Little Donkey Read online

  Little Donkey

  A Frogmorton Farm Christmas short

  story

  Jodi Taylor

  It’s Christmas and Jenny Checkland is beset with problems.

  The vicar, who really should know better, has asked to borrow Marilyn the donkey for the nativity play, thereby unleashing chaos on the already chaos-laden Frogmorton Farm.

  Will Marilyn survive her bath? Will anyone survive Marilyn’s bath?

  Robbed of her role as the Virgin Mary, what revenge is the Angel Gabriel plotting? Can Marilyn be prevented from eating the Baby Jesus? Why is that sheep so fat?

  Where is Thomas, who promised he would be there?

  And worst of all – will Russell, lost on the moor in a blizzard, make it back in time for the birth of his first child? Or even at all?

  Another chance to meet the characters from the best-selling novel, The Nothing Girl, as they navigate the complexities of the local nativity play in their own unique fashion.

  ‘And so, Mrs Checkland,’ said the vicar, finishing his preamble and second cup of tea simultaneously, ‘I was wondering if we could possibly borrow your dear little donkey?’

  Behind him, our housekeeper, Mrs Crisp, turned from stirring something on the stove. She stared in amazement, opened her mouth to say something, caught my eye, and changed her mind. Her ladle dripped, unheeded, onto her spotless kitchen floor.

  At the other end of the kitchen table, Kevin and Sharon were still grappling with the dimension-defying chaotic tangle that our Christmas lights and tinsel together had somehow managed to achieve during the eleven and a half months they’d been stored under the stairs. They also stared at him. In the silence, we could clearly hear the cat snoring, belly-up in front of the range. In deference to the vicar’s religious sensibilities, Mrs Crisp had covered certain areas with a strategic tea towel.

  Nobody spoke and I realised, with no sense of surprise, that it was up to me again. These days, I’m almost completely OK with talking. There’s just a slight stutter every now and then, especially if I’m tired or upset. Today, it was surprise that tripped me up.

  ‘I’m … sorry, Mr Wivenhoe, you want to … borrow our donkey?’

  He put down his mug and smiled at me, wispy white hair curling around his head, beaming like a cherub. ‘Yes, yes, Mrs Checkland. That’s right. We usually go to the donkey sanctuary, of course, but our usual donkey, Jonquil, has a nasty cough this year and they don’t want to let her out in the cold, so they recommended we try Mr Checkland. I’ve been trying to telephone him for days, but, my goodness, he’s a busy man, isn’t he, so I thought I’d call and ask in person, which is a much more polite way of going about things. And here I am. Borrowing your donkey. Just for an afternoon, of course. And quite honestly, after the … the … debacle of last year, we really need all the help we can get.’

  I clutched wildly at a straw. ‘Debacle?’

  He sighed as Mrs Crisp topped up his tea and placed another slice of lemon drizzle cake in front of him. ‘I succumbed.’

  ‘To what?’ And realised, too late, that wasn’t the most tactful question in the universe. Should one enquire about the temptation of vicars?

  ‘I was against it from the start, but I have to say they made a very strong case and I really thought it would attract a younger audience. Sadly, of course, it did nothing of the kind.’

  I stared, bewildered. Not for the first time, I really wished my husband was here. If he answered his phone, or even just spent some time at home occasionally, then I wouldn’t have to do this. We had been married for two years now and right from the start, Russell had established a strong tradition of never being around when needed. I was pregnant, for heaven’s sake. I should be cosily tucked up somewhere warm and comfortable, while people brought me tea and cake.

  I waited for Thomas to tell me that I was cosily tucked up with tea and cake and to pull myself together, but of course, he didn’t. Thomas wasn’t with me any longer. I had to do things for myself.

  Fortunately, Kevin was explaining.

  ‘Last year was a modern version of the children’s nativity play, Mrs Checkland. Mary gave birth in a bus shelter; the shepherds were three council dustmen; and three homeless people brought gifts of a tin of baked beans, a book of food stamps, and a Transformer.’

  ‘A transformer? You mean the electrical thing?’

  ‘No, the robot. You know, they transform.’

  ‘Into what?’

  ‘Um … another robot.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said hastily and I turned back to the vicar.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, sadly. ‘It was a bit of a disaster, I’m afraid, so this year I’m putting my foot down. A traditional children’s nativity play.’

  Enlightenment dawned. ‘With a traditional donkey.’

  ‘Exactly.’ He beamed at my comprehension. ‘And your neighbour, Mr Braithwaite, is contributing a sheep for the shepherds – and possibly a lamb as well, although it’s a little bit early, he says, but I certainly think that this year we’re on to a winner. Especially with your delightful little donkey. At least, I hope we are. There was a certain amount of criticism last year.’

  Poor Mr Wivenhoe. I felt so sorry for him, beset by foes on all sides. The Parish Council. The Bishop. The Ladies League of Something or Other. The Flower-Arranging Rota. The mothers of every little girl who wanted to be the Virgin Mary this year. All the Forces of Darkness gathered daily around his hapless head. No one living outside a small English village could have any comprehension of the pressures under which he laboured.

  ‘So I hope very much that you will allow us to use your charming little donkey …’

  ‘Marilyn,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. Such a pretty name for such a pretty donkey. I’m sure she will be the star of the show.’

  I rather thought that was supposed to be Baby Jesus, but I held my peace.

  ‘You do … know she’s never done this sort of thing … before?’ I said, feeling he should be aware, right from the outset, of the realities of the situation.

  ‘It will be easy,’ he said, cheerfully displaying an enormous lack of knowledge of donkeys in general and Marilyn in particular. ‘She just has to walk up the aisle with Mary and Joseph. We’ve made a little stable area from straw bales. Baby Jesus will be concealed behind one of them. At the appropriate moment (probably during the singing of “Away in a Manger”), young Alison Maynard – she’s playing Mary – will pull him out and lay him in the manger. The three shepherds appear stage left – with their sheep – and the three wise men will approach stage right.’

  ‘Not with a camel?’ I said, suddenly alarmed at the possibilities.

  ‘Oh, my goodness me, no. Gold-painted tea caddies containing the traditional gifts.’

  ‘I thought Fiona Braithwaite was the Virgin Mary this year,’ said Sharon, disentangling more tinsel from the tenacious clutches of our ancient Christmas lights. Sharon is Mrs Crisp’s niece. She and Kevin, our handyman, had been an item ever since the day she came to work at Frogmorton Farm and Kevin, unable to take his eyes off her, had walked straight into the water trough. Wheelbarrow and all.

  Mr Wivenhoe sighed. Miraculously, his mug was empty again. I can only assume he absorbed his tea through osmosis.

  ‘There was some – jostling – for the part and after a certain amount of discussion, young Fiona agreed to take on the part of Gabriel instead.’

  ‘A … challenging role,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said uncertainly. ‘It certainly is. Sadly, there has been some friction between the two young ladies, especially as each sees her own role as the most important in the proceedings.’

  I could well imagine. And poor, dear Mr Wivenhoe was about to introduce yet a third
female into this already volatile mix.

  Speaking of volatile … The back door crashed open and on a wave of Arctic air, my husband was suddenly in the room.

  ‘Hello everyone,’ he said cheerfully, kicking off his wellies. ‘Something smells good, Mrs Crisp. I hope that’s for us and you’re not just boiling up my socks like last time. Why is the cat covered in a tea towel? Is it dead at last? Is that why the vicar’s here? Or are we being exorcised again?’

  ‘Mr Wivenhoe wants to borrow … Marilyn for the children’s nativity play,’ I said quickly, before the vicar could query the precise meaning of the word ‘again’.

  He finally got rid of the last welly and wandered over to shake hands.

  ‘Are you sure, Mr Wivenhoe? She’s not really house-trained, you know.’

  ‘The play lasts only a fraction over forty minutes, Russell. I’m hoping this will not be a problem. I’ve explained to Mrs Checkland that Marilyn need only walk up the aisle behind Mary and Joseph. I though you yourself could lead her and keep her calm.’

  His entire household blinked at the thought of Russell Checkland being used as a force for calm.

  Blissfully unaware, the vicar continued. ‘She stands still while the carols are sung and Baby Jesus laid in the manger. The play ends with them all filing out through the vestry on their way to Egypt, to escape the clutches of wicked King Herod.’

  ‘Can’t see a problem with any of that,’ said Russell cheerfully, hoovering up the last slice of cake.

  ‘You’ll be in costume, of course.’

  ‘Will I?’ he said, suddenly much less cheerful.

  ‘Just a tunic and sandals.’

  ‘On Christmas Eve? In the church?’

  ‘It’s only for forty … minutes,’ I said, ‘and we can warm you up in the … bar … afterwards.’

  Mr Wivenhoe, having achieved his aim (as he frequently did in his own, mild-mannered, understated way) took his leave. Russell was already rummaging through his pockets, pulling out his phone.

  ‘Who are you calling?’

  ‘Andrew, of course. Why should I suffer alone? … Andrew! How’s it going? … Russell … Your cousin, Russell. Stop pissing about … No, of course I don’t want anything … Jenny asked me to call. She doesn’t like to think of you rattling around alone in that enormous four and a half room flat of yours, crying inside for the woman you love … No, you don’t have to be brave for me … Beer and the Big Match tonight are no substitute for having one’s friends and family around one … No, really, they’re not. Look, why don’t you throw a few things in a bag and come and stay for a few days. Mrs Crisp is doing her world-famous sock soup and Jenny’s not due for weeks yet … No, of course I don’t want anything. How could you think that? Just a simple, good-hearted gesture of concern from one cousin to another … Great. See you tonight.’

  He snapped off his phone. ‘Sorted.’

  Andrew arrived late that afternoon. I saw his headlights flash across the yard as he pulled in and went out to greet him.

  ‘Jenny!’

  Andrew is Russell’s cousin. There’s very little resemblance between them. Andrew is tall and dark, good-looking in a conventional way. Russell is tall as well, but bonier and his dark red hair consistently refuses to enter into any sort of relationship with hair gel.

  I smiled at him. ‘Andrew, how are you?’

  ‘Absolutely fine despite everything Russell says. Why on earth am I here? What’s the idiot playing at now?’

  These were not deep waters in which I wished to swim.

  ‘No idea.’

  He looked down at me. ‘Is his painting not going so well?’

  I shook my head. Russell’s once flourishing career as an artist had crashed and burned a few years ago. His attempts to recapture his early success were meeting with mixed results and I could see his frustration growing. Personally, I thought he was making a mistake trying to recapture his original style. He wasn’t the same person now that he was then. Deep down, I think he knew this, but moving on was a big step into the unknown and despite his reputation for going at everything like a bull at a gate, he was hesitating.

  With some difficulty, I said, ‘I worry …’

  ‘What? What do you worry about?’

  ‘I worry that these … days, he’s so … crushed by everything … family and responsibility … that he can’t paint any more. That he’s lost that unconventional spark … that made his work so special.’

  He gave a shout of laughter. ‘Russ? What, our Russ? Crushed by responsibility? I don’t think so, Jenny.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  ‘I just …’

  ‘He’s had things too easy. It won’t do him the slightest harm to have to work for something for a change. In fact, it will do him good.’ He put his arm around me. ‘Don’t worry, Jenny. Everything will be fine. Tanya says so and who are we to argue?’

  I remembered the traumatic first year of my marriage to Russell. Andrew and Tanya had always been there for me. Solid and reassuring – just like Thomas. I pushed that thought away because, sometimes, it still hurt to think about Thomas.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘It’s Russell. He’ll sort himself out in the end.’

  He put his other arm around me – or rather, around as much of the pregnant me as he could manage. Andrew is the calm and sensible half of the Checkland coin. It’s his cousin, the more volatile Russell, who provides the drama in our daily lives.

  ‘What are you doing with my wife?’ said Russell, erupting through the back door at his usual speed.

  ‘Saying hello.’

  I said to Andrew, ‘I’ll come with you and help you unpack.’

  ‘No you won’t,’ said Russell, severely. ‘Andrew hasn’t been here ten minutes and already he’s got his arms around my wife. It’s not good enough.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Andrew, meekly. ‘I’ll make it five minutes, next time.’

  I was curled up in bed with a book when Russell came in from the bathroom and started prowling restlessly around the room.

  I put down my book. ‘What have you been up to … today?’

  ‘Well, I tried to paint this morning and made my usual mess of things, then I rode Boxer up on the moors and then the vicar came and then I invited Andrew to stay.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘How’s what going?’

  ‘How’s the painting going?’

  He hesitated. ‘It’s … I …’

  This was worrying. Normally it takes an event on a par with the asteroid wiping out the dinosaurs to stop Russell talking. I waited.

  He fiddled with something on his bedside cabinet and then climbed into bed.

  And still I waited.

  Finally, he said, ‘I’m sorry, Jenny. It’s … I don’t know.’

  I took his hand. He still had crimson paint on his thumb. ‘It’s all right, you know.’

  ‘No, no it’s not. I don’t know … Oh, for God’s sake, I don’t even know what I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, what do you know?’

  ‘I know that I’ve lost it, Jenny. These last few months …’

  ‘You haven’t lost anything, dummy. You’re just looking in the wrong place.’

  He smiled and put his arm around me. ‘We don’t see much of each other these days, do we?’ He didn’t want to talk about it.

  ‘And even when we do, I’m usually asleep.’

  ‘Not much longer now.’

  ‘There’s still about two weeks to go.’

  ‘Nervous?’

  ‘Yes. No. A little apprehensive, perhaps.’

  ‘Don’t be. You’ll be fine. Everything will be fine, Jenny.’

  I nodded and leaned back against his shoulder. He was right. Everything would be fine. Why would it not be?

  And Thomas would be there for the birth. Big, beautiful, golden Thomas, who, for all the long years of my childhood had shielded me from harm. Who slowly and carefully guided me through life until I
was strong enough to speak up for myself. And then left me. Because I was all grown up now and didn’t need him any longer. But as I had tried to explain to him, friendship is not based on need. We didn’t stop loving each other because he thought I didn’t need him any longer. Friendship goes on. Friendship endures. Through the good times as well as the bad. Friendship is when two people want to be together. Not because of pain, but because of joy. He was right – I didn’t need him any longer, but I certainly wanted him. I wanted to wake in the morning and see him standing, as he always did, over in the corner, filling the room with his smell of ginger biscuits.

  I still remembered the day he came. I was thirteen. I still remembered the shock of looking up to see an enormous golden horse standing in my bedroom, swishing his tail and gently laughing at me. I still remembered his wisdom, his kindness and his unending patience with a little girl who couldn’t even say her own name properly. I missed him every day. Yes, I was happy. I loved my life even though I still missed Thomas. But I’d see him again. He’d promised he would return. For the birth of our first child, he’d said. And yes, I was nervous, but Thomas would be there – somewhere, somehow – making everything all right.

  I awoke quite late the next morning and when I went downstairs, everyone was in the kitchen, discussing the best ways to get Marilyn ready for her starring role.

  ‘She needs a bath,’ said Russell, watching her as she tip-tupped around the yard in the frosty sunshine, investigating everything, just in case it had suddenly become edible.

  ‘She’s not dirty,’ I said, indignantly.

  ‘No, she’s not, but she leaves a definite trail of donkey wherever she goes.’

  ‘Well, of course she does,’ said Andrew. ‘What did you expect her to smell of? Giraffe?’

  ‘I don’t expect her to smell at all. Especially after you’ve given her a bath.’

  ‘What? Why me?’

  ‘You’re a vet. You have experience of this sort of thing.’

  ‘I’m a bloody vet, not a beautician. You bathe her.’

  ‘Too busy painting.’

  ‘Kevin, then.’

  ‘Too busy working.’