oil.’
I now refuse to believe my grandmother has dementia. She’s lying to us all. ‘Her memory isn’t what it used to be. She must be thinking of someone else,’ I say.
He pauses for a moment, taking a sip of his tea. ‘You should have said she was here,’ he says.
I look up at him, struck by the concern and empathy in his tone.
I don’t know what to say. Because to tell him about Nana would divulge something sad, which means this is more than just being casual acquaintances.
It’s the kind of thing you share with friends, people who mean something to you so they can lend you support, advice.
And there are times when I don’t want to talk about her, I don’t want to face the truth that her being here means she is moving further away from me.
‘I meant, so I could prepare, put on more aftershave. I could have brought her a gift,’ he suggests, reading my pause.
‘That makes it sound as if you want to chat up my nana and that’s slightly inappropriate.’
He laughs and it softens that stony exterior I’m so used to, that deep throaty sound that he rarely engages in.
He pauses to take another sip of tea. I see how he still avoids my mince pies though.
‘By the way, you know those letters you found the other day in the library? I hope you don’t mind but I did some digging, went on some community sites and put the feelers out to see if anyone recognised them.
’ Behind him people are still dancing and singing as he says this, one of them being my nana.
She looks over intently at our interaction and smiles broadly.
‘Because I read through all those letters and it’s quite the story. ’
‘You read the letters? There were about fifty of them, you read them all?’ I ask, surprised.
‘I did.’ I can still see Nana watching. Is she pulling smoochy faces?
‘I’m enjoying the mystery of piecing together their love.
’ I turn to him as he says this, exhaling slowly.
‘And if they’ve lost pieces of their story then I think it’s nice for them to have them back, to have reminders of that love.
’ He holds my gaze as he says that, before turning back to glance at my nana and then back at me, his expression full of compassion. He read all those letters. He knows.
I cough to cover up my emotion. ‘Any joy?’
‘Not really. I’ll let you know if anyone gets in touch. It would be nice for that story to have a happy ending.’
‘We all love a happy ending,’ I say, trying hard not to smirk. He doesn’t even flinch.
‘K and N,’ he mutters.
‘That’s quite a coincidence, eh?’ I say, trying to downplay it all.
It’s then he looks me straight in the eye, a gaze so steady and soft I feel the rest of the room slow down, quieten around me.
‘Karen and… Neil,’ I say, suddenly trying to break up the tension.
‘Or Kevin and Nigel. We have made assumptions. Maybe they’re both men. ’
‘K is definitely a woman,’ he says. ‘N describes parts of her intimately that tells me she’s a woman.’
‘Oh.’ I fidget in my seat, trying to not catch his eye.
‘Or who knows? He could be a Nick,’ he says. ‘Maybe there’s a second Nick out there.’ And I’m suddenly snapped into the room. That’s the problem. There already is.