Miracle on Regent Street Read Free

heavy-set, penetrating dark eyes. But despite his intimidating appearance he leads the other cleaners with a
gentle authority. And they reward him with a cheerful, dedicated work ethic. None of them apart from Jan is actually employed by Hardy’s; they’re all contract workers for a cleaning
company and many of them have been working all night at various establishments around the city. Yet they always have this incredible energy and pride in their work, despite this being their last
job at the end of a twelve-hour shift. Like Jan, several of them have worked here for years, but their pictures don’t appear on the staff noticeboards. In fact, most of Hardy’s
employees wouldn’t recognize them if they walked past them on the street, which is a shame as they’re such lovely people.
    There’s Velna from Latvia, who is obsessed with the Eurovision Song Contest. She sings constantly as she works, which drives all the other cleaners mad. She even has all the winning
entries on a playlist on her iPod. It’s her dream to compete in the competition but no one has the heart to tell her she can’t actually sing.
    ‘Boomp bangh a BANG!’ she trills, hopping on one leg and waving as I walk past. She’s wearing a scarf over her bright red hair, her tortoiseshell spectacles, and a patchwork
dress over a roll-neck jumper, which she’s teamed with Wellington boots. I join her in a little dance as I pass, laughing as she spins me around before she twirls off and I head towards the
stockroom.
    Then there’s Justyna, who clearly has the hots for Jan Baptysta and is thus distinctly cool around me. She must be six-foot tall, with feet and hands the size of tennis rackets. I’m
pretty scared of her, actually. As a result I tend to overcompensate by being super-friendly, usually without much response.
    ‘HelloJustynahowareyoutoday?Areyouwellisntthesnowwonderful?’ I garble as she stares at me with an expression as icy as the pavement outside.
    She nods curtly and continues mopping the floor with her back to me, her vast bottom swishing from side to side like an angry bullock’s. I hastily move on, waving up at the cleaners
working on the floors above.
    Just as I reach the stockroom door I turn round to take one last glimpse of the store before I burrow myself away. I immediately feel my good mood falter as I know that the cleaners’ hard
work can’t polish this beautiful old jewellery box of a building back to its former glory. Nothing can hide the fact that the paint on the walls is peeling, the mahogany panels are tarnished
and the intricately patterned tapestry stair runner is discoloured and torn. Seeing Hardy’s, a place I’ve loved for so many years, like this is like watching a beautiful old film star
slowly fade and die.
    Ever since I was a little girl Hardy’s has been like my own personal Narnia; I honestly felt that magic could happen when I stepped through its glass doors. I used to get so excited by our
annual visits to London to celebrate the anniversary of the day my parents met, not just because of the actual treats themselves – trips to the theatre and ballet, dinner at nice restaurants
and afternoon tea at elegant hotels – but because we’d always pay a visit to Hardy’s.
    Every year on 12 December my parents and I would travel to London together and stay overnight in our Hampstead flat whilst my grandparents looked after Delilah and the boys. Even though my
parents had long since left London, Dad still had the flat in town for work. I would look forward to the trip for months: some precious time alone with my parents, away from my overbearing
siblings, who were all too old and therefore too cool to come along.
    We would get dressed up, me in a party dress with a bow round my waist and a satin ribbon in my hair, a bright festive-coloured winter coat, white tights and patent Mary Janes. Mum would wear
some glamorous dress with an elegant coat, and lashings of perfume and lipstick, and my