Don’t Tell Mummy by Toni Maguire

Instinctively I knew that if I refused to eat, not only would he be pleased, but somehow in that mysterious adult world where children’s feelings are not real, any tears shed for Mr Turkey would be gently mocked.
    I ate it, even though every mouthful stuck in my throat. As I forced it down a hopeless rage rose inside me; hatred was born that Christmas. Laughter around the table became the sound of adults conspiring and my childhood, although still not completely gone, only hung on by a few threads.
    Crackers were pulled, hats were placed on top of heads and faces grew flushed, both from the heat of the fire and the whiskey diluted with water that everyone, except my mother and I, drank in copious quantities. She had her bottle of dry sherry while I drank orange squash.
    My mind stayed on the big gentle bird that had looked so forlorn when he had lived in that tiny back room for the last days of his life. I felt shame that Christmas had meant he had to die and shame that to protect myself from ridicule I had swallowed that meat.
    The Christmas pudding was served next and my portion had the silver coin. Then it was time to open our presents. My grandparents gave me a new jumper, my aunt and uncles hair ribbons, slides, trinkets and a doll. My parents handed me a large parcel with an English postmark. Once opened it revealed several Enid Blyton books with my name written in them from my English grandmother. I was filled with a feeling of such longing to see her again as memories flooded in of my earlier, happier days. I saw again her small, neatly dressed figure, heard her voice calling ‘Antoinette, where are you?’, heard my own laughter as I pretended to hide and smelt her perfume of lilies and face powder as shebent down to kiss me. Somehow, I thought, if she was there our home would be happy again.
    My parents gave me a pencil case for school and two second-hand books. Fairly soon after that it was time to go.
    That night we drove back to the thatched house and I went straight to bed, too tired to hear the scurrying in the thatch, or to switch on the torch.
    On Boxing Day I went for a walk on my own, for once leaving the dogs behind in the hope of seeing rabbits and hares playing. There was a field at the top of a slight hill where I could lie to watch them. That morning I was to be disappointed. The weather was too cold for me and for them.
    It was not until Easter that my patience was rewarded as I lay motionless on top of the daisy-spotted hillock. I held my breath, scared that the slightest noise would alert the rabbit families. I stayed out of sight, but close enough to see the whites of their bobtails. Whole families left their burrows to gambol in the field below and welcome the spring in. That day I came across a baby rabbit that seemed to have been abandoned by its parents. It sat, unmoving, with its bright eyes flickering nervously as I bent to pick it up. Tucking it under my jumper for warmth I could feel its heart beating rapidly as I raced home.
    ‘What have you got there?’ exclaimed my mother, seeing the bulge of the rabbit.
    Pulling my jumper up I showed her and she gently took it from me.
    ‘We’ll make a home for it until it’s big enough to find its family,’ she said.
    Gathering newspapers, she showed me how to shred them so that they would provide a warm nest, then shefound a wooden box and the first of the makeshift cages was made. When the farmers found that we had one rescued rabbit they brought us several more. They explained that dogs and foxes often killed the parents, leaving the young unable to fend for themselves. The care of these orphaned rabbits was something my mother and I did together. We put straw, water and food into the cages and fed them by hand.
    ‘When they’re big,’ she warned me, ‘you can’t keep them as pets any more. These are wild rabbits. They belong in the fields. But we’ll keep them until they’re strong enough to be released.’
    My father silently