Chapter 9 #3
‘He is indeed,’ Tom replied. ‘He’s been hibernating since the fifth of January, as he does every year.’
‘Could I at least meet the little fella?’
Tom glanced at his mum, who nodded enthusiastically.
‘Ach, go on then.’ Tom clambered off the sofa and expertly released the two satisfyingly springy silver clasps on the suitcase.
He rummaged about for a while before producing a now more-brown-than-orange toy cat, which he cradled delicately in his palms. Chippie looked up from his slumber, and I swear I saw him roll his eyes briefly as he caught sight of the toy cat, as if they were long-term rivals.
He turned his head away and went back to sleep.
‘Gentle, now,’ Tom said, grinning widely and passing Marmalade into my own outstretched palms.
I didn’t know it was possible to fall in love with an inanimate object, but there and then I would have done anything for soft, little Marmalade.
One of his eyes had been replaced with a mismatched button, which had been inexpertly but lovingly sewn on slightly higher than the remaining original.
Marmalade’s neck had been reduced to just a few frayed strands of fabric, and mini clouds of stuffing were poking out from various strained stitches.
Despite his many flaws, he was still perfect, and entirely embodied the word ‘cherished’.
I set him down on my lap and stroked him, like a real cat. He deserved it.
‘He likes you,’ Tom said.
‘The feeling’s mutual,’ I replied, keeping my eyes firmly on my lap in the hope that Tom wouldn’t notice my compliment-induced redness. ‘So he comes out every year for Christmas, then?’
‘Yeah, he’s got a special little perch for the rest of the month.
May I?’ Tom reached out for Marmalade so I passed him over gently.
Tom, in turn, placed his beloved toy among the branches of the unlit artificial spruce, facing outwards so his sweet, skew-whiff face could be admired by anyone who gazed at the tree.
‘There you go, Marmy, back in your favourite spot for another Christmas,’ said Jo, her face somehow aglow with delight as she gazed misty-eyed at her son’s stuffed animal on the tree.
Objectively, if you were an alien landing on earth for the first time witnessing this scene without any context, the whole thing would appear to be totally bizarre.
But, there and then, all I felt in that room was love and magic.
And my own eyes suddenly felt dangerously hot with liquid.
‘He looks right at home,’ I said, blinking all the wetness away before anyone noticed.
‘Well, he is home!’ Jo exclaimed, absorbing the dampness from her eyelashes with a tissue. ‘We don’t bother with tinsel or Christmas baubles here these days; we just put all our Christmas memories on the tree, don’t we, Thomas?’
‘Yep, our micro-family tradition.’
My eyes burnt once more. What the hell was coming over me? Just keep talking and stop feeling, Mally.
‘What else is in the suitcase, if you don’t mind me asking?’
Tom nudged the suitcase towards me with his foot.
‘Go for your life. It’s mainly Christmas stuff I made when I was a kid. Just tat, basically. But special tat, you know?’
‘Yeah,’ I murmured absentmindedly, since my attention was entirely absorbed by the treasure trove at my feet.
The suitcase didn’t contain any of the usual superficial sparkly things that most people would decorate their Christmas trees with.
Instead, it contained precious memories of a childhood joyfully lived.
As I carefully removed each hand-made decoration from the suitcase, Tom and Jo shared a brief history of its significance before it was placed on the tree with Marmalade.
Before I knew it, every branch was full, including the protruding one at the top that now featured a disintegrating toilet roll flanked by two flaps of tracing paper that had once been an angel that Tom had made in Sunday school when he was five.
‘There!’ Jo proclaimed. ‘The best one yet, I reckon. Just one thing left! Thomas, could you…?’ Before she’d even finished the sentence, Tom had walked over to the doorway and switched off the big light.
Jo turned to me, a silhouette outlined in orange by the glow from the streetlights that seeped into the room through the net curtains.
‘Go on, Mally – you do the honours.’
‘Oh, gosh, no I couldn’t—’
Jo reached over and squeezed my arm. ‘Please, love, it would make my year.’
‘Okay. Erm, Tom, where’s the switch?’
Tom guided me to the plug socket using the torch on his phone.
‘Right, then. Here goes. Three, two, one…’
At the click, the tree came to life. All the colours, all the memories, all the love. All that was special about Christmas was, somehow, right there, in an unsuspecting corner of this small Scarnbrook bungalow, lit up with the simplest string of fairy lights.
And right in the centre of it all was lovely little Marmalade. Wonky, imperfect and defective, but adored by everyone, regardless. Perhaps with the exception of Chippie.