Page 19 of Christmas Ever After
Before I come up with an answer to his question, he stops me. ‘Actually, don’t say anything, because if you say no, I’m not going to listen, so save us both the hassle of an argument and agree. Either you teach me or I’ll go online and learn from people on YouTube, and I think you value your nutcrackers more than that. Are you busy after work tonight?’
I hold up my arm, a wordless answer.
‘Then I’ll be over when we close at five and you can show me how everything works, and I’ll drive you home afterwards.’ He interrupts my protest before I get half a syllable out. ‘It’ll be too late for a bus by then, and I’m not having any repeats of last night’s bus journey because it sounds awful.’
‘You don’t have to do that. You don’t have to do any of this. It’s so nice of you…’ I look into his eyes again, see the twinkle and the sadness in them reflected in equal measure. ‘Nicer than I deserve.’
‘I can be nice sometimes, when I’m not busy being an arch-nemesis.’
I laugh and he grins and pushes himself upright. ‘See you tonight, yeah?’
I nod because his grin has made something flutter in my stomach, and I find myself watching the closed doorway for a long time after he leaves, fighting an unexpected urge to call after him and steal another one of those hugs.
I shake the snow globe that’s still on my counter, watching as snowflakes and glitter swirl around the ballerina and the nutcracker prince, and settle on the mountains and snowy trees surrounding them. I’ve always thought having Dardenne Snow Globes on this street was the worst thing, but now I wonder if it would be worse tonothave them, and maybe everything else doesn’t matter as much as that.
6
‘Safety goggles.’
‘Goggles.’ Raff takes the pair of clear plastic glasses I hand him.
‘Face shield.’
‘Shield.’ He also takes the plastic face shield I give him to ensure no stray bits of wood fly up into our faces.
‘Gloves.’
‘Gloves.’
‘If you’re just going to repeat everything I say, we may as well give up now.’
‘If you’re just going to—’ He bursts out laughing. ‘Sorry, Franca, I’m nervous. I get weird when I’m nervous.’
‘Why wouldyoube nervous? I thought you were “a master craftsman who’s going to pick this up in an instant”…’
‘Do I really sound that arrogant?’ He glances up at me, seeming the opposite of how haughty I’ve always thought he was. ‘I don’t want to let you down. Your nutcrackers are amazing, and you’re obviously highly skilled. I know I came across as cocky earlier, but I didn’t want you to say no, so I puton a bit of bravado, but do I honestly think I can replicate your work with only a couple of days of practice? No, of course not.’
This has been a wholly unexpected week so far, but the realisation that even Raff puts on a front when he’s nervous is one of the most unexpected parts of it, and something I really relate to.
When I show him through to the back room that doubles as my workshop, he’s like a child let loose in a sweet shop, and I’ve got to admit that it’sniceto spend time with someone who loves craft bits and bobs as much as I do. Apart from my lathe, bandsaw, and disc sander machines, my workshop is piled high withstuff– from wooden blanks in every imaginable shape and size, to shelves full of paints, and a haberdashery cabinet in one corner, brimming with all sorts of nutcracker accessories, from fake fur for their hair and beards, jewels for their buttons, ribbons and trimmings and bows and bells, and Raff has picked up a bell and started jingling it before I’ve even got in the door behind him.
He throws his arms out and turns in a circle. ‘It’s the craft room of dreams!’
It’s nice to see someone appreciating it. I haven’t lately. I used to love it here; it was the luckiest day of my life to be accepted for a shop on Christmas Ever After that had a backroom worthy of being a workshop, but in recent years, it’s felt as lacklustre as everything else in my life.
I love nutcrackers, I’ve always loved nutcrackers, but these days, like anything else when something creative becomes your main source of income, it can lose its magic and become about nothing but the bottom line. And making nutcrackers is a lonely job, and that isolation has been seeping through my entire life lately. The broken fingers have hammered home how alone I am, and having to take a step back has made me realise that my shop has become like a bit of a nutcracker production line. What Iused to love has been replaced by the constant pressure of sales figures, business outgoings, and the fear that customers won’t like what I come up with. All of that has combined to sap away the joy, and this is the first time I’ve been not-busy enough to realise that.
‘Oh dear, what happened to him?’
I follow Raff’s gaze to the headless, unpainted giant nutcracker that I’ve hidden behind the door. ‘I was in the middle of making him. He’s one of the orders I cancelled this morning.’
The wooden soldier is half-made. He was intended to be five-foot tall and has a base, legs, and a torso, but his head, hat and arms were on my schedule for this week.
Raff looks him over. ‘Well, if any of them are possessed, it’s definitely that one.’
I like how he’s able to find something positive in any situation.
‘Be a bit hard to murder anyone with no arms.’ I stick up for my half-made nutcracker, even though I can’t help giggling.
