is nobody better with wood and tin. He is an artist, I’ve always said so.’
‘There’s no money in it,’ Dad shrugs. ‘No future.’
The old man sits down in the corner of our sofa. His eyes are shining, and his cheeks are red and rosy above the bushy beard.
‘I think there could be,’ he says. ‘Mr Mikalski, I have a workshop, a business, just a mile from here. I make rocking horses… old-fashioned ones, handcarved, handpainted. Each one is worth over a thousand pounds, some much more, and we have a waiting list of customers from all around the world. I have made a good living for many years.’
Dad frowns. ‘Rocking horses… yes, I can see that would be a skill. But…’
‘I’m almost at retirement age,’ the old man says. ‘I want to go on working, but I can’t do as many hours as I used to. I have two young apprentices and, up until last week, a manager who ran the workshop for me. And then, with no warning, my manager left – he met a Scottish woman on an Internet dating site, would you believe, and he’s gone to live in Inverness. It took me years to find someone with traditional woodwork skills, toymaking skills. And now he’s gone…’
Dad’s eyes glitter in the half-light. He is listening now, really listening, and Mum takes my hand and wraps an arm round Kazia, and we stand quietly, watching, waiting.
‘You are offering me a job?’ Dad asks. ‘A management job?’
‘There would be a trial period, of course,’ the old man says. ‘But if it works out… it’s a well-paid position, Mr Mikalski, and one that I think might suit you. Are you interested?’
Mum squeezes my hand very tightly, and the breath catches in my throat.
‘Very interested,’ Dad says.
So we get what we want for Christmas after all… the chance to stay in Liverpool. It’s still just a chance, because jobs don’t always work out, of course, but it’s enough to wipe the sad, grey shadows and worry lines clean off Dad’s face.
Mum is so excited she phones Karen and asks if she really meant it, about the cafe job. The answer is yes, and she whirls the three of us round and round the flat, laughing, whooping, crying. We wrap up warm and go out into the swirling snow, to Midnight Mass at St Peter and Paul’s. The church is packed. Everyone sings ‘Silent Night’, and afterwards we see Frankie and her mum in the porch, and Tomasz and Stefan and even Lily Caldwell.
She catches my eye as everyone files out of church, and I remember what Frankie said and can’t find it in me to hate her, not any more. At Christmas, like Dad says, you put old grudges behind you. I smile, because it’s Christmas, and because we’re not going back to Krakow after all, not yet anyway. Lily blinks and drags up a wobbly smile of her own, and wishes me Happy Christmas, which is a miracle in itself.
‘We get to stay after all,’ Kazia says, as we shiver into pyjamas. ‘And Dad will be in charge of Santa’s workshop!’
I open my mouth to correct her, but you know what? The guy does look like Santa, and he even works as Santa now and again, and the workshop makes beautiful wooden toys, so… well, I guess she has it right, pretty much.
When I wake, the room is pitch dark, and I can hear Kazia’s breathing, soft and rhythmic.
I hear a soft, dull thud against the window pane, and I slide out of bed and pull the stringy curtains aside. A snowball slides slowly down the glass, landing in a heap on the outside window sill. The world is bright and clean and perfect, swathed in white, and leaning against the lamp post across the street is a boy with dark braids and slanting cheekbones.
I pull on my boots, wriggle into a jumper and creep out across the living room, past the tree and the glinting szopka castle. I take my coat from the stand, pull on gloves and hat and scarf, run down the stairs and out into the snow.
Dan looks up, his face shining in the lamplight, and suddenly I’m shy, tongue-tied, nervous. The last time I saw Dan I yelled at him, said stuff I really, really wish I hadn’t. And now I can’t help wondering if things will ever be the same between us.
‘Hey,’ Dan says. ‘No pink fluffy slippers tonight?’
‘No angel wings?’ I counter.
‘No. I’m