My son has always had a remarkable memory. Back when he was at nursery, he would memorise all the lines for every performance, which meant we never really knew which role he would end up playing on the dayhe could easily fill in for any child who fell ill, since he knew every part by heart.
For the Christmas play this year, my five-year-old was given the honour of playing the part of a cucumber. I found this out just the night before I was on call at the hospital, so I dashed out to buy a green T-shirt and some coloured cardboard. That evening, I stayed up late sewing little green shorts to match the shirt and crafting a delightful light-green cardboard hat with a curly stalk made of green fabric-wrapped wire.
It was going to be his dad who took him to the play in the morning, which didnt inspire much confidence, so I left detailed instructions about how to dress our son and secure the hatreading them to his father over breakfast, just in case.
Halfway through my shift, I got a call from the nursery teacher, her voice shaky with worry, saying the child due to play the main character had come down ill, and my son would now have to be the Gingerbread Man. When I nervously asked if the Gingerbread Man could, perhaps, be dressed as a cucumber, there was a telling silence at the other end of the line.
I quickly rang my husband at work to relay the emergency. Sounding far too pleased (which, thinking back, should have set my alarm bells ringing), he told me not to worry. He would bring round two of his mates from the hospitalhe and his surgeon friends would pop back to ours, and sort it out in no time. “Three surgeons make a crack team for any crisis!” he said, rather cheerfully. I shouldve trusted my instincts, but I was exhausted.
At nine that evening, I finally managed to ring home. My son picked up, announcing that theyd bought a white T-shirt and that Daddy was currently glueing yellow cardboard, Uncle George was cooking, and Uncle Harry was having a good laugh.
An hour later, my son called to say he was off to bed. Uncle Harry had cut a big yellow circle from the cardboard and was now drawing on some eyes, Uncle George was opening a jar of pickled onions, and Daddy was hiccupping with laughter.
At midnight, I called home again. My husband reported that Uncle George and Uncle Harry were completely done in from their hard work and were, in fact, fast asleep. Ohand thered been a bit of a hiccup.
Apparently, Uncle George had accidentally glued the Gingerbread Mans face (cut from yellow cardboard) wonkily onto the white T-shirtusing superglue. When Uncle Harry tried to remove it, the shirt tore, so they sewed the yellow circle onto the old green cucumber T-shirt, using surgical silk.
According to them, it looked lovely. Also, theyd given the Gingerbread Man a big, wide smile with thirty teeth, except they ran out of white cardboard, so two teeth were missing. “It’ll be fine,” I said, “With thirty teeth, two wont be noticed.”
So, I told myself not to fret, carried on with my shift, and tried to believe my son would have the best costume at the play. In the background, I could hear someone snoringit was Uncle Harry, who had painstakingly cut out all those cardboard teeth, now fast asleep in the armchair.
Despite my efforts at composure, unease gnawed at me all night. When my shift ended, I begged the head doctor to let me slip away for just an hour to see my sons nursery play.
I arrived a bit late. I could already hear a wave of laughter, squeals, and even a few sobs as I crept through the door.
There, around the nursery Christmas tree, my son was attempting to hop about in character as the Gingerbread Man. On his chest was a huge, round, yellow moon-face stretching from his chin to his knees. The eyes were slightly misaligned and three long, neat, horizontal stitches above them looked exactly like the furrowed brow of a world-weary old Gingerbread Man.
His wide-open mouth was particularly striking, notably with two missing teeththe top front ones, of course! It was as if the Gingerbread Man were a thoroughly battered, hard-luck soul, recently returned from a rather dubious spell away, and possibly not a stranger to a pint or two.
Completing this masterwork was the perky cucumber-green cardboard hat, stalk and all, perched jauntily on his head.
Just then, my son began to recite his poem, which started, “Where else would you find, another just like me?…” (It carried on about how only in fairytales and at Christmas plays one would spot such a thing, but by then the entire hall was in hysterics.) The teacher, groaning, sank to her knees, and the audience was in stitches.
It was, without a doubt, the most unforgettable Gingerbread Man (with a hint of cucumber) the nursery had ever seen.
