Chapter Twenty-eight #2
Declan hesitates for a moment. ‘That day in the deli, the reason I found your keys is that I went back to buy a brownie,’ he says.
‘Did we drive to Mayfield to eat a packet of snakes?’ I ask instead of kissing him again like I want to.
I look around the street. The sun is glinting off the tops of buildings and the trees are green, and I can hear the sound of kids playing in the park back down the road.
‘Not that I’m complaining,’ I add. Then, more honestly, ‘It’s lovely. ’
‘Not just the snakes,’ Declan says, but he looks apprehensive.
‘I’d hope not,’ I tell him. ‘Given that I was promised snacks, and I have it on good authority that snakes are not snacks.’
‘I would hate to disappoint you,’ he says gravely.
‘Your choice of green snake was already disappointing,’ I say. ‘It can pretty much only go up from here.’
‘Good news,’ says Declan. ‘A man always likes to hear he’s hit rock bottom and that anything above that is a bonus.’ His takes a breath, kisses me so quickly that my head spins, then opens his door.
He’s at my door and opening it before I can finish sorting my bag.
‘Leave the snack bag,’ he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me outside.
He makes a quick stop by the boot of the car to collect two sleeping bags, and when I look at him quizzically he raises an eyebrow back at me.
‘How do you feel about sleeping outside tonight?’ he asks. ‘It’s safe, I promise.’
‘Bri pretty explicitly told me there was only one night of camping,’ I say, following along beside him anyway.
‘I did try to warn you that day in the deli,’ says Declan, tucking the sleeping bag under his arm. ‘But you can back out if you want to.’
His expression is warm, and I shake my head.
‘Come on, Archer.’
We walk back the way we drove in, Declan with the sleeping bags tucked under one arm.
The street is lined with parked cars, and after a little while we run into other people walking along wearing beanies and jumpers.
A family piles out of their car just in front of us, their two young girls dressed in tutus and snow jackets.
On the other side of the road, a man helps an elderly woman out of the car into her wheelchair.
Everyone smiles and waves, or nods hello, and we smile back, and I can’t help thinking about how much Declan looks .
. . more like himself here. His fingers are threaded through mine the entire time, his palm steady and warm.
We go right at the roundabout this time, heading towards the town square, moving with the gentle stream of people.
It’s busy but not crowded, and there’s something relaxing about walking with so many other excited people.
Even if I have no idea where we’re going.
Then we turn the corner to walk through a covered alleyway filled with shops and . . . Christmas music?
‘Is that “Jingle Bells”?’ I whisper to Declan, just as we step out into what can only be the town square. But Declan doesn’t answer; he doesn’t need to.
At the centre of the square is a giant tree, covered from roots to tip in decorations and lights.
A bright golden star perches proudly on top.
Christmas-themed market stalls line three of the sides, facing the open shops in the old buildings surrounding them.
On the final side of the square is a narrow road that seems to be blocked off, and just beyond it is a massive green slope.
People are setting up picnic mats and sleeping bags with views of the trees and stalls below.
I look at Declan, who is already watching me.
‘What the hell is this?’ I say, but I can’t keep the wonder out of my voice.
‘This is Mayfield,’ says Declan solemnly. He waits, and I narrow my eyes at him. He gently steers me forward towards the stalls, stepping closer to avoid a teenager running past.
‘Years ago, there were floods in the area on Christmas Day,’ he says, his voice close to my ear.
‘And after the recovery and the rebuilding the town decided to hold a Christmas celebration, to commemorate what they’d done, and what they’d missed.
Apparently, someone joked that they should have Christmas every month.
To find a reason to celebrate whenever they could. ’
We reach the first tent, which is filled with trays of meat, roast vegetables and loaves of bread. Declan collects two plates and passes one to me.
‘I have no idea how everyone agreed to it, but that was the beginning of Christmas in Mayfield,’ he says. ‘It happens on the third Wednesday of every month – different groups from Mayfield and the surrounding towns take turns to organise it.’
He passes me the sleeping bags and reaches into his pocket to pay the man at the exit for the food.
When I start to protest, Declan says that I can buy a copy of Talking to Trees to pay him back, and I am seriously going to end up with about six personal copies of this book that I haven’t read.
The next tent is desserts, and a lovely woman packs Christmas pudding and mince pies into boxes for us, wishing us ‘Merry Christmas’ as she does.
The sense of community pours out of every millimetre of the town square.
The warmth of Declan’s hand is steady in mine and, more terrifyingly, there’s a growing warmth in my chest. This is dangerous.
We pass stalls filled with Christmas decorations and novelty advent calendars, and I have so many questions, like how on earth do these people stay in business?
and what are the advent calendars counting down to?
But when I whisper them to Declan he whispers back that the town is full of world-class burglars counting down to their next robbery, and I want to push him into some bushes again, but I can’t find any, and also: I’m carrying a lot of food.
We make our way across the road to the hill, and find a spot close to the top where we’ll also sleep tonight, which Declan promises is legal. From where we’re sitting, we can see all the way down to the base of the tree, where a group of carollers are beginning to set up.
‘This is incredible,’ I tell him.
Declan nods. ‘I find it a good place to breathe,’ he says, a kindness in his voice that I haven’t heard before, and I don’t know if it’s because of what I told him about the bookshop, but neither of us brings it up.
I look out over the crowd. He’s helping me have a nice break from reality.
I swallow down the roast potato that’s stuck in my throat, pushing down the uneasiness in my gut.
The food is warm and filling, and Declan and I alternate between eating and guessing what the first song is going to be based on the relative enthusiasm of the carollers as we watch them arrange themselves in front of the tree.
‘“Jingle Bells”,’ says Declan. ‘They’ll lead with something upbeat.’
‘They’ll definitely start with “Silent Night”,’ I counter. ‘And “Jingle Bells” to finish, to leave the crowd on a high.’
Gradually, the light begins to fade from the sky, and after a while the entire square begins to twinkle with different colours.
Hundreds of fairy lights, woven through the Christmas tree, along buildings and across the tops of the market stalls.
A hush falls over the crowd, like everyone knows what the lights mean.
Someone taps on a microphone. ‘Good evening and merry Christmas, Mayfield!’ the voice booms out into the night.
‘This is how you should start your events,’ I tell Declan.
‘Yes, I can see how that would really make me less nervous,’ says Declan. ‘Telling a group of people who have come to hear about a serious fiction book that it’s Christmas.’
‘Our first carol this evening is going to be “Jingle Bells”,’ says the woman at the microphone.
‘Damn it,’ I say loudly. The people on either side turn to look at us, and crap .
‘Sorry,’ I whisper to them, while Declan laughs silently beside me. ‘I’m so sorry.’
They finish with ‘Silent Night’, which Declan refuses to call a draw despite my insistence that first and last are basically interchangeable. The air seems to ring with the sound of carols when they finish, like the last note is still being sung as families gradually filter out of the space.
People unzip sleeping bags and roll out mats all around us, and the buzz of earlier settles into a quiet chatter. Declan wanders to where the market stalls are packing down and returns with two hot chocolates. He settles in beside me, and we watch as the carollers farewell each other by the tree.
He looks back down across the thinning crowd in the town square.
‘My dad lived here,’ he says finally.
‘He doesn’t live here any more?’ I say, averting my eyes from the couple in front of us saying a particularly passionate goodbye.
‘He passed away last year,’ says Declan, and I pause to look at him. He’s not watching me, though; his eyes are still fixed on the glowing tree ahead of us.
‘I’m so sorry.’ The words are hopelessly inadequate.
Declan shakes his head. ‘I spent most of my life mad at him. He and my mum separated when I was ten. He’d always dreamed of being a musician and he was so disappointed in what life had dealt him instead.
‘I think when I started writing was the first time that I felt like I understood him, even a little. I was lucky to have a month up here with him, before he passed away, and I edited most of Talking to Trees here. My next book – the one I’m working on – it’s about him, in a way.’
A lump forms in my throat, thinking about Declan and his father, but also about my own disappointments in my relationship with my mum.
How much of that is because we don’t understand each other?
How much effort have I made to know her?
It’s a sobering realisation. I need to have a proper conversation with her in person when I get back.
I want to ask Declan questions about his new book, but I don’t want to push him.
Once, I remember seeing an author cry after a bookshop visit, and I asked Gran why they were so sad when they’d made something that people loved.
‘ Every author is different,’ she said, ‘but for many of them the process of creating and then letting go is . . . delicate. We get to be the safe hands that help the books on their way.’
I clear my throat. ‘This is the tree you were talking to, then?’ I say, pointing to the giant Christmas tree still twinkling in front of us, and Declan softly exhales. ‘Not exactly wilderness, Archer.’
‘Sometimes stepping outside your comfort zone is its own kind of wilderness,’ says Declan.
The sentiment lodges itself in my chest, and I swallow.
‘You didn’t include it as part of the tour, though.’
‘No,’ says Declan. He pauses, takes a sip of his hot chocolate. ‘I’ve heard not everyone appreciates my metaphors.’
I snort, and Declan almost smiles. He shifts, angling his body slightly so his arm is curved behind my back. We watch the fairy lights twinkling and the tents being dismantled, and I drink the rest of my hot chocolate and I’m pretty sure Declan’s goes cold, but he doesn’t move his arm.
It’s just a week, Clarrie.