Mr Poppy's Christmas

By Kevin M. Smith

The life and times of Edward Wildfire, a man whose entire existence is cajoled by the events around his many Christmases. Follow him from his humble birth to his grand scheme to rectify Christmas. The beleaguered mothers of a small Yorkshire town are literally queuing up to take back control of the festivities with the help of Edward's rather unorthodox service. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kevin M. Smith
• Release date: Feb 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224083312

Book preview

Chapter 1

Irrespective of how things worked out, Edward Wildfire’s intentions were never anything but well-meaning. The name that the general populous bestowed upon him, was not one he would have chosen for himself, it did not exactly capture the festive spirit for which he was aiming. The spirit of Christmas was one subject, on which, Edward had very clear opinions and ‘The Child Slicer’ certainly did not engender an air of goodwill to all men.

September 1999

Edward was an elf. He had not wanted to be an elf, he did not like being an elf. He had wanted to be the main man, the top of the Christmas food chain. He had wanted to be Santa.

Nevertheless, when he had received the call, he had begrudgingly agreed to the humiliating post of Santa’s green-suited helper, an elf. Not that he had anything against elves per se, they were a vital part of the whole Christmas operation. Indeed, he knew that without the elves, Christmas simply could not happen. It was just that his plan, the big picture that he had in his mind, the same plan he had sketched out in ever-increasing detail in numerous notebooks and journals over the years, all had him down as Santa Claus. Not one of his plans, in any of their many versions that he had laboured over, had him down as a ‘bloody elf’.

Of course, he knew why he had not been chosen for the big one. It was his hair, or more to the point, the lack of it. He had spared no expense on the ‘real hair’ wig, twenty pounds that bugger cost me, he muttered to himself. Even so, when the time came to don the false beard that he had been forced to buy at the joke shop, he knew there was a mismatch in texture and shade, the facial fuzz being nylon and such a brilliant white that it actually hurt his eyes to look at himself in the mirror. He had offered to replace the beard with a more suitable and realistic version, at his own expense. In hindsight, he should have grown his own, but that would have meant starting months and months ago, he knew his wife would have made his life a torment. She had made her feelings on facial hair very clear over twenty years ago when he had a brief dalliance with, what would have been, a rather natty handlebar moustache. Her complaints and moaning had ensured it never really got much beyond a thin wispy line reminiscent of a pre-pubescent Salvadore Dali.

He had apologised to the interview panel for his suit which was a little large, but that was to allow for the padding, which he assured the bemused-looking interrogators, would give him the correct proportions to meet the expectations of any child that saw him. He had waved what appeared to be a long pink tubular draught excluder at them. It was actually a couple of pillowcases sown together, rolled up and stuffed with old Christmas wrapping paper, his wife had thought that would be a nice touch. I had to remove it on the way, I never expected it to be so hot in the middle of September. Determined to prove his point, he began trying to stuff the sizeable, obscene, pink tube into his trousers, which was proving quite difficult in his current seated position.

You came here dressed like that? The thin chap with a raised eyebrow had asked.

Well, I only live a twenty-minute walk away. Edward had explained, hoping that point would work in his favour.

Walked? You actually walked here?

Er... Well yes, the sleigh’s in for a service. Edward laughed at his own little joke. The tube of padding seemed to have taken on a life of its own and was refusing to go into his trousers without a fight. 

Quite, the thin man smiled condescendingly. See many people on the way?

One or two, old folk mainly, it’s quiet on a Tuesday, grown-ups at work, kids at school.

The thin chap seemed reassured by this answer and patted the white triangle of handkerchief that protruded from his suit breast pocket.

Mind you, there were a fair few mums and little ones at the play park. They seemed quite excited to see me. One cheeky little chap wanted to know if I had anything in my sack for him. That’s when I had to whip out this padding from my trousers. It was that or keel over. Edward gave up his fight with the remaining twelve inches of padding and sat holding the pink protuberance in his right hand. Anyway, it must have been their nap time or something because the mums all decided to take them home.

The heavy-looking, red-faced lady with extremely pink lipstick, who sat on the thin chap’s left, gave a little cough. Should you be appointed as Father Christmas, we would of course provide you with all of the relevant equipment, sack, costume, she looked at the top of his head, and if necessary, wig. Edward’s own wig and heavy crimson velvet hat had slid a good six inches to the left during his battle with the long pink trouser snake. The dye from the hat had mixed with his heavy perspiration to leave a thick red line across his forehead, he would not have looked out of place in A&E.

Ah! Was all Edward could manage, he was slightly out of breath, his reupholstered groin and the stuffy office were conspiring to make him, once again, sweat profusely.

Why would you make a good Father Christmas? She asked, keen to move the process forward.

Edward’s eyes twinkled. This was his chance to play his trump card and to be fair, it was an ace. He leaned slightly forward and tapped the table with his finger a couple of times. Well that’s an easy one, from your point of view at least. He paused for effect, I’ll do it for free. He sat back satisfied that he had said enough. The three panellists took a few seconds to digest the new information and looked at each other unsure that they had heard him correctly.

For free? The thin chap repeated. You mean you would not expect any wages?

That’s right, Edward confirmed. Not a penny.

The thin chap sat back in his chair and dropped his pen on the table making it perfectly clear that this was a done deal. Edward cracked a broad grin and nodded his head reaffirming his previous offer.

The lady with the lipstick was not so quick to jump to Edward’s support. She was a firm believer in first impressions and as far as she was concerned, Edward had not delivered on that front. His renewed fondling of the pink protuberance was not helping. Obviously, she was tempted by his offer but she was suspicious. Why? She asked simply.

Edward was still grinning at the thin chap, the question took a moment to register. He had hoped that his ace would have been enough in itself with no need for any further discussion. Why? He repeated, gathering his thoughts. ‘Why’ was a tricky one for him, it could well require him to tell an outright lie, something he was not particularly good at. He shifted in his seat. It’s the season of goodwill to all men he offered, then as an afterthought, and ladies... women that is, waving his protuberance at the woman.

Neither the thin chap nor the lipstick lady bought that one. It was not a concept they identified with. Goodwill doesn’t pay the bills. She pointed out.

Edward screwed his face up. He knew he should not take the bait but this was at the very heart of his whole campaign. But isn’t that the problem?

What? Bills?

No! Money! Money is the problem. Edward exclaimed, he really did not want to get into this, people never understood.

The thin chap was beginning to lose faith in Edward. Well if money’s a problem, how come you’re willing to work for nothing?

Look, it’s Christmas. What’s wrong with a chap, he indicated to himself with both hands, wanting to do a little good for his fellow man? His eyes came to rest on the lipstick lady, and lady... woman, that is. He rightly felt he was losing the pair of them.

Fellow man? You do know this is a business? Which man are you helping by not getting paid? asked the bemused thin chap.

Edward was becoming flustered. I just don’t like the way Christmas is being turned into an excuse for getting loads of stuff that nobody wants and nobody can afford.

This is a shop. We want people to buy loads of stuff whether they want it or not. The thin chap insisted.

Is this about Jesus? Suggested the lipstick lady.

Edward shook his head. They seemed to be ganging up on him. Jesus? No, it’s about Christmas. No need to bring him into it.

How are you with children? Asked the third-panel member who had been quiet up to this point but had been scribbling various notes. He had been introduced as Michael... somebody or other, Head of Toys. Edward had more or less forgotten he was there but welcomed the change in question.

They’re OK, I suppose. At least the nice ones are, the naughty ones need a bloody good hiding. I can make you a list?

List?

You know, the naughty or nice list? He looked at each of them watching for a glimmer of recognition.

Edward knew for a fact there was a list. Obviously not a list kept by a real Santa Claus, that would be stupid. No, he knew that specifically, this department store kept its own list. He knew this because burned into his memory was the time when he was almost eight and his mother had brought him here. He could distinctly remember that Santa seemed very surprised and not at all happy to see them. Edward recalled Santa taking his mother aside and waving a piece of paper at her and almost yelling about the results of some test. Santa had then told him and his mother to leave immediately and that she should go to a clinic. Funnily enough, that Santa had the self same habit of constantly scratching his crotch as one of his ‘uncles’ that had stayed with his mother for a week or two. Edward could not remember taking a test but he had obviously failed badly. Outside, his flustered mother had explained that it meant he was on the naughty list and that he could not have a present. Edward felt very ashamed to have let his mother down in front of Santa and promised to try harder and then asked her what a clinic was.

Michael interrupted these internal reminiscences. Err... no. No list. They’re all nice as far as we’re concerned. Even the naughty ones. It’s not for us to judge.

Edward tutted. Surely that’s exactly what Santa is supposed to do. He knows who’s been naughty and he knows who’s been nice. That means there must be a list. He guessed the panel were worried about security and was therefore reluctant to share the details with an outsider. He leaned forward and lowered his voice, Well rest assured if there happened to be a list, he gave an exaggerated wink, I’d make sure the nasty little bleeders got what’s coming to them.

A few moments of open-mouthed silence descended. Well, I think that just about covers it, do you have any questions for us? Michael asked.

No I don’t think so. Then Edward recalled the ‘So you want a job?’ pamphlet he had read at the library. ‘Always be positive’ it had told him. I suppose the only real question is; when do I start? He smiled, a steady trickle of blood-red sweat running down his forehead into his eyes made him blink incessantly.

Oh well, we’ll have to let you know, other people to see, we’ll be in touch one way or another. If you did get the post it would be to start at the beginning of November. Thank you for coming, the pink-lipped lady explained. The panel huddled together and began murmuring and comparing notes.

Oh? Edward felt a little crestfallen but then remembered he had not yet played his other trump card. Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas! He bellowed. He had been practising, and he knew that he had nailed it this time. In startled unison, the panel all jumped back in their seats.

Indeed. Please close the door on your way out, the thin chap instructed.

Edward was pretty sure he had made a good impression as he heard them all laugh as he closed the door behind him. ‘Humour is your friend,’ the pamphlet had told him.

In the corridor, the uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs, which had been empty when he went in, were now occupied by several white-haired old men all dressed in Sunday best suits. He acknowledged them with a nod.

The nearest one sported rosy cheeks and a full white beard, What did they ask you? He inquired. Edward did not see any harm in divulging the information because he knew none of them could top his answer.

One question was ‘Why would you make a good Father Christmas?’

Because I love children! The would-be Father Christmases announced unanimously.

Well good luck with that! If that’s the best you can do.

The bemused candidates watched Edward hobble off down the corridor, all the while obscenely tugging at the tube of padding, which was now refusing to vacate his trousers. He continued the struggle as he waited for the lift which arrived just as the next candidate was being welcomed into the interview room. Hello Tom, you old dog, it’s that time of year again, welcome back.

Two days later Edward received a call from John Stewart’s Department Store. Rosemary Parkhurst, the pink-lipped woman, apologised for not getting back to him sooner. I’m sorry but we decided to go with experience, the man that got the Santa job has done it before.

Edward felt deflated. He had of course got a contingency plan for this highly unlikely outcome, but it would include a fair amount of criminal activity, mainly involving a sack, some rope and a cricket bat. But frankly, he could have done without the extra hurdle. On top of that, he could not believe that any of those ‘old gits’ could pull off a better Father Christmas than him.

Before he was able to voice that opinion, Miss Parkhurst continued, but I’m very happy to be able to offer you the post of Santa’s Helper.

Edward processed this new development, for which, he had not planned. You mean, an elf?

Well yes, I suppose I do. The pay isn’t as high but then the work isn’t as arduous, keeping the queue orderly and passing a girl or boy present to Santa.

I’d be dressed as an elf?

Yes, the post does have a special costume.

An elf costume?

Yes, I suppose it is.

Does it involve ears?

Ears?

Elves have large pointed ears.

Do they? Well, I don’t think our costume includes ears. It’s green... with a hat. She added the last bit as though it were an incentive.

Edward made his choice, his plans required him to be in that department store grotto in the run-up to Christmas. If that meant lowering his sights and being an elf then so be it, the money was of no consequence. He was more bothered by the lack of accuracy in the costume. Could I supply my own ears?

Well, I suppose that would be alright. Miss Parkhurst said with a degree of uncertainty. She had already spoken to the five other unsuccessful Santa candidates all of whom had flatly turned the job down. No way were they going to be on their feet all day trying to keep the queue of bored mothers and impatient children entertained.  Edward was her last hope of filling the vacancy. She had been very reluctant to call him but the thought of interviewing another bunch of strange men for the role of Elf was an even worse prospect. She made a managerial decision. If it would make you happier in the role, then you are welcome to supply your own elf ears. She hesitated, then backtracked. Subject to their approval by Mr Clifford the Head of Toys.

Very well, I’ll do it.

Good, I’ll confirm it all in writing. If you could let us have your National Insurance Number and call in sometime before November to pick up your costume. It may need a little TLC, it is one of our older costumes.

Tomorrow. I’ll be there tomorrow.

Strike while the iron is hot eh? Very well, she did not want to see him alone in her office. Probably best if you see Mr Clifford, he’s the one you’ll report to.

Not Santa?

What? Why Santa?

Elves work for Santa Claus.

She was not sure if he was joking. Oh, I see, haha! Very good. No, you and Santa will both report to Mr Clifford. Well if that’s everything? I have lots to do. She waited for a reply but none was forthcoming. Bye then?

Bye. Edward’s mind was racing, updating his plan to fit the latest developments. If nothing else he was adaptable and this could even work in his favour. He put down the receiver and headed outside, down the slippery wet garden path which lead from the back door of their little stone-walled cottage to his workshop.

When he picked up the costume from John Stewart’s Department Store he had thought there had been a mistake. A rather sullen, pouty and frankly, rude young girl, who apparently passed for Mr Clifford’s assistant, had insisted that Edward sign a small form acknowledging receipt of the costume.

He, in turn, had insisted on examining the contents of the tatty brown paper parcel that had he been presented with. With much tutting and mumbling the girl had flounced about the office looking for her scissors, with which, the dirty but strong, string that held the parcel together, could be cut. Edward, meanwhile, examined the parcel, feeling it, guessing the contents and approximating its weight. He put it at three and a half pounds. He was never more than a quarter of a pound out with such things, in fact, he had been banned from guessing the weight of the cake at the annual church bazaar having won it six years on the trot. Finally, he gave the parcel a little shake and was rewarded with a muted tinkling sound. Someone obviously thought that elves wore bells. In Edward’s opinion, they were wrong and it was his turn to tut.

The act of peeling back the thick brown paper released a damp, musty odour, mixed with another more acrid smell that Edward could not immediately identify. The emerald green tights, although obviously intended for a school girl, had cigarette burns on the right knee, but they were the least of his worries. The white shirt or more accurately blouse was inside out and when Edward tried to rectify that, he found that the front was adhered to the back due to a large dried patch of brown something. It was now apparent where the acrid smell was coming from. A closer examination of the tell-tale hard orange flakes spotted around the stuff led Edward to the conclusion that it was vomit with a liberal amount of diced carrot.

He held the offending garment up to the light of the window and looked at the girl who was busy pulling a strand of chewing gum from between her teeth. Realising she was expected to comment, she raised her chin and quickly fed the stringy gum back into her mouth. Oh yeah... I remember that. She tapped the air repeatedly with her finger in the direction of the vomit stain. It must have been Frank, he did the job the year before last, he had a skin full at the Christmas party. ‘Course I didn’t work here then, I came with my boyfriend, Stanley, he works in the furniture department. It was a good do. They had a group and a disco. We’re thinking of getting engaged.

Fascinating I’m sure. What am I supposed to do with this? He held the shirt by the shoulders using only the tips of his index fingers and thumbs.

Wash it I suppose.

Apparently that’s something Frank felt unable to do?

Suppose not.

"The year before last?"

What?

"You said Frank did the job the year before last."

That’s right.

So who did it last year?

Oh, that would have been Teresa Bagshaw, Mr Bagshaw’s daughter. The blank look on Edwards’s face told her to elaborate. Mr Bagshaw, the Head of Kitchenware.

And was ‘vomit-stained elf’ not in fashion?

Naah! Silly. The girl laughed at the very thought of it. Last year, Mr Clifford, she paused to indicate the door behind her with her thumb, he decided to try something different. Last year we did ‘Santa In Space’, we had aliens and everything. Teresa was dressed in all tentacles and stuff."

Edward shuddered at the very thought and was grateful that his plan had not come to fruition a year earlier.

To be honest it didn’t go down too well.

You amaze me.

There was quite a to-do about it. The kids were scared to go in the grotto. It was all dark green, with flashing lights and silver tinsel. They had this music and sound effects and loads of smoke, well dry ice I think they called it. Anyway, they was all terrified to go in and then when they did, Teresa was there wobbling about with all her tentacles. You don’t know her but she is quite ‘big-boned’ if you know what I mean. A lot of people wanted their money back.

Edward looked bewildered. Very festive, I’m sure.

"Mr Clifford said ‘the people of this town aren’t ready for the 18th century let alone the 21st.’ So anyway this year they didn’t give him any money to spend." Her eyes and a nod towards the ceiling indicated that ‘they’ resided somewhere on the upper floor. So it’s back to using the old stuff.

Edward continued his examination of the parcel’s contents. A brown, fake leather jerkin, with a similar but smaller and less conspicuous stain; a woollen hat, with alternate, bright green and red, thick, horizontal stripes and a white but yellowing pompom; two knee-length woollen socks with stripes to match the hat. Finally a pair of silky red ‘Turkish’ slippers with long curling toes, each topped off with a small silver bell, similar to those found in a budgie’s cage.

Edward rolled the garments back up in the brown paper, he did not bother retying it, there was not much worth protecting. He was actually quite content. The costume, save for the bells, cigarette burns and vomit, was reasonably accurate in his estimation of what real elves would wear. Please tell Mr Clifford that I’ll be in next week to let him check my ears.

Your ears? Replied the girl, not quite sure her own ears were working properly.

Yes, my ears. He needs to approve them.

Mr Clifford? The girl motioned to the door behind her, the brass plate on it, read ‘M.Clifford, Head of Toys."

Yes. Mr Clifford. Edward was showing signs of losing his patience.

You’re going to show your ears to him?

She no longer felt safe being alone with this man. Maybe you’d like to show him now? She moved towards the heavy oak door, behind which, Mr Clifford and relative safety, lay."

No of course not. I don’t have any yet.

The bewildered girl tilted a little to the left and looked first at one side of his head, then the other. Confirming her suspicions that, he did in fact, already have a full set of auditory equipment, she decided it would be prudent to have a nice large desk between her and the madman she was currently sharing a room with. Yes, yes I’ll just do that, she backed away from him, jumping when she felt the desk behind her. I’ll write it in the book. She quickly scampered around to the safety of the other side. Feeling the need to fully comply with the lunatic’s requests. She grabbed a pen and began scribbling on a notepad.

Mr Clifford, ears, show them to him next week.

Yes, that’s right, next week, as soon as I get them.

A semblance of professionalism crept up on her. What name is it?

Wildfire. Edward Wildfire.

He had taken to saying his name in that fashion back in 1964, following his visit to the cinema to see Goldfinger. More accurately he had gone to see the bulletproof screen rise from the back of the Aston Martin. He had been responsible for milling a couple of the cogs involved in the mechanism. He was disappointed that they were not actually featured in the film as they were a particularly neat design, of which, he was quite proud. He had stayed to the very end of the credits to check whether his name appeared but was again disappointed that neither he nor his employer, Rodrick’s Reliable Engineering Company were mentioned.

Edward... Wildflower. The girl said and wrote.

Fire!

What?

Fire!

Where? She was truly panicking now.

It’s Wildfire. My name is Wild...fire!

Realisation dawned and she corrected her scribble. Thought you said Wildflower, sounded a lot like Wildflower.

People’s misunderstanding of his pronunciation of his name was a constant source of irritation to Edward. It happened so frequently that he ought to be used to it by now. But it always caught him off guard. He had actually been going out with Hilda, his wife, then girlfriend, for several months before she discovered his real name. She had told everyone Wildflower. They had both laughed about it when the mistake was realised, or at least she thought they both had. Edward grinned and bore it. As a result, she gave him the pet name that she still used today, Mr Poppy, You’ll always be my little wild flower, she had told him. Something else for him to grin and bare.

While Hilda busied herself in the kitchen, making a lovely cup of special Christmas tea. Edward stood in front of the fire. He looked down to make sure his curly-toed elf slippers were not too close to the grate. They were at least three inches longer than his already sizeable feet. He had practised walking in them for an hour or so trying to avoid looking too much like a frogman in flippers. The bells would have to go, but he thought it best for them to ‘accidentally’ come off on the job, rather than vandalise them before he even started.

He was quite pleased with the socks, they at least kept his legs warm. Hilda had cut off the feet from the green tights because otherwise, the legs were not long enough, no one would know because the socks and slippers covered them. She had darned the cigarette burns in the knee, but really, they were worn out. All the elasticity had gone from them. Which meant they were a little baggy and wrinkly on his legs. The further up his body the tighter they got. Indeed they were very snug indeed around his crotch and left no doubt at all as to which side he dressed on.

The vomit-stained, blousey shirt had presented Hilda with a real challenge but soaking, bleaching, re-soaking, scrubbing and dry cleaning had eventually done the job. He tried it on and whilst being more than a little tight, it did actually fit. The plastic leather jerkin simply needed a good going over with a spray of Mr Sheen. It also was too small. Nevertheless, when he had tried it on, along with the footless tights, Hilda had come over all peculiar and became very amorous in her giggly self-conscious way. Oooh, Mr Poppy! You look just like Richard Greene in Robin Hood! Am I your Maid Marian?

As she stood there, eyes closed, lips puckered, Edward beat a hasty retreat from the bedroom and headed hurriedly down the stairs, Don’t be bloody silly woman, I’m an Elf! He fought his way out of the jerkin on the way. It’s always Richard bloody Greene with her. He grumbled.

Chapter 2

Maybe it was his destiny or a higher power or simply coincidence, but Christmas influenced Edward’s life far more than any particular time of year had a right to. Admittedly the first few were uneventful but then there is only so much that destiny can do to a baby and he would need two or three more Decembers under his belt or in his case, nappy, for coincidence to be recognisable as such.

1938

At 17 Hastings Street, Grimmington, West Yorkshire, as the distant town hall clock finished chiming the dawn of a new Christmas day, Judith Wildfire ne:Proxly, gave her final push and screamed her loudest bleeding hell! of the night. The result was the birth of an 11lb 3oz baby boy. The child was two weeks overdue. The midwife, Alice Templeman, told the exhausted new mother, not to worry, they sometimes look like that. The father, Bernard Wildfire was not present due to his attendance at a lock-in at the Golden Lion public house in celebration of the festive season. Edward, as the child would have been Christened had his parents been bothered, had no recollection of the event.

1939

Edward’s second Christmas and first birthday. His presence during the event went unacknowledged due to his parents’ enthusiastic belief in celebrating the time of year by consuming as much brown ale as they could afford and some that they could not but bought anyway. At just one-year-old Edward had no memories of the festivities and no presents either.

1940

Edward’s third Christmas and second birthday passed the same as the previous year, only with slightly less brown ale as there was a war on and his father had been conscripted. Again Edward had no recollection of the festivities, lack of gifts or that he had a father.

1941

This was the year that destiny or whatever you may want to call it began to take an interest in Edward Wildfire in so far as it chose this moment to kill his father. In a repeat of the last few years, the actual Christmas cum birthday passed young Edward by. But he did think, in later life, that he could remember the news of his father’s death a few days after Christmas. It was more that he could remember the heightened emotions going on around him rather than an actual memory of events. His father’s demise hardly touched him, but he was sure he could remember the upsetting effect it had on his mother and particularly his grandmother.

1942

This Christmas he definitely could recall. It was the first time Santa Claus left him a present. A whip and top, a tin of toffees and a rather brief but very Christian, colouring book printed by someone called the Salvation Army. Edward was pretty sure they were on the allies’ side, he thought maybe they had been at Stalingrad. Anyway, since he did not own any crayons or pencils, he would have to make do with just looking at it. His grandmother had come to the house and told him with a wink that the toffees were from Santa Claus for being such a good boy. His mother told him that the colouring book was from her and that the whip and top was from Uncle somebody or other, he could not remember the name. He seemed to have had quite a few uncles over the past few months. Everyone he showed his presents to fondly recalled having a whip and top but not one of them could remember ever actually getting the top to spin or how that might be achieved or indeed what relation the two objects had to each other. Edward’s own attempt resulted in the top, after a short inaugural flight, disappearing down a grate in the street. 

What made this Christmas most memorable though was the fact that his grandmother gave him a separate birthday present, a toy tractor, which he treasured all his life.

1943

Edward had been just two years old when Bernard had joined up and three when the news of his death had come, so he had practically no real memories of his father from that time. Instead, his mind was full of different ‘Uncles’ who seemed to pay random visits at all hours of the day. Some would stay just a few hours, others for days if not weeks.

When he was old enough to understand family relations, he had asked his mother whose brother all these uncles were and why did they bring her presents when it was not her birthday? And why did he always have to go out or go to his room when they visited? His mother had told him that she was too busy to go into it now but he would understand one day.

A regular visitor was ‘Uncle’ Alistair. Edward actually, quite liked him. He was a big young man, his mother said that he was twenty-five just a bit younger than his dad had been when he died. Alistair McAlistair spoke very quickly and with a strange accent that Edward could not always understand. That’s the way they talk in the Highlands, his mother had explained. Alistair was a Bevin Boy, having joined the RAF late in the war, he had, rather to his surprise, been conscripted to work down the mines. Grimmington had two mines, one to the east and one to the west. Alistair would come and go early in the morning before it was light, depending on which shift he was working. He was always very dirty when he came home. His mother always insisted that Edward leave the room when she was helping Uncle Alistair get properly clean in their big tin bath in front of the kitchen fire. Edward felt sorry for him, he himself hated his mother scrubbing him in that bath. Alistair did not seem to mind, Edward often heard quite a lot of splashing and giggling.

Maud Wildfire or Granny Wildfire as Edward called her, was absolutely Edward’s most favourite person in the entire world. She told him stories, she let him stay up late into the night, she had books, she lived on a farm, she let him on the machinery, she cooked fabulous food, she hardly ever washed and did not see why he should either, she occasionally smoked a pipe and kept her father in a jar on the mantelpiece. Edward thought the last one was a bit far-fetched but Granny Wildfire had promised that she would never lie to him and had spat on her hand and crossed her heart.

On top of all that, Granny Wildfire was the only one who did not lump his birthday in with Christmas. For his fourth birthday, a year ago, she had bought him a toy tractor. He treasured that tractor over everything else he owned, which to be honest, was not much. It was not simply the fact that he was fascinated by the way the steering wheel made the wheels turn, it was more that it was the first birthday present he could remember receiving on his actual birthday.

A couple of days after Christmas she had turned up at their little terrace house on her Fordson Standard N tractor. The whole street came out to see. The ridiculously loud machine trundled and rattled down the cobbles with children and dogs running alongside. Granny Wildfire, wearing her dark blue overalls and heavy muddy boots climbed down, adjusted her straw hat complete with floppy pink flower, stamped the ground to remove some of the mud and grabbed a heavy-looking, hessian sack from under the seat. Sorry it’s so loud, the old girl needs her nipples greasing!

Alerted by the commotion, Edward stood at the door, glorying in being the reason for the excitement. His grandmother scooped him from the step and hugged him tightly swinging his legs from side to side.