Page 7 of Big Nick Energy
‘Do they now? Define full potential,’ I ask her.
‘They’ve got to wear all their decorations, be lit up and see people through the season. It’s their destiny.’
‘Or an elf dies?’ I say, eyebrow raised.
‘Yeah. They disappear into thin air in a cloud of glitter; it’s a terrible thing.’
I try not to laugh. ‘Has the cold got to you, Nana? Have you been at the Bailey’s again?’ I say, biting my lip. I love the joy she’s getting from this, how it’s minus two out here – her breath is fogging the air and she’s jogging from side to side to keepwarm – but she still wants to stay out here, with her tree. I take off my gloves and slide them onto her hands. I sigh and give Nana a hug, and she wraps both arms around me tightly.
‘You sent a pic to Mum and Dad yet?’ I ask.
‘I have. They told me I was mad and then they sent me a pic back of them lording it up in Australia. Sunshine and bare feet at Christmas, that don’t make any sense to me,’ she says, looking disgusted.
It’s one thing we agree on at least. Christmas should be cold, wintry, with snow, scarves and mulled drinks. Despite my mum’s insistence we go and visit them now they’ve emigrated, we both said it wouldn’t feel right at this time of year.
‘Don’t you have a tree already?’ I ask her.
‘It’s that fake one; it’s rubbish compared to this.’
‘Ah, but if you dump that one, won’t an elf die? What about all that destiny gubbins?’
‘Only counts for real trees,’ she says, winking. The wink always gets me. It’s something she’s done since I was little to get me to join in with her secret plans. Let’s have sweets when no one’s looking; let’s have secret chips on the way back from school; let’s sing along to Barry Manilow whilst we do the dishes. It’s been a long day and I was hoping to snuggle in bed with a Christmas film when I get home, but I guess I’m now a lumberjack. ‘There’s that fella at the end of your street, the plumber? I can knock on his door and check if he has a saw,’ I say.
She beams at me. ‘You’re so smart. That happens when you go to university, you know,’ she says proudly.
I laugh again. ‘Then maybe we can try and get some of this tree inside. Keep those elves alive.’
‘You’ve got a good heart, Kay Redman,’ she says, beaming. She does a little jig on the spot, excited to see my cynicism andpracticality fade away. I’ve now been suckered in to helping her big Christmas tree dreams come true.
‘You, Doris Redman, are as mad as a Christmas hatter.’
‘It’s why you love me.’
She may be right.
THREE
LONDON, DECEMBER 2023
‘We trust you, love. We’ve hardly seen her in three years, so only you would know what’s best for her?’ my dad says, and I close my eyes to hold back the tears. I try hard not to let my emotion travel down the phone, but I’m sorely disappointed that my parents have chosen to stay away at this moment rather than help with the situation or give advice. They’re just going to throw money at it and hope it means something.
I watch Nana now as she sits in the day room of this nursing home, looking out of the window at the garden. Her maisonette was very much in the heart of the city, around the corner from bustling markets, the Tube station, shops and life. But maybe that was the problem: as her memory faded and doctors gave us their diagnoses of how she would fade further and struggle more with everyday life, somewhere built up and busy was the worst place she could be. After numerous calls from the police telling me they’d found her again, lost and unable to tell them who she was, it was time to step in, make sure she was safe and had care round the clock. ‘Dad, I’ll call you later, yeah? Have a look online, see what you and Mum think?’
‘Will do. You’re a gem for this, thank you.’I love you, Dad, I want to say but I don’t reply. I hang up and walk over to Nana,running her fingers along the tinsel hanging from the window frame. ‘They’ve got a garden, Nana. Isn’t that lovely?’
‘So I can do my sunbathing in the summer. Get my bikini on,’ she says with a wink.
‘Bag yourself a boyfriend,’ I say.
‘Oh, behave,’ she says, nudging me.
‘They’ve got tulips, look,’ I say, pointing.
She gives me a look like she’s embarrassed for me. ‘Those are snowdrops, darling… and supposedly I’m the one losing my mind.’
I laugh as she threads a hand into mine. We’ve walked around a few of these places already, always hand-in hand. Nana with all her questions, usually asking about the availability of hot water and whether I can still smuggle her in teacakes. This one hasn’t been awful. This day room is well-lit, decorated in pastels and light wood; Christmas decorations are up and there’s a mixture of chairs, sofas and tables, shelves well-stocked with board games. Beyond the hallway, I can see a group of ladies playing mahjong, a TV room showing an old Christmas film, and another place where a group of people have easels up, painting.
‘Do you think they do life drawing?’ she asks me. I laugh. ‘I prefer this place to the other one. That one smelt of Cup-a-Soup and bleach. This one’s got nice curtains.’
