Little Donkey (ebook)

Argumento de Little Donkey (ebook)

It?s Christmas and Jenny Checkland is beset with problems.

The vicar, who really should know better, has asked to borrow Marilyn the donkey for the nativity play, thereby unleashing chaos on the already chaos-laden Frogmorton Farm.

Will Marilyn survive her bath? Will anyone survive Marilyn?s bath?

Robbed of her role as the Virgin Mary, what revenge is the Angel Gabriel plotting? Can Marilyn be prevented from eating the Baby Jesus? Why is that sheep so fat?

Where is Thomas, who promised he would be there?

And worst of all ? will Russell, lost on the moor in a blizzard, make it back in time for the birth of his first child? Or even at all?

Another chance to meet the characters from the best-selling novel, The Nothing Girl, as they navigate the complexities of the local nativity play in their own unique fashion.

And so, Mrs Checkland, said the vicar, finishing his preamble and second cup of tea simultaneously, I was wondering if we could possibly borrow your dear little donkey?

Behind him, our housekeeper, Mrs Crisp, turned from stirring something on the stove. She stared in amazement, opened her mouth to say something, caught my eye, and changed her mind. Her ladle dripped, unheeded, onto her spotless kitchen floor.

At the other end of the kitchen table, Kevin and Sharon were still grappling with the dimension-defying chaotic tangle that our Christmas lights and tinsel together had somehow managed to achieve during the eleven and a half months theyd been stored under the stairs. They also stared at him. In the silence, we could clearly hear the cat snoring, belly-up in front of the range. In deference to the vicars religious sensibilities, Mrs Crisp had covered certain areas with a strategic tea towel.

Nobody spoke and I realised, with no sense of surprise, that it was up to me again. These days, Im almost completely OK with talking. Theres just a slight stutter every now and then, especially if Im tired or upset. Today, it was surprise that tripped me up.

Im sorry, Mr Wivenhoe, you want to borrow our donkey?

He put down his mug and smiled at me, wispy white hair curling around his head, beaming like a cherub. Yes, yes, Mrs Checkland. Thats right. We usually go to the donkey sanctuary, of course, but our usual donkey, Jonquil, has a nasty cough this year and they dont want to let her out in the cold, so they recommended we try Mr Checkland. Ive been trying to telephone him for days, but, my goodness, hes a busy man, isnt he, so I thought Id call and ask in person, which is a much more polite way of going about things. And here I am. Borrowing your donkey. Just for an afternoon, of course. And quite honestly, after the the debacle of last year, we really need all the help we can get.

I clutched wildly at a straw. Debacle?

He sighed as Mrs Crisp topped up his tea and placed another slice of lemon drizzle cake in front of him. I succumbed.

To what? And realised, too late, that wasnt the most tactful question in the universe. Should one enquire about the temptation of vicars?

I was against it from the start, but I have to say they made a very strong case and I really thought it would attract a younger audience. Sadly, of course, it did nothing of the kind.

I stared, bewildered. Not for the first time, I really wished my husband was here. If he answered his phone, or even just spent some time at home occasionally, then I wouldnt have to do this. We had been married for two years now and right from the start, Russell had established a strong tradition of never being around when needed. I was pregnant, for heavens sake. I should be cosily tucked up somewhere warm and comfortable, while people brought me tea and cake.

I waited for Thomas to tell me that I was cosily tucked up with tea and cake and to pull myself together, but of course, he didnt. Thomas wasnt with me any longer. I had to do things for myself.

Fortunately, Kevin was explaining.

Last year was a modern version of the childrens nativity play, Mrs Checkland. Mary gave birth in a bus shelter; the shepherds were three council dustmen; and three homeless people brought gifts of a tin of baked beans, a book of food stamps, and a Transformer.

A transformer? You mean the electrical thing?

No, the robot. You know, they transform.

Into what?

Um another robot.

Why?

I dont know, he said hastily and I turned back to the vicar.

Yes, he said, sadly. It was a bit of a disaster, Im afraid, so this year Im putting my foot down. A traditional childrens nativity play.

Enlightenment dawned. With a traditional donkey.

Exactly. He beamed at my comprehension. And your neighbour, Mr Braithwaite, is contributing a sheep for the shepherds and possibly a lamb as well, although its a little bit early, he says, but I certainly think that this year were on to a winner. Especially with your delightful little donkey. At least, I hope we are. There was a certain amount of criticism last year.

Poor Mr Wivenhoe. I felt so sorry for him, beset by foes on all sides. The Parish Council. The Bishop. The Ladies League of Something or Other. The Flower-Arranging Rota. The mothers of every little girl who wanted to be the Virgin Mary this year. All the Forces of Darkness gathered daily around his hapless head. No one living outside a small English village could have any comprehension of the pressures under which he laboured.

So I hope very much that you will allow us to use your charming little donkey

Marilyn, I said.

Yes. Such a pretty name for such a pretty donkey. Im sure she will be the star of the show.

I rather thought that was supposed to be Baby Jesus, but I held my peace.0