Joe pushed himself up off the floor, scooping up the string of lights. ‘Let’s get cracking, then.’
‘Thank you so much for helping.’ An enormous beam of gratitude took over Clara’s face. ‘Don’t you just love Christmas?’
‘I used to,’ he muttered under his breath.
Clara didn’t reply and Joe was unsure whether she’d heard him or not. He suspected he’d been drowned out by strains of Wham’s ‘Last Christmas’, which was playing over the sound system.
And although he wouldn’t admit it out loud, Clara’s enthusiasm was infectious. Joe was beginning to feel just a little bit of the festive spirit.
* * *
‘Calm down,’ Deirdre warned, holding out her crutch to funnel the rush of kids spilling out of the building onto the street. ‘There’s no need to run.’
‘Oh, I think you’ll find there is,’ Clara replied. ‘Don’t you know that Christmas is coming?’
‘In three and a half weeks!’ Deirdre said in an exasperated tone.
‘Ah, come on. It’s the night of the lantern parade and light switch-on, they’re bound to be excited.’ Clara grinned. ‘I’m pretty excited myself.’
‘Really?’ Joe said. ‘I’d never have guessed you liked Christmas …’
‘Everyone likes Christmas, though, don’t they? Except for Mrs Scrooge over there,’ she added as an afterthought. ‘There are so many happy memories tied up with the season. It’s not only the lights and the presents and overdosing on rich foods; it reminds me of happy times with my mum and grandparents. We lived with them for a while, and they always made a big deal out of Christmas. All the rules would go out of the window for December, and no one minded. I’d laze around in new pyjamas watching films with my gran, then we’d settle down together around the open fire and play board games way past my bedtime. Happy times.’
Joe braved a smile, despite Christmas bringing very different memories to his mind than it brought to Clara’s. There had been happy times, and lots of them, but they were now tainted by the special person he’d shared them with being so cruelly snatched away.
‘Do you still do that?’
‘Spend the day in my pyjamas?’ Clara laughed. ‘Mostly, if I can get away with it.’
‘I meant, do you still spend Christmas with your grandparents?’
Her face hardened. ‘Not any more.’
‘Oh,’ he said awkwardly, feeling terrible. He, of all people, knew that losing someone cut deep. He should never have pried, it wasn’t his place. ‘I’m sorry. I’m really lucky to still have all four of my grandparents …’
‘They haven’t died!’ Deirdre replied, guffawing, as though the suggestion was absurd.
‘They sold up when they retired,’ Clara explained, throwing a withering look in Deirdre’s direction. The older lady’s shoulders were still shaking through laughing so violently. ‘They wanted to have more adventures while they’re still fit enough, so they put everything in storage and have been travelling ever since. They’re in South America at the moment. They climbed Machu Picchu last month.’
‘Wow.’ Joe was seriously impressed. ‘Whereas my Grandma Smith thinks her summer coach trip to Chester is a big adventure.’
Clara shrugged. ‘Anything can be an adventure, depending on how you look at it.’
Joe mulled the words of wisdom over as everyone ground to a halt outside the church hall, where a makeshift stage bedecked with fairy lights and something Joe assumed was an approximation of Santa’s sleigh was lit up by a spotlight. In reality it was little more than a mess of scarlet crêpe paper and cotton-wool rolls, and Joe dreaded to think what’d happen if it rained. It’d be a disaster. Crêpe paper and cotton-wool carnage.
The effect of so many lanterns en masse was nothing short of spectacular, the flickering flames (or in the cases of the youth-club kids battery-operated tea lights – Deirdre had made it clear she and Clara were taking no chances when it came to naked flames) giving the evening sky a warm amber glow. There was a nip in the air, which was to be expected now they were in December, and Joe was glad of his warm scarf and beanie hat. The hat in particular – a shaved head might suit the shape of his angular face, but it wasn’t doing any favours now the temperature was dipping to arctic levels.
There was a moment of hush as the local MP stood to address the crowd. She was a small lady, her petite frame drowning underneath a long, beige raincoat, which couldn’t have been doing much to conserve her body heat, but her voice was loud. She completely bypassed the waiting microphone, instead opting to increase her natural volume.
‘Good evening everyone, and welcome to our annual lantern parade and Christmas light switch-on. It’s fantastic that so many of you have braved the cold to come and support us in what has become a bit of a tradition in these parts.’ She rubbed her hands together. Joe couldn’t tell if it was with excitement or for warmth. ‘I’m delighted to have a very special guest turn on the lights for us this year, and what’s more, the council have invested in some new decorations to complement those from previous displays.’
‘Maybe more than half of them will actually work,’ Deirdre said, in a voice probably meant to be conspiratorial but which earned her a few glares from loyal locals. ‘What?’ she fired back. ‘It’s the truth. Last year they were a mess.’
‘I’m more interested in the special guest,’ Joe said, keen to change the subject.
‘Oh, it’ll be Santa flicking the switch,’ Clara replied. Her cheeks were rosy, a combination of the biting cold and the flattering half-light. ‘He does it every year.’
Joe couldn’t hide his disappointment. ‘That’s a let-down. I was expecting Hollywood royalty the way she was going on.’
‘It’s hardly the Blackpool Illuminations. No big-name celebrity would turn up here and do it for nothing. The only media coverage they’d get would be via the free paper.’
As though on cue, an eager photographer pointed a lens in Clara’s direction.
‘And you,’ he said, physically pushing Joe closer to Clara in a bid to fit them both in the frame. ‘That’s a good one,’ he said dully as he took the photograph. ‘Look out for it on Thursday when the new edition comes out.’
‘We will,’ Joe said politely, as Clara rose onto her tiptoes to try and get a better view of the stage.
The politician was building up to a climax now as she encouraged everyone to join in with a rendition of Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want for Christmas is You’. Her cringey dancing involved stepping from side to side like a particularly uncoordinated uncle at a wedding, and she didn’t seem to realise that people were laughing at her on-stage antics rather than singing along to the tinny backing track.
As the music came to a close everyone cheered (and jeered) as she motioned for quiet. ‘And now, without further ado, it’s time to welcome our special guest. Here he is …’
‘It’s “Santa”,’ Clara whispered, making air quotes with her fingers. ‘I’ll put money on it.’
‘… Rovers star striker, Dean Harford!’
Dean strolled onto the stage with a swagger – well, as much swagger as anyone could manage wearing an enormous puffa jacket. He pumped his hands over his head in a ‘raise the roof’ motion and the predominantly teenage crowd whooped their approval.
Joe lifted his hands above his head and joined in with the clapping, swept away on the wave of excitement. Dean might not be a major star, but on the local