Winman, Sarah - When God Was a Rabbit

My mother lifted the lid. Rich dark smells of meat and onion and wine.

‘I wish we could dine like this every night,’ my brother said.

Dine was his new word. Fine dining would come next.

‘Maybe we could have a séance later?’ said Nancy, and my mother quickly looked at her – a look I’d seen so often – a look that said, Bad idea, Nancy, and you’d know that if you had children .

‘You’re quiet, Elly. Everything OK?’ asked my mother.

I nodded. If I spoke I felt tears would tumble out onto the backs of my words. I stood up instead, mumbled something about ‘forgetting to feed him’ and went towards the back door. My brother handed me a torch, and with two carrots in my pocket I slipped out into the cold night.

It felt late but it wasn’t; the darkness of our house made it feel late. The climbing frame cut a weird skeleton in the dusk like a spine bending backwards. It would be demolished the coming spring and used for firewood. I walked down the path towards the hutch. God was already straining at the wire; his nose was twitching, picking up the scent of my sadness as determinedly as a dog. I flicked the catch and he bundled towards me. Wisps of blue and green fur stood out in the torchlight; a good idea left over from a bored weekend when Nancy and my brother dyed his pelt and took pictures of him balanced on their heads. God loved performing as much as Nancy. I pulled him onto my lap. He felt good, he felt warm. I bent down and kissed him.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, in his strangled little voice. ‘It’ll all come good in the end. Always does.’

‘OK,’ I said calmly; unperturbed that it was actually the first time I’d ever heard him speak.

I saw the long striding shape of Nancy come down the path towards me. She had a cup in her hand, steam spiralling into the chill November sky.

‘So tell me,’ said Nancy, crouching down, ‘how did it go?’

My mouth made a kind of shape, but I was too distraught to speak, so I had to whisper it instead.

‘What?’ she said, leaning towards me.

I cupped my hand around her ear and whispered it again.

‘The innkeeper?’ she said. ‘The bloody innkeeper?’

I shook my head, convulsions racking my body. I looked up at her and said, ‘The blind innkeeper.’

It was the day of the performance, and she crept out of the backstage shadows like a giant tarantula rather than the octopus she was supposed to be, and when Miss Grogney saw her, she screamed as if her throat had been cut by the devil himself. There was no time to get Jenny Penny out of that costume and into the camel one, and so Miss Grogney told her to remain in the darkest, furthermost reach of the stage, and should she even see the flicker of a tentacle, she would suffocate her with a large plastic bag. Baby Jesus started to cry. Miss Grogney told him to shut up and called him a wet blanket.

I quickly peaked through the curtain and scanned the audience to see if my mother and Nancy were there. It was a good turnout, almost full; better than the harvest festival that had clashed so disastrously with a local football fixture, when only twenty people turned up to give thanks for what they were about to receive, which at the time ran to two dozen cans of baked beans, ten loaves and a box of windfall apples.

Nancy saw me and winked, just before Miss Grogney’s firm hand landed on my shoulder and pulled me back into Christian times.

‘You’ll spoil the magic if you keep looking out,’ she said to me.

I thought, I’m going to spoil it anyway, and my stomach knotted.

‘Where are the camels?’ Miss Grogney shouted.

‘They’ve got the hump with you,’ said Mr Gulliver, the new teacher, and we all laughed.

‘Not funny, Mr Gulliver,’ she said as she wandered off the stage and caught her toe on a sandbag.

‘Good luck,’ I whispered to Jenny Penny as she waddled over to the manger, casting an eerie shadow on the back wall. She turned round and gave me a huge smile. She’d even blacked out a couple of her teeth.

The lights dimmed. I felt sick. Music crackled into the auditorium. I wiped my hands on my red tunic and they left a sweaty smear. I put on my sunglasses. In the darkness I was blind. I poked one of the sheep up the arse with my white stick and he started to cry. I apologised to Miss Grogney and said I couldn’t see what I was doing and she said, ‘God fortunately wasn’t so blind,’ and I felt a shiver run down my back.

The straw in the manger smelt strong. I’d brought it from home and even though it wasn’t clean, it was authentic. Michael Jacobs, who was playing Baby Jesus, had been scratching himself ever since he’d been placed in the oversized manger, and under the lighting his heavy-set features, together with a smudge of dirt, made him look as if he had a full beard. I tapped my stick and felt my way into position.

The scene with the Angel Gabriel seemed to go well and I heard the audience exclaim and clap when Maria Disponera, a new Greek girl, forgot her lines and simply said, ‘You there, Mary. You having baby. Go to Bef-lem.’ She’d got such an important part because her parents owned a Greek restaurant and Miss Grogney was allowed to visit as much as she wanted, until she smashed plates one night when no one else was smashing plates.

The shepherds were a dozy lot and pointed in the opposite direction to the star, and as they wandered off, they appeared truculent and bored as if it was a ferret that was entering the world and not the Son of God. It looked more hopeful when the Three Kings entered, until, that is, one of them dropped his box of frankincense, which was actually a porcelain tea caddy with earl grey inside. A gasp rose up from the auditorium as his mother reached for a handkerchief and silently wept at the loss of a treasured family heirloom. He hadn’t told her he was taking it. Like he didn’t tell her he smoked her cigarettes. And in between her quiet sobs, a lone sheep, slow to leave the stage, emitted a sudden scream and collapsed onto its stomach as a sharp piece of broken china embedded itself into its bony knee. The Three Kings stepped over him to exit. Only Miss Grogney had the foresight to creep onto the stage in the scene change and drag the child off like some cumbersome, skinned pelt.

I was in position behind my fake door. Suddenly, I heard a knock.

‘Yeees?’ I said, the way Nancy had told me to say it and I opened the door and quickly stepped forward into Mary’s light. The audience gasped. Nancy said I looked like a cross between Roy Orbison and the dwarf in Don’t Look Now . I knew who neither was.

‘I am Mary and this is Joseph. We have nowhere to stay. Do you have room in your inn?’

My heart thumped; my tongue felt thick and heavy. Say it, go on, say it .

‘You need a room?’ I said, suddenly veering away from the script.

I saw Mary and Joseph look at each other. Miss Grogney peered from the wings at me, holding up her script and pointing to it.

‘Let me think,’ I said.

The silence in the theatre was thick, clawing with anticipation. My heart was beating hard, my throat tight. Say it , I said to myself, say it . And then I did.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I have a room, with a lovely view at an excellent rate. Come this way, please,’ and with my white stick tapping ahead, two thousand years of Christianity was instantly challenged as I led Mary (now crying) and Joseph towards a double en-suite with TV and mini bar.

And as the curtain closed for an early interval, the bearded Jesus was left forgotten in the large bassinet in the corner of the stage, looking around at all that could have been. Suddenly panicked by Jenny Penny’s arachnid shadow creeping towards him, he attempted to climb from the manger, but caught his foot in his swaddling clothes and unfortunately fell forwards onto a papier-mâché rock, that Miss Grogney later told the police ‘had set much harder than anyone could have imagined’.