Authors: Penelope evans
If asked to
explain what I was looking for, I think I might have said this. Years ago,
Harry and Molly went on holiday to Majorca, the only time they ever went
abroad. But they always said they'd never forget it because they had the
flamenco dancer to remind them. Near enough two feet high she must have been,
all scarlet and black, right down to the red of her lips and the little curl on
either side of her cheek. She used to stand on the piano and June loved her.
Not that she ever so much as touched her. She just liked to look, tell everyone
that
she
was
going to be a flamenco dancer when she grew up. So though it was a doll, you
could hardly say it was a toy - more an ornament, a thing of beauty, to keep
and admire, a souvenir of the past, and in June's case, you could even say, of
the future. Well, maybe that's what I had in mind - a doll that could do the
same for Mandy as it did for June.
The trouble
is, they don't make dolls like that any more. I know because I looked. I walked
up and down those shelves, and then did the same all over again, but I didn't
see anything remotely similar. I didn't even see the other kind, the big fat
baby dolls with eyes that rattled in their head and who went 'Mama' when you
held them upside down. That's not to say they didn't have baby dolls. They had
them all right - the sort I'd never seen before and, frankly, hope never to see
again. Too real to breathe, they were, in their little boxes, faces pinched and
ugly, like the newborn, curled up under polythene. Don't ask me what they made
me think of. June wouldn't have liked them.
Of course
there were other dolls of a different kind altogether. Only, believe me when I
say that these were the worst of the lot. These were the dolls I didn't even
want to be seen looking at. Grown-up they were, and when I say grown-up, I mean
just that - all bumps and curves, and not even dressed some of them. There's a
word for what they represented, no doubt about that. Otherwise, why make them
that way? It was almost too much, looking at them and thinking about the damage
that must be going on in innocent young minds.
Yet though
I'd walked the same shelves three or four times over, I couldn't quite believe
it, that what I was looking for was not there. That pitapat had turned into a
racing trot and even the backs of my hands were tingling. It was as if I'd got
caught up in a game of hide and seek, and Mandy's present was there, almost
within reach, just waiting to be found. Calling to me.
But not from
amongst these dolls, not from the latex babies and the good-time girls, or from
the rag dolls with blown-out moons for faces and spots for eyes or the
half-size children in frilly clothes who could walk and talk and probably go to
school without anybody noticing. There was nothing here for Mandy. And not for
me either.
And as
finally the pitapat started to fade and the hairs flattened on the backs of my
hands, I could feel all the strength ebbing out of me. Like a bad dream it was.
Suddenly I wasn't excited any more. Just tired, and with the tiredness comes
the thought, out of the blue, impossible to ignore: I might as well have bought
a dozen heated rollers and saved myself all this. Because, forget about the
damage to young minds, what was it doing to mine? Here I was, stranded four
floors up above a city gone mad, suddenly too tired to move, and with nothing
to show for it. Better if I'd stayed at home. Better if I'd never dreamed up
the idea of Christmas. Maybe even better if I'd never ever met her...
And then it
happened. Almost the worst sound I'd heard in my entire life. A scream, slicing
through all the rest of the racket, piercing to that very place behind your
eyes where the headaches start, sparking one off right now. And if that wasn't
bad enough it was followed by another and another. Of their own accord, the
eyes swivelled round in my head, pulling the rest of me with them.
And there they
were, a mother and her child, no more than a few yards away, beyond the dolls.
The girl, who must have been three or thereabouts, was staring straight ahead
of her and pointing, getting ready for another scream. Her other arm was being
pulled high above her head, one small fist clenched above another, that gripped
it by the wrist. Because all the time the mother was tugging at the kid, trying
to drag her away from whatever she was pointing at. But she wasn't going to
budge, not willingly. You should have seen the mother's face, though:
white-cheeked, mouth set like a boxer's. You could hear her, pleading with the
child, telling her that they had to go, that she was tired, that they were both
tired. That she couldn't take much more, not today.
Do you know,
I could almost sympathize.
'But I want
it. I want IT!' The kid had finally found the words to go with the screams.
They didn't do her a bit of good. You could see it happening, how the screams
were bad enough, but this was the last straw. I watched the mother drop the
girl's hand suddenly, so that she could raise her own, high above her head, saw
her bring it down, fast, so it met the kid's cheek with one good hard
resounding slap. Then without another word she turned and marched away, leaving
the little girl standing there exactly where she was.
If you could
have seen the look on the child's face. It was almost comical. What with the
shock of that slap and then her mother just walking off, she could hardly
believe it was happening. Only that wasn't all. Though she had one hand free to
rub her eyes in disbelief, the other continued to point, even though there was
noone left to see - except me. The look on her face now was pure terror - a
child's fear of being left alone and abandoned for ever. So why didn't she run,
as fast as possible, after the mother who already had disappeared? In another
second, you could see her child's brain telling her, it was going to be too
late.
So why didn't
she run?
Because
whatever had started the tantrum in the first place was still continuing to
hold her now, though by this time almost against her will, against her own
small good sense. For a few brief seconds more a miniature war was going on,
and all you could do was watch as she stayed there rooted, wanting to run, yet
unable to leave. Then, out of the blue, one side won. She opened her mouth and
shouted (not screamed) 'Mum!' and sprinted off in the direction she had seen
her mother last.
Which left
only me. There was no-one else about, not here. Probably her screams had cleared
this area of the store as efficiently as a fire alarm. And I was about to leave
as well, as best I could, with exhaustion creeping through my legs, and the sap
all gone from me. But one thing kept me. I couldn't leave before I'd seen with
my own eyes what it was that could keep a child fixed to the spot even despite
the nightmare of having her mother walk out on her. I'd hardly have been human
otherwise.
So I walked
those few extra yards, left behind the dolls which had promised so much, and
turned out to be worse than useless. And found I was standing in a menagerie of
stuffed animals. The cuddly sort.
And there it
was: the cause of all the trouble.
It was a
great big brown bear, way too large for any shelf, so that it was sitting on
the ground propped up against a partition. He had the blunt bear's face of any
normal teddy, only ten times bigger, and with a body so large his eyes must
have been at the exact level of the little girl's. And that I reckon was half
the reason for all the fuss. Because when I bent down to tie the lace on my
shoe, I found myself gazing straight into those same brown eyes myself, and it
came almost as a shock. For there we were, the two of us, suddenly staring at
each other for all the world like we were real people who had just met. And
when I looked closer still, there was me, mirrored in his eyes, two perfect
little Larries, in cloth cap and polyester tie, out for the day.
And it was
then I knew that I had found what I'd been looking for.
Now for it.
Why, Larry? What on earth
makes you think that a great stuffed bear is going to be the present of your
dreams?
You may as well ask why women like babies and some men like
dogs. The fact is I don't know. But show me a girl who never had a bear. And
not just little girls. They're all over the place, girls and their bears. From
the covers of children's comics to the pin-ups in the dirty magazines.
Especially the dirty magazines. Girls clutching them, covering their modesty,
hoping you'll think they're good girls really; or the game-show girls almost
weeping because they want to be the ones to lift them off the conveyor belt and
take them home. Even Doreen went 'ah' once over one she picked up in a shop to
show me, before we were married, nearly letting me hand over the little bit of
money I had just to please her. See what I mean? Women. They all like teddy
bears. I reckon it's in their nature.
But give a
bear to the right person, and not only is the same just as true, but ten times
as true. Give it to someone who's young and sensitive, and you've done more
than given her a present. You've given her a friend. That's not putting it too
strongly. What else do you call someone you share your bedroom with, cuddle up
to even, in the middle of the night, whisper all your secrets to, and turn to
when no-one else is there? The one who understands that underneath it all,
she's nothing more than a kid in a nasty world? A friend. No other word will
do. Other people can give her bottles of perfume, and they'll just stay on the
dressing table and not mean a thing. But give her a great big brown cuddly bear
and the only thing she'll like more will be the giver.
Seek and ye
shall find. That's what the good book says, isn't it. And here was the living
proof.
Yet even now,
at the very end, it wasn't over. Not quite. You could say the biggest test was
still to come. Because hanging off his ear, not half so decorative as the
scarlet ribbon round his neck, was the price tag, and when I turned it towards
me I found I was looking at triple figures. I'm not joking. Buying that bear
meant I'd be paying over what I'd spent for Christmas so far and then some.
I'd like to
say that that didn't stop me for a minute, that I just reached out my arms and
picked him up regardless, but it wouldn't be honest. For a bit I was just like
that little girl, torn between what was sensible and what was not, with one
voice plain in my head saying, 'Don't do it, Larry. Buy a smaller one. It's the
thought that counts,' while another part of me simply didn't listen, stayed
with the adding and subtractions, working out how I could swing it.
Then I caught
his eye. And once again, it was like looking into another person's. Far from
being glassy, they had a look in them that spoke volumes. And what's more they
were speaking to me now.
'It's no
good, Larry boy,' they were saying. 'You've seen the rest, now take the best.
You know there's not another bear to touch me. I'm the one and that's all there
is to it.'
And do you
know - he was right.
(Only, just
for the record, let me say that he wasn't being pushy or cocky. All he was
doing was stating a fact.)
So that was
that. The bear was coming home with me. For a second, then, I thought I could
just stand there, letting the relief wash over us both. Then another thought
hit me. What if that woman had caved in? What if the screams had become too
much for her, and she was on her way back this very minute? She could march up
here and snatch him right out of my arms. I've seen it done, hundreds of times,
in the sales. She only needed to appear and Mandy would never see her bear.
Straightaway
I started to look for her. But it was no good, she could have been anywhere.
She could even be at the cash desk as I was standing there, handing over the
notes while someone else was on his way to wrap him up.
I never
grabbed anything so fast in my life. Believe me, if there's an Olympic medal
for picking up giant bears and fighting your way through a crowded store, I'd
have won it. And it was rather like one of those hurdle races, with kids
getting under my feet and near enough sending me flying a couple of times. It
didn't seem to occur to anyone, least of all their parents, that an elderly man
in a hurry weighed down by a bear nearly half his size could have done with a
bit of helpful space. But in the end it didn't matter. Despite them all I made
it to the cash desk and not a sign of the woman anywhere.
'I want this
bear,' I said. 'And if anybody says a word, tell her I saw it first.'
I'd shouted
because of all the din, but even so, I’ll admit surprised myself a bit. They
must have been able to hear me down in men's tailoring. But to be honest, I was
past caring. Still, you don't expect people to stare at you like that. Not that
it made any difference: the girl at the counter could spend all day squinting
at the light through my twenty-pound notes, the money I handed over was as good
as the next man's, and half a minute later the bear was mine.
Actually, he
was too big to wrap. Silly of me to have thought otherwise. Still, what better
way could there be of laying claim to something than walking out with it for
all the world to see? I even thought I should keep a look-out for the mother
and daughter, smile at them as we passed just to show there were no hard
feelings. And sure enough there they were, not far from the way out. The only
trouble was, I couldn't seem to get them to look in my direction. The little
girl was trying her best to shake off her mother's arm while pointing at a
display of rainbow-coloured ponies. And from the look on her mum's face, you
could see what was coming next.
Back down in the street, it occurred to me that I was the
only one who had come out today and got what he wanted. Otherwise how to
explain why I was walking towards the bus stop with a grin spread like butter
over my face while everybody else looked as if all they had got for themselves
was a cold? Not that I could see much, not with a big furry brown head two
inches from my face, but I knew for certain there wasn't a soul down there
walking with the same spring in his step.
It had
finally hit me - I'd got everything I set out for in the first place. It didn't
matter what happened now; Mandy and me were ready for Christmas. I'd done it
all, and the best bit of it was sitting in my arms. And what had it cost me?
Only money. It wasn't even an effort carrying him. He might have been as heavy
as a small child and twice as bulky, but nothing would have made me put him
down, not once I'd picked him up. He even had a way of making you comfortable
as you walked along, with your nose pressed into the fur at the top of his
head. He had his own smell too, warm and nylony, like a man's shirt that's just
been taken off. Not like a toy.
The funny
thing was the way other folk reacted. You'd have thought there'd be titters at
the sight of an OAP strolling through the West End with a giant stuffed toy in
his arms, but that's not how it was at all. On the contrary, getting on the
bus, and wonder of wonders, actually finding a seat, you could see people
falling under his gaze and actually smiling. As for me, I just sat there, with
him on my lap and a smile of my own, and drifted, not even thinking, into the
future.
'Someone's
going to love their grandad this Christmas. Who's it for- girl or boy?'
Nearly jumped
out of my skin, I did. The voice seemed to have come from nowhere. Then,
craning my neck around the bear, I saw a woman - another senior citizen -
sitting next to me. She must have got on while I was off with the fairies.
Being caught by surprise like that, it didn't give me time to think. Still, I
wanted to reply, seeing as she was only being pleasant. So I opened my mouth
and said the first thing that came into my head.
'Girl. A
little girl.'
'Lovely,' she
said. 'Just right.' And she smiled at me all the way home.
Coming in after a day like today should have been a
let-down. But it wasn't. In point of fact, as I let myself into a house that
was wonderfully quiet, it occurred to me that it was even a good thing that
he
was here after
all. It meant that Mandy was unlikely to be around to see me as I carried her
surprise up the stairs, while Ethel, having spent the morning imbibing in the
company of what she would term The Upper Classes, was probably lying motionless
somewhere in a sherry coma. Result - we got ourselves up to the safety of my
kitchen without a murmur of interference, which is saying something for this
house.
What I wanted
then was a cup of tea - for celebration and refreshment, but first things
first. That's what I said to myself as I looked around for somewhere to put Master
Bear. It was no good leaving him in the kitchen or the lounge because as sure
as eggs, Mandy would break the habit of a lifetime and decide to visit while
His Lordship was still here. Not that it was any great problem: there was ample
space for him in the spare bedroom even with all the goodies that were already
there; So, the spare room it was. Mind you, I made sure he was comfortable.The
Christmas tree, the stand and back-up TV came off the bed so that he could lie
there in state with nothing but Joey’s old cage to make him have to share.
And only then
did I get that cup of tea I'd been promising' myself. Yet, considering how I'd
been looking forward to it all day, it didn't come up to scratch. Not that
there was anything wrong with it. It was me. I couldn't seem to relax. Despite
it all turning out the way it had, and it now being a case of full steam ahead
to a blissful future for the three of us, something, somewhere was weighing on
me, yet for the life of me I couldn't think what it was. It was the same when I
started to get supper ready. Pretty near famished, I was, yet not even the
thought of steak pie and peas could excite me.
And then it
came to me.
It was cold
in the spare room, and dark. And lonely to boot. A far cry from what he must
have been expecting, what with me nearly busting a gut to claim him and then
carrying him home like royalty. Well that was it. Think of me what you like,
there was no way I was going to leave him there to languish by himself. I
dropped everything. and made straight for the spare room. And in the first
seconds after switching on the light I could have sworn that his eyes
brightened at the sight of me.
'Look here,'
I said to him, not making any bones about it. 'You've got me acting like a big
girl, fussing round you like this. Bloody good thing Doreen can't see me now.
Splitting her sides she would be.' I was going to add 'and so would June', but
didn't. You see, to tell the truth, I reckon June might have understood, long
ago, in her younger days.
The upshot
was, I found myself carrying him into my bedroom and settling him down on the
chair at the end of my bed. And that's where he stayed, looking as if this was
where he'd banked on being all the time. He'd be expecting me to say good night
next. One thing was for sure, though: come bedtime, neither of us was going to
keep the other one awake with our snoring.
After that,
everything was fine. More than fine. I finished off peeling the potatoes, put
the pie in the oven and went to watch a bit of TV and all as happy as a sandboy.
And it didn't matter what I turned my hand to for the next hour, it always came
out right; the gravy was perfection, the pie was cooked to a tee. And me, I
just kept smiling. And do you know why? Because sitting in the next room, my
own bedroom, was a certain big brown bear, making himself comfortable in my
chair, keeping a watchful eye on my bed.
I wondered
what sort of name she was going to think up for him. There was always the
obvious - the name of the giver. Larry One and Larry Two we could be then. But
there could only be one Mandy.
So what do
you do to round off a perfect evening? Go to bed. Well yes, but what if the
night is still young, and you're in a mood to keep going? To which thought
could be added the reminder that elsewhere, certain other people were out and
about making the evening last, indulging in all sorts of excess - probably -
while you sat here, wondering whether to have a cup of cocoa before turning in.
In other words, why bring a perfect day to an end before you have to? Why not
go mad and stay up a while, live a little?
If I was
going to stay up, though, it wasn't just so I could drink more tea and watch
more television. You can see the sort of mood I was in. What I really wanted to
do was celebrate. So while breaking open a box of luxury biscuits might be a
thrill at any other time, it wasn't enough, not tonight. Opening a cupboard in
the kitchen however, gave me the idea. One clanking mass of bottles it was in
there. Bottles of this and bottles of that, and I'm not talking about lemonade,
or even whisky for the matter. I'm talking about another world, a veritable
treasure house of novelty tipple. I'll explain: not knowing what Mandy likes -
only that sherry doesn't seem to do a thing for her - I'd tried to buy one of
everything that looked interesting. Bottles I'd never set eyes on before then.
Expensive - yes, though not compared to what I'd shelled out today. The
laughable thing was, however, I didn't even know what half of them contained.
Of course, I'd read the labels, but they didn't tell you much, not with names
like Ocean Paradise and Irish Milk. Most of them I'd only bought for their
labels, or the funny colours shimmering unexpectedly through the glass. Yet
what if Mandy wanted to know before she partook? A right Charlie I'd look;
lining up all these sophisticated drinks. then having to show my ignorance.
And that's
when I thought - why not kill two birds with one stone, give each of them a go,
and have that little celebration while I was at it? Then it would be off to bed,
a nod to my old pal the bear, and a good night's sleep.
Just bringing them all into the lounge took a time.
Honestly, there were that many. Lined up side by side they took up practically
the length of the coffee table. Then there were the glasses to go with them -
an entire boxed set of them. You couldn't call them brand new; I'd had them for
years but never even unpacked them till tonight. I suppose I should have given
them a wash, but they didn’t have a fleck on them. Lovely little things they
were. I could see now why I'd bought from that catalogue. Not one of them could
have held more than a thimbleful, and each with a miniature old-fashioned motor
car painted on the side. In other words you could fill all six to the brim, but
with the amount any one of them contained, not even a teetotaller could have
objected.
For a minute
or so, though, half the joy was just in sitting there, reading label after
fancy label, admiring the detail on the little tiny cars, and thinking - this
time next week, there'll be two of us here. Or three, if you count a certain
large bear.
Then it was
down to business. Lucky for me, most of them had lids that twist off. I never
was much of a one for a corkscrew. It was just, a question of which to choose
first. In the end I plumped for Jamaican Orange Cream - for the simple reason
that it was a name you would trust yourself with in a box of chocolates. It
looked like cream, too, when you poured it out, thick and faintly orange, but
you could smell the liqueur.
Want to know
what it tasted like? Heaven, that's what. You'd hardly know you were downing
something alcoholic. I'd have had another glass straight off, but I had a duty
to keep on and give them all a go. I needn't have worried, though. Waiting for
me were peppermint, coffee and coconut, not to mention peach, cherry and
almond, each one nicer than the last. Halfway down the line I began to laugh,
suddenly thinking I was like Goldilocks, having a little taste of this and a
little taste of that. Then I thought of Mandy doing the same and instead of
laughing I almost felt like crying, only with sheer joy.
And it's when
I think of Mandy that I feel happiest of all. By the time I get to the end of
the line it's somehow as if she's sitting there beside me, matching me, glass
for glass. In fact I've decided that her favourite tipple is the very first,
the orange cream, and that's the one I ended up drinking in her honour, meaning
it to be my last.
Not that
having a small celebratory drink was the only thing I had in mind for the
evening. Far from it. I'd got it all planned. A little sip of this and a little
sip of that, and then it was over to the organ for a medley of the old
favourites. I'd sort of neglected it of late. The trouble was, Mandy and I have
that much to talk about as a rule, there never seems to be the time, And then,
when she's gone, there's the problem of trying to catch up with what's on the
box. There aren't enough hours in a day. At least, there haven't been since a
certain young lady chose to come and live here.
What I hadn't
banked on though was how, in the end, all the exertions of the day were bound
to take their toll. At one stage I did get up off the settee, meaning to make
my way over to the organ, but I'm not joking, the room actually started to
spin. Exhaustion of course, the direct result of all that running around, with
hardly a thought for what it might be doing to a man of my age. So discretion
told me to stop where I was, stick to something relaxing - like enjoying myself
here, having what you could almost call a rehearsal for next week. And that's
just what I did, until, round about ten, I started to notice that the light had
got a mite strange. Everything in the room seemed to be turning in on itself
somehow - like the table in front of you, solid enough, you'd think, yet not
promising to be there if you touched it. Definitely a new light bulb was called
for, before the light went altogether. Trouble was, standing on a chair and
screwing was the last thing I felt like doing after a day like today. Either I
sat there in what might soon be pitch dark, or took myself off to bed like a
sensible chap. So that's what I did. Left it all as it was and headed for the
land of nod.
It wasn't
until I was walking through the bedroom door that the memory hit me: Francis was
here.
How to ruin a
perfect evening. At the thought of him, I had to throw out a hand to catch the
wall, otherwise I might have fallen over. That's how the man can undermine a
person, just by popping into his head like that. Up till then I'd been lost in
a happy dream, one where there was only the three of us - Mandy and me and the
bear - enjoying everything friendship has to offer. But what the thought of His
Lordship does, of course, is remind me that it's just that, a dream, and that
we were still here, stuck in the middle of the present. Mandy hadn't been with
me at all. She'd been with him, was still with him, a different girl
altogether.
Not
surprisingly, given that I was close to being grief-stricken, it took me a
whole minute to find the light switch in the bedroom. But then, when the light
came on at last, brighter than in the lounge, what a glorious sight. There was
our very own old brown bear, sitting just where I'd left him, looking as if all
he'd been doing this long time was waiting for me to come to bed. And you can
tell me I was imagining it, but I could have sworn he was even wagging a paw at
me for not turning in earlier.
Well that was
it. Suddenly I could feel myself coming out all smiles again, just because he
was there, waiting for me. And as for being told off for being late ...