‘Yes! You work in the shop,’ she said, and Carmen recognised her as the woman who’d come in looking for Mr McCredie. ‘Did you give him my card? He has not called me.’
She had quite a direct way of speaking.
‘Um, yes I did,’ said Carmen. ‘I’m sorry. He didn’t … Can I ask what it’s about?’
‘We were clearing out an attic and discovered some letters. The return address is … well, it is there. I should like to speak to him. Very much.’
She said something to the man in rapid German, and he looked startled, then carried on wrapping the toys.
‘We are here until Christmas and then –pouf– we are gone. So. Please. If he does not want to phone, we are here. Every day. Wait.’
She turned back into the little hut and brought out another tiny little shape, exquisitely carved in wrought wood. It was a circle, quartered by a cross, smooth and timeless.
‘Please give him this. For his tree. With our warmest wishes.’
‘Thank you,’ said Carmen, surprised, and, laden with bags, they retreated from the noise and cacophony of the fair. She explained the situation to Oke.
‘What do you think it is?’ said Oke.
‘Goodness! I don’t know,’ said Carmen. ‘I can’t imagine Mr McCredie having any dark secret love children or anything like that. I think he’s barely left the house he was born in his whole life. He likes books more than people. I’ll tell him. Do you like trees more than people?’
‘Some,’ said Oke. ‘You know where you are with a tree. Except for elms. They’re bastards.’
‘How?’ Carmen was startled to hear him swear.
‘Oh, try anything and they just die on you. Hi, elm, how you doing? … SPLAT!’
He mimed the tree falling over and she giggled.
‘You look like a tree. You’ve chosen the right profession.’
‘Because of my twig-like arms and legs? I know,’ he said, undaunted. ‘People say that all the time.’
‘Well, better than … being a cactus specialist.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Or a bonsai.’
He grinned.
‘Ooh, bonsai are a whole other thing.’
They had wandered off the main drag and up the steps of the National Gallery. The screaming was still ringing in their ears.
‘Well, I did all the consumerism, and I saw somebody throw up outside the waltzers,’ said Oke. ‘Will that do?’
Carmen nodded, although suddenly she was reluctant to leave him. There was something incredibly … easy about being in his presence. But perhaps he had to get back to Dahlia. He started heading towards the steps.
‘Would you like to come see a bit more Christmas? I think I’m getting the hang of it,’ he said.
She couldn’t match his loping stride as he cut through the crowds bustling around little wooden stalls selling carved fairies, fudge, candyfloss, teddy bears, mulled wine and hot chocolate, and she tried her best not to look as if she was absolutely out of breath as they climbed the steep steps of the Mound.
Oke turned at the very top to survey the bright lights of the market below, laid in front of them like a carpet, glittering and beautiful, with less shouting and fewer small children looking as though they were going to be sick.
‘It’s just people trying to be happy,’ she said.
‘I understand that,’ said Oke. ‘I’m just not sure it’s the best way to go about it.’
