My son always had a remarkable memory. In his days at nursery, he could recite, word for word, the entire programme for the Christmas pageants. Right up until the day of the performance, no one ever really knew which costume hed appear in, since the other children might fall ill, and he could step into their role with ease, knowing every line by heart.
One Christmas, when my son was five, he was given the part of a cucumber. I learnt about it on the evening before my hospital shift. That night, I went off and bought a green shirt, some coloured card, and, with no shortage of inspiration, sat up through the early hours stitching a pair of green shorts and constructing a jaunty green paper cap, topped off with a wire stem wrapped in fabric.
His father was the one designated to take him to the pageant, which, I confess, didnt fill me with reassurance. I read him thorough instructions on how to dress our boy and attach the cap, repeating the directions as he gulped his morning tea.
It was mid-shift when the nursery teacher rang me, her voice wavering. The child chosen for the leading role had come down ill, and tomorrow, my son would be the Gingerbread Man. My nerves frayed, I asked if the Gingerbread Man might, by some miracle, wear a cucumber costumebut the silence that followed told me all I needed to know.
I phoned my husband at his office, tried to explain the predicament. He sounded altogether too pleased, which should have alerted me to mischief. He declared, Not to worry! Ill bring along my two mates from the surgerythree doctors together can fix anything! He reassured me that, with their combined wisdom, theyd pop round to our house and solve the problem. (In hindsight, my own intuition must have been off-duty that day.)
My shift was unending. At nine in the evening, I phoned home. My son answered. Theyd bought a white shirt, and now, Dad was gluing yellow card, Uncle George was making supper, and Uncle Peter couldnt stop laughing.
An hour later, my son rang off, saying he was off to bed. Uncle Peter had crafted an enormous yellow circle from cardboard and was painting on a pair of eyes, Uncle George was opening a jar of pickled onions, and Dad was hiccupping with laughter.
By midnight, I rang again. My husband told me that Uncle George and Uncle Peter, exhausted by the artistic endeavour of fashioning a Gingerbread Man, had fallen asleep in the sitting room. But there were, he added, some particulars. The yellow circle had been, rather carelessly, glued by Uncle George onto the white shirt with superglue, and completely askew. Uncle Peter, trying to unstick it, ripped the shirt, so theyd sewn the ginger biscuit onto the green cucumber shirtwith surgical silk, no less.
Theyd also managed to give the Gingerbread Man a grand total of thirty teeth, so he was grinning ear to earthough theyd run out of white card for the last two teeth. (Never mind, I told them, with thirty already, no one will notice.)
So you see, I said, theres no need to fret, I can focus on my work. My son will have the best costume there is. And as for the snoring I could faintly hearit was Uncle Peter, whod collapsed, mid-cutting of teeth, straight into an armchair.
Uncertainty kept me awake that night. At mornings end, I begged the head nurse to let me slip awayeven for an hourto see my sons performance.
I arrived late. A chorus of laughter and applause spilled from the assembly hall. I eased open the door.
By the Christmas tree, the Gingerbread Man himself was galloping about. My son sported a massive yellow, moon-shaped face upon his cheststretching from chin to his knees. The eyes pointed in opposite directions, and three long horizontal stitches, sewn in silk above the eyes, looked for all the world like the wrinkles of a gingerbread sage whod lived a hard life.
Most memorable of all was the broad smilethirty teeth, with the two front ones missing! It gave him the air of a well-travelled but somewhat battered old Gingerbread Man, perhaps one whod fallen on hard times, or returned recently from a spell in the Tower.
The whole masterpiece was topped off by the lively green paper cucumber cap, with its wire stalk, perched at a rakish angle.
At that moment my son began reciting his lines: Where else might you find a fellow like me? (There was more, about encountering such a sight only in stories and at Christmas pageants, but by then, no one could hear for laughing.) The teacher had to crouch to steady herself, and the whole hall was in fits.
Ah, what a pageant it wasI can smile about it now, though at the time, I wondered whether wed managed to put on the best or the most unforgettable show the nursery had ever seen.
