Author: Jaimie Admans
Category: Humorous
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‘You can’t come here in trainers.’
‘Oh! Shoe size!’ I go red in embarrassment even though I only scolded him in my head. ‘Six. I’m a six.’
‘We have plenty of spare boots because there’s always at least one idiot who comes unprepared. A guest turned up in flip-flops once, if you can believe that.’
I laugh at the absurdity of the mental image and look down at his feet – he’s got on sensible black boots that go up to under his knees with a thick line of cream faux fur around the top. No doubt his feet are a lot warmer than mine.
Tav holds his arm out without a word, and it takes a few moments for me to realise what he’s getting at.
‘Oh, that’s okay, tha—’ As I’m about to refuse his offer and carry on walking, my foot skids again and I grab his arm gratefully, and the burnt almond and cedar scent of his cologne surrounds me.
I want to protest and tell him I’m not a damsel in distress who needs an arm to hold, and despite how pathetic I must look, my level of fitness is actually much better than it seems because I do a lot of walking with the dogs at Debra’s grooming parlour, but I can’t tell him that because I’m supposed to be a fancy hotel manager, and holding his arm is actually quite … nice. In a reassuring way. He seems to know exactly where to put his feet, and his boots have got thick treads to get a good grip on the snow.
‘I didn’t think you spoke English at the airport.’
‘Just because you can doesn’t mean you should,’ he says simply.
‘Indeed.’ I’m surprised by the amused tone in his voice. ‘The world would be a better place if some people didn’t speak English. The prime minister, for one …’
‘I was not aware that the British prime minister did speak English. It certainly doesn’t seem like it in most speeches.’
I have no idea if he’s trying to be funny or not, but I let out such a howl of laughter that it’ll make the inhabitants of this forest think they’ve gained an extra wolf. Oh God, wolves. I hope there aren’t wolves here. ‘Never has a more accurate judgement of our country been spoken.’
He’s laughing when I look up, and his scarf has slipped down enough that his breath appears in the cold night air. He must sense me looking because he meets my eyes and his full lips form into a smile.
‘You were good with Rudolph Number Three tonight.’ He sounds begrudgingly impressed. ‘He’s a bit tetchier than the others.’
‘How come?’
He looks around and then cups a hand around the side of his mouth like he’s whispering a secret. ‘Between you and me, I think it’s because he’s never allowed to join in the others’ reindeer games.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘No!’ he says incredulously. ‘I was quoting the song.’
‘I know, that’s why I said it.’ I roll my eyes. ‘Only I wondered if it was because the others always laugh at him and call him names?’
He lets out an unexpected laugh. ‘It’s got to be one of those things, right?’
The laugh warms something in my chest. ‘I like animals. A hell of a lot more than I like humans, anyway.’
‘I hear you there.’ The hint of bitterness in his voice makes me look up at him again. ‘You don’t live in a forest surrounded by reindeer if you like people.’
‘No, I suppose you don’t.’ I hesitate for a moment. ‘I was thinking of a remote island, possibly with a cannon to shoot anything that considers approaching.’
He laughs, a warm rumbling sound. ‘Sounds ideal to me.’
I’m thinking about his laugh too much and have to distract myself. ‘What’s with Rudolph Number Three? What happened to Rudolphs One and Two?’
‘They’re still with us, but you haven’t met them yet because they’re not as naughty as Rudolph Number Three.’ His voice rises on the last part of the sentence and he turns to the left, like the reindeer are still listening out in the forest and he’s letting them know of his disappointment.
‘How many Rudolphs are there?’
He looks up to the sky as he thinks about it, like he’s mentally counting. ‘Four.’
‘Can you not call them something other than Rudolph?’
He shrugs. ‘I don’t have time for thinking up reindeer names. Once you’ve used the obvious ones of Santa’s nine, you cycle round and start again.’
‘Could you not just call them all Clive?’
‘Clive?’ He lets out that burst of laughter again.
I have to force myself not to think about his hearty laugh and look across at one of the log cabins on the opposite side of the hill. There’s a wooden gingerbread man sign outside, but it’s fallen over so its head is buried in the snow. ‘Is that the one you’ve got to get ready for guests?’
‘Yep. Fix the sign, fix the big hole in the roof, fix the electricity supply because that’s gone dead as well, and there’s a broken floorboard in the kitchen.’
‘And you can really fix all that? You can’t rely on other people so you do literally everything yourself?’
‘Yes.’
That simple. No explanation, no need to call anyone in. There’s a lot to be said for independence, but that seems overboard even to me.
‘Are all the cabins themed?’ I ask, instead of pushing him because that one-word answer doesn’t make it seem like he’s going to elaborate.
‘They are. We’ve got a nutcracker one, a mistletoe one, a snowman one, a reindeer one, a Christmas tree one, a Mr and Mrs Claus one, and a Twelve Days of Christmas one.’ He points out each themed cabin as he speaks. ‘You name it, I’ve themed a cabin after it.’
‘Why?’
‘Fun? Guests like it?’ He gives me a look that suggests it’s a stupid question. ‘I thought it was festive to name them, and then when it came to decorating, it was easy to play into the theme.’
I suppose it’s a nice idea, really. And staying in a place called the Candy Cane Cabin in the North Pole Forest does sound idealistic and have a twee ring to it, if you’re a person who likes Christmas, that is.
We’re not far from the top of the hill now, and what I thought would be an impossible climb has actually been quite easy with Tav’s arm to hang on to. The twinkling of red and white lights is tantalisingly close, and the exertion has warmed me up enough that my face can move again because it was frozen solid earlier, like Botox but cheaper. People should give up fillers completely and just walk around in minus-fifteen for a bit.
Tav nods to the middle part of the hill that looks like an icy ski slope. ‘There’s a snow saucer in the cabin if you want to slide down in the morning.’
‘No, thanks. I like my limbs in the same number of pieces they’re currently in.’
It makes him laugh again. ‘Kids love it when they stay here.’
‘I’m too old for that sort of thing.’
‘You’re never too old for fun.’
I go to protest, but he’s got a point. I can’t remember the last time I had fun.
We come to a plateau on the incline where the cabin stands, trees towering over it from behind and extending further up the mountain. Tav extracts his arm from my hand and goes up a few wooden steps to the small deck area surrounding the cabin while I glance down the hill doubtfully. There might be a distinct lack of fun in my life, but getting on a saucer and sliding down that is never going to end well.
‘Welcome to the Candy Cane Cabin.’ He opens the door and ducks inside to flick a switch, and the little building is filled with warm white light, illuminating the waist-high candy cane sign, striped with lines of darker wood and the words “Candy Cane Cabin” wood-burned in a semi-circle across the hook of the cane.
Tav stands back and holds a hand out, inviting me to go in first, and that feeling of him being a gentleman makes me smile again. I can’t remember the last time a man held a door open for me.
I let my hand push snow off the wooden railings as I climb the steps, tread across the decking and peer in cautiously.
I expected it to be like a gia
nt candy cane inside, but it’s not. The walls are smooth wood with plenty of rustic knots giving it a natural look. There’s a raised stone hearth with a black grate hiding an open fireplace. At one end, there’s a double bed with a candy cane duvet cover, but even that is a tasteful dark red with tiny white and green striped candy canes all over it.
Tav ducks in behind me, sets my suitcase down by the door, and closes the door quickly, rubbing his hands together. He pulls off his gloves and drops them on a table. ‘Let me make a fire for you.’
I look around as he goes to the hearth and sits on the grey brick edge, takes a couple of logs from the basket beside it and lights the fire.
There’s a red sofa with a white throw over it, patterned with red candy canes, and a cushion on either end, red-knit with a fluffy candy cane in the middle, a dining table and chairs not far from the fire, and in one corner is a six-foot Christmas tree with a sparkling glass topper. It has a red skirt patterned with candy canes and red and white striped boxes stacked underneath it, and it’s decorated with glittering candy cane baubles and red and white lights. A candy-cane-shaped wax warmer is plugged into the wall which is creating the pepperminty scent in the air. A candy-cane-shaped china lamp sits on the bedside table, and the window to the side has candy-cane-patterned curtains in the windows.
I want to make a sarcastic comment about overkill, but it’s exactly what Christmas décor should be like. Understated, tasteful, and festive without being over the top.
‘Bathroom, kitchen.’
I’m so busy looking around that don’t realise the fire is crackling away behind the grate, and Tav is still sitting on the hearth but pointing out two doors, disguised as part of the wooden wall apart from the nameplates wood-burned into them. ‘Minimal facilities; the main kitchen is down in the house, but you have a kettle, mini fridge, sink.’
‘Thank you.’ I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. After seeing Santa’s House in its all-singing, all-dancing, all-twinkling glory, I thought the log cabins would be the same, but this is gorgeous.
‘That’s for you.’ Tav points to a wicker basket on the dining table. It’s large and has got a big curved handle that’s wrapped with intertwined red and white tinsel and finished with an oversized striped bow.
‘What is it?’
‘A gift basket. We welcome all guests to the cabins with one matching the theme.’
I go over eagerly and my hands part the never-ending goodies that are so nicely displayed in it. There are candy canes and peppermint swirl sweets, candy-cane-flavoured teabags and a jar of candy cane coffee, peppermint-flavoured popcorn, and a box of candy cane artisan chocolates. Then there are red and white striped fluffy socks, hand-knitted striped gloves and a matching hat, candy cane lip balm, scented shower gel, hand cream, soaps, and bubble bath.
‘Thank you. You didn’t have to do that for me – I’m not a proper guest.’
‘All part of the service.’
‘You didn’t make these, did you?’ I ask. It’s a distinct possibility seeing as he seems to do everything else around here.
‘All handmade by local sellers in the nearby village. We’re proud to support local businesses and they support us in return. You’ll find business cards and discount coupons in the bottom of the basket if you like anything and want to go Christmas shopping while you’re here.’
It’s a nice touch, something that gives a community feel and makes me realise there must be a village nearby and we’re not completely isolated out here.
There’s a framed painting on the wall behind the bed, depicting a little wooden cabin with smoke coming out of its chimney, in a forest full of snow-covered trees with the Northern Lights in the sky.
‘It’s beautiful. The whole cabin is perfect.’ I wander around the little room, letting my fingers trail over smooth wood and candy cane accessories. It’s so much larger inside than it looked from outside. The window at the right-hand side of the bed looks onto the forest, and when I look out, I have an uninhibited view of the sky.
‘Does it meet your very high standards of the exceedingly posh hotel business?’
His voice is quiet but it still makes me jump in the silence of the night, and then cringe again at the idea of him thinking I’m a fancy hotel manager. I don’t know why I thought Dad was the only one who’d know about my supposed job. I hadn’t considered he’d tell other people.
I look around to see him still sitting on the edge of the hearth. He looks exhausted. He’s so tall that he doesn’t really fit there, and I’m not sure if the hunched shoulders are because of that, or because he’s too tired to stay upright.
‘If Dad can’t get up here, that means you did all this? By yourself?’ I ask, skirting his question.
He shrugs. ‘It’s a pleasure. I like having guests in and we haven’t had many this year, and I love Christmas … Who doesn’t, right? It’s the most magical time of the year.’
‘Yeah, if you’re six. I’ve missed that by thirty years.’
‘That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. You’re never too old to believe in magic.’
I frown at him, but he grins up at me. ‘Don’t forget your wishing jar.’
‘My what?’
He inclines his head towards the basket on the table, and I go back over and root through it until I pull out a tiny glass jar that’s full of iridescent fake snow that reflects a rainbow of colours as I twist it under the light. The metal lid is also a lock, and the neck is wound with red and white striped twine tying on a tiny metal key. I unlock it, and inside, buried in the fake snow, is a strip of white cardboard. I hold it up in confusion.
‘You write your Christmas wish on the cardboard, lock it and keep the key, and stand it by the fire. When it disappears, you’ll know Santa has granted the wish.’
‘Seriously?’
‘We don’t joke about Christmas wishes.’
‘When it disappears, what I’ll know is that you’ve got a key to the cabin and you’ve let yourself in and taken it.’
He grins and points towards the door. On the back of it, a key is hanging on a hook with a large wooden candy cane keyring. ‘Firstly, that’s the only key – I don’t have copies. And secondly, the jar itself doesn’t disappear – the wish does. When you get a magical feeling, open the jar and see. If the cardboard is blank, the wish has been granted.’
‘So you give me a special pen to write it in erasable ink that fades over time?’
‘Nope.’ He gives me that self-satisfied smile again. ‘Write it in whatever you like. Your own pen. Permanent marker, if you want.’
I hold the jar up again and shake it, dispersing the snow inside. ‘So there’s some chemical in this that dissolves ink?’
‘How did you get to be so cynical?’ He meets my eyes and the smile he gives me this time is soft. ‘It’s magic, Sash.’
It’s the first time he’s called me that, and I know it’s probably because it’s what my dad calls me, but there’s something quite nice about him being so overfamiliar. ‘There’s no such thing.’
‘Anyone who thinks that will never see it.’
I bite my lip as I try to think of a suitable comeback, but typically, my mind is blank. It’s a nice sentiment and kids must love it, and I wish I was young enough to believe in magic and go sliding down hills on a saucer, but I’m not.
There’s something about a man in his late thirties talking about magic like it’s real though. And yet, he doesn’t seem insane. It just seems like he’s forgotten I’m not a four-year-old guest here to visit Santa and his flying reindeer and enquire about my positioning on the naughty and nice list.
‘I should go.’ He pushes himself up off the hearth with a long groan and a few noises of pain that he probably doesn’t realise are audible. ‘See? That’s the problem with sitting down – it makes it so much harder to get up afterwards, like going inside to warm up when you have to go outside and get cold again.’
He pulls his hat down and his gloves
back on and points to the right. ‘Shout if you need anything. I live in a cabin out there, but I’m never far away. Enjoy your first night at the North Pole.’
‘It’s not the North Pole,’ I say again as he opens the door and steps outside, but I can’t help smiling this time.
He turns around and grins at me. ‘Isn’t it?’
Of course it isn’t, but I don’t have the heart to say it. There’s something nice about thinking it might be. Something that makes me feel like a kid again, giddy and unable to ignore just the tiniest fizzle of excitement.
‘Come down to the house for breakfast in the morning,’ Tav calls as he starts walking down the hill we came up, and I’m half-disappointed that he didn’t grab the saucer that’s stashed beside the kitchen sink and slide down on that. ‘It’ll be worth the trek, I promise.’
I go back inside and my eyes are drawn to the Christmas wish jar on the table. It’s bollocks, of course. If it works at all, it’ll be some kind of clever trickery, but I’ve got a biro out of my bag and I’ve sat down in one of the chairs before I’ve even thought about it.
If nothing else, I can prove Tav wrong about it being magic.
The bottle is only the size of my thumb and the cardboard strip is tiny when I pull it out. At first I don’t know what to write, so I close my eyes and think about it. If there were any such thing as Christmas wishes, and any hope of mine being granted, I’d wish for the one thing I’ve wanted again since I was twelve.
I write “a happy family Christmas” in small letters on the cardboard, push it into the snow inside the bottle and lock it. I tie a knot in the twine holding the key and wrap it back around the bottleneck, and leave it on the edge of the hearth.
I wander around the cabin again, appreciating the attention to detail and consideration that’s gone into every inch of it. It feels warm and cosy and safe, safer than I thought I’d feel in the middle of a forest inside the Arctic Circle anyway. The fire is going to dwindle before long, and there’s a little space heater tucked under the table so I plug that into a socket on the wall, and when I pull the bed covers back, I’m glad to see there’s a hot water bottle waiting for me – with a candy cane cover, obviously. I have a hot shower and make a cup of tea with the box of PG Tips I find in the kitchen cupboard and the milk in the fridge, which is a really nice touch. Probably Dad’s influence. He used to take British teabags with him wherever he went. I re-boil the kettle to fill the hot water bottle, and while I’m drinking my cuppa, I have the urge to see outside again.