‘The friend zone?’ Fern replies.
Izz brings her hands together. ‘That’s the one. See, Margi. You’re not the only one who’s been getting an education this winter. Fern’s told me all about it. It’s when one or the other of you is so afraid of losing a friendship you risk losing each other anyway. You, Patrick Wootton,’ she slurs a little, ‘have been friend-zoned. Now, where’s me biggest ladle?’ As Shell follows after her in her search, we all hear Izz confide, ‘That wine’s got a kick to it. Better add some juice to it tomorrow or we’ll all be sloshed.’
Fern and Lucy are still trying to stifle giggles.
‘Right, well,’ Patrick flusters. ‘Electrics are done. Shall we try the lights?’
As he stoops to hurriedly clear away his tools, I mime a cutting motion under my chin at Lucy.
‘What?’ she mouths at me over Patrick’s back, amused with herself.
‘Three, two, one, switch on!’ we all chorus.
Everywhere is blackness. I don’t move for fear of knocking into one of the displays which are still worryingly unilluminated.
‘Patrick?’ I say into the silence. ‘It can’t be not working?’ Not when he’s spent the day on his knees, under tables, drilling, glue-gunning, screwing in bulbs, threading coils of wire-thin lights, surely? Patrick can make anything light up. He’s good at everything.
‘Just a sec,’ he says, and after a moment’s flickering hesitation our display bursts into light.
‘Patrick!’ I turn on the spot, trying to take it all in, not knowing what to look at first. There’s a small ripple of applause from the gang as they crowd closer to inspect it.
‘It still needs finessing,’ he says, joining me by my side, admiring our Gingerbread Christmas Village brought to life. Every little house is aglow from the inside with Patrick’s clever lights. ‘Wait, wait,’ he says, making for the spot in the room where the grotto will be. ‘There’s more.’
There’s a panel of controls and plugs by his feet, though he’s taken care hiding every flex and cable under the heavy black matting he keeps for the exhibit. He flicks another switch and above our heads the suspended sleigh and reindeer are illuminated, the reindeer bobbing softly up and down in flight with the magic of some kind of clever hydraulics and pulley thing I knew nothing about.
‘Surprise!’ he says.
I gasp, lost in admiration.
‘Beautiful,’ Izz tells him. ‘A lovely addition.’
‘I’m not done yet,’ he says, getting caught up in the moment. ‘By order of your chairwoman, there’s also… this…’ He lifts a white bottle from beneath one of the tablecloths and, after pulling on thick gloves, walks around the miniature village adding drops of liquid down the chimneys here and there. ‘I put these liquid chambers inside so we can have…’
‘Dry ice!’ says Shell, applauding as little puffs of white rise above the cottages. ‘Nice one!’
I admit it’s very clever. Izz hits play on the old CD player we drag in here every year and the usual carols spill out. Fern’s live streaming so she’s whispering a commentary to her followers.
I’ve never seen the display so beautifully lit or with so much movement and colour. This has to be it, my crowning moment. My big finale? Only, there’s something missing and I can’t quite account for it.
I give Lucy the nod before she wheels in the trolley with my little surprise for Patrick.
‘This is for you, as a thank you, Patrick,’ I tell him. ‘Since, apart from Fern, you’re the only one of us who never got to see it when Mum was in charge. I haven’t even watched this myself yet.’
Lucy’s quickly got the mains connected up and there’s a whirring sound as Dad’s old cine projector starts up.
On the longest of the hall’s blank white walls a shimmery scene appears. It’s shadowy with age but there’s no doubt what we’re looking at.
Two rows of tables meeting in a horseshoe shape, and the dark shapes of people admiring gingerbread houses. The builds appear smaller than ours, and all that really stands out on the grainy footage is their white iced roofs and the stubby candles between each of the cottages and the few fairy lights around the hall, nowhere near as many as I remembered there being. From the hall rafters there hangs garlands and sparkly waterfall lanterns all made from that metallic foil so typical of Christmas decorations when I was a kid, and, of course, there’s lots of tinsel draped everywhere, but there’s no sight of Mum or Dad, and nobody I could identify with any accuracy, but for a moment I feel like I’m there, being jostled by the crowds, holding on to the lead of whichever beloved childhood dachshund we had at the time, and everyone’s remarking on how clever Mum is and how kind, and there’s jokes and laughter and everyone in high spirits and the sense that after a long year’s waiting, Santa’s finally coming to town. Then out of nowhere, and for the first time in forever, I picture myself bursting with excitement, unwrapping my little red and yellow play kitchen on Christmas morning and Great Aunt Margaret saying I was a chip off the old Frost baking block. And I’m not even in the hall any more when the film flickers to an end and the place fills with silver light from the noisy projector.
Patrick’s the first person I become aware of again. He’s asking me if I’m OK, and Fern’s hovering around me, saying, ‘she’s probably just tired’, but as the dry ice is clearing around our exhibit, I’m thinking how I don’t actually feel like a chip off the old block, or all that proud of what I’ve achieved this year, or even relieved. Instead, I’m left cold and a bit confused, wondering why my latest gingerbread village doesn’t feel a bit like that candlelit one of Mum’s.
‘Something’s not right,’ I say, and I’m aware of everyone looking at me worriedly.
‘Let’s tidy up, then I’ll give her a lift back with the projector stuff,’ Patrick says, and I’m left standing in the middle of our exhibit feeling like a time traveller who’s made it back to their own time only to discover they made some slip-up back in the past and without knowing it, changing some tiny aspect of the course of history and everything’s just a little bit strange now.
The exhibit looks like Wheaton, or thereabouts, and it smells just like it, sweet and spiced, and the village hall setting’s just the same as it always was, but something’s out of kilter, and I can only conclude it must be me. This was supposed to be the big finish, a fond farewell to the villages of my past, but no matter how hard we’ve worked, the essence of it is missing, and I’m the only person who knows it.
It’s almost midnight by the time Patrick swings open my garden gate for me. He’s letting Lucy fetch the projector from the boot herself, possibly as punishment for teasing us earlier.
