Winter Magic at Hollybrae Castle
Chapter 1
‘Santa Claus is eating Paddington Bear!’ my colleague bellows into her walkie-talkie to alert the other department teams. ‘This is not a drill! Santa is eating Paddington in the front window!’
They’re not the ideal words to hear first thing on a Friday morning, especially when I am the person responsible for putting Santa Claus and Paddington in the front window in the first place.
‘What’s going on?’ I dodge around customers to grab Anna’s shoulder before she disappears into the crowd of shoppers.
‘Lula!’ She whirls around. ‘There you are! What were you thinking with that window display? It’s abhorrent!
Children are going to be scarred for life!
Do you have any idea how much of a warpath Patricia’s on?
Everyone has been given strict instructions to tell you that she wants to see you in her office the minute you arrive! ’
Patricia. My boss at Calloways department store. The kind of put-together woman whose mere presence is so intimidating that it makes my knees knock. I spend my entire working life trying not to get on her bad side. ‘I don’t understa—’
‘Do you have any idea how many complaints we’ve had to fend off and it’s only half past nine! Children are crying, Lula! You’ve murdered Paddington Bear!’
‘I have not! Paddington was sitting happily on Santa’s shoulder when I left last night!’
‘Well, he’s not now, and he never will be again!’ Anna snaps as a crackly voice speaks on her walkie-talkie and she makes a dismissive gesture towards me. ‘Go and see Patricia now!’
I feel like I’ve walked into an alternate universe as she hurries away through the throngs of customers. It’s only 27 November, but with Christmas approaching, we’re exceptionally busy for a Friday morning.
Oh, God, the crowd outside. I’m ridiculously late this morning and rushed in via the front door rather than the staff entrance, and I noticed the crowd gathered around the window.
I thought they were admiring the display I was here all night creating, but something must have gone horribly wrong with the wholesome festive scene that I put the finishing touches to in the early hours of the morning.
I make my way back outside and edge my way into the crowd. Right on cue, a small child starts wailing. There’s a man in a suit howling with laughter, and the noise of a hundred shutter clicks as everyone snaps photos on their phones.
What I left in the Calloways window display last night was a charming ‘teddy bears’ picnic’ scene.
There are artificial trees in the background and piles of sparkly fake snow, and in the centre is a large table, loaded with teacups and teapots and plates of mince pies and festive cupcakes, with teddy bears sitting all around it.
An animatronic Santa was sitting at the head of the table, with the very recognisable Paddington Bear on his shoulder to oversee matters.
This was a huge deal to me. My team manager is off this week and as the deputy manager, I was in charge of implementing the big Christmas window at our flagship London shop.
I sent the rest of my team home after a couple of hours of late-night work, but I stayed to make sure everything was perfect for the grand unveiling this morning.
The first showing of a Calloways Christmas window on Oxford Street is a big deal, and this is the first one I’ve been solely responsible for.
However, it was also my responsibility to arrive at 8.
30 a.m. and double-check everything was perfect before the shutters went up at opening time, but after not leaving until 4 a.m., I managed to sleep through my alarm clock, and now I’m late.
My plan of sneaking in without anyone noticing my absence is clearly not going to work either.
A gap in the crowd lets me edge closer to the window and get the first peek at what everyone’s looking at… and I immediately wish I hadn’t.
Oh, no. I’d hoped Anna was exaggerating, but it’s worse than I thought. Much worse.
I have, indeed, murdered one of Britain’s most beloved characters.
The animatronic Santa, who was happily chanting ‘ho ho ho’ last night, now sounds like his gears are grinding together and what’s coming out of his ever-smiling mouth is the slowed-down strains of the creepiest laugh I’ve ever heard.
The teddy bears are all still in place around the table, but Paddington hasn’t fared so well.
Santa’s animated waving hand has obviously malfunctioned and latched onto the bear; however, I pinned Paddington’s hat in place to make sure he stayed in position, and the moving animatronic hand has gradually detached Paddington’s head from his body, and the machine I’d set up to blow fake snow around has scattered his stuffing liberally around the display.
Unfortunately, Paddington was wearing a red scarf, which has shredded into a million little pieces and liberally covered the scene in what looks like drops of Paddington’s blood.
As festive windows go, it’s more like something advertising a horror movie and would not have been out of place for our Halloween window in October.
Another young boy starts wailing and his mother quickly covers his eyes and hurries him away, surely destined to have nightmares for months.
This is so severe that strangers are actually talking to one another in London.
I can hear whispers all around me. What were they thinking?
This can’t have been intentional, can it?
Total nightmare. I wouldn’t want to be the person who’s got to answer for this.
No. Neither would I.
The shutters have started to come down, but paused three-quarters of the way up the window, ensuring the view remains unobscured, and judging by the member of my team huddled at the side, frantically jabbing at the control panel, I’m guessing they’re jammed again, and someone will have sent for an engineer, but it’s too late to hide this disaster from the world and the soon-to-be traumatised children who love Paddington and never expected to see a crazed Santa ripping his head off and ‘ho-ho-ho-ing’ as his faulty waving hand brings piece after piece of stuffing up to his mouth in an unfortunately cannibalistic manner.
My stomach twists into uncomfortable knots that gnaw at me from the inside out.
There is no way Patricia isn’t going to fire me.
* * *
‘There’s no way I’m not going to fire you!
’ Patricia Calloway bellows at me in her office, so loudly that I’m unsure why she bothered closing the door to give us privacy.
There’s also no way that every colleague in the building isn’t gathered outside to eavesdrop.
Patricia’s sackings are always legendary, but I’ve never been on the receiving end of one before.
‘I’ve already had to appease an irate mother whose little girl has the same bear at home and thinks Santa has broken in to her house, stolen her bear, and taken him to Oxford Street for breakfast!
Children don’t want Santa to come on Christmas Eve because they think he’s going to brutally murder their favourite teddies, Lula, because of you! ’
‘It wasn’t intentional. You know that. It was an accident. Santa malfunctio—’
‘Don’t blame Santa for this!’ She gives me such a withering look that I can’t complete the sentence. ‘Santa’s one of our product lines. How do you think that reflects on us?’
‘Like the manufacturers have sent out a product that’s clearly not been tested properly!’
She repeats the withering look, but somehow manages to make it even more withering. And it’s not like she’s wrong, is it? Whether Santa malfunctioned or not, I should have been here early enough to check everything before opening time, and I wasn’t.
Patricia Calloway is the fifth generation of Calloways to run this shop since it was founded by her great-great-grandfather 150 years ago. The kind of person who’s never had a disaster in her life, and as a boss, makes Miranda Priestly from The Devil Wears Prada look like a cupcake.
She has a bouffant hairstyle held together by enough hairspray to kill a small planet and gigantic shoulder pads.
If I dressed like that, I’d look like I was going to a 1980s fancy dress party, but she looks effortlessly chic and timeless, like she’s just stepped out of an episode of Absolutely Fabulous but in a non-ironic way.
I always feel like I get spontaneously scruffier every time I talk to her, like my shirt buttons start undoing themselves and my hair escapes its ponytail of its own accord just by standing here. I grow more frazzled simply from being in the presence of someone so un-frazzled.
But then again, Patricia Calloway has never had to do the mad dash across London at rush hour. Patricia Calloway has a private chauffeur and I doubt she’s ever even seen a bus, much less been stuck on a broken-down one.
‘You had one responsibility this morning, Lula. Get here in plenty of time to ensure everything was perfect before the grand unveiling. And instead, you decide to swan in late without a second thought for that carnage in the front window.’
‘Swan in’ implies a peaceful, meandering stroll rather than the frantic somersault as I tumbled into the shop, and ‘decide’ really does not reflect the series of disasters that have beset my morning so far.