Katey Lovell - Joe and Clara’s Christmas Countdown

Joe mulled the words of wisdom over as everyone ground to a halt outside the church hall, where a makeshift stage bedecked with fairy lights and something Joe assumed was an approximation of Santa’s sleigh was lit up by a spotlight. In reality it was little more than a mess of scarlet crêpe paper and cotton-wool rolls, and Joe dreaded to think what’d happen if it rained. It’d be a disaster. Crêpe paper and cotton-wool carnage.

The effect of so many lanterns en masse was nothing short of spectacular, the flickering flames (or in the cases of the youth-club kids battery-operated tea lights – Deirdre had made it clear she and Clara were taking no chances when it came to naked flames) giving the evening sky a warm amber glow. There was a nip in the air, which was to be expected now they were in December, and Joe was glad of his warm scarf and beanie hat. The hat in particular – a shaved head might suit the shape of his angular face, but it wasn’t doing any favours now the temperature was dipping to arctic levels.

There was a moment of hush as the local MP stood to address the crowd. She was a small lady, her petite frame drowning underneath a long, beige raincoat, which couldn’t have been doing much to conserve her body heat, but her voice was loud. She completely bypassed the waiting microphone, instead opting to increase her natural volume.

‘Good evening everyone, and welcome to our annual lantern parade and Christmas light switch-on. It’s fantastic that so many of you have braved the cold to come and support us in what has become a bit of a tradition in these parts.’ She rubbed her hands together. Joe couldn’t tell if it was with excitement or for warmth. ‘I’m delighted to have a very special guest turn on the lights for us this year, and what’s more, the council have invested in some new decorations to complement those from previous displays.’

‘Maybe more than half of them will actually work,’ Deirdre said, in a voice probably meant to be conspiratorial but which earned her a few glares from loyal locals. ‘What?’ she fired back. ‘It’s the truth. Last year they were a mess.’

‘I’m more interested in the special guest,’ Joe said, keen to change the subject.

‘Oh, it’ll be Santa flicking the switch,’ Clara replied. Her cheeks were rosy, a combination of the biting cold and the flattering half-light. ‘He does it every year.’

Joe couldn’t hide his disappointment. ‘That’s a let-down. I was expecting Hollywood royalty the way she was going on.’

‘It’s hardly the Blackpool Illuminations. No big-name celebrity would turn up here and do it for nothing. The only media coverage they’d get would be via the free paper.’

As though on cue, an eager photographer pointed a lens in Clara’s direction.

‘And you,’ he said, physically pushing Joe closer to Clara in a bid to fit them both in the frame. ‘That’s a good one,’ he said dully as he took the photograph. ‘Look out for it on Thursday when the new edition comes out.’

‘We will,’ Joe said politely, as Clara rose onto her tiptoes to try and get a better view of the stage.

The politician was building up to a climax now as she encouraged everyone to join in with a rendition of Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want for Christmas is You’. Her cringey dancing involved stepping from side to side like a particularly uncoordinated uncle at a wedding, and she didn’t seem to realise that people were laughing at her on-stage antics rather than singing along to the tinny backing track.

As the music came to a close everyone cheered (and jeered) as she motioned for quiet. ‘And now, without further ado, it’s time to welcome our special guest. Here he is …’

‘It’s “Santa”,’ Clara whispered, making air quotes with her fingers. ‘I’ll put money on it.’

‘… Rovers star striker, Dean Harford!’

Dean strolled onto the stage with a swagger – well, as much swagger as anyone could manage wearing an enormous puffa jacket. He pumped his hands over his head in a ‘raise the roof’ motion and the predominantly teenage crowd whooped their approval.

Joe lifted his hands above his head and joined in with the clapping, swept away on the wave of excitement. Dean might not be a major star, but on the local circuit this was quite the coup.

It was only as he saw Deirdre frantically shaking her head that he slowed, noticing Clara had lowered her lantern to the floor and turned her back on the stage.

‘What?’ he asked, puzzled. ‘What’s up?

‘I’m going to shoot off,’ Clara replied. Her voice cracked as she spoke. ‘The kids are getting picked up from here anyway and it’s nearly over. I’ll see you tomorrow, right?’

Deirdre sympathetically rubbed Clara’s shoulder. ‘Fine by me, love. I’ll see you tomorrow at the club.’

‘That was a bit sudden,’ he said, as he watched Clara disappear into the crowds.

Deirdre leaned in. ‘It’s Dean,’ she explained, spitting his name like an insult. ‘He’s the ex-fiancé. She’s avoided him so far, so I think him being here was too much for her to take.’

‘And everyone acting like he’s some sort of hero. No wonder she wanted to get away.’

His eyes followed Clara, who was slinking away down a gennel. Joe couldn’t repress the urge to go with her. More than anything, he wanted to let her know he understood how it felt to be sad, afraid and alone. His experience was different, but the resulting emotion was much the same.

‘Am I alright to go now, too?’

His eyes flickered back towards Clara and he caught a final glimpse of the tail of her coat as she turned a corner.

‘Go,’ Deirdre replied with a knowing smile. ‘I can finish off here.’

‘See you tomorrow,’ Joe called, already breaking into a jog as he made his way towards the gennel.

He’d definitely lost fitness. By the time Clara was back in view he was panting.

‘Clara!’ he called breathlessly.

She turned quickly, a look of startled surprise on her face.

‘Joe.’

Now he was closer he could see she’d been crying. Even in the semi-darkness her eyes looked red and small.

She laughed. ‘You must think I’m stupid, letting myself get in such a state over him.’ She dragged her hand under her nose and sniffed. It was noisy and ungainly. ‘We were together a long time and even though I know he’s a bastard, I can’t forget the past. We did have some good times along the way.’

‘I take it you didn’t know he was doing the light switch-on?’

She shook her head, the pompom on her bobble hat bobbing like a rabbit’s tail. ‘Not a clue. It’s always Santa, every year. They probably thought Dean was an upgrade.’ She laughed again. ‘I can just imagine how he revelled in being asked. He always liked to think he was some big-wig celeb. In his mind he was the next David Beckham.’

‘He’s well known around here. Especially since the cup run last year.’

The look Clara gave was scathing.

‘Whatever you do, don’t mention the cup run. It was all he ever spoke about.’ She tutted. ‘I went to that game, you know. Third round, versus Rochdale. Me and all the other “wags”. It was bloody freezing. It snowed all second half.’

‘I remember. I went to that match. A year ago this weekend.’

‘Really?’ She looked interested. ‘I’ve not been to a match since we split up. That’s one thing I don’t miss, standing out on the touchline come rain or shine.’

‘I’ll bet.’ He smiled softly. ‘Are you sure you’re alright? It must have shaken you up, seeing him unexpectedly like that.’

‘It’s made me realise what a lucky escape I had,’ she replied, although Joe could tell from the tremor in her voice she was masking her hurt. ‘Did you see him in that ridiculous puffa jacket? He looked like the flaming Michelin man.’