If I Was a Child Again Page 14

  Swim class is over. I wade to the edge of the swimming pool as fast as my skinny legs can move through the water and climb the steps at the corner. Still dripping wet, I race along the edge of the pool, past the instructor, who tells me to stop running. I want to tell him to stop frowning. I’m so excited about seeing my dad – to give him a big hug and go get choc-ice lollies like he promised. I run into the boys’ changing room, as I always do when my dad collects me. But I can’t see him; he must still be talking up on the balcony. Holy Moly,I hope that man he was talking to didn’t push him over the balcony or something! Come to think of it, that man looked a bit like Jafar from Aladdin. He had a hooked nose and a skinny black moustache that slithered like a black worm down under his chin into a narrow beard. Maybe he’s a bad guy. My poor Dad! He must not know that man is a baddie! Maybe I should go back out and look, and warn him . . . Oh jeepers . . . now I need to pee. Oh, I really need to go. I can feel it coming . . . a little bit trickles out and warms the underneath of my cold pink swimsuit. Oh no! I wrap my right leg around my left leg, squeezing them together. It would be so embarrassing to wee on the floor of the boys’ changing rooms. I scuttle past the showers, hopping along somehow with my legs firmly squeezed around each other. Eventually I make it to the toilet and hobble straight into the nearest cubicle. I peel down my wet swimsuit and just about make it over the toilet bowl before I burst. Phew! That was a close call!

  I reluctantly pull my cold, wet swimsuit back up and put the straps over my shivering shoulders. I’m so cold now my fingers are going purple and my toes are wiggling to stay warm. I keep thinking of my dad and Jafar. What if he has killed my dad and now he’s coming for me and he has a hyena with him, and the hyena will do an evil cackle and then eat me? Oh, I can’t bear to think about it any longer!

  I push the door to get out and go find my dad, but it won’t budge. It’s jammed shut! I am trapped! Forever!

  Hot tears stream down my face. I open my mouth wide, and release an almighty wail. This is it. Tragedy has befallen me. My life is over. I’ll die in here, I just know it. But I’m too young and popular to die! Okay, I’m not really very popular, but I heard Jessica from Sweet Valley High say that on the telly and I thought it was such a cool thing to say. The big white wooden door looms threateningly in front of me. It seems so stern and unyielding. I’m seriously starting to panic. Suddenly I’m not cold any more, I’m hot and clammy and my little fists are banging on the enormous door. But it’s futile; they’re barely making a sound on the hard solid wood. But surely I’m making lots of noise with my shrieks and cries? Why is no one coming to help me? Does no one care? It’s typical that no one in the boys’ changing room is bothered. I hate boys. If I were in the girls’ changing room they would be rushing to help me. I can’t believe I’m going to die in here. My hands are starting to get sore. I’m now slapping the door wildly. My damp curly red hair is hanging in strings around my head, sticking to my neck and shoulders and falling into my eyes. I swipe my hair out of my face with my forearm while I’m still slapping the door with my hands.

  But at last I have to stop. It’s too painful. My hands are throbbing and stinging. I stop wailing too. I’ve accepted my fate. Still crying silent tears, I sit back down on the toilet, my whole body exhausted and totally devastated. I lift my feet onto the seat and wrap my arms around my knees, pulling them in to my chest, trembling with the cold. I’ve never been this sad in my whole life.

  I lean my chin on my knees and look down at the chipped pink nail varnish on my toenails. Yesterday my Mam said that she would repaint them for our holiday in France and my feet would look like Princess feet. I wonder will my family go to France without me now? They won’t be able to go without my dad, especially because they wouldn’t be able to afford it without his new job. But maybe Dad is fine. Maybe it turns out Dad secretly has a magic flying carpet and he uses it to escape Jafar and safely land on the ground. Probably that would happen because Jafar could never outsmart my dad. My dad is the smartest man on Planet Earth. So my family will go to France without me after all. I’m sure they will be sad for a while . . . but they’ll soon forget about me. My brothers will play football and swim in the pool without me . . . They might even be glad that I’m not there to annoy them. I’m always asking too many questions about everything, or singing too loudly, or repeating what they say in a high-pitched voice and then bursting into fits of giggles. Or maybe they’ll miss having me there to run after the football for them when it goes far away. Maybe they’ll find a new little sister over in France to replace me.

  I’m now sobbing into my hands, thinking of life going on without me. Will they still buy cinq croissants from the baker and give my one to the new little sister? And after a while I’ll be completely forgotten and I’ll just be trapped in this big white wooden cubicle until I die a tragic and lonely death.

  My whole body starts to shake and shiver. I suddenly start wailing again. I can’t help it – it just comes up through my belly and out my mouth. An almighty roar.

  “Daddyyyy! Save meeeeee! Don’t leave me here! I want to come to France! I don’t want to die! Pleaseeee!”

  Suddenly a big strong familiar hand appears over the top of the door and with a heave it lurches open. My dad! He rushes in and embraces me in his big daddy arms and lifts me up into a bear hug. I can’t believe it. It’s the best moment of my whole entire life but I just can’t stop crying. It’s funny how that happens. Even though you’re happy you cry uncontrollably. It happened to me another time when I found my black baby doll I thought I’d lost. But how I felt then doesn’t even compare to this moment. Now I feel as though I’m going to explode with love and happiness. My dad carries me over to a bench and wraps me in a towel. I’m still sobbing and clinging onto him for dear life. My Superman Daddy has rescued me. I’m not going to die after all! When I can finally get my breath, I gasp and tell him, “I thought you were going to go to France without me!”

  He smiles and combs my hair out of my eyes.

  “Susie, I would never go to France without you.”

  This is a true story. I remember it vividly because I was so traumatised. I suppose it says a lot about how great my childhood was that the most traumatic thing that ever happened to me was the time I got stuck in a loo.

  Reading back over the story I do realise how ridiculous it all seems that I got so carried away and actually believed I was going to die in the toilet cubicle of a public swimming pool. But at the time I really did believe that. It goes to show how active and extreme a child’s imagination is, and that it must be both nurtured and protected.

  Since then I have got stuck in a few more toilet cubicles over the years. But as I got older I learnt not to panic so much. I should probably take this opportunity to thank Pat the caretaker at Malahide Community School, who famously rescued me from the toilets of the junior block back in around 2004. That was a less traumatic, but considerably more embarrassing experience.

  Even though I’ve got over my fear of hostage-taking loos, I still am, and always have been a worrier. A catastrophist. I have an over-active imagination. As my mother says, I’m a “handwringer”. But all of that makes me who I am. It contributes to my creativity and I wouldn’t ever want it any other way.

  Susan Loughnane first hit our screens as Debbie, the drug-addicted girlfriend of John Boy Power (Aidan Gillen) in RTÉ’s hugely popular TV series Love/Hate. She won the 2013 IFTA for Best Supporting Actress for her performance in Series 3 of the show. She is also currently playing Chloe Chance in Channel 4’s Hollyoaks. Susan is in the process of editing her first novel Exhibit, which she is very excited about. She is also co-writing a TV series set in London. If all this doesn’t keep her busy enough she also has a job in London’s Abercrombie & Fitch store but can’t actually remember the last time she worked a shift. She resides between London, Liverpool and Dublin. She house-shares in Notting Hill, London, with two humans and a community of mice. She also has ownership of a drawer in a house in Ennis
, County Clare, where she hopes to live some day. Susan is really thrilled to be involved in this project for Barnardos and hopes you enjoy her story.

  Story 24: ’Twas the Night Before Christmas

  Marisa Mackle

  It was the night before Christmas. And not a creature was stirring. Well, nobody besides me of course. You see, I was determined to see Santa. I didn’t care how long I had to stay awake. I just had to see him this year. The previous year my younger sister had seen him. So she told me anyway. Not only had she seen him, but she had engaged in a lengthy chat with him. She related all this to me with her big blue eyes full of genuine sincerity. Who was I to doubt my sweet little six-year-old sibling?

  But deep down I couldn’t help feeling a teeny-weeny bit jealous. I mean, yes, I was pleased for her. I was definitely pleased. However, I myself had been a very good girl all year also, and yet Santa had just left my present, a toy safari, at the end of the bed without even bothering to say hello. The least he could have done was tap me on the shoulder and give me a quick “How’s it going?” Yes, I understood he was busy. Run off his feet in fact, along with all the elves and Rudolf. And of course I knew that he had to deliver thousands and thousands of presents to kids all around the world in just one single night. But surely he could have had just a two-minute chat with me? Or even a thirty-second chat? Why had he chosen my sister over me? What did she have that I didn’t have?

  Of course these days, if I met a big celebrity like Santa, I know I’d be whipping out my mobile phone to take a photo with him. Just to prove to everyone that I had actually met him. I’m sure a photo of the two of us could even be my profile photo on Facebook! But back then, when my prize possession was a second-hand cassette player, and there was just one heavy black phone in the hall under the stairs, and everybody smoked in the cinema and on airplanes, and it was the seventies, all I wanted was a face-to-face chat with the big man himself.

  Okay, so I was fairly familiar with the essence of Mister Claus. I mean, I had met Santa myself a couple of times in the now long-gone Switzers department store after queuing for several hours to meet him. I had even been presented with a badge to wear that read, “I met Santa at Switzers”. But I knew that he wasn’t the real Santa. The real Santa lived in the North Pole with his wife and Rudolph and all his little helpers. He didn’t need to be wasting time in shopping centres handing out cheap plastic toys and going, “Ho, ho, ho!” That’s why he had representatives in shops. They were only men who looked like him. They were large and jolly with red suits and black boots and long white beards. And sometimes they invited you to sit on their knee. But they weren’t him.

  I was envious of my sister for having met Santa personally. She seemed to have all the luck when meeting kiddie “celebs”. Not only had she met and spoken to the great man himself, but she had also met the Tooth Fairy several times and the Easter Bunny on occasion. It just wasn’t fair. I had met nobody except Bosco, the puppet from RTÉ with the annoying voice.

  Anyway, this one year, I had made up my mind. I was going to meet Santa in person no matter what it took. Of course, I loved everything about Christmas. I loved the fact that we made Christmas lanterns at school, and that Mum made the cake weeks and weeks in advance, and that she also started buying the presents as early as October because, as she always said, Christmas came upon you too fast. I looked forward to hanging up my advent calendar above my bed and opening a window every day until it was Christmas Eve. I enjoyed learning the Christmas hymns in the classroom and picking out what I was going to wear on Christmas morning to Mass with my family. But of course meeting Santa would top all this. It was the ultimate goal.

  I made out many lists to Santa. I would write out a list of things I wanted and then scrunch the piece of paper in a ball and throw it in the bin. Then I would write another list and another one. I kept changing my mind about what I wanted.

  I felt bad about messing Santa around with my endless lists being left up the chimney but, in all honesty, I didn’t want to ask him for too much. I knew that he had to get presents for kids all around the world, and although he had a whole year to source everything, it must have been quite a challenge. Of course, he had all his helpers but, still, he was old and he wasn’t in the best of shape with that big belly on him. I for one could never figure out how he managed to squeeze down our narrow chimney. And didn’t all the soot dirty his snowy white beard?

  A toy that was very popular at the time was an Etch-A-Sketch, on which you could do your own drawings and then erase them. I had seen ads for them on TV and had decided I wanted one for myself. When Mum asked me whether I had yet decided what I wanted from Santa, I told her I’d made up my mind. I wanted an Etch-A-Sketch.

  “What’s that?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Santa will know exactly what it is. He knows everything about toys.”

  Poor Mum. If I was a child again I would tell my mum exactly what I had asked Santa to bring me. I wouldn’t keep it such a big secret!

  Mum also asked my sister what she wanted from Santa.

  “I want it to be a surprise,” she stated firmly. “I only want Santa to know, so it will be a surprise for everyone on the day. Even you, Mummy.”

  The night before Christmas was terribly exciting. We stood outside on the porch and looked up at all the stars on that cold frosty night. A few of the stars were twinkling furiously in the sky.

  “I wonder which one is Santa’s sleigh?” I said.

  I thought I saw it moving across the sky. Then again it might have been a plane. The sky is always full of planes bringing people home for Christmas. I hoped Santa would remember to bring my Etch-A-Sketch. I didn’t want him to mix it up with another kid’s present and leave it in the wrong home. It must have been difficult to remember which presents belonged in which house. How did he even know where he was supposed to leave everything?

  In our house he always left the presents at the end of the beds. But in the house next door he left the presents under the tree. In our house he always had a whiskey and large slice of Christmas cake. Next door he never failed to enjoy some milk and biscuits. No wonder he was a bit fat. Everywhere he went Santa seemed to eat and drink. In our house he always came down the chimney but a friend of mine lived in an apartment that didn’t have a chimney, so in her home he always took the lift up to her floor and let himself in the door. It really was amazing how he remembered what was what and who was who. No wonder he didn’t have time for frivolous chats with people! In fact, apart from my little sister, I hadn’t met anyone else who had spoken to Santa in real life.

  The night before Christmas I was wide awake. My mum and dad had kissed me goodnight and had told me they’d see me in the morning. As they turned out the light I smiled to myself. Sleep? As if! I didn’t care how long it would take, there was no way on earth I was dozing off and missing my big chance to chat with Santa.

  The minutes passed. So did the hours. It was so dark and quiet, but my eyes were open, and my ears were cocked. I was looking out for shadows. Or the sound of Rudolph’s bell tinkling. But there was still no sign. I told myself to be patient. Santa would be arriving no matter what. He didn’t come on any night other than Christmas Eve. Soon enough I’d hear his footsteps on the carpet of my bedroom floor.

  Suddenly the door opened. Just a tiny bit, but enough to allow the light from the hallway to flood my room. My heart almost stopped. Oh God, was it him? Was it really him at last? The excitement was overwhelming.

  “Santa? Is that you?” My voice quivered.

  But it wasn’t Santa. It was Dad. He sounded tired.

  “Go to sleep now, Marisa. He’s not here yet.”

  “Is he on his way?”

  “Yes.”

  An hour later I thought I heard his footsteps on my bedroom floor.

  “Santa?”

  “No, love.”

  It was Mum. I was beyond disappointed. Why did my parents keep coming into my room? They were probably putting Santa off! Maybe Santa did
n’t want to feel forced to enjoy a whiskey with Dad down in the kitchen? Or get into a boring conversation with Mum? I didn’t want to hurt their feelings but I just wished they would go off to bed and leave me in peace.

  I waited and I waited. And every now and then I would sneak to the window, pull back the curtain and gaze at the sky. Where was he? I was so tired. I didn’t know how much longer I could keep awake without succumbing to my yawns.

  Sometime later sleep took over. I drifted off. But I must have been just dozing lightly because suddenly I heard my bedroom door shut and I bolted upright in the bed. My feet hit something heavy. There was a present. Oh God, he was here! I jumped up and ran to the bedroom door, flinging it open. I raced down the stairs and burst into the kitchen.

  Mum and Dad were standing at the sliding doors, waving out at the night.

  “Bye, Santa!” they shouted in unison.

  I was gobsmacked. I just stared at my parents in disbelief. Mum was wearing a nightie and Dad had his pyjamas and a dressing gown on. They both looked exhausted.

  “He was here?” I was incredulous.

  “Yes, he’s just gone,” Mum said. “He said he had to fly.”

  “You mean you spoke to him?”

  They both nodded. I rushed to look out the doors but there wasn’t a sign of Santa’s sleigh anywhere in the starry night.

  Then I glanced down at the Christmas cake. It was untouched. Santa hadn’t taken his usual slice? But he always had cake in our house!

  “He wasn’t all that hungry,” Dad explained gently. “Too many people offered him a slice of cake this year. Now let’s all go to bed.”