Page 50 of Big Nick Energy
‘At a Christmas-tree farm,’ I mumble, noticing quite randomly that he has very good posture, the way his legs are slightly parted, the way the material of that costume clings to his thighs.
‘You’re funny,’ she says.
Oh, she thought I was joking. ‘No, seriously, he sells Christmas trees.’
We both look on as the man I thought was asleep suddenly sits up and impresses us with his vibrato.
‘That might be why he was offering to replace our plastic trees.’
‘Yeah, he likes a real piece of wood.’
‘Don’t we all, hun,’ Janey says, sniggering. ‘Well, this is the biggest crowd we’ve had in here for a while. Thank you again, it’s lovely for them all to do something a bit different and get a gift too.’
I see a man across the way unwrap a beautiful leather-bound edition ofMoby Dickand a warm expression creeps across his face as he perches his glasses on the bridge of his nose to fold open the first page. That’s all I’m here for, that moment when someone opens a gift and there’s a look of complete surprise, wonder and contentment that it’s exactly what they need in that moment.
‘You are very welcome,’ I reply. ‘While I have you here, can I ask about Nana? How’s she been?’
Janey comes over to sit by me, turning her chair towards mine. It’s one of the advantages of being here that they always keep me in the loop, that the care feels very personalised, full of kindness. ‘She is a joy, full of laughs.’ She pauses. ‘She’s had some bad days recently where her frustration peeks through, but we’re keeping a check on that to gauge how it may be affecting her overall mood.’
I nod and smile, watching Nana over Janey’s shoulder, tinsel wrapped around her head as she joins in a very animated version of ‘Jingle Bells’. I didn’t realise she could kick her leg that high but it tells me that she is surviving here, she’s having fun, that despite my guilt and my worry, she is OK and there are people constantly looking out for her.
‘Can I also just check, the last payments have been coming from Mr Redman but with top-up from yourself, is that right?’she asks. I nod, taking a deep breath. When we put Nana here, we knew that it would come at a cost but we’ve been bumbling through trying to make it work. I’ll need to sell a few million more bear books, possibly rent out one of her bedrooms, to make this all work, but we will continue to keep her here. ‘Then that’s totally fine – I will adjust the receipts to match.’
‘Oh… and I have a book for you too,’ I say to Janey, digging through a box under the table. I hand over the package. ‘One day I saw that you were reading Rebecca Yarros and these books are similar if you’re into vampire kings – just beware, it’s all a little kinky.’
She opens the book and grins, leaning over to give me a little hug. ‘The kinkier the better, gets me through the night shifts,’ she winks. ‘Could I get a signed picture of Santa too? That would also help.’
‘What would help?’ a voice says from behind us.
My eyes widen to hear Nick standing there, wondering who’s taken over at the piano because it still seems to be playing. Janey smirks quietly to herself. ‘Alcohol. We should have done mulled wine. Helps them all sleep better too,’ she says, shrugging her shoulders at me.
‘I don’t think many of them need the alcohol,’ Nick comments, nodding at an old man with a walker who may be twerking.
‘Yeah, he shouldn’t do that. He’s just had a new hip put in,’ Janey says, scurrying over to intervene.
I can hear Nick laughing as she does. I can’t bring myself to look at him because I have absolutely zero poker face. Him connecting with my nana and dancing around this place being nice to the elderly is a little confusing for me.
‘I’ll take a cup of tea if you’re serving?’ he says.
I turn around, trying to act surprised and deeply nonchalant that he’s there, up close, some perfect embodiment of Santa.Why does he smell so nice? Like freshly sawn wood and vanilla cookies.‘I can do that…’ I say, putting a teacup to the black nozzle of the urn. ‘How do you take it?’ As I say that, I think how it could sound vaguely sexual.
‘Black, one sugar.’
‘Black? You have your tea black?’
‘Yes. I’m lactose intolerant.’
‘Then how do you drink all the milk the kids leave out for you?’ I ask, trying to focus on cups and saucers and also checking my reflection in the big shiny silver urn.
‘I sometimes pour it down the sink,’ he says.
‘Santa, that’s so bad.’ For some reason my intonation changes when I say that. I’m standing by a tea urn, this is not the time to be remotely sexual and I don’t think that way about him anyway. It’s not allowed. I hand him his cup of tea and look into his eyes. ‘There are also mince pies. I baked them myself.’
‘You did?’
‘No. I bought them in I’m afraid.’
‘You should have said, we have great mince pies at the farm. Next time.’
