A Pet For Christmas

In the olden days, well, the 1960s, social security was almost enough to keep a small family going when you added in help from mum’s family and friends, plentiful jumble sales, second-hand shops and school grants.

You learned to put next day’s clothes between the blankets and the bed sheet, so they would be warm, if you dressed really fast in the unheated bedroom. You learned to move a hot water bottle in stages around the bed, as if you had an electric blanket, but not granny’s one, whose wires were on the verge of poking through.

And in those days, in my small circle, Christmas like it was on television, happened to other people. True, we’d all get a baggy sock and inside would be satsumas in tissue paper, little toys, crayons and a box of fruit gums shaped like actual fruit instead of the gums with stippled faces, hard as football boot studs. There was no doubt in our young minds that New Year had the edge, mainly because the grown-ups said so, firmly, and to be allowed to stay up late and watch quiet front rooms suddenly full of laughter and chinking glasses and the record player on full blast.

Sometimes though, an extravagant longing would fly up. One year, it felt as though the world – Blue Peter and our weekly comics Bunty and Judy – was full of pets. Those presenters couldn’t move for animals and although I didn’t know anyone with a pet, suddenly it seemed a perfectly reasonable Christmas Request. But my general inquiry – I had hoped that leaving the type of pet open to debate would be very attractive – cut no ice at all, no discussion, barely a nod. Doomed.

On Christmas Eve one year, everyone was trying to assemble a second-hand Scalextric for my brother. The sitting room rug at my grandparents’ was covered in parts. I scowled, I sighed and no one took the bait. So, I headed for the play park to swing away my gloom.

This was before mobile phones, indeed before landline phones in many houses, and if you wanted to call anyone, it was a big deal – you had to gather your coins and prepare for assault, that is on your nose, because the telephone box on our street reeked, a powerful damp stench that you really didn’t want to think about and it was a challenge to cover your nose, hold the heavy black handset, shove coins into the slot and push button A, with only two hands. The smell only lifted slightly in summer, if somebody wedged open the heavy metal door with its smeary glass panes. In short, I wasn’t so sad that I needed to phone any of my friends, but tragic enough to drag my feet to the frosty park and hope I’d see someone I knew.

The seesaw, the cheesebox roundabout, the chute and the swings were all empty.  My tragedy-ometer rose several notches. I carefully arranged my duffel coat onto the icy wooden seat of a swing – you needed enough duffel to keep your nether regions warm, but also room for gripping the swing chains and moving your shoulders, to build the back and forth rhythm to beam up, as we called it, and were amazed that Star Trek had copied our special term for their trans-corporeal transport.

“I knew he couldn’t be an actual lord as the ones in Bunty and Judy had castles and there were no castles in our housing scheme”

I was swinging well, when I saw Lord John enter the park. That was what everyone called him and I never thought to ask why. I knew he couldn’t be an actual lord as the ones in Bunty and Judy had castles and there were no castles in our housing scheme. And “Lord John” was said in a plain way, like, oh, there’s a blackbird or here’s your dinner money. No one ever mentioned what really made him special – his dogs. They were the most glamorous in the world, tall and noble with coats that shone like deep, rich russet flames. I could have worn granny’s curlers and metal hair clamps for a month and never had wavy hair like those two. Among the mongrels and terriers, these were gods of the dog world and they were approaching me in a dignified trot.

I slowed my swinging and waited. Would they would honour me with a visit? They were even more beautiful close up. Their dark eyes were clearly in deep sympathy with my pain. The low winter light shimmered across their flanks. Then Lord John was there, by the great grey frame of the swings. He said quietly, without looking at me, “You can pet them, if you want.”

I thought I would burst with excitement. I started with little pats then pulled off my mitts to feel the wonder of their coats under my bare palms. Lord John turned to sit on the nearest bench which had to mean he trusted me. The dogs remained calm, breathing their warm, biscuity breath, but whined when they felt I wasn’t sharing out my adoration evenly. Their ears were as soft as embroidery silks and I rubbed my cheeks on them.

The dogs must have been racing through bushes and I began to tease out fragments of twig and leaves.

“Take this,” said Lord John and he held up a hairbrush. I took it and the dogs arched their backs in anticipation. Lord John looked away, lit his pipe and the scent of toffee filled the frosty air.

The brush was old, with a rose painted on the back and I wanted to ask whose it was, but Lord John’s arms were folded and his face was a bit sad, looking at the darkening sky.

The dogs panted while little muscles in their flanks twitched with satisfaction as I brushed. It seemed to last forever.

“Right, home, boys,” Lord John said and in one smooth movement he took the brush and strode off, leaving me to wipe my knees, pull on my gloves, and run home, clear in knowledge that no pet, big or small, could ever match this magical Christmas gift.

Into my Woolworths diary, I carefully taped four long, russet hairs.

NorthernLife Dec/Jan/Feb 24/25