Days Before Christmas, page 3
“That’ll do,” the man said, surprised. “Hold it here.”
He pressed a few coins into Jason’s palm and turned back to his work without another word.
Jason moved on.
By midmorning, he was packing bags at a greengrocer’s apples thudding softly into paper sacks, potatoes dusty and cold. His fingers worked quickly, automatically now. A woman dropped a coin into his hand and smiled like she was doing him a favour. Another didn’t look at him at all.
Outside, Christmas music crackled from a radio balanced on a crate. Jason caught a few lines of a song about home and warmth and felt an unexpected irritation rise in his chest. He shook it off and kept moving.
The afternoon brought the hardest comparison yet.
Outside a department store, children crowded around the windows, noses nearly touching the glass. A mechanical Santa waved endlessly from behind a plastic snowbank. Parents stood nearby, bags at their feet, faces flushed from shopping.
Jason was carrying boxes for a man who smelled of tobacco and impatience. He set them down carefully, wiping his hands on his trousers. When he turned, he caught his reflection in the shop window thin jacket, reddened cheeks, eyes too serious.
For a moment, the glass felt like a wall.
A boy inside pointed at a toy train set, jumping excitedly. Jason looked away first.
Late in the day, fatigue crept up on him suddenly and without warning. His legs felt hollow, his thoughts slow. He sat on the edge of a fountain basin and counted his breaths, watching pigeons hop in tight circles around discarded crumbs.
“You all right?” a voice asked.
Jason looked up. A woman stood there with a thermos and a clipboard tucked under her arm. She gestured to a stack of folded chairs nearby. “I could use help carrying those into the hall. Just ten minutes.”
Jason nodded and stood, the dizziness fading as movement returned.
Inside the community hall, warmth pressed against him like a memory. He stacked chairs, one by one, the scrape of metal echoing softly. When he finished, the woman poured a little hot drink into the lid of her thermos and handed it to him.
“Don’t tell anyone,” she said lightly.
Jason drank it carefully, the heat blooming through his chest. She paid him too less than the market work, but fair.
Night came early.
As Jason walked home, lights blinked on across the street, brighter than before, strings of colour stretching between lampposts. People stopped to admire them. Someone clapped. A child squealed with delight.
Jason didn’t stop.
At home, his sister was humming again, this time decorating her drawing with coloured pencil she’d found somewhere. Jason watched her for a moment before going to his room.
He added the day’s money to the tin. The sound surprised him fuller, deeper. He closed it slowly, hands resting on the lid longer than usual.
Saturday had given him more than other days.
But it had taken more too.
Jason lay down, eyes open, listening to the city settle. Tomorrow would be Sunday. Different again. He could feel it.
And he knew one thing for certain now: December wasn’t slowing down for him.
So he wouldn’t slow down either.
Chapter 9
December 9, 1990
Sunday quieted the city in a way that felt almost deliberate, as if London itself were holding its breath.
Jason noticed it as soon as he stepped outside. Fewer buses. Fewer voices. Shops shuttered tight, their windows dark and uninviting. The usual places where work showed itself doorsteps, deliveries, hurried errands had gone still. Sunday didn’t ask for much. It asked for patience.
Jason adjusted his jacket and walked anyway.
He followed the sound of bells.
They came from St. Matthew’s, a squat stone church tucked between rows of narrow houses. The doors were open, and people moved in and out quietly, their coats brushed with rain. Jason lingered near the steps, unsure whether he belonged there. A woman inside was struggling to arrange hymn books that kept slipping from her arms.
“I can help,” Jason said, stepping forward before doubt could catch him.
She looked surprised, then relieved. “Yes thank you. Could you carry these to the pews?”
Inside, the church smelled of polish and cold stone. Jason placed the books carefully, one by one, aligning them just so. His movements slowed without him noticing, softened by the hush of the space. Somewhere near the front, a choir rehearsed in low voices, a harmony that didn’t demand attention but earned it anyway.
When he finished, the woman pressed coins into his hand and smiled. “That was kind of you.”
Kindness again, Jason thought, weighing the word as he stepped back outside.
By midday, the clouds thickened and rain began to fall not hard, but steady, the sort that soaks through fabric without warning. Jason ducked under awnings, scanning the street for signs of work. Near a row of flats, he noticed a noticeboard plastered with peeling paper. One sign caught his eye: HELP NEEDED CLEANING & LIFTING. An address was scribbled below.
Jason followed it.
The flat was cramped and smelled faintly of damp. A man with tired eyes gestured toward a stack of boxes. “Need these moved to the back room,” he said. “And the floor swept. I’ll pay you after.”
Jason nodded and got to work.
The boxes were heavier than they looked. His arms strained as he lifted them, his breath coming faster with each trip. He swept the floor afterward, pushing dust and grit into careful piles. By the time he finished, his shoulders trembled with effort.
“I’m done,” Jason said.
The man glanced around, then frowned slightly. “Didn’t take you long.”
Jason waited.
The man reached into his pocket and handed over coins fewer than Jason expected. Fewer than yesterday. Fewer than the work deserved.
Jason stared at them.
“This isn’t what you said,” he said quietly.
The man’s expression hardened. “That’s what I’m giving. Take it or leave it.”
For a moment, Jason felt heat rise in his chest anger, sharp and unfamiliar. His fingers curled around the coins. He thought of the hours he’d spent, of the ache in his arms, of the tin beneath his bed waiting for sound.
He took the money.
Outside, rain streaked the pavement in silver lines. Jason walked fast, jaw clenched, the unfairness of it settling heavy in his stomach. He wanted to throw the coins away. He wanted to shout. Instead, he kept walking.
Near a bus shelter, he stopped and leaned against the glass, letting the rain blur the world. A boy about his age stood nearby with his mother, swinging a shopping bag and talking excitedly about a roast waiting at home. The boy laughed, careless and bright.
Jason looked down at his own hands.
He could stop, he thought. Just for today. Sunday wouldn’t blame him.
The thought passed.
Late afternoon brought one last chance. At the edge of the market, a florist struggled to clear waterlogged leaves from her stall. The wind threatened to knock over buckets of flowers already drooping from the cold.
“I can help,” Jason said, voice steady again.
She nodded gratefully. “Please.”
They worked side by side, clearing debris, straightening buckets, tying loose ribbons. The florist hummed softly as she worked, a tune Jason didn’t recognise. When they finished, she handed him money fair money and an apple wrapped in brown paper.
“For later,” she said.
Jason thanked her and tucked the apple carefully into his pocket.
Night fell early, as it always did now. Streetlights reflected in puddles, turning the road into a fractured mirror. Jason walked home slower than usual, the day heavy on him in a way he couldn’t quite name.
At home, his mother was setting the table. “You’re late,” she said, not unkindly.
“Sunday,” Jason replied.
In his room, he emptied his pockets into the tin. The coins made a sound he recognised now not triumphant, not small. Honest.
He added the apple beside the tin, saving it for tomorrow.
As he lay down, Jason replayed the day in his mind not the work, but the choices. He had learned something new, something harder than lifting boxes or sweeping floors.
Not all effort was rewarded fairly.
Not all adults kept their word.
But he had also learned this:
He could endure disappointment and keep going anyway.
Outside, rain tapped steadily against the window, and Sunday gave way to another Monday.
Chapter 10
December 10, 1990
Monday arrived with purpose.
The rain had washed the city clean overnight, leaving the streets sharp-edged and shining under pale winter light. Jason felt different stepping outside lighter somehow, despite the ache that had settled deep into his bones. Sunday had tested him. Monday, he decided, would not break him.
He headed straight for the railway bridge.
The area beneath it was always busy early in the week. Deliveries, repairs, men in heavy coats moving with urgency. Jason positioned himself near the edge, watching, waiting. He had learned that the first job of the day often came from those who didn’t have time to look twice.
“Oi, lad!”
Jason turned. A man stood beside a small truck stacked with wrapped parcels. “You strong?”
Jason nodded before thinking. “Yes.”
The man jerked his chin toward the load. “Help me unload. Mind the corners.”
The parcels were awkward rather than heavy, their sharp edges digging into Jason’s arms. He carried them carefully, stacking them inside a storage room that smelled of oil and dust. When they were done, the man tossed him a handful of coins.
“Good pace,” he said. “Don’t dawdle.”
Jason didn’t smile, but he felt something loosen in his chest.
By late morning, he found himself sweeping outside a row of shops. A café owner handed him a broom without ceremony and pointed to a carpet of soggy leaves clogging the doorway. Jason worked methodically, pushing the leaves aside, his movements precise. When he finished, the owner nodded approval and added a warm roll to his payment.
Jason ate it slowly, sitting on a crate, the heat seeping into his fingers.
Across the street, two boys in school uniforms kicked at a pile of leaves, laughing as they scattered them again. Jason watched them briefly, then looked back down at his hands.
He didn’t miss school today.
Not like this.
The afternoon brought something new.
Near a tailor’s shop, a sign hung crooked above the door, creaking with each gust of wind. The tailor stood beneath it, arms crossed, muttering to himself. Jason approached cautiously.
“I can hold the ladder,” he offered.
The tailor eyed him. “You steady?”
“Yes, sir.”
Jason braced the ladder as the tailor climbed, gripping the sides with both hands. His arms shook, but he didn’t move. When the sign was finally straightened and secured, the tailor climbed down, exhaling sharply.
“Well done,” he said, pressing coins into Jason’s palm. “Didn’t wobble once.”
Jason took the compliment with the money.
Late afternoon brought fatigue again, creeping in quietly. His steps slowed. His breath came shallow. But the day wasn’t done with him yet.
At a small newsagent’s, an elderly woman struggled with a delivery of bundled newspapers. Jason lifted them without being asked, stacking them neatly inside. She insisted on paying him, her voice firm despite his protest.
“You earn what you work for,” she said.
The words stayed with him.
Dusk painted the sky in muted blues and greys as Jason turned toward home. Shop windows glowed now, brighter than before, their displays thick with tinsel and red bows. A child pressed his face to the glass, eyes wide.
Jason kept walking.
At home, his mother was mending a sleeve by lamplight. She looked up as Jason entered.
“You’re getting thinner,” she said softly.
Jason shrugged. “I’m fine.”
He wasn’t sure if that was true, but it felt close enough.
In his room, he opened the tin and added the day’s earnings. The sound was confident now, unmistakable. He closed the lid and sat there for a moment, listening to the echo fade.
Ten days into December.
Ten days of work.
Jason lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow would ask more of him. He knew that now. But he also knew something else something he hadn’t known on the first day.
He could meet it.
Outside, a train horn echoed faintly through the city, and December moved forward, steady and unstoppable.
Chapter 11
December 11, 1990
By the eleventh day, Jason stopped waking up slowly.
His eyes opened before the light had fully settled into the room, his body already braced for the cold floor, the stiff jacket, the weight of another day waiting to be lifted. There was no moment of hesitation now no wondering if he would go out. Only where first.
London was louder today.
Traffic pressed harder against the streets, horns sharp with impatience. People walked faster, shoulders hunched, faces set. December was closing in, and everyone seemed to feel it.
Jason followed the rush.
Near a row of offices, he noticed a man struggling with a jammed shop shutter, metal rattling angrily as he pulled. Jason approached without speaking and placed both hands against the cold steel, pushing while the man tugged.
It gave way with a screech.
“Good timing,” the man said, catching his breath. He slipped Jason some coins and disappeared inside without another word.
Jason flexed his arms. They ached but they worked.
Late morning brought something different. Outside a laundrette, steam fogged the windows, warmth visible but out of reach. A woman stood near the entrance, staring at a basket of laundry like it had personally offended her.
“I can carry that,” Jason said.
She hesitated, then nodded. “Up two flights. Careful with the sheets.”
The basket was heavier than it looked, the damp fabric pulling downward with stubborn weight. Jason climbed slowly, pausing once to catch his breath, refusing to set it down. When he reached the flat, his arms trembled as he lowered it gently.
The woman studied him. “You’re young.”
Jason nodded.
She paid him anyway and added a biscuit wrapped in thin paper. “You’ll need energy.”
He ate it on the stairs, crumbs sticking to his fingers.
By afternoon, the sky darkened again, the light thinning early. Jason swept pavements, wiped windows, carried bags jobs small on their own, but together they stacked up like bricks. Each task demanded attention. Each mistake cost time.
Near a post office, he stood holding the door open as people hurried in and out, hands full of parcels. Some dropped coins without looking. Others nodded. One man patted his head as if Jason were a stray dog.
Jason stepped back from that man.
Late afternoon tested him the most.
A delivery driver waved him over near a van parked at an awkward angle. “Help me unload,” he said. “Quickly.”
They worked fast, boxes thudding against pavement, Jason’s breath turning ragged. Halfway through, his arms felt like lead. He dropped a box not far, but enough to make the driver snap.
“Careful!” the man barked.
Jason bent quickly, lifting it again, cheeks burning. He didn’t answer. He finished the job in silence.
When it was done, the driver counted out the money, hesitated, then added one more coin. “You didn’t quit,” he muttered.
Jason walked away before exhaustion could turn into tears.
As evening crept in, Christmas lights flickered on earlier than ever. Jason passed a small group of children dragging a tree through the street, laughing loudly as the branches caught on railings. An adult followed behind, pretending to scold them.
Jason slowed.
For just a second, he imagined walking with them hands sticky with sap, laughter loud and careless. The image slipped away as quickly as it came.
At home, his sister was asleep already, curled around a ragged doll. Jason watched her for a moment longer than usual, then went to his room.
The tin was heavier now.
He shook it gently, listening to the sound inside not just money, but proof. Proof that the days were working. Proof that effort left a mark.
Jason lay down, his body sinking into the mattress, exhaustion wrapping around him like a blanket. Tomorrow would hurt again. He knew that.
But tomorrow would also move him closer.
And December, relentless and unforgiving, would keep counting the days one by one until Christmas found him ready or not.
Chapter 12
December 12, 1990
The cold sharpened overnight.
Jason felt it the moment his feet touched the floor how it crept up through the boards, stiff and biting, settling into his bones as if it meant to stay. He dressed quietly, not wanting to wake anyone, and slipped outside while the sky was still undecided between night and morning.
Frost glazed the pavement.
Jason rubbed his hands together and walked faster.
His first job came sooner than expected. Outside a row of terraced houses, a man struggled to scrape ice from a windscreen, breath puffing angrily into the air.
“I can do that,” Jason said.
The man paused, then handed over the scraper without argument. Jason worked carefully, pushing the ice aside in clean arcs until the glass was clear again. His fingers burned from the cold by the time he finished.
