by Tracy Garton
He whispered his Christmas wish in Ross’s ear, then Ross rummaged in the sack to find him a little present. I was poised ready to yank Alan back out of the grotto at the smallest hint of any of his funny business. But this time he was as good as gold.
The boy ran back to his mum, beaming from ear to ear.
‘Thanks so much,’ she said. ‘I don’t think he would have gone in if it hadn’t been for your donkey.’
I realised she was right. Alan had given him the confidence to go out of his comfort zone. At least one little boy would remember my Christmas party for the right reasons.
I said goodbye to them and turned to see Alan looking at me smugly. He’d known exactly what he was doing. He wanted to make up for his bad behaviour earlier.
‘What am I going to do with you?’ I said, rubbing his head affectionately. I’d never met a donkey who could make me feel so enraged then so happy in such a short space of time. Alan was definitely a one-off.
‘I think it’s time to call it a night,’ Steve said. ‘We’ve eaten everything and drunk everything.’
‘I agree. I’m knackered,’ I said. ‘The vicar’s going to say a few words, then hopefully everyone will get the hint and bugger off.’
‘Don’t you dare pretend you’ve had enough of parties. I saw you, you were having fun,’ Steve said teasingly.
‘All right, I suppose I was. But now I need my bed,’ I said. ‘And I can’t wait to get this blooming elf outfit off.’
So I went off to find the vicar from the local church. He hushed the crowd before giving a festive blessing, wishing us all a very happy Christmas.
Then, to my relief, people started to make their way towards the gates.
‘Bye, thanks for coming. Great to see you,’ I smiled, as everyone filed past to say thank you.
‘Sorry about Alan,’ I added, catching the eye of the parents of the kid whose mince pie he’d rudely pinched.
‘Don’t worry at all. He’s over it now, and can’t wait to tell his friends about the donkey he met,’ the dad said with a grin.
‘Alan, is that his name?’ another visitor chimed in. ‘He really made my night. I’ve never heard a donkey sing before.’
‘Don’t remind me,’ I said, cringing at the memory of Alan belting out carols.
‘Honestly, he was hilarious. Best Christmas party I’ve been to in years.’
I blushed at that compliment. People could be very forgiving. But as I carried on saying my goodbyes Alan kept coming up again and again.
Mums thought it was hilarious that he’d tried to eat Ross’s beard, and the children were giggling at when my naughty ‘donkey reindeer’ tried to escape from Santa. Even the brass band players joked that maybe he could be their honorary member.
By the time I closed the gate behind the last partygoer, it had dawned on me that perhaps Alan hadn’t ruined my party after all. He’d made it. While I’d been tearing my hair out at his antics, everyone else had completely fallen for his cheeky charm. They’d all loved him. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Alan, the party would have been a bit dull. At least everyone was going home with funny memories, and stories to tell. He’d made everyone smile. I supposed that that was what Christmas was really about.
I locked the gate, and trudged back up the drive replaying the evening in my mind. The look on Ross’s face when Alan tried to go after that burger made me smirk. And the grimaces when he’d joined in the singing were classic. I felt really lucky to have celebrated Christmas surrounded by my nearest and dearest, including my menagerie of animals. If it hadn’t been for Alan, I probably wouldn’t have had the party in the first place. But, thanks to him, it had been one to remember. I was starting to think that maybe Christmas wasn’t so bad after all.
15
The Best Present Ever
A week later and we were all still talking about the party. Every time we remembered Alan’s not-so-grand entrance we dissolved into fits of laughter.
‘You were furious, though, Tracy. You should have seen your face,’ Lesley said, as we reminisced during our 11 a.m. coffee break on Christmas Eve.
‘No I wasn’t. I was only mildly concerned,’ I protested.
‘Yeah, right. You looked like you wished you’d never laid eyes on Alan,’ Lesley said with a grin.
‘Well, okay. I suppose I wasn’t that happy with him. But he nearly ruined the whole thing,’ I said, breaking out into giggles again at the image of Ross stuck in the middle with my steady Teddy on one side of him and naughty Alan on the other. ‘All is forgiven now, though. He gave everyone a laugh at least.’
‘He sure did. But you know what this means? There’s no way you’ll get out of a repeat performance next year. I think the Radcliffe Donkey Sanctuary Christmas party should be an annual occasion,’ Lesley teased. ‘You could get the elf costume out again.’
‘I don’t know about that. The stress nearly sent me over the edge. Let’s get this Christmas out of the way first,’ I said.
The party hadn’t been enough to turn me into Mrs Christmas. I wasn’t going to dash out to the shops to buy a tree the size of a small mountain, and fork out a fortune for armfuls of stupid gifts. I didn’t have the time, and neither did I want to. However, for the first time since being a kid I felt vaguely festive and I had to admit I liked it.
The rest of Christmas Eve passed without event. By the time the sun went down the donkeys were safely in their stables, snoozing while they waited for Santa. I’d taken all the money that people had kindly donated for their Christmas pressies, and restocked the fun side of the tack room. They’d wake up to some heavy duty horse balls to play with. Their favourite.
My Christmas Eve was probably quite different to most people’s. There were no guests to welcome, vegetables to prep, or turkey to defrost. That was the way I liked it. Christmas Day was usually the only day of the year that Steve and I spent by ourselves. No volunteers, no fuss, nothing. There wasn’t anything I could do about the donkeys, though; I was stuck with them whether I liked it or not.
That night we enjoyed the luxury of an early night. It might not have felt like Christmas, but to me, snuggled up at home with my husband and a gaggle of donkeys outside, it was just perfect.
The next morning I was up bright and early. But not to see what Santa had brought me. I had my donkeys to look after.
I headed out into the yard and let them into the fields. As usual, they were far too excited about going out to play to even acknowledge me.
‘Fine then, you’ll change your tune in a minute,’ I stropped, heading back to the tack room and grabbing a bucket on the way. I picked up a couple of cans of Guinness waiting there for me on the worktop, and cracked them open. They weren’t for me, though. Even on Christmas Day I didn’t get on the booze that early. The Guinness was for the donkeys. It wasn’t my drink of choice but they loved it.
The Guinness had become a bit of a Christmas ritual. Every year I filled up a couple of buckets and took it down to the fields to give the donkeys a tipple. I’d be enjoying a glass or two of something alcoholic myself later, and it only seemed fair that the donkeys got to indulge as well.
I plodded back down to the fields, the Guinness slopping around in the buckets I had over each arm. Surprise surprise, Alan was there waiting at the fence for me.
‘How did you know about this?’ I asked. This was his first Christmas at the sanctuary, so there was no way he could have known I’d be heading back over. Unless the other donkeys had tipped him off, I supposed. Alan’s sixth sense of when treats were arriving never failed to amaze me. He was still always first at the fence when we had visitors in, kicking on the gate to make sure he got all the fuss and the first bite of the carrots.
He gave me a little look, as if to say, Am I going to get my treat then?
‘Go on then, get your nose in that,’ I said, holding the bucket out for him to have a noisy slurp. He lifted his head back out, froth dripping from his nose and a look of pure pleasure on his face.
‘You liked
that, did you?’ I said, laughing at him. ‘Go on then, have another gulp, but don’t tell the others. They’ll accuse me of having favourites.
‘No more, that’s your lot,’ I said, rubbing his nose affectionately.
To think that Alan had only come into my life thanks to fate. If he hadn’t been abandoned, or that woman had phoned a different donkey sanctuary or, heaven forbid, we hadn’t been able to save his life, it would have been a different story. I’d never have met him. And as I thought about all his adventures over the past year since he’d arrived, I realised my life would be a much bleaker one without him. Sure, I would have fewer grey hairs and I’d probably sleep better at night. But when faced with the alternative of a life without Alan, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
It seemed so long ago that he’d arrived as a scrawny, sad little donkey. Yet, I vividly remembered how frightened I’d been that he wouldn’t survive. He’d been so weak and damaged. And all those hours I spent trying to tempt him out of the stable to make friends seemed like a distant memory. He hadn’t been the same cheeky Alan I’d come to know and love. It had been a privilege to see him become the donkey he now was.
He’d had quite the year. He’d starred in a fashion shoot, made friends with thousands of visitors, saved Dona Pepa not just once but twice, come to the rescue when the vandals had struck, and then rounded it off with his farcical performance at the Christmas party. Most of my donkeys don’t have that many adventures in their lifetime. Alan is different, though. I have a funny feeling that drama will follow him around wherever he goes. Fortunately for me, he isn’t going anywhere. He has a long and happy life ahead of him at the sanctuary, and I’ll get to enjoy all those adventures with him.
As I reminisced I felt really emotional. I was so lucky to have the life that I did. Running the sanctuary wasn’t always fun, and it certainly wasn’t always easy, but having Alan around to perk up my day made it all worthwhile . . .
My daydream was suddenly shattered by the arrival of the rest of the Hooligans. There was no way they’d let Alan slurp down all of my Guinness by himself. I held the bucket over the fence so they could each have a sip, before heading off around the sanctuary to wish a happy Christmas to the other donkeys.
Christmas Day could have come to an end right there and then for all I cared. Spending quality time with my donkeys would be the highlight for me.
In truth, it was a good job that it was only 9 a.m. There was work to be done, just as there was on the other 364 days of the year. The only difference was that Steve and I had to get through the tick list ourselves. Any one of our volunteers would have driven straight over if we’d needed them, Christmas Day or no Christmas Day. But it seemed only fair that they got at least one day of peace a year. Steve and I would be mucking out the stables by ourselves.
But first, we had a Christmas ritual of our own to indulge. Steve was already prepared for it.
‘Ready to go?’ he asked, coming towards me with two flasks of hot coffee.
‘Yep. I could do with that coffee,’ I said, taking both off him as we climbed into the car.
Steve started the engine and we ambled three miles down the countryside roads to the coast. We parked up at Huttoft car terrace, a car park right on the beach. All that separated us from the sand was a short concrete barrier, to stop cars accidentally rolling down into the sea. There was a wide stretch of unblemished yellow sand, and beyond that the waves crashed rhythmically. Every Christmas Day we went down there for half an hour of peace. It was bliss.
Steve cranked his seat backwards and stretched his legs out.
‘We should do this more often,’ he sighed.
I laughed. We said that every year, without fail. Yet we never seemed to find the time.
‘Well, when we win the lottery and hire an army of helpers we can relax down here every day. But until then, you’re stuck at the sanctuary with me and the donkeys, I’m afraid,’ I said, gulping down my coffee.
‘Hmm, I’ll keep my fingers crossed then.’
What we’d do if we won the lottery was a long-running joke. I’d already made my mind up, just in case it ever happened. There was no way I was giving up the donkey sanctuary to become a lady of leisure. Instead, it would be bigger and better than ever. We’d buy up the neighbouring fields, and finally find the money to build a big hay barn. Every donkey in need would be welcome, no matter where they were in the world. I’d pay to have them shipped from Timbuktu if I had to. All of our long-suffering volunteers would be given a generous wage, with a huge bonus to make up for all the years they’d put up with my donkeys with no reward other than lunch. Finally, I was pretty certain I still wouldn’t be taking another day off. Travelling the world wasn’t for me. I was quite happy with my peaceful little corner of Lincolnshire.
Steve’s belly interrupted my wishful thinking with a loud grumble.
‘Hungry?’ I asked.
‘Always. Surely it’s time for that fry-up?’ he replied.
That was the second part of our Christmas ritual, a big greasy fry-up with the full works. And now Steve had mentioned it, I was ready to tuck in too.
It was a good job we’d had that fry-up. We needed it. Mucking out all the stables before darkness fell was a big job. I’d topped up the hay and refilled the water with only minutes to spare. We herded the donkeys back in for bed and, to my relief, I saw that they hadn’t completely destroyed the new horse balls yet.
With the donkeys peacefully tucked up for the evening, Steve and I could celebrate. I wasn’t going to be whipping up a full turkey dinner with all the trimmings after the knackering day we’d had, but we usually had something a little bit special. I stuck a Tesco chicken in the oven along with some roasties, and prepped some carrots and asparagus to go alongside.
Then we put our feet up and popped open the bottle of bubbly we’d had chilling in the fridge since the morning. Finally we relaxed, and we’d certainly earned it.
After stuffing ourselves with roast dinner, we opened gifts from family and friends. Of course, there were always a few who’d ignored my requests and wrapped up a little something for me too. Then we flicked through the channels on the telly before settling on a Christmas special of some nonsense series we didn’t usually watch. We opened a second bottle of booze and enjoyed a bit of time to ourselves.
By 10.30 p.m. my eyelids were drooping and we admitted defeat and headed to bed. It was an entirely typical Christmas Day for us, and I wouldn’t have changed a thing.
I opened my eyes and sat up, groaning at the pain that pounded through my temples. Suddenly that extra glass of wine didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore. I didn’t often have more than one and I was reminded why. I couldn’t handle it.
I looked at my phone and swore under my breath. Six a.m. The donkeys would be desperate for their breakfast. They wouldn’t care that it was Boxing Day, or that I needed a lie-in. So I stumbled my way downstairs, haphazardly lobbed some hay into the fields and let the residents out to amuse themselves for a while. The stables needed mucking out, but that could wait. I needed more sleep before I was fit for anything.
As I climbed back into bed, the effort made the room spin. Steve was still snoring away, completely oblivious to the fact that I’d even been away. I shut my eyes tightly, and prayed that when I woke up again my hangover would be gone.
Suddenly, the silence was shattered by the phone ringing downstairs.
Bleary-eyed, I groped my way out of bed and picked up the receiver.
‘Hello,’ I grunted. I had no idea what time it was, but it felt like I’d only drifted off again for a minute or two.
‘Sorry, I just thought you might want to know that you’ve had an escape,’ the man on the other end said, without introducing himself.
‘I’ve what? Huh?’ I said. Whatever time it was, it was too early for cryptic conversation.
‘Your donkeys,’ he said. ‘I live down in the village, and I’ve just opened my curtains to find one nibbling on my hedge.’
‘Oh no,’ I moaned. ‘Sorry.’
‘I’m assuming it’s your donkey anyway. He seems to have brought some friends along too, and I don’t know anyone else around here who keeps a herd of donkeys,’ he said.
‘I’m coming now,’ I managed to say, before hanging up the phone and rubbing my sore head.
Even if there were any other donkeys living in the area, I was sure mine were the only ones naughty enough to escape. Trust them to pick today of all days. Chasing donkeys around the village certainly wasn’t my idea of a hangover cure. A strong coffee, a bacon butty, and a few painkillers was more what I had in mind.
But it didn’t look like I had any choice. I had to go and get the escapees back before they did any more damage.
‘Steve, help!’ I shouted up the stairs. ‘We need to go.’
He emerged at the top of the staircase, looking as rough as I felt.
‘What? You can’t be serious?’ he said grumpily.
‘They’ve made a run for it again,’ I said, keeping my fingers crossed that only a couple had seized their chance of freedom.
Steve just sighed, and retreated back to the bedroom to find some clothes.
I looked down at my pink pyjama bottoms and decided that getting changed was more trouble than it was worth. If I set foot anywhere near my bed, there was a very real danger I’d get back under the covers and never get out again. Pink PJs seemed as good as anything for donkey hunting.
So I pulled on a pair of wellies, before realising to my dismay that one was black and one was green. Oh well. The people of Huttoft could have a good laugh at me.
I thrust a couple of packets of ginger biscuits into my pocket and waited for Steve out in the yard. Then together, mumbling and grumbling, we checked the fields to work out who had gone missing.
My Geriatrics were all present and correct – no surprise there. I doubted they would make a run for it even if I’d left the gate wide open for them. They knew which side their bread was buttered. When you get to old age what more would you want than a cosy bed for the night and a ready supply of food?
