The Little Christmas Shop on Nutcracker Lane. Jaimie Admans

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