Every year, it’s the same balancing act—me, a chair, and the secret stash of Santa presents.
Jamie still believes, bless him. Six years old and already planning where Santa should land when we don’t have a chimney.
The bedroom chair wobbles on the uneven carpet. I grip the cupboard frame and stretch higher, fingertips searching for the cardboard box pushed right to the back.
December wind rattles the sash windows. Outside, the tide’s coming in across Morecambe Bay, bringing the smell of salt and seaweed even through closed glass.
Tim’s forgotten to help again. Every Christmas Eve, same story. He’ll remember around lunchtime, appear with that sheepish grin that still gets me after twelve years, and offer to wrap everything. But Tim wraps presents like he’s bandaging a wound—tape everywhere, corners bunched up, no sense of where to fold. He calls it rustic. I call it hostage packaging.
The chair creaks. I shift my weight to the left leg, lean further in.
Yesterday Jamie asked if Santa’s reindeer leave footprints on the roof. Tim told him they hover. I said they land so gently that only special children can hear them. The way his face lit up—worth every wobbling chair and hidden box.
My fingers find the box. Heavy with Lego sets, the dinosaur book he spotted in Waterstones, that remote control car Tim insisted on. I drag it forward. My hand brushes the soft edge of Jamie’s stocking, tucked on the shelf since last January. I smile.
Then something behind the box shifts. Falls sideways with a soft thump.
A brown bank envelope, wedged between the box and the cupboard’s back wall.
The paper feels new between my fingers. Not like the ancient gas bills we keep meaning to throw out. The flap’s barely sealed, just tucked in. I pull it open.
Bank statements. Several of them, folded into neat thirds the way Tim folds everything important. His name at the top—Mr T. Scargill. The account number’s not one I recognise. Not our joint account. Not the savings account we opened for Jamie.
This is his old Santander account. The one from before we married. The one he said he’d closed when we consolidated everything.
I sit back on my heels, chair swaying beneath me. The first statement’s from July. Six months ago.
The numbers blur, then sharpen as I focus. Withdrawals, regular as our mortgage payments.
July fifteenth: £5,000. August second: £3,500. August twenty-eighth: £7,000. September twelfth: £4,500.
My mouth goes dry. I flip to the next statement.
October: three withdrawals totalling £11,000. November: £8,000 in two chunks. This month, December: £15,000. Withdrawn last Tuesday.
Last Tuesday when he said he was doing overtime at the depot. Came home after midnight, went straight to the shower.
I count it up, using the cupboard door to steady myself. Nearly sixty thousand pounds.
Holiday fund? Maybe he wanted to surprise us. Florida, Mickey ears, the whole lot. My chest warms for a second—then cools. We’d been saving for that together. Two hundred a month each into the holiday account. I’ve been selling my old books on eBay to add extra.
My knees ache from kneeling. The bedroom feels colder suddenly, though the heating’s been on since six.
House repairs? The boiler makes that whistling sound. The bathroom needs new tiles where the grout’s gone black. But sixty thousand? You could buy a small flat for that in Morecambe.
Something else sits at the bottom of the envelope. A key, small and silver, oily to touch. A luggage tag loops through the hole, the kind you get from Timpson’s. Tim’s neat capitals spell out “Locker 19” and below that, “T. Scargill.”
The metal warms in my palm. Storage locker? The gym? But Tim quit the gym in September—said it was too expensive. Train depot? They have lockers there, rows of them. Grey metal ones that smell of WD-40 and old sandwiches.
“Nic? You seen the Sellotape?”
Tim’s voice carries up the stairs, bright and normal. Saturday morning Tim. The Tim who makes pancakes and reads the sports pages out loud.
“Can’t find it anywhere!”
His footsteps start up the stairs. That third step that always creaks. Fourth. Fifth.
My hands shake as I fold the statements back along their creases. The paper crackles. Too loud. He’ll hear. I tuck the envelope away again, heart thudding. No point starting a row before Christmas. Not with Jamie waiting for Santa. I shove it behind the box.
“You up there?”
Seventh step. Eighth.
I scramble down from the chair. My socks catch on the carpet and I grab the wardrobe door. It bangs shut.
Tim appears in the doorway, wrapping paper tucked under one arm. His Thornton’s Electrical Services t-shirt has a hole near the hem. Pyjama bottoms hang low, the ones with the Christmas puddings that Jamie chose for him last year. Picked them himself, so proud of his secret shopping trip with Grandma.
“You planning to decorate the ceiling?”
“Just checking Santa’s inventory.” The laugh comes out wrong, too high.
He tilts his head. That way he does when he’s working out if Jamie’s telling the truth about brushing his teeth.
“Find anything interesting?”
“Dust. Spiders. The usual.” Sweat pools at the base of my spine.
“No Sellotape though?”
“Try the kitchen drawer. With the batteries and string.”
He nods, scratches the stubble along his jaw. “Jamie’s drawn a map for Santa. Shows him exactly where to land on our roof.”
“Clever boy.”
“Gets it from his mum.” He winks, heads back towards the stairs. Stops. Turns. “You okay? Look a bit peaky.”
“Just tired. Someone was up before six asking if Santa might come early.”
“I’ll make eggs. Need to line your stomach for Mum’s sherry tomorrow.”
He disappears downstairs, whistling “Good King Wenceslas.” Off-key, same as always.
I sit on the bed. The mattress dips, springs protesting after twelve years of service. Through the window, the Blackburns from number forty-three hang lights on their hedge. Their son helps, about Jamie’s age. Both of them laughing.
Sixty thousand pounds.
The wardrobe mirror shows my face, blotchy and wide-eyed. I look like I’ve been caught stealing. Which is ridiculous. It’s our money. Marriage means shared everything—that’s what we promised. Joint accounts, joint mortgage, joint decisions.
Except that account isn’t joint.
“Mum! Dad says breakfast!”
Jamie’s voice, bright with excitement. I stand, smooth down my dressing gown, check my face again. Better. Almost normal.
The stairs feel too steep going down. I grip the banister Tim keeps meaning to re-varnish.
The kitchen glows with warmth. Jamie sits at the table, felt-tips scattered like confetti, tongue poking through the gap where his front tooth used to be. He’s drawing something elaborate—possibly a sleigh, possibly a dinosaur wearing a hat.
Tim stands at the hob, spatula in hand. Radio 2 plays requests for troops overseas. The windows steam up from cooking, condensation running down in rivers.
“Scrambled or fried?” Tim asks without turning.
“Scrambled.”
“Coming up.”
I ruffle Jamie’s hair as I pass. It’s still warm from sleep, sticking up at the back the way it always does. He grins up at me. “Did Santa come early?”
“Not yet, love. He’s still checking his list.”
“The naughty or nice one?”
“The nice one. Definitely.”
Everything exactly as it should be. The smell of coffee from the machine we bought in the Black Friday sales. The cinnamon candle I lit earlier to mask the damp that creeps in from the bay. Jamie’s advent calendar on the wall, every door open except today’s.
Tim slides eggs onto my plate, butter still melting on the toast. His wedding ring catches the light. We bought them from that little jeweller’s in Kendal, spent more than we could afford because Tim said we’d only do this once.
“Eat up. Big day ahead.”
The eggs taste like newspaper. I add salt, pepper, force them down.
“Mum’s coming at two tomorrow,” Tim says. “Wants to watch the Queen’s speech.”
“King’s speech now.”
“She still calls it the Queen’s speech. Set in her ways.” He refills my coffee without asking, adds the right amount of milk. Knows it by heart after all these years. “Need anything from Booths?”
“Cranberry sauce?”
“Got two jars.”
“Your mum likes the posh one.”
He frowns. “Does she? Better grab some then. And maybe more wine. Can never have too much wine at Christmas.”
This is Tim forgetting cranberry sauce. Tim who makes lists for his lists, who inventories the shed twice a year, who knows exactly how many litres of petrol it takes to get to Edinburgh.
“I’ll go,” I say. “Need some air.”
“You sure? It’ll be rammed.”
“I like the chaos. Gets me in the festive mood.”
Jamie looks up from his drawing. “Can I come?”
“You need to finish your Santa map,” Tim says. “Show him exactly where to leave the presents.”
“By the tree?”
“But which side of the tree? These things matter, mate.”
They discuss optimal present placement while I load the dishwasher. Normal conversation. Normal Christmas Eve. My hands shake so much I nearly drop a mug.
“Actually,” Tim says, “I might pop to B&Q. That tap’s still dripping.”
“It can wait until after Christmas.”
“Drives me mad at night. Drip, drip, drip.”
He’s never mentioned the dripping tap. I’m the one who hears it, lying awake at three AM while Tim snores beside me.
“Right.” He stretches, t-shirt riding up to show the scar from his appendectomy. “Better get dressed. Face the hordes.”
He heads upstairs. I hear him moving around above us, drawers opening and closing.
Jamie colours in silence for a moment, then: “Is Dad okay?”
“Course he is. Why?”
“He forgot it was Christmas assembly. All the other dads came.”
My chest tightens. “He’s just busy with work, sweetheart.”
“George’s dad came and he works on the ferry.”
“Dad’ll come to the next one. Promise.”
Jamie returns to his drawing, but the damage is done. Tim never misses Jamie’s things. Sports days, assemblies, parent evenings—he’s always there with his phone camera and too-loud clapping. Until recently.
Footsteps on the stairs again. Tim reappears in jeans and the jumper his sister bought him. Navy with a reindeer that looks more like a deformed Alsatian.
“Right, Booths it is. Won’t be long.”
He kisses my cheek. His lips are cold. He grabs his keys from the hook, whistles his way to the front door.
The house feels different when it closes behind him. Quieter but also louder somehow.
“Mum, is this good?” Jamie holds up his drawing. Santa’s sleigh hovers over a wonky house, reindeer lined up like flying sausages.
“Perfect, love.”
“Do you think Santa ever gets scared?”
“What of?”
“Getting stuck in chimneys. Or lost. Or running out of presents.”
“I think Santa’s very organised. Has lists for everything.”
Like his dad, I nearly add. Tim with his lists and plans and secret bank accounts with sixty thousand pounds missing.
I head back upstairs while Jamie perfects his masterpiece. The bedroom still smells of Tim’s deodorant, that Lynx stuff he’s worn since he was twenty. Since before we met.
The cupboard door stands slightly ajar. Inside, the envelope peeks out from behind the box.
I pull it forward one more time. On the front, in Tim’s neat handwriting: Car bits.
If it really was car bits, why hide it? Why lie about closing the account?
I trace the words with my thumb. I should trust him. I want to. But the longer I look, the harder it is to believe in magic.
