Читать книгу: «The Little Christmas Shop on Nutcracker Lane», страница 2

Chapter 2

The chill in the air is icy as I step out the door of my cottage and lock up behind me, still finding it weird not to say goodbye to my grandma as I leave, even though she’s been gone for over four years now. The concrete of the driveway is sparkling with frost, and as I open the front gate and go through it onto the pavement, I see Stacey standing on the corner where my little side street meets the main street, bouncing on her feet to keep warm as she waits for me. She lives two streets down the hill, so we always meet at this intersection and walk up to Nutcracker Lane together.

‘Another one bites the dust, huh?’ She rubs gloved hands together as I approach.

At first I think she means Ben or Jerry, several tubs of which bit the dust last night and it takes me a moment to realise she’s talking about the cheating ex and not ice cream or Cadbury’s chocolate.

‘Another one bites the purple lingerie, to be precise.’ I shove my hands into my pockets as we start walking up the hill towards Nutcracker Lane. ‘Probably tearing it off with his teeth as we speak.’

‘Nah, far too early for that kind of naughtiness. She’s probably too busy trying to get pillow creases out of her face while he’s brushing his furry tongue to get rid of the morning breath. Remember him that way. It’ll make it easier.’

I laugh out loud at the mental image. I love my best friend. She knows it wasn’t a serious relationship, and even though she’s happily married with a daughter, she gets that it still hurts when someone cheats on you, no matter what. Thinking about it makes the loneliness sidle in again, having been blocked out by rushing to get ready this morning. It’s opening day and I thought we’d better get there early. ‘Am I ever going to find a decent man? Is there even one out there? What is it with all these guys who go for sexy purple lingerie instead of comfort and commitment – both in lingerie and in a relationship? Aren’t there any decent men on the planet?’

‘Yeah, there are loads, there’s just the slight problem of them all being married or otherwise taken. It’s a shame single men don’t grow on Christmas trees.’ She snuggles further into her scarf.

‘My relationship problems are solved anyway,’ I say as we reach the top of the hill and turn left, walking through another residential street. ‘I asked the nutcracker for a handsome prince last night, so one is bound to be along any minute. Can you hear the clip-clopping of horses’ hooves?’ I put my hand to my ear. ‘Probably him on the way in his fairy-tale carriage right now.’

‘Yep. There’s bound to be a single, gorgeous, gentlemanly prince waiting in the entranceway as soon as we get in, magically summoned by an old wooden toy to find his princess,’ she says with a laugh. ‘And any prince is bound to be entranced by your collection of Christmas jumpers. Which one did you go with today?’

I open my coat to reveal my Christmas jumper, which is black with lots of green trees all over it, each one with tiny lights that flash from a battery pack hidden inside the hem.

‘Flashing trees for opening day. Good choice.’

‘Nothing like a Christmas jumper to get you in the mood. And an added bonus of sending customers to Mrs Brissett in the Nutcracker Lane jumper shop when they ask where I got it.’

We come out the other end of the residential street, go up another slope, and shortcut across the frosty shrub border surrounding the Nutcracker Lane car park. Even though the nutcracker manufacturing plant that runs behind the lane hasn’t started work yet, the hint of fresh-cut wood is in the air, mixing with the balsam and pine smell as the tree seller unloads netted Christmas trees from the back of a pick-up truck that’s reversed up to the end of our little Christmas village where her tree lot stands.

We walk around the perimeter of the building on the pavements surrounding it until we get to the wide glass doors, a huge clear-sided foyer full of signs advertising Nutcracker Lane’s attractions – signs that have lessened every year as more and more things disappear.

‘No prince, then.’ Stacey pushes open the second set of doors into the main entrance court. ‘Just a giant nutcracker who, admittedly, is better company than some of the men you’ve dated.’

‘Aww, I think the nutcracker’s a prince in his own right.’ I wave to him as we walk past his little elf-garden enclosure. ‘Good morning, Mr Nutcracker.’

‘You’re only polite to it so when they rise up as an army on Christmas Eve and take over the world, they’ll remember you fondly and spare you.’

I poke my tongue out at her. She doesn’t get why nutcrackers have always been my favourite Christmas decoration or why I like that one quite so much.

‘You know it was the staff here who granted your childhood Christmas wishes and he’s not really magical … Unless Prince Charming randomly turns up this morning. Then I’ll take it all back.’

‘I think we can safely say that’s not going to happen …’

Santa chooses that moment to stroll out of the gents’ toilets pulling his trousers out of his bum.

Stacey and I hold each other’s gaze for a long moment and then burst into giggles. ‘Nah.’

‘God, it’s bleak, isn’t it?’ She says as we continue down the lane, the first signs of the log cabins coming to life around us. Lights on in the back rooms, a few of the Christmas trees with their lights twinkling already. ‘They don’t even decorate anymore.’ She wraps her hand around a bare iron lamppost as we pass it. In years gone by, the posts were wrapped with sparkling green tinsel wound with white fairy lights, finished with an oversized red bow and a bunch of fresh mistletoe hanging from the top of each one. The ceilings were decked with fairy-light-wrapped garlands and you couldn’t turn around without coming face-to-face with a poinsettia.

‘I always imagined bringing my children here one day, and it’s so sad that Lily has never got to see it as I remember it. She doesn’t believe me when I tell her what it used to be like. It’s such a shame to see it on its last legs.’

‘Do you really think it is?’ I try to stamp down the sadness that rears up. I haven’t got as far as thinking about having children, but if I ever do, I can’t imagine not being able to bring them to Nutcracker Lane where I spent so many happy childhood days back in the Eighties and Nineties.

‘Look around, Nee. It’s faded gradually every year, and this is the worst one yet. Opening day and … this is it. There are no staff except the shopkeepers themselves, no one keeping the actual lane running, no maintenance, no cleaners, and if you dare to turn around right now, you’ll see Santa picking his nose. How much worse can it get than Santa pulling bogeys out of his nose hair and examining them … Oh, wait, now he’s eating them as well. Lovely.’

‘It just needs one good year to recover – one year with even a fraction of the visitors it used to get. Most people don’t even realise it’s still here. The only person who seems to have any interest in it these days is the horrible Scrooge-like accountant who keeps slashing the budget every year. That lovely couple who owned it haven’t been seen for months. I was chatting to Rhonda in the hat shop the other day and she said she didn’t see them once last year— What the hell is that?’

We turn the bend in the lane towards Starlight Rainbows and I stop in my tracks. The empty shop opposite is no longer empty. Its window is ablaze with white light, and instead of a Christmas tree outside the door, there’s a six-foot-tall animatronic dancing Santa wearing a tropical shirt with a Hawaiian lei around his neck who’s currently doing some depiction of the Macarena. The hand-painted sign above the window reads “Tinkles and Trinkets” and in smaller letters underneath “The BEST Christmas decorations for all your holiday needs.”

‘But that’s …’ I splutter, unable to get my words out properly. ‘That was empty last night. There was nothing in there. How did they get it set up so fast?’

‘Elves?’ Stacey pulls a face at the dancing Santa.

‘But we sell decorations. I make decorations. And now we’ve got to compete with that? And look at it.’ We both peer into the window. There are so many fairy lights glowing in the display that somewhere in the next county, there’s a bloke wondering why the sun just came out and the National Grid has probably started groaning. The animatronic theme continues as the window display is full of dancing Santas of various sizes, musical nutcrackers, light-up feather wreaths, branches of lit-up twigs, twinkling garlands, a giant snowglobe with lights around the base that’s playing some kind of conflicting tune with one of the singing festive teddy bears, and even a model Christmas village with plastic nutcrackers moving in a mechanical circle in and out of a tiny factory building.

Even the term “plastic nutcrackers” is offensive. Nutcrackers are always, always made of wood. It’s traditional.

Something inside is playing a Christmas tune, but it sounds like its batteries are going flat, and there’s so much twisting and jiggling and dancing in the window that I can’t even tell which one it is.

‘It’s impressive,’ Stacey says. ‘Everyone is going to stop to look at it.’

‘Exactly.’ I look over my shoulder at our darkened little shop opposite. ‘It’s a million times better than our rustic wooden decorations and Nineties-style foil garlands and sets of lights taped round the windows. You can see Tinkles and Trinkets from space. There are probably aliens on Jupiter right now scratching their heads and trying to work out who turned the lights on.’

‘Well, it’s not better, it’s different. Personally, I like the nostalgic side of Christmas and think all this singing and dancing stuff is distasteful tat.’

‘Does it look like familiar distasteful tat to you?’ I cock my head to the side and try to hear the strains of a tune the nutcracker model factory is playing, but it’s drowned out by the toy with the dying batteries and the creaking of the Macarena-ing Santa.

‘I can’t see anyone inside.’ Stacey cups her hands around her eyes and peers through the glass, but the glare of the lights is too bright to see anything beyond the window display.

‘I don’t understand how it can have been empty last night. No one could’ve got this done so quickly, could they? It must’ve been a whole team of people.’ I peer in the window too, but all I can make out is rows and rows of shelves. ‘It’s like it’s sprung up from nowhere.’

‘Like magic.’ She slots her arm through mine and yanks me across the paving stones to Starlight Rainbows. ‘It’s not worth worrying about. We sell totally different types of decorations and there’s room for all of us on Nutcracker Lane.’

I give the dazzling shop one last glance. Every other log cabin on our lane has been setting up for a month now. We all got our keys on the first day of November, and since then, everyone has been back and forth unloading stock and setting up their displays. Except this one. And in the space of the nine hours since I left last night, this owner has managed to create the most spectacular display of all.

I unlock our little wooden door and turn the wood-burned wreath sign on it over from “closed” to “open”. Our shop smells of fresh-cut wood from my decorations and that inimitable scent of tinsel and foil Christmas decorations when they’ve been shut away for a while. I flip the light switch and pick up a letter that’s been posted through the letterbox.

‘You were here for hours tweaking last night then?’ Stacey looks around like she can tell every earring I adjusted on her jewellery side of the shop.

‘I was priming some nutcracker bunting so it had time to dry before today.’ I switch the electric wax burner behind the counter on to fill the shop with the scent of vanilla and balsam and dump my bag on the counter as I split the letter open and unfold it.

‘Factory space!’ I stare at the letter in horror. ‘How could they do this? Listen …’ I start reading it aloud.

Dear esteemed Nutcracker Lane lease holder,

I am writing to inform you that commencing January 1st, Nutcracker Lane will be under new ownership. As the acting manager until the new owner joins us, it falls to me to ensure we will not be carrying deadweight into the new year. Next year will see things change for the better. Next year your leases will not automatically be renewed – instead, you will have to work for the privilege. Only the most profitable shops will be going forward to the next festive season – the rest will be sold off for factory space to the nutcracker factory next door. I will review your accounts in January and let you know in due course whether you will have a place on the improved and streamlined Nutcracker Lane next year.

Do your best this festive season!

Regards,

Mr E.B. Neaser

Head accountant and acting manager, Nutcracker Lane

‘Wow.’ Stacey runs a hand through her short hair.

‘Do you think this was hand-delivered? It’s early for the postman.’ I turn over the envelope in my hands but there’s not even an address on it. ‘Everyone must’ve got one.’

‘Not even a “kind regards” or a “best wishes” or anything. How rude. And he’s still using that stupid name. It’s like he knows we call him Scrooge and he’s mocking us.’

‘There’s no way it’s his real name,’ I agree. We’ve dealt with this guy before. There’s definitely nothing kind about him. We’ve already had three letters this year telling us of yet more budget cuts and restrictions and a rent increase for the privilege. He seems to take pleasure in it. ‘This is like a cross between a motivational speech and a condescending headteacher telling off naughty schoolchildren who have run riot with the crayons.’

I open the door and look outside to see Hubert from the sweetshop looking around too, the letter clutched in his hand.

Before I have a chance to speak, Rhonda who runs the Christmas hat shop, opens her door and steps out. ‘You got one too?’

Hubert and I both nod.

‘This is terrible.’ Mrs Thwaite opens the door of the Christmas candle shop two doors down, her letter balled up in her fist. ‘How dare they!’

‘This is the same Scrooge who’s been cutting the budget every year, and now he’s eschewed the budget and started on the shops themselves,’ Hubert says.

‘What are we going to do?’ I step outside to join them. ‘We’ve only just got our shop. I quit my job to work here. I was relying on it being renewed next year.’

That’s one of the reasons it’s so hard to get a spot on Nutcracker Lane. Once you’re in, all existing shop owners get first right of renewal, and this used to be such a lovely place that if you had a shop here, you wouldn’t give it up. Hardly any new leases come up each year and the competition to get them is fierce, and the owners have always been selective about which shops they choose to be part of Nutcracker Lane. They have to add something new and unique and not have any crossover with any of the items already available here.

I glance at the shining new decoration shop. Clearly that rule has gone down the pan this year.

My job was only stacking supermarket shelves, but it would’ve been impossible to do both that and Nutcracker Lane. For the past few years, I’ve been working dead-end part-time jobs, spending as many hours as I can in the evening making decorations, and Stacey and I have been driving to every craft fair that would have us at the weekends, and selling via our own websites, eBay, and Etsy shops. I’d hoped to make enough profit from this to have a bit of leeway in the coming months until next year here.

‘We all were. I’ve been here for nine years,’ Rhonda from the Christmas hat shop says.

‘Fifteen.’ Mrs Brissett from the jumper shop comes down the lane towards us, letter in hand. ‘This is ridiculous.’

‘Twenty-something.’ Carmen, the amazing chocolatier who runs Nutcracker Lane’s very own chocolate shop follows her.

‘This is my biggest earner.’ The tree seller joins the group too. ‘And now what? They’re going to chuck out those of us who don’t make the grade?’

‘They can’t do that, can they?’ Rhonda asks.

‘This Scrooge-like accountant seems to be able to do whatever he wants,’ Hubert says. ‘He’s been running this place into the ground for years with his continual budget cuts, and now this. He couldn’t sound much more gleeful in his letter, could he? He may as well have thrown us into The Hunger Games arena and told us to have at it.’

‘Aren’t we all competition now?’ Mrs Thwaite from the candle shop asks.

‘Aww, no, you lot are like a second family. I don’t want to be in competition with you,’ Mrs Brissett says.

‘But that’s exactly what it’s saying.’ I scan over the letter again as Stacey appears in the open doorway of our shop. ‘Whichever shops earn the most money will stay, the rest of the lane will be sold off to the nutcracker factory …’

‘… who will waste no time in bulldozing it,’ Stace adds. ‘There will be nothing left. And where are our parameters? How many shops are staying? How much do they need to earn?’

‘Scrooge can pick and choose whenever he fancies it,’ Hubert says. ‘If we don’t know what the rules are, how can we possibly win the game?’

Another chill goes down my spine. It’s cold and heartless, just like the rest of Scrooge’s letter.

‘And this part of the lane is closest to the factory,’ Rhonda says. ‘So what’s he going to do, move whoever’s left into the entrance court and get rid of this bit entirely?’

‘That’s awful,’ I say. ‘How can you have Nutcracker Lane without the lane?’

‘And how can he say “earn the most money or get out” just like that? How can he pit friends against each other? And how is it possibly fair? Little shops like you …’ Rhonda points to me and Stacey. ‘You’re selling things that cost two, three, four quid. How can you compete with the chap who sells custom-made snowglobes at twenty quid each? Or whoever this is.’ She points to the dazzling new shop opposite. ‘There’s a £300 price tag on that dancing Santa.’

We all look at the animatronic Santa who is still moving his hands out in front of him, to his shoulders, and then his hips and back again. ‘One of those gone and this new arrival will have beaten the lot of us. I’ll have to sell sixty hats to outdo one item.’

‘No one’s actually going to buy that though,’ Stacey says. ‘Who would want a Hawaiian Santa doing the Macarena in their house, never mind be able to transport the gigantic thing home?’

A few of us gradually migrate towards the glowing window, which seems even fuller now than it did ten minutes ago.

‘Who’s the newcomer?’ Carmen asks.

‘I don’t know, do you?’ Hubert scratches his head. ‘Funny they weren’t here before, whoever they are.’

‘Funny they’re allowed to sell things that cross over with what the rest of us are selling.’ I nod towards the lit-up snowglobe in the window, which must be plugged in somewhere because the snow is swirling around in it like a lava lamp as it plays a tune that clashes with the one the model nutcracker factory is playing in the busy window.

That tune again. One that sounds so familiar …

After a few moments of silence, Hubert says, ‘It seems that a lot of things that once made Nutcracker Lane special have gone out the window this year.’

The sadness is palpable as all the shopkeepers, people I’ve known for years, people who have been the heart of Nutcracker Lane for as long as I can remember, realise that things have changed, and they’re changing more every day.

‘Good luck for opening day, folks,’ Mrs Brissett says as she starts to walk back towards the jumper shop.

‘No, you can’t say that now,’ Carmen corrects her. ‘We’re not all working together for Nutcracker Lane anymore – we all have to be out for ourselves and looking after our own interests. This isn’t a normal year – this is a fight for survival now. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to lose my shop. I won’t be sending any more business your way and I don’t expect you lot to send any my way. We’ve got to put ourselves first or we’ll all be jobless next year.’

‘I agree,’ Rhonda from the hat shop says sadly.

‘I don’t!’ Hubert smacks his hand against the paper he’s holding. ‘I’m not sure I even want to stay and work for this new owner. Anyone who can agree to a scheme like this is never going to be a decent person, are they? Whoever he is, he obviously cares for Nutcracker Lane as little as Scrooge does. You’d have thought any new owner would’ve been keen to reinvigorate it, but it’s screamingly obvious that he’s only interested in the money. The same as Scrooge. Money, money, money.’

He’s got a point there. The atmosphere on Nutcracker Lane has already changed because of Scrooge. Even as we stand here, a few other shopkeepers have stepped out their doors and come to see what’s going on, and I can see everyone side-eyeing each other, weighing up the competition. It doesn’t bode well for any of us, and Hubert has certainly got a point. Will the new owner be so horrible to work for that no one wants to stay here anyway?

Everyone starts to file away with no wishes of good luck or “happy opening day”. Instead there are mutterings of competition and everyone for themselves. The atmosphere is prickly and tense – something I’ve never felt on Nutcracker Lane before.

‘Good luck,’ Hubert says when there are only me and Stacey left. He raises his hand with the letter in it. ‘I’m not going to stop supporting my friends. Scrooge wants to divide us, and he won’t succeed, not with me.’

‘Me neither,’ I say, sounding more confident than I am. One glance at Tinkles and Trinkets across from us has siphoned my positivity away. Stacey and I can’t compete with £300 dancing Santas and electric-powered snowglobes. And what about the others? We’re not just in competition with another decoration shop – we’re in competition with everyone. I don’t want to lose our shop, but I don’t want them to lose theirs either. Some of those shops have been here for longer than I’ve been alive.

I remember Hubert from when I was young, peering over the counter in his candy-striped apron and taking my grandma’s money from my fist as I tried to buy everything in the shop and he patiently counted out seasonal penny sweets to the value of the two pound coins I had while Grandma and Granddad discussed what to choose for my parents and he slipped me a free Christmas tree lollipop while they weren’t looking. Nutcracker Lane would never be the same without him.

And Carmen who makes the most intricate chocolate creations, Rhonda with her short spiky hair in a bright pink Mohawk who sells every type of Christmas hat you can imagine, or Mrs Brissett who’s got the best selection of Christmas jumpers in the northern hemisphere, or the dear old man who painstakingly crafts the most beautiful snowglobes from photographs of real places.

‘There’s nothing we can do about it,’ Stacey says from the doorway.

When I make a noncommittal noise, she comes over and takes the letter out of my hand and puts her arm around my shoulders. ‘Let’s give Scrooge what he wants and “do our best this festive season”. That’s all we can do. At least if this is our only year, you’ll have got your wish – to work on Nutcracker Lane before it changes for good.’

***

‘Don’t worry about the competition,’ Stacey says as I peer out the window at the shop opposite for approximately the ninety-third time this morning and it’s only 11 a.m. ‘No one’s going to buy those things. The pricing is ridiculous. It’s Christmas, for God’s sake. Very few people have got excess cash at this time of year, and no one is going to drop £300 on a dancing Santa or the £96 that’s attached to that model nutcracker factory. Whoever’s running it has got no idea about competitive pricing. Expecting that much for Christmas decorations is pointless because there’s so much other stuff to buy at this time of year. Customers are going to come in here and spend a fiver on one of your hand-painted wall plaques or £2.50 on a pair of candy-cane earrings without worrying about it, but the stuff over there is a seriously big purchase. They won’t be as much competition as you think they will.’

‘Have you seen the number of people going in?’

‘And leaving with nothing. At least we’ve made a few sales so far.’

‘It doesn’t even look like there’s anyone in there.’ The light spilling out is so bright that it obscures everything else and I hold my hand up like I’m shading my eyes from the sun, but it doesn’t help. ‘Do those garlands around the window look familiar to you?’

She glances over but a woman takes a gingerbread-house necklace and a standing red bow ornament up to the counter and she stops to serve her.

It’s quiet for an opening day. I remember the days when you could barely move through the lane and there were queues to get into each shop. Maybe Scrooge has got the right idea – put it out of its misery before it gets any worse. Things will probably pick up at the weekend when children are off school, but it’s only Tuesday. Is this as good as it gets until then? There’s a bit of noise coming from the upper end of the lane around the magical nutcracker and Santa’s grotto, but down this end … footsteps of a middle-aged couple echo across the paving slabs as they walk straight past, not even lingering to admire the decorations like people used to when there were any to admire.

‘I’m sure those are the garlands that used to be draped from the ceiling.’

‘Nia, you’re obsessed. You’ve barely been away from that window all morning.’

‘Seriously, look. That new shop has got them around their window like a frame. They’re the same ones. And that nutcracker village. I’ve seen it before …’

She’s gone off to tidy a basket full of wooden baubles that a customer has rifled through and I’m talking to myself. A customer leaves empty-handed, giving me a wary look as he passes.

I am obsessing. I should be concentrating on our shop, not whoever’s over there and whatever they’re selling. It’s nothing to do with me.

Although the door is wide open and it really doesn’t look like there’s anyone inside … I could go over and pop my head in, couldn’t I? Have a peep and see if the inside is as spectacular as the window display. If the owner does happen to be there, I’ll make an excuse of welcoming the new arrival to the lane. There’s nothing wrong with being friendly, after all …

‘Can you hold down the fort for a minute?’ I’m out the door before Stacey’s had a chance to reply.

I run across the lane and stop in the open doorway. ‘Hello?’ I whisper, telling myself I’m trying not to startle anyone rather than I’m hoping there’s no one manning the place so I can have a nose around.

No answer. I take a tentative step inside, feeling as light on my feet as a ballet dancer as I tiptoe in.

Wow. If anything, the spectacularity of the shop itself is blocked by the spectacular window, because the inside is even better. Every wall is lined with a waterfall of twinkling white lights, a curtain of fairy lights that make it look like the walls themselves are sparkling. The shop is absolutely packed with decorations in all shapes, sizes, and colours, all lined up on chunky white shelves in perfectly size-ordered rows, like armies waiting to be called into action. There’s a metallic-y scent of glitter in the air, and every so often, a flake of fake snow floats down from the ceiling, while the music “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” from The Nutcracker ballet plays quietly from a speaker in the far corner.

I keep telling myself I’m not going to worry about the competition. Everything Stacey said is right, and all we can do is put all our effort in and hope for the best, but looking around this shop makes me realise we’ve already lost. It’s like stepping into a winter wonderland, and the feeling I get is probably not dissimilar to the feeling Lucy Pevensie got when she stepped out of the wardrobe and into the snowy lands of Narnia for the first time. It would be easy to spend a couple of hours and a couple of hundred quid in here. Heck, even I’m suddenly prepared to pay £300 for a Macarena-dancing Santa and I definitely don’t have any spare cash or appreciation for Hawaiian-style Santas.

It’s weird that there’s no one here though. The light’s on out the back so maybe they’re still unloading goods. There’s plenty of space between shelves to fit more in, making it look minimalistic and still stuffed full of choice, unlike ours which just looks full because Stacey and I wanted to get as much stock out as possible and that means using every inch of wall space and getting as many display tables in as could reasonably fit while still meeting health and safety guidelines. I’d like to think our shop is relaxed, warm, homely and comforting, whereas this could be the set of a Christmas film.

But that strange familiarity is back again. Those curtains of lights covering the walls look like ones that used to be hung around the entrance foyer of Nutcracker Lane, and there’s an LED mountain range – a huge stand displaying a range of snowy peaks from one foot to four foot tall at the edge of the window display with a £256 price tag. There cannot be two of those, and I’m almost positive this one used to form part of the backdrop behind Santa’s grotto.

In one corner is a wooden crate full of soft toys that used to be given away to children who needed them. Now there’s a price sticker on the front – £16 each. I tiptoe further in for a closer look and find myself stopping to bend over the window display and peer at the mechanical nutcracker factory model. It’s playing a muffled repetition of the most recognisable bars of the first march from The Nutcracker ballet, and at the back, there’s a drip mark in the navy paint, which proves it. This used to be in a display stand at the point where the lane ends and there’s a short, covered walkway between the car parks for us and the nutcracker manufacturing plant next door. Why would it be on sale here? Why are any of these things on sale here?