When I go back inside, I pop the parcel on the table beside the snow globe.
At first, I think I’ll leave it for when I get back. But then I reconsider as I become more curious about that familiar writing. Why on earth do I recognise it?
I tear open the brown packaging to find a package inside that is wrapped in reindeer Christmas paper. It is tied up with a silver ribbon and matching bows that have been flattened by the post, but you can see a lot of care was involved in the wrapping of this. What could it be?
I look at the co-ordinating silver reindeer label. It says, ‘Please open me before Christmas. You might need this in Prague.’
There is no name, but the writing is that same familiar scrawl on the address label.
It seems a shame to tear open such pretty wrapping, but I carefully pull at the ribbon and peel away the paper at the ends.
As I pull out the gift, it feels soft, and I can see it is something red. I pull at it harder, and it stretches through the small opening I have made in the wrapping. It is clearly a jumper.
I place it out in front of me and see a smiling reindeer with a flashing red nose. A Christmas jumper. I used to love Christmas jumpers before that awful night. I never again wore the flashing Christmas tree bauble jumper that I was wearing when Craig left. I threw it in the bin that very evening.
Before then, I had loved that jumper, but this one is even prettier. The size even looks right too. How bizarre.
There are only two people who know about Prague. Ken and that pesky Dewi Jones, and I realise that, of course, that is whose writing it is. Did Aunt Grace give him the budget for a Christmas jumper as well? I throw the knitwear on top of the small suitcase that I am taking to Prague, which is ready by the front door as the taxi to the airport is due to arrive any moment. I suppose an extra jumper might come in handy. I don’t think I even packed properly last night as I still thought I would come up with an excuse until the very last minute. I imagined that some miracle might happen, and I would end up spending the afternoon unpacking and relaxing on the sofa as my flight went without me, and I’d spend the week safely tucked up at home. Instead, I hear the taxi draw up outside. Then the horn honks. It is now or never. I take a deep breath as I realise that even for me – the master of excuses – it is too late to back out.
I make my way out through the door, passing the bills that came this morning. They are still unopened on the telephone table, a final reminder of why I have to do this. My palms sweat, and I close my eyes and take another deep breath. It takes every bit of strength inside me to leave Willow River Mill, but I somehow manage to close the door, checking it is locked at least three times before I jump in the taxi.
‘All right?’ says the taxi driver.
‘Just about.’
‘Oh, it’s always a hassle getting everything packed for holidays. You sit back and relax now. You want a newspaper to read?’
I don’t normally read in the car as it gives me a headache, but the driver passes a newspaper through the gap in the front seat. I take it from her and drop it down on the empty passenger seat beside me.
I look out the window and back at the mill as we drive away. The little robin is standing on the doorstep as if he is waving me away. How does he manage to spring up like this at the strangest times? I wave at the robin, hoping the taxi driver doesn’t notice.
I sit back and try to relax. We pass some heavy frost on the bushes along the roadside, and I am glad to be in the warmth of the car. As we get stuck at some traffic lights, I notice an apple tree with the unmistakable pearlescent white berries of mistletoe growing along its branches. Ha! Mistletoe. Before, I always used to pick some from this very tree and hang it up on the heavy oak beam above the kitchen door each Christmas. I certainly don’t need mistletoe any longer.
We start moving forward again as the traffic lights change, and I glance at the local newspaper on the seat next to me. I have to look twice at the headline on the front page. I blink and blink again, then pick it up to have a closer read.
Local lawyer and businessman Dewi Jones makes Christmas dreams cometrue.
I look at it in disbelief. It has to behim. I unfold the newspaper and start reading the story. In the middle of the article is a photo of an old man with a grey beard – just like Santa!
Lawyers aren’t usually famed for giving out freebies, but when itcomes to local solicitor and businessman Dewi Jones, he is certainly noScrooge. Jones believes that everyone deserves a special Christmas nomatter what their circumstances, young or old. All year round, donationsflood in for his charity, ‘Just Call Me Santa’.
No wonder he was so pushy about me going to Prague and sent me a Christmas jumper. He must think I am a charity case. I continue to read on.
Jones explains, “Christmas can be a miserable time of year for many.We are surrounded by adverts of family Christmases where everyone ishaving a wonderful time and that simply is not always the truth. Manyare facing a Christmas alone, or perhaps are poverty-stricken and can’tafford food on the table, and so I am doing everything I can to helppeople have a wonderful Christmas regardless of their circumstances.From free turkeys and help with the costs of Christmas to cheering folkup, I try to put a smile on everyone’s faces at this time of year. Thatis why people locally started calling me Dewi ‘Just Call Me Santa’Jones, and the name stuck.”
Any annoyance I have for him thinking I am one of his charity cases evaporates as I look at the next photo of Dewi. He is dressed as Santa and leaning down to a child in a wheelchair. They are shaking hands after he donated a specially adapted wheelchair for the boy to use along the sand and enable him to get to the beach. The boy is looking up at Dewi and positively beaming.
Perhaps I should cut Dewi some slack after all. I ask the taxi driver if I can keep the front page to take this story with me. It can hopefully spur me on whenever my nerves get the better of me. Throughout this trip, I will try to remind myself that Prague is a gift from Aunt Grace and Dewi – ‘Just Call Me Santa’ – Jones.
As I fold the paper over, I notice another story. I read the headline and look at the picture of an old home with an overgrown garden. The article is about how an old lady lived there alone, and nobody realised she had died for two years. Where were her neighbours? It used to be that neighbours would look out for each other. Didn’t anyone realise that something was wrong, as the post must have undoubtedly piled up? What if that happened to me? I would like to think that at least Ken would help raise the alarm, but I don’t know that for sure. What if he was moved from his usual postal route?
I sit back and think about my life as we head towards the airport. I finally begin to understand that this journey is just as much for me as it is for Aunt Grace and tracking Marek down. If I am to have any kind of future, I need to do this. I must face my fears of travelling alone. The thought is terrifying, but what are the options? I can’t stay fearful of every situation. I can no longer be afraid of the worst-case scenario. So what if the worst thing happened and my plane crashed? On the bright side, nobody would miss me, and if it doesn’t crash, I get to explore a beautiful new country. I have got to stay positive, although I may pick up a new phone in duty-free in case anything goes terribly wrong and I need to speak to Dewi.
When I finally land in Prague and stand at the bus stop for the coach into the city centre, I am forced to face my mission. Still, I remain reluctant about the trip and would do anything to be safely sat at home watching one of my favourite home makeover programmes.
I look around at the signs at the bus stop, which are in a foreign language; they make me feel uneasy as they remind me how far away from home I am. All around me people are speaking a language I can’t understand. There are so many chattering and excitable people that I could curl into a ball and hide. The fear starts to overcome me, and I begin to feel dizzy. Thoughts start racing through my mind. What if I get lost? Why did I even think I could do this mission? Aunt Grace may have believed I could, but I certainly don’t have the same confidence. Quite frankly, I’d like to get right back on the plane I came on and, in fact, begin to wonder if I can.
Chapter Seven
