The Little Christmas Shop on Nutcracker Lane. Jaimie Admans

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СКАЧАТЬ The atmosphere is prickly and tense – something I’ve never felt on Nutcracker Lane before.

      ‘Good luck,’ Hubert says when there are only me and Stacey left. He raises his hand with the letter in it. ‘I’m not going to stop supporting my friends. Scrooge wants to divide us, and he won’t succeed, not with me.’

      ‘Me neither,’ I say, sounding more confident than I am. One glance at Tinkles and Trinkets across from us has siphoned my positivity away. Stacey and I can’t compete with £300 dancing Santas and electric-powered snowglobes. And what about the others? We’re not just in competition with another decoration shop – we’re in competition with everyone. I don’t want to lose our shop, but I don’t want them to lose theirs either. Some of those shops have been here for longer than I’ve been alive.

      I remember Hubert from when I was young, peering over the counter in his candy-striped apron and taking my grandma’s money from my fist as I tried to buy everything in the shop and he patiently counted out seasonal penny sweets to the value of the two pound coins I had while Grandma and Granddad discussed what to choose for my parents and he slipped me a free Christmas tree lollipop while they weren’t looking. Nutcracker Lane would never be the same without him.

      And Carmen who makes the most intricate chocolate creations, Rhonda with her short spiky hair in a bright pink Mohawk who sells every type of Christmas hat you can imagine, or Mrs Brissett who’s got the best selection of Christmas jumpers in the northern hemisphere, or the dear old man who painstakingly crafts the most beautiful snowglobes from photographs of real places.

      ‘There’s nothing we can do about it,’ Stacey says from the doorway.

      When I make a noncommittal noise, she comes over and takes the letter out of my hand and puts her arm around my shoulders. ‘Let’s give Scrooge what he wants and “do our best this festive season”. That’s all we can do. At least if this is our only year, you’ll have got your wish – to work on Nutcracker Lane before it changes for good.’

      ***

      ‘Don’t worry about the competition,’ Stacey says as I peer out the window at the shop opposite for approximately the ninety-third time this morning and it’s only 11 a.m. ‘No one’s going to buy those things. The pricing is ridiculous. It’s Christmas, for God’s sake. Very few people have got excess cash at this time of year, and no one is going to drop £300 on a dancing Santa or the £96 that’s attached to that model nutcracker factory. Whoever’s running it has got no idea about competitive pricing. Expecting that much for Christmas decorations is pointless because there’s so much other stuff to buy at this time of year. Customers are going to come in here and spend a fiver on one of your hand-painted wall plaques or £2.50 on a pair of candy-cane earrings without worrying about it, but the stuff over there is a seriously big purchase. They won’t be as much competition as you think they will.’

      ‘Have you seen the number of people going in?’

      ‘And leaving with nothing. At least we’ve made a few sales so far.’

      ‘It doesn’t even look like there’s anyone in there.’ The light spilling out is so bright that it obscures everything else and I hold my hand up like I’m shading my eyes from the sun, but it doesn’t help. ‘Do those garlands around the window look familiar to you?’

      She glances over but a woman takes a gingerbread-house necklace and a standing red bow ornament up to the counter and she stops to serve her.

      It’s quiet for an opening day. I remember the days when you could barely move through the lane and there were queues to get into each shop. Maybe Scrooge has got the right idea – put it out of its misery before it gets any worse. Things will probably pick up at the weekend when children are off school, but it’s only Tuesday. Is this as good as it gets until then? There’s a bit of noise coming from the upper end of the lane around the magical nutcracker and Santa’s grotto, but down this end … footsteps of a middle-aged couple echo across the paving slabs as they walk straight past, not even lingering to admire the decorations like people used to when there were any to admire.

      ‘I’m sure those are the garlands that used to be draped from the ceiling.’

      ‘Nia, you’re obsessed. You’ve barely been away from that window all morning.’

      ‘Seriously, look. That new shop has got them around their window like a frame. They’re the same ones. And that nutcracker village. I’ve seen it before …’

      She’s gone off to tidy a basket full of wooden baubles that a customer has rifled through and I’m talking to myself. A customer leaves empty-handed, giving me a wary look as he passes.

      I am obsessing. I should be concentrating on our shop, not whoever’s over there and whatever they’re selling. It’s nothing to do with me.

      Although the door is wide open and it really doesn’t look like there’s anyone inside … I could go over and pop my head in, couldn’t I? Have a peep and see if the inside is as spectacular as the window display. If the owner does happen to be there, I’ll make an excuse of welcoming the new arrival to the lane. There’s nothing wrong with being friendly, after all …

      ‘Can you hold down the fort for a minute?’ I’m out the door before Stacey’s had a chance to reply.

      I run across the lane and stop in the open doorway. ‘Hello?’ I whisper, telling myself I’m trying not to startle anyone rather than I’m hoping there’s no one manning the place so I can have a nose around.

      No answer. I take a tentative step inside, feeling as light on my feet as a ballet dancer as I tiptoe in.

      Wow. If anything, the spectacularity of the shop itself is blocked by the spectacular window, because the inside is even better. Every wall is lined with a waterfall of twinkling white lights, a curtain of fairy lights that make it look like the walls themselves are sparkling. The shop is absolutely packed with decorations in all shapes, sizes, and colours, all lined up on chunky white shelves in perfectly size-ordered rows, like armies waiting to be called into action. There’s a metallic-y scent of glitter in the air, and every so often, a flake of fake snow floats down from the ceiling, while the music “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” from The Nutcracker ballet plays quietly from a speaker in the far corner.

      I keep telling myself I’m not going to worry about the competition. Everything Stacey said is right, and all we can do is put all our effort in and hope for the best, but looking around this shop makes me realise we’ve already lost. It’s like stepping into a winter wonderland, and the feeling I get is probably not dissimilar to the feeling Lucy Pevensie got when she stepped out of the wardrobe and into the snowy lands of Narnia for the first time. It would be easy to spend a couple of hours and a couple of hundred quid in here. Heck, even I’m suddenly prepared to pay £300 for a Macarena-dancing Santa and I definitely don’t have any spare cash or appreciation for Hawaiian-style Santas.

      It’s weird that there’s no one here though. The light’s on out the back so maybe they’re still unloading goods. There’s plenty of space between shelves to fit more in, making it look minimalistic and still stuffed full of choice, unlike ours which just looks full because Stacey and I wanted to get as much stock out as possible and that means using every inch of wall space and getting as many display tables in as could reasonably fit while still meeting health and safety guidelines. I’d like to think our shop is relaxed, warm, homely and comforting, whereas this could be the set of a Christmas film.

      But that strange familiarity is back again. Those СКАЧАТЬ