Little tiny
tortoise; so small, so perfect. You have hatched out of my Christmas stocking.
Almost too fragile, too pretty to be put on. I shall carefully play with you
even though you have a metal spike in your tail. Tortoise climbing over
wrapping-paper mountains, slowly traversing the landscape of my bedspread.
Gold and
greying turquoise, the texture of your shell intrigues me. Amongst the toys and
books and satsumas you stand out, you are special. My magpie eyes keeping
coming back to you, after I open each other present. Jewellery is grown up,
glamorous. My most sophisticated gift. I nod to myself. Father Christmas knows
I am old enough not to spike myself on a broach. He is a wise man who knows my
taste.
Eventually I
hear others stir; the house is waking up. I pin you onto my pyjamas and go and
show you to Mummy.
* * *
Life is full of
special things. The pink Parker pen I did all my exams with, the Christmas-cracker
half-bitten red setter, the eraser I swapped with the boy from Blackheath,
metal studded boots with swirling embroidery, that double-fringed haircut. Many
are transitory, most disappear, tastes change and feelings are forgotten but
somehow my tortoise travelled with me.
My Mum
remembers my tortoise. She remembers finding him and loving him and being so
glad that I loved him too. I always feel strange when I think how much effort
she put into our stockings and how Father Christmas took all the credit. We
never thanked her.
I’ve had three
jewellery boxes, and that tiny tortoise went from musical ballerina, to
fluorescent flowery number to the current plain wooden one. He always made the
cut. I didn’t wear him until my forties; he finally fits with my sentiment and
aesthetic or maybe I finally fit with his. Now he lives on my favourite jacket,
fulfilling his purpose. He gets lots of compliments.
