Kellie Hailes - The Little Bakery of Hopes and Dreams

She went to her suitcase, unzipped it, and pulled out the one part of her childhood she couldn’t bear to part with, despite knowing better.

A flaxen-haired angel doll. Its arms stretched out in a welcoming manner, and once-glittery wings spread wide. The last Christmas gift she’d ever received from her mother.

She’d tossed the card it came with in a flash of anger years ago, but she’d never forgotten the words that accompanied the gift: To watch over you.

And so the angel had, while snuggled in her arms through tears, through rages, through emotional paralysis. The last remnant of a happy, contented childhood.

Josie stroked the angel’s now matted hair, sat it on the table next to the front door then made her way to the sofa. She slipped down its arm and let the buttery tan leather envelop her as she pulled down the pink faux-fur throw folded over the sofa’s back and tucked it over her legs.

So Sunnycombe was Christmas crazy?

She closed her eyes and shook her head. Only she could find herself living in a place that stood for everything she disliked, everything she didn’t want to think about, didn’t want to remember.

It was like the universe was plotting, forcing her to face that which she ran from.

If that were the case, the universe was about to be disappointed. She was only staying in Sunnycombe for as long as she had to. In her experience she had six months, tops. Nothing – and no one – could change that.

No matter how hard they tried.

‘Josie, can you give me a hand over here?’ Callan twisted round from trying to string fairy lights around the shop’s window to see Josie rubbing her temples, her elbows anchored to the counter, her head low and shoulders scrunched up round her ears.

She’d been like that all day. Hunched up. Distant. Like she wasn’t one hundred per cent there, and he was starting to wonder if he ought to send her home for the rest of the day.

Josie glanced up and caught his eyes. ‘Sorry, Callan. Bit of a sore head.’

Before he could stop her, she came to stand beside him, dragged a chair to the opposite side of the window, climbed on top of it and indicated for him to pass her the string of lights dangling from his hand.

Callan hesitated. ‘Are you sure you should be up there? With a headache and all? I don’t want you passing out and hurting yourself. Should you be at home? In bed getting some rest?’

‘No, I’m fine, honest.’ Josie waved her hand like it was nothing.

The pain in her eyes said otherwise.

Reluctantly he passed the lights to her and she hung them over the hook that a heavily pregnant Abigail had screwed in for the shop’s first Christmas. He’d begged her to let him do it, worried that she’d fall over and hurt herself and their baby, but she’d laughingly shushed him, then flapped him away.

He shut his eyes as a wave of grief surged through him. How was he going to get through Christmas without her? How was he going to get through life?

‘Callan? It’s my turn to ask … are you all right?’

Josie’s concern brought him back to the here and now. He took a silent breath in and slowly blew it out, opening his eyes and fixing a smile on his face as he did so. He focused on the carollers who were practising out in the street, their voices jaunty as they sang ‘Deck the Halls’.

‘’Tis the season to be jolly.’

Except jolly was the last thing he was feeling. ‘Jaded’ he could get on board with.

‘I’m fine.’

Josie eyed him. Her expression remained unconvinced. He waited for her to further interrogate him, but no questions came. For that he was grateful. He didn’t know how to explain the grief. The intensity. The pain. The way it surged and settled but was always there. He didn’t know how to talk about it, and didn’t want to. Not to a therapist. Or Josie. Or Margo. Not to anyone. Ever.

Falalalalaaaaa … lala … la … laaaaaa.

‘How long are they going to go on for?’ Josie sounded as flat as Callan felt.

‘Not helping the pain in your head?’ Callan stepped down from his chair then offered his hand to Josie.

She hesitated, her eyes narrowing, like she didn’t trust him to get her down safely. Just as he were about to drop it, embarrassed for overstepping a mark he didn’t know existed, she placed her hand in his.

He was surprised at how soft it was, considering she worked with her hands. Warm, too. And it fit so perfectly. Like it belonged there.

Josie stepped down, tugged her hand out of his and folded her arms. ‘To be honest I’m not a huge fan of carols. They’re so … so …’ Her nose screwed up in thought.

‘Joyful?’ Callan shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and tried to ignore the heat imprinted on the hand that had held Josie’s a few seconds ago, like a part of her had been left with him.

He pushed the thought away. Nothing had been imprinted. And hands weren’t like jigsaw puzzles, they didn’t just ‘fit’ together. He was being silly. The stress of the season had clearly gotten to him.

The choir launched into a solemn rendition of ‘Silent Night’, and Callan had to bite his tongue to stop laughter from spilling out as Josie visibly shuddered.

‘So joyful. Even songs like that one. It’s a peaceful song but it’s joyful as well. Uplifting.’ Josie’s nose wrinkled further. ‘The worst bit is you can’t escape them. They’re everywhere. On the telly, radio, in shops. I clicked onto my favourite baking website this morning and was greeted with a pop-up ad that had packets of baking ingredients singing and dancing to “Jingle Bells”. I now have to avoid that site for nearly a whole month. It’s a tragedy.’

Callan’s lips quirked to the left, disobeying his direct order not to show their amusement. He’d never met a person who disliked carols so much they could rant about it. Never met anyone who had a distinct aversion to Christmas. He’d thought he was the only one. His family Christmases had been staid affairs. Formal. Boring. Midnight mass on Christmas Eve, followed by gifts in the morning, a family lunch at dinner where the conversation was so polite it bordered on painful. After lunch they’d settle round the television to watch the Queen’s Christmas Message, then leftovers were had for dinner and they’d retire to bed not long after that.

There was no dancing while cooking. No silly hats or crazy jumpers. No surprise gifts brought out throughout the day. No magic. No fun.

Abigail had transformed his attitude to Christmas with her own traditions. Ones she’d created after a childhood where money was scarce and Christmas was even more depressing than his. She’d embraced the season that could have – should have – made her sad, and she’d made her life richer for it.

With Abigail gone, so had his reason for the season.

Irritation jolted him back to reality. This wasn’t about him. He was not alone in his grief. He had Mia to think about. Which meant Christmas couldn’t be a miserable affair. He wouldn’t allow it. Wouldn’t let Mia down. Wouldn’t allow her to feel as humdrum about the festive season as he once had. As he threatened to feel now that Abigail wasn’t there to inject joy into it.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t admit his lack of love for the season to a fellow Grinch.

‘My least favourite carol is “The First Noel”. We’d sing it at church growing up and I sounded like a strangled duck warbling out the words. All the other kids would have a great laugh at my expense.’ Callan finished stringing the lights and plugged them in. A warm glow bathed the window, and Josie’s face – highlighting her cheekbones and revealing strands of copper in her hair that he’d not noticed.