Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit (21 page)

I stayed with them until just after Christmas. Forced to watch endless programmes on the Nativity, and to eat mince pies with Mrs White, who was so nervous she started to hiccough uncontrollably.

‘Jack, get the smelling salts,’ ordered my mother, seizing Mrs White’s nose till she went blue. The smelling salts didn’t work, and Mrs White had to be taken to the bus stop on my father’s arm.

‘It’s all your fault,’ grumbled my mother. ‘And on Christmas Eve too.’ Then she went back into the living room to take a sip of port and peek at the Christmas presents. She couldn’t bear not to open her presents, and it was still only eleven o’clock.

We decided to play Beetle to pass the time.

‘You’ve cheated,’ exclaimed my mother, as I fitted the last red leg on my insect. ‘Never trust a sinner.’

‘All right, we’ll play again.’ And we did, right up until five minutes to twelve, when my mother leapt up and switched on the radio to hear Big Ben. ‘Get your glass,’ she cried, filling it up with lemonade and a smattering of port. ‘Merry Christmas, praise the Lord, now what have I got?’ And she made a dive for her pile under the tree.

‘Look, you’ve pulled the angel down,’ I complained. She stuffed it back upside-down, one hand still tearing off the paper.

‘This is from Pastor Spratt,’ she said eagerly. I nodded,
wondering what on earth could be that shape and get through customs.

‘Oh look,’ she cried.

It was an elephant’s foot, with a hinged top. She hesitated a moment, then flung back the lid. It was an elephant’s foot Promise Box; two layers of little scrolls, all rolled up, each with a promise from the Word. My mother had tears in her eyes, as she put it carefully on top of the sideboard.

‘What’s this from Auntie Maud?’ I asked, picking out a hard, long object.

‘Oh it’ll probably be a sword stick, you know what she’s like.’ My mother tapped her head. ‘It’s this I’m interested in, from your father.’

It was flat, and not very well wrapped. Slowly she unravelled it, and there it was, a catapult. I couldn’t believe it.

‘Why’s Dad bought you a catapult?’

‘I asked him to, it’s to get rid of them cats next door.’ And she told me how she’d tried everything from scraps to menaces. But still they peed on her prize roses. She was going to ping at them now with dried peas. I shook my head, not knowing how to say that I had only bought her a cardigan . . .

I didn’t see much of them for the next couple of days; they were at church. And it was in the first post after Christmas that my mother received the dreadful news. It was about the Morecambe guest house again, or rather, its owner Mrs Butler.

‘Definitely a job for Pastor Finch,’ said my mother, putting on her coat to go to the phone box. As soon as she had gone I picked up the letter. It seemed that Mrs Butler, depressed by falling numbers at the guest house, and frustrated by the constant nagging of the health authority, had taken to drink. More importantly, she had got herself a job as matron of a local old folk’s home. While there she had taken up with a strange charismatic man who had once been the official exorcist to the Bishop of Bermuda. He had been dismissed under mysterious circumstances for some kind of unmentionable offence with the curate’s wife. Back in England and safe within the besotted arms of Mrs Butler, he had persuaded
her to let him practice voodoo or some of the more senile patients. They had been caught by a night nurse.

Imagine my mother’s feelings; the Society for the Lost had been a bitter blow, the Morecambe guest house a terrible shock, but this was the final straw. I stared into the fire waiting for her to come home. Families, real ones, are chairs and tables and the right number of cups, but I had no means of joining one, and no means of dismissing my own; she had tied a thread around my button, to tug when she pleased. I knew a woman in another place. Perhaps she would save me. But what if she were asleep? What if she sleepwalked beside me and I never knew? Then the back door slammed and my mother marched in on a gust of wind, the knot of her headscarf blown up on to her cheek like a patterned goitre. ‘What a mess,’ she raged, throwing the letter on to the fire. ‘If I’m not sharp I’m going to miss my broadcast. Fetch the headphones.’ I passed them over to her, and she adjusted the microphone.

‘This is Kindly Light calling Manchester, come in Manchester, this is Kindly Light.’