Free Little Donkey by Jodi Taylor

‘And so, Mrs Checkland,’ said the vicar, finishing his preamble and second cup of tea simultaneously, ‘I was wondering if we could possibly borrow your dear little donkey?’
    Behind him, our housekeeper, Mrs Crisp, turned from stirring something on the stove. She stared in amazement, opened her mouth to say something, caught my eye, and changed her mind. Her ladle dripped, unheeded, onto her spotless kitchen floor.
    At the other end of the kitchen table, Kevin and Sharon were still grappling with the dimension-defying chaotic tangle that our Christmas lights and tinsel together had somehow managed to achieve during the eleven and a half months they’d been stored under the stairs. They also stared at him. In the silence, we could clearly hear the cat snoring, belly-up in front of the range. In deference to the vicar’s religious sensibilities, Mrs Crisp had covered certain areas with a strategic tea towel.
    Nobody spoke and I realised, with no sense of surprise, that it was up to me again. These days, I’m almost completely OK with talking. There’s just a slight stutter every now and then, especially if I’m tired or upset. Today, it was surprise that tripped me up.
    ‘I’m … sorry, Mr Wivenhoe, you want to … borrow our donkey?’
    He put down his mug and smiled at me, wispy white hair curling around his head, beaming like a cherub. ‘Yes, yes, Mrs Checkland. That’s right. We usually go to the donkey sanctuary, of course, but our usual donkey, Jonquil, has a nasty cough this year and they don’t want to let her out in the cold, so they recommended we try Mr Checkland. I’ve been trying to telephone him for days, but, my goodness, he’s a busy man, isn’t he, so I thought I’d call and ask in person, which is a much more polite way of going about things. And here I am. Borrowing your donkey. Just for an afternoon, of course. And quite honestly, after the … the … debacle of last year, we really need all the help we can get.’
    I clutched wildly at a straw. ‘Debacle?’
    He sighed as Mrs Crisp topped up his tea and placed another slice of lemon drizzle cake in front of him. ‘I succumbed.’
    ‘To what?’ And realised, too late, that wasn’t the most tactful question in the universe. Should one enquire about the temptation of vicars?
    ‘I was against it from the start, but I have to say they made a very strong case and I really thought it would attract a younger audience. Sadly, of course, it did nothing of the kind.’
    I stared, bewildered. Not for the first time, I really wished my husband was here. If he answered his phone, or even just spent some time at home occasionally, then I wouldn’t have to do this. We had been married for two years now and right from the start, Russell had established a strong tradition of never being around when needed. I was pregnant, for heaven’s sake. I should be cosily tucked up somewhere warm and comfortable, while people brought me tea and cake.
    I waited for Thomas to tell me that I was cosily tucked up with tea and cake and to pull myself together, but of course, he didn’t. Thomas wasn’t with me any longer. I had to do things for myself.
    Fortunately, Kevin was explaining.
    ‘Last year was a modern version of the children’s nativity play, Mrs Checkland. Mary gave birth in a bus shelter; the shepherds were three council dustmen; and three homeless people brought gifts of a tin of baked beans, a book of food stamps, and a Transformer.’
    ‘A transformer? You mean the electrical thing?’
    ‘No, the robot. You know, they transform.’
    ‘Into what?’
    ‘Um … another robot.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ he said hastily and I turned back to the vicar.
    ‘Yes,’ he said, sadly. ‘It was a bit of a disaster, I’m afraid, so this year I’m putting my foot down. A traditional children’s nativity play.’
    Enlightenment dawned. ‘With a traditional donkey.’
    ‘Exactly.’ He beamed at my comprehension. ‘And your