by Tracy Garton
Then it was time to turn my attention to Christmas cards. I picked out a few featuring the Geriatrics, my golden oldie donkeys. They were well loved by lots of our visitors, so I was sure that would help to shift a few boxes of cards. But there was another I couldn’t resist. I’d taken a candid snap of Alan and Dona Pepa one afternoon, grooming each other in the field. They made a comical duo, as Dona Pepa towered over little Alan. But their friendship was so adorable, and that photo really captured their special bond. That was definitely worthy of a Christmas card.
I attached all the files to an email, and sent it off to the printer’s in Loughborough. I couldn’t wait to see the results. My little Alan would look fantastic in print.
Within a few weeks I’d become the postman’s least favourite person. But not because of the stacks of cards I was sending out. Mine were still in their boxes, piled up ready to be written. I hadn’t got round to posting a single one, and I knew by the time I did, the last postage date would be long gone. But the cards were certainly flowing in the other direction. Every day the postman would drop off a huge pile. And for every single one I got from friends and family, there were at least five addressed to the donkeys.
I couldn’t get annoyed, though. It was no secret that I preferred donkeys to people, so it wasn’t a surprise that people felt more fondly towards my residents than they did towards me. Plus, it always made me smile when people popped a sneaky bank note in the envelope too.
‘This is so you can buy my favourite a nice Christmas treat,’ they’d write, addressing their card to their chosen donkey. It was quite sweet.
A fiver here and there soon added up. It didn’t really surprise me that my little Alan’s treat fund was bulging more than the others. In less than a year at the sanctuary he’d captured the hearts of hundreds of visitors. If they wanted to send us a little something to make sure he had a good Christmas, I wasn’t going to stop them.
If my own house looked like Christmas had never been anywhere near it, the sanctuary’s tearoom trailer was the complete opposite. I put all the donkeys’ cards up so that the visitors could see how loved they were. Soon every spare inch was filled, and still the post kept flooding in.
Other than acting as the donkeys’ personal secretary, for the most part I completely ignored the rest of the build-up to Christmas. Then one evening my phone beeped with a text from an old school friend.
I’m Christmas shopping this weekend – what smellies would you like? What is your favourite perfume? she asked. I snorted with laughter. Perfume, me? Surely after more than thirty years she knew me better than that.
Don’t be daft! I’m after a new wheelbarrow, though, I typed.
Yeah, good joke, but seriously what do you want? she replied.
I was being serious! I answered her.
Eventually, she accepted defeat. The only pressies on my wish list were donkey related, but it never stopped people trying to tempt me. I didn’t have anyone to impress with posh perfume or expensive face creams. It’s not like the donkeys would care about my ever-multiplying wrinkles.
A new wheelbarrow would be great for collecting the dung from the fields and dishing out the hay. My old one had a bit of a wonky wheel. Failing that, extra head collars were always useful. My donkeys had a bad habit of destroying them.
Or, if a wheelbarrow is too much, I could always use some extra supplies of vet wrap, I texted again, having second thoughts on the wheelbarrow. I use the vet wrap to treat the horses when they have foot abscesses, so I like to keep a fair few rolls in stock.
Even Steve knew better than to try to get me a present. I certainly didn’t buy him any gifts. But one year he made an exception. I’ll never forget how he led me out into the yard on Christmas morning.
‘I know we don’t do presents, but I’ve got a surprise for you,’ he said, beckoning for me to follow.
I was completely confused. Had he found me another donkey? Otherwise, why would my gift be outside?
But as we walked out of the garden gate into the sanctuary, all suddenly became clear. Standing in front of me was the one thing I never dared to dream of asking for for Christmas. It was a big, shiny dumper truck.
‘Steve, you didn’t?’ I said, my eyes gleaming like most women’s would when presented with a diamond.
‘Well, you’re always going on about wanting one, and I figured one Christmas present every once in a while wouldn’t hurt,’ he said, smiling at my reaction.
‘It’s perfect. The best present ever,’ I said, wandering forward in a daze to get a better look.
It wasn’t new and it wasn’t fancy, but it was just what I wanted. Every day when I was breaking my back mucking out the stables by hand, heaving hay with a shovel, I’d fantasised about this moment. A dumper truck would save me so much time and effort, but there was no such thing as spare money at the donkey sanctuary. Every penny went on the essentials. But now my dreams had come true and I couldn’t think of anything better.
‘Thank you so much,’ I said, feeling almost emotional.
Steve had kept the dumper truck hidden with a mate, ready to surprise me with it. It was one of the most thoughtful things that anyone had ever done for me. Maybe it wasn’t soppy or romantic, but that wasn’t my style.
December was well underway when Lesley and some of the other volunteers ambushed me over mince pies one lunchtime.
‘We’ve been talking, and we’ve had an idea,’ Lesley said, scanning my face for a reaction.
‘Oh right, what’s that then?’ I replied through a mouthful of crumbly pastry.
‘Well, as it’s nearly Christmas we thought it might be nice to do something,’ she said.
‘And what kind of something did you have in mind?’ I wasn’t sure I liked the direction this conversation was heading in.
‘Maybe something like a little party?’ Lesley suggested hopefully.
‘For us, you mean? Not for the donkeys?’ I said. I nearly choked on my mince pie in horror. My brain was already screaming a loud and firm ‘no’.
‘Well, us and the donkeys really. And maybe a few other people. Perhaps some of the people from the village, and others who like to support the sanctuary,’ Lesley suggested.
‘I don’t know, Lesley. That doesn’t really sound like my kind of thing,’ I said. And that was putting it mildly. No Christmas tree, no presents, no fuss was my kind of thing. Not throwing a blooming massive Christmas party. I couldn’t think of anything worse.
‘Oh, go on. We’ll help you to organise it,’ she said, pushing her luck.
‘Will you now?’ My mind was already made up, though. As if it wasn’t enough having the place swarming with visitors every weekend, Lesley was asking me to combine that with the one thing I hated more: Christmas. ‘I don’t think so. Now, come on, these donkeys won’t look after themselves.’
But for the rest of the afternoon, I had a nagging feeling of guilt deep in the pit of my tummy. Lesley and the rest of them had looked so excited by their idea, and I’d given it a big fat no. On the other hand, it was my sanctuary and if I didn’t want a Christmas party, why should I have one?
I was happy to forget the whole thing had ever been suggested, but it turned out that the volunteers weren’t going to give up on me so easily.
‘The yard would be the perfect location, and it would be no hassle to do a Christmas barbecue,’ Lesley said, passing me as I wheeled through a barrow of hay.
‘And the donkeys would love it,’ Ross threw in.
Even Steve was tempted by the plan.
‘It wouldn’t be much trouble. Plus, I bet we’d get lots of donations on the night. People are always feeling charitable at Christmas,’ he said, as we bolted the stables later that afternoon.
‘Not you as well. I thought you were on my side with this. Since when were you Mr Christmas?’ I whined. The whole thing was beginning to feel very unfair. I was being ganged up on.
‘Well, it would only be a one-off. We could try it?’ he said persuasively.
‘I’ll think about it. And that’s the final word on it for now.’ I hoped that maybe everyone would forget about it.
But of course they didn’t. A few days later the begging and pleading started again. In the end there was only one easy option. I’d have to give in just to shut everyone up.
At least the attention would all be on the donkeys, I supposed. Everyone loves a donkey at Christmas, after all. And if on the night I had a sudden headache and needed to give it a miss, then the party would have to go on without me. Wouldn’t that be a shame?
The one thing I didn’t begrudge was the donkeys enjoying Christmas. In fact, a couple of Christmases before, I’d even sent one of them off to star in a local nativity play. But this wasn’t any old school nativity in a poky little hall. This one was quite a big deal.
It had been organised by the community in Beesby, which was a couple of villages away. I think it was some kind of fundraiser. I only got involved because they needed a donkey. A couple of phone calls and I found myself promising to send one of my residents along. It was a bit like Alan’s beach photoshoot in that respect.
For this event I chose Teddy, one of my older donkeys. He’d be perfect as, in his old age, he was far too lazy to cause any chaos. He certainly looked the part too. He was one of the sweetest donkeys I’d ever had.
So for three nights that December, Teddy got the star treatment. He was bathed, groomed, trimmed and pampered so that he looked stage-ready. Then each evening at 5 p.m. I loaded him up into the horse trailer and took him off to Beesby.
The whole village was closed off to traffic on the performance nights. People were arriving from the neighbouring villages by the coachload. I had special permission to drive right up to the barn where the nativity was being performed.
When I saw the grand setting I felt a bit nervous for Teddy. There were rows and rows of seating laid out ready. This was certainly no school play. Then Teddy was introduced to that night’s Mary and Joseph.
‘So, I thought maybe they’d walk in alongside the donkey? Do you think he’d do that?’ the play’s director asked me, clutching the script.
‘He’s a good boy, he’ll do whatever you need him to,’ I said. ‘Just as long as you don’t want me to get involved too.’ There was no way they were getting me in the nativity as well. I wasn’t walking up there in front of all of those people.
‘No, no. You just relax. The children can take the rope. It won’t be completely authentic as Mary can’t climb aboard, but there was no way the insurance would cover that,’ he laughed.
That sounded good to me. I could slip out of the beam of the stage lights and leave it all to Teddy.
By 6.30 p.m. the barn was packed, and the crowd hushed ready for the performance to begin. I hovered near the back, anxiously waiting for Teddy to make his appearance. Then Mary and Joseph set off on their journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem.
The audience cooed as the little Mary and Joseph came in from the back of the barn, walking through where the chairs were parted, followed by Teddy. Cameras flashed as he plodded loyally behind them. He was perfect for the part. Once they reached the front, attention turned to what the wise men and the shepherds were up to. I couldn’t take my eyes off Teddy, though, willing him to wait patiently alongside until the baby Jesus had been born.
As the performance came to a close I breathed a sigh of relief. Teddy had been as good as gold, and the audience had loved him. The director came on to say thank you to the crowd, and they even gave Teddy a round of applause of his own. If donkeys could smile, his grin would have been a mile wide.
Soon Teddy was handed back to me. But before I could load him up to take him home, I was ambushed by the director.
‘Do you mind hanging around for a little while? Some of the kids would love a photo with your donkey,’ he said. ‘We’ve got mince pies and mulled wine too.’
I couldn’t really refuse. Soon Teddy was mobbed by children stroking at his face and pulling at his tail. It was a good job he was patient. The mums and dads whipped out their cameras to get snaps of their child with him, and I seized the opportunity to spread the word about the donkey sanctuary.
‘We’re just down in Huttoft. Come and visit when we’re open again after Christmas,’ I trotted out to as many parents as I could.
Eventually, every child satisfied, we were clear to head home. I’m sure Teddy slept soundly that night, exhausted by his newfound fame. He needed his beauty sleep. The show was on for the next two nights as well.
Both of the following performances went just as smoothly. I think Teddy enjoyed himself, and even I had a bit of a warm, fuzzy festive feeling by the third time I heard the kids angelically belt out ‘Away in a Manger’.
So as I resigned myself to planning the sanctuary’s first ever Christmas party, I clung on to the nativity memories to remind myself that perhaps Christmas wasn’t all bad. If it made people smile, I’d have to grin and bear it.
14
Reindeer Games
Burgers, tick. Baps, tick. Mulled wine, double tick.
After all, you can’t have a party without booze. I was checking off the to-do list for the Christmas party. Making sure we were well supplied with mulled wine was particularly high on my priority list. A glass or two might be the only thing to get me into the party spirit.
Since Lesley had bullied me into hosting the party a few weeks earlier, I had come to think the idea of a party wasn’t so terrible after all. I couldn’t say I was looking forward to it. That would definitely be a step too far. But seeing how excited everyone else felt was infectious. Every lunchtime, we’d chat over sandwiches and cups of tea about the upcoming event. I let myself get carried along with everyone’s enthusiasm.
The party idea had started as just a little get-together for us and our closest friends and supporters. We’d put on a barbecue so people could have a bite to eat, and maybe a couple of mince pies. It wasn’t going to be a big deal.
But day by day I found myself being overruled on an extra expense here, a final festive flourish there. Before I had time to put the brakes on, the guest list had swollen to several hundred. I was feeling the pressure. I hadn’t even wanted to have a party, and now I was being expected to turn the place into a miniature winter wonderland.
‘The things I do for these donkeys,’ I sighed, adding extra sausages to my shopping list.
Then my worries were interrupted by the postman’s arrival.
‘Here you go, another sackload for you,’ he said, rolling his eyes sarcastically as he handed over a fat wodge of envelopes.
‘Thanks,’ I replied sheepishly. The cards still hadn’t stopped coming.
I put my shopping list to one side, and turned my attention to the post instead. The top card on the stack was in a sparkly red envelope, addressed to ‘The Donkeys at the Radcliffe Donkey Sanctuary’.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be your secretary again,’ I muttered sarcastically, catching sight of Alan and Dona Pepa out of the tearoom window.
I tore open the envelope, and shrugged at the silly cartoon reindeer on the front of the card. As I opened it up, a fiver dropped into my lap.
Dear donkeys, I had a bit of a win on the bingo last week so I wanted to send you a little something for a Christmas treat. Merry Christmas. Love, Edna x, the card read.
I couldn’t resist. A little smile twitched at the side of my mouth. I could bet that poor old Edna could have done with that fiver herself. After all, even I knew that pensions didn’t pay much. But instead, she’d thought of my donkeys.
The next card on the stack was obviously from a kid. The address was squiggled across the envelope in a childlike scrawl. I pulled out the card to find myself swallowed up by a cloud of glitter. I knew it would be stuck to my trousers for the rest of the day. Great.
The card was a homemade effort, with the entire contents of someone’s craft box stuck to the front. Felt holly leaves, glitter glue stars, pom poms in the corner – no expense had been spared. I
n the middle was what I guessed was a donkey, drawn in blue felt pen with purple legs.
Despite myself, I laughed at the image of my donkeys actually looking like that. And even I had to admit that the effort the child had gone to was touching.
Inside, they’d wished the donkeys a very happy Christmas, and it had been signed by ‘Jack aged 8’. But there was an extra message at the bottom too.
P.S. This is my pocket money for the donkeys.
I peered back into the bottom of the big brown envelope, and sure enough there were some coins jangling around. I tipped them out into my palm – £4.67, in random denominations. I guessed that Jack had spent a little bit of his pocket money first. But instead of saving the rest, he wanted my donkeys to have it.
A fuzzy festive feeling started spreading through my veins. I couldn’t help it. The next card only made this worse.
It was written by a mum who’d come to visit the sanctuary with her kids in the school holidays.
I promised my daughter I’d pass on a message. She adopted Alan when we came to visit you, and the certificate has got pride of place on her bedroom wall right by her pillow. She wanted me to tell you that her Christmas wish is that more donkeys are rescued like Alan was, because she loves him so much, she’d written.
That nearly tipped me over the edge. I felt quite choked up. I knew the kids liked to come and stroke the donkeys, feeding them carrots through the fence. But it never really registered just how much of an impression the donkeys made. Trust Alan to tug on the old heartstrings, though. He really was the poster boy for donkey rescues.
Reading those cards made me stop and think. Christmas was a time for giving thanks, and all those people had bothered to pop a card in the post to acknowledge the part the donkeys had played in their year gone by. The donkeys gave them happy memories, and people wanted to give something back. It wasn’t about the money that people were sending. It was, as people say, the thought that counted.