Joe and Clara’s Christmas Countdown. Katey Lovell
and lazy and slob about on the settee with their hands shoved down their pants.’ Clara remembered the time she’d called Dean out on that, because she’d been sick of the sight of him with his hands in his trousers. He’d insisted he wasn’t playing with himself but she’d had her doubts. The excuse that his hands were cold didn’t wash with her. Hadn’t he heard of pockets? ‘Not to mention they have a habit of sleeping around.’
Bitterness filled her mouth. She’d got past the sadness of their relationship ending, but she couldn’t get past the anger at being lied to and cheated on. It took a lot for her to trust someone. Watching her mum’s confidence dwindle away to nothing after her dad’s infidelity had been painful. Dean screwing around behind her back had only reaffirmed her distrust.
‘Not all of them, and not this one. This one’s a good one.’
‘I thought Dean was a good one, once upon a time,’ Clara grumbled in retort. ‘If there are good ones out there, why have you never got married, eh? Answer me that.’
‘I’m married to this place, remember. The club, the kids – they’re all the family I need.’
‘Well, maybe that’s enough for me, too,’ she answered defiantly. ‘Maybe I’ll be married to this place.’
Deirdre waggled her finger in front of her face, wearing a stern expression no one in their right mind would argue with. ‘I don’t think so, Clara. I think you need to trust me for once.’
‘I always trust you. Except when it comes to your decisions of when to put the Christmas decorations up, because when it comes to that you’re just downright wrong.’
‘The decorations can go up tomorrow. December the first. Which is still too early, but at least it’ll tie in nicely with the lantern parade. Plus Joe will be around then, so you can do it together.’
‘Joe? Simone’s brother Joe?’
Deirdre smacked the heel of her hand into her forehead. ‘I can’t believe I let that one slip. Me and my big mouth! But yes, he’s our new volunteer. Be nice to him, Clara. I’ve known Joe since he was eleven years old and he had lines shaved into his eyebrows like he was some sort of gangster. He was trying to be tough, but he’s was a softie then and he’s a softie now.’
She looked dreamy, and Clara suspected her boss was imagining Clara in a puffy meringue-like dress and Joe in a jet-black top hat and tails. Typical Deirdre, never one to let reality get in the way of a good story.
‘Don’t go getting any ideas, Deirdre. I barely know the guy.’
‘But you’ll get to know him,’ Deirdre reasoned. ‘Don’t rule anything out yet, that’s all I’m asking.’
Clara didn’t have the energy to argue. In ten minutes’ time they’d be opening the doors and the stream of excitable kids would flood into the hall ready to spend the next two hours wreaking havoc.
‘If I can’t have fairy lights, I’m going to need caffeine,’ she grumbled, heading towards the kitchenette.
‘Clara?’ Deirdre called after her.
‘Yeah?’
‘If you believe in the magic of Christmas, you can surely believe in the magic of love too.’
Clara rolled her eyes. Christmas was one thing. Love was something else altogether.
Friday, December 1st 2017
Joe’s stomach fizzed as The Club on the Corner came into view. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt this excited.
He’d been at a low ebb for such a long time. Not officially depressed – nothing that a doctor would prescribe medication for – but weighed down by a lethargy that had taken away his usual bounce. ‘It’s a perfectly normal part of the grieving process’ the GP had said when Joe had finally given in to his mum’s desperate pleas to seek help. ‘Survivor guilt.’ It was supposed to be reassuring, but he’d left the surgery more defeated and deflated than ever.
Joe had tried to keep moving forward and not to dwell on events of the past, but sometimes everything was so damn overwhelming. When guilt-induced anxiety had reduced him to tears at work last Christmas as he’d unpacked a delivery of poinsettias, he’d taken it as a sign and halved his hours at the hardware store. When spring brought longer and lighter days he’d felt a little stronger, but by then he’d decided the freedom of part-time hours suited him. He had money saved, and it wasn’t as though he’d been a big spender to start with. He had plenty of clothes. He didn’t smoke and although he enjoyed a beer, he didn’t often drink to excess. Socialising took place mainly at his flat or at the home of his friends, usually Billy and Emma’s, since the arrival of baby Roman earlier in the year. Other than rent, bills and food, Joe didn’t have any regular outgoings, and the only real extravagance – annual trips to Jamaica to see his maternal grandparents – were paid for by his parents. He lived a simple life, and it worked for him.
But after taking a step back for the best part of a year, Joe was excited at the prospect of volunteering. He had a soft spot for The Club on the Corner, where he’d spent so much time during his most formative years.
If those walls could talk they could tell a story or two about Joe Smith. They’d seen his first kiss, a clumsy snog with a petite girl with a penchant for heavy eyeliner. They’d watched on as he’d broken his arm when he was fooling about breakdancing with Billy and a guy called Simon who he hadn’t seen in years. He wondered if the graffiti Billy had dared him to scrawl one reckless Friday night was still on the wall in the games room. He’d been petrified of getting caught, because no one wanted to get on the wrong side of Deirdre; so although he’d accepted the challenge he’d written his name in the tiniest writing he could, discreetly hidden in a gap between a plug socket and a skirting board. That room had also been where he’d first met Michelle, her skills at eight-ball pool enough to make every boy in the place fall for her. When she’d chosen Joe from the many admirers he’d been unable to believe his luck. The Club on the Corner … it had actually changed his life.
From the outside the building looked much the same as ever. Two big wooden doors painted in a vile pea-green shade detracted from the grandeur of the Victorian architecture. The paint was tired and peeling away near the hinges, and Joe vowed to make time to give it a sanding down and a fresh coat if Deirdre would allow him. It wouldn’t take much to tart it up and make it look more inviting.
The lead window panes were beautiful, very much of the era, and the arch above the doorway stated ‘Vestry Hall’, a nod to the building’s original use as a more general meeting place. The green-and-cream sign advertising the youth club was attached to the terracotta brickwork, along with a handwritten laminated notice stating ‘Waiting List Now in Operation’. Joe hoped his volunteering would give a few more kids the opportunity to join up.
The smell in the large entrance hallway transported him back in time. It was dusty, like an antiques showroom. Although Deirdre had always kept the place spick and span, the air was heavy with history and secrets.
‘Joe!’ Deirdre exclaimed, wrapping her arms so tightly around him that he caught his breath. ‘It’s good to see you.’ Her eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d turn up. Thought you might have chickened out.’
‘Ah, it can’t be that bad. I know what it’s like, remember? I spent many a happy night here.’
Deirdre shook her head. ‘It’s all different these days, Joe. The kids grow up so fast. And the technology they’ve got! It was bad enough when you and Billy got that camera phone, remember? You were taking pictures of everyone and everything, but the photos were all grainy. Now they film each other and put it online for the world to see. They’ve got the Internet at their fingertips. It’s all gone too far, if you ask me.’
‘It’s