Page 6 of Big Nick Energy
‘Oh yeah… Doris. I didn’t sell that one. It was donated.’
‘I know that, but you saw the size of her, the house… You didn’t think that maybe she’d need assistance? That maybe that tree wasn’t for her?’ I ask him.
‘She said she’d be OK. Said she had someone who would help. Are you having a go at me? It was free. That was an £200 tree.’
‘And she’s grateful for the gesture but?—’
‘Look, it’s my busiest time of year. No offence, but that tree was given in goodwill,’ he returns defensively.
‘I know but she’s old. I wanted to make sure that you’re… kosher,’ I say.
There’s a pause. ‘In case I was a scamming thief looking to case your gran’s house and mug her?’
‘No but…’ I realise this man on the other end of the phone is not taking kindly to this phone call. ‘If it wasyourgrandmother, you’d check.’
There’s a silence again. ‘Bloody wazzock…’
‘Excuse me?’ I say angrily though slightly amused by the insult.
‘Not you. I’m driving.’
‘You shouldn’t be talking to me then if you’re on a phone,’ I reply, sounding more prim than usual.
‘So now I’m a reckless driver as well as a scammer. Anything else?’
‘Well, I was just?—’
‘Yeah, Merry Christmas to you too.’ And then the line goes dead. I don’t care what the man looks like, that was just plain rudeness, free tree or not. My brow furrowed, I look up to see Nana still looking up at her tree in wonderment, as if it’s the best thing she’s ever owned. It’s the sort of look you want to bottle because it’s pure happiness.
‘Your Christmas-tree hunk was a little rude,’ I say.
‘He was lovely in person,’ she reminds me. I’m not sure why I’m having to tell my nana that looks don’t maketh the man.
‘You didn’t ask him if he had a saw when he was here?’ I ask her.
‘Yeah, I should have asked him, eh? Hello young man, show us your tool…’ she says in lusty tones.
I shake my head at her. ‘Won’t your neighbours get aggy?’
‘They won’t care! Him next door left a fridge outside his front door for a month,’ she says. I look at her, grinning away. Only you, Nana. She’s the sort who’d get a free Christmas tree on Facebook, who’d buy fifty packs of loo roll if it was on offer. When my first book came out this year, she bought ten copies and asked me to sign them all. She always carries one around in her handbag and tells everyone she meets about me.
‘And what happens when this thing moults? Your hoover won’t be able to cope,’ I say.
‘But it’ll be like waking up in a forest every day,’ she says, her eyes pleading, still hopeful there’s a chance we can get this thing through the front door. ‘I can be like Snow White.’
‘You got enough baubles?’ I ask.
‘I’ll go down the park and look for pinecones and berries. And Poundland will sort me out.’
I smile as I think of Nana down the park with a plastic bag, collecting pinecones. She’ll be a little woodland creature with a project. She’ll take pictures of that tree for me and send them all on WhatsApp because I’ve shown her how that works too.
‘Your ceiling is eight feet max. This is never going to work. Could we chop it into firewood?’ I ask.
She opens her mouth at me as though I’ve said something sacrilegious. ‘We can’t do that! It’s a Christmas tree.’
‘Why not? I don’t think there’s a superstition related to burning Christmas trees. We could take it down the allotments, compost it?’
She looks at me in horror that I would even be considering this. ‘Kay, every time a Christmas tree doesn’t reach its full potential, an elf dies,’ she says, making that myth up completely on the spot.
