It was Christmas eve at our mountain farm in Kenya. The night
was cool and bright as dew and all the stars wide open. The young moon wandered the sky like a little
canoe and down in the forest a wood-dove called purely and slept again. Now all the lamps in the house had been
turned out except mine and the one in my mother’s room where she worked away at
things rustling and mysterious.
Big dog
Slasher and I turned away from the night and went into the tiny cabin we
shared. Slasher got into bed without
saying his prayers but I knelt down. It
was, after all, the Lord’s birthday and not the time for shirking.
Our Father
who art in heaven... The thatched roof of the cabin was beautifully neat, the
grass lying straight and slick on wattle poles, rising to a peak in the centre
and fastened with strips of bark. The
walls were neat, too, of horizontal planks overlaying one another.
Our Father
who art in heaven... And over the bed
was a lovely picture of a doe with twin fawns drinking in a river. It was just a picture torn off an old
calendar but tonight, with the lamp low and flickering in the far corner of the
room the stream in the picture seemed to glisten and swirl. I fancied the doe flicked her ears to listen
and the fawns stood ready to run. I
listened too.
From
somewhere above us came the thinnest whisper of sound. Before I could move, down the steps of the
wall planks, very cautiously, fist over foot, came a little grey dormouse.
He stopped,
looked across at Slasher snoring in his basket, at the doe and the twins in the
picture, and at me. Nobody moved a
whisker.
He was as
round as a butterball, wrapped up in a fuzz of close grey fur. His bushy tail was long, the hair harsh and
not very thick. He flicked it once to
show how it worked. he had a round
little face, a turned-up nose and mouse ears.
Darker shading from his nose to his ears highlighted his silver cheeks.
After we
had stared at each other for so long without moving I was beginning to wonder if we were real or
dreaming, he gripped a plank with his hind feet, head down, shook hands with
himself and skipped away into the thatch.
I nipped
across to the house, put some milk and cheese in the soap dish and left it on
the cabin shelf, turned out the light and got into bed, too full of wonder and
happiness to get any further with the Our Father.
At half
past four the next morning my mother came by lamplight to rouse us children for
church. Christmas slept in the mist.
The first
thing I thought of was the soap dish and jumped out of bed so fast my mother
never got over it. The soap dish was
empty and polished. A corner of the dish
had been sampled too.
Day came on
the way to church. Mist swam among the
soft pink featherheads of the grass. Birds
yawned and fluffed and covered their eyes with their wings again. A little duiker doe stepped carefully through
the dew. Church was nice, too, so early
in the morning, with the cattle outside just waking, blowing bubbles of warm
breath into the cold dawn.
Afterwards,
we spent the rest of the morning squealing over our presents. The dogs and cats got theirs, all edible
except for new collars for the Sealyhams.
We all ate
stick-jaw toffee to keep our strength up.
It gummed the cats’ whiskers together but they asked for more. The Sealyhams loved it. Slasher didn’t but wasn’t going to be left
out of anything and carried his piece around for ages between his left canine
teeth, very careful not to get his lips on it, until he thought no one was
looking. Then he shoved it under a
corner of the carpet and came back licking his lips and saying how delicious it
was.
Only one
person had to wait for Christmas until all the house was quiet and dark and
everyone asleep. Then I filled the soap
dish with piles of titbits I had saved during the day and put it up on the
shelf for the dormouse.
In the
thick of the night I woke and lay wondering why. Slasher was asleep, snoring his way through
some jerky dream.
There came
a soft, rude noise, followed by a sound like someone slapping about with a very
small facecloth. I moved my hand slowly
to my new Christmas torch and shone it onto the shelf above the washstand.
The little
dormouse was sitting in the empty soap dish washing his face. His stomach was so full the bulge of it lay
on his toes. Slasher woke up as surprised
as if he saw his dream come true and I whispered to him to be still.
The
dormouse finished washing, patted his stomach and scratched his bottom, gave
the soap dish a long, sad look, flicked his tail and waddled off.
Later in
the night Slasher woke with a terrible stomach ache. I took him onto my bed and massaged him. He groaned and rolled his eyes and looked
awful. I had been very careful to take
all the turkey bones out of his celebrations but I grew afraid and ran to the
house to call my mother. She helped me
give him a dose of milk of magnesia, then she tied a hot water bottle on his
stomach with a towel. Slasher didn’t
mind how funny he looked. He was much
comforted and drooled his thanks.
I had a
look at the Sealyhams and they were all right.
The cats were out somewhere, living it up on their own. The night had turned cold. Slasher and I got under the blanket and he
was soon asleep.
I lay for a
while hoping the dormouse wasn’t in the same trouble. The last I saw of him his stomach looked full
to bursting, his cheek pouches bulging out past his shoulders as he waddled
fatly up the wall planks.
I made a
note to get a wee doll’s hot water bottle, just in case we may need it
sometime. The first bird was yawning as
I fell asleep.
*****
