Tin Man: a Christmas story

Young Billy only has a Christmas of sadness to look forward to. Will he get the thing he most desperately wants?

Billy traced his finger across the frosted window of the toy shop. The tiny figure was still there, standing to attention. He closed his eyes and wished again. Mum said Santa didn’t have much money this year but he had been good, keeping his promise to be the man of the house till Dad came home.

A voice broke his thoughts. “Billy Slater… I didn’t recognise you, muffled up like that. Still after that tin soldier?”

He gazed up at the towering woman with a severe grey bun and worn khaki shop coat. Mrs Garner, the formidable manager of the toy shop.

Billy hesitated. “He reminds me….” “Of your dad?”

“Yes.” Billy lowered his eyes. “Mum says he won’t be home for Christmas.”

Mrs Garner had no children, but running the toyshop let her play mum instead. Her voice softened. “That he won’t – along with all the other brave dads and sons. But he’d want you to enjoy Christmas just the same, now wouldn’t he?”

“I s’pose.”

“You suppose right. Now get you off to school before the teacher gives you something to be sad about.”

It was the last day before the holidays. Heading home that afternoon, Billy took a detour to sneak one more look in the toyshop window. The tin soldier was still standing guard, proudly guarded the dolls and jigsaws.

Gran was waiting with a hug. “And how’s my big man today? I’ve got your Bovril ready.” She handed him a steaming mug and he sat on the rug

He was worried he was forgetting what Dad looked like. ‘Please come home soon,’ he would pray

next to his little sister Ella, who was in her playpen. The beefy liquid of the hot drink started to thaw him like a snowman standing in sunshine.

“Come on, Beth.” He called to the old Collie dog, who shambled over from her corner to nuzzle at Billy’s fingers. He buried his head into her silken beard and her tail thwacked the playpen bars, making Ella shriek with laughter.

Billy took Beth out for a walk. No special trip to the shop window this time. He had to be home for Children’s Favourites at five, that was the rule. Mum was already home from her wartime job in the Post Office and tuning in to the Home Service. “Dada!” piped up Ella, as she heard the click of the door latch. She did it every time.

Mum and Gran laid the table. “Telegram for the Nicholsons today,” murmured Mum and they exchanged glances.

“Was there one for us?” asked Billy. “No,” said Mum. “And we don’t want one either.”

“But it might say Dad will be home for Christmas after all.” Billy’s eyes widened.

“Well he won’t and that’s that,” said Mum, firmly. “But he’ll be thinking of us.” Mum searched every day at work for a pencilled message beginning ‘To my dears’. Billy hoped Dad knew they were thinking of him too.

Next day was Christmas Eve. After breakfast, he headed for the high crags of Moseley Top. He wasn’t supposed to go up there alone but it had always been his and Dad’s special place. Sometimes, he worried he was forgetting what Dad looked like. Going to Moseley Top helped him to remember. The strains of the mill band playing carols in the town square below drifted up towards him. The players looked as small as tin soldiers, their numbers depleted by war The flat area was where Dad had taught Billy to play football, a ‘one a side’ match, rolling up their coats for goalposts. He could hear Dad now, shouting encouragement: ‘On the head, Billy... shoot!

Up here was Billy’s own church. ‘Please God, look after Dad,’ he would pray with hands clasped. ‘Tell him to come home soon – I’m not old enough to be a man yet.’

Back home, Gran had been ‘testing’ the damson wine for tomorrow. Her apple cheeks were rosier and she was amusing Ella with a dance around the kitchen, holding aloft a stalk of Brussels sprouts. When Billy hugged her, she almost lost her balance.

That evening, they relaxed around the fire. Billy loved looking at the pictures in the flames. He imagined his dad striding towards them through a hail of orange gunfire, the whiter flames a fluttering dove of peace. At bedtime, he solemnly placed two stockings, for

himself and Ella, at either side of the fireplace.

Tucked up in bed, he toasted his feet on the hot water bottle. But as he was falling asleep, the marching began. A whole regiment of tin feet, louder and louder as they stomped up his counterpane, over his head, the ceiling and out through the window. Then silence.

Next morning, he rushed downstairs, feeling the lumps in his stocking. New gloves, socks, a pencil with a rubber top and best of all, a magic painting book.

Mum fished the object out with a spoon and lay it gently on Billy’s plate. Mouth open, he looked from her to Gran

Billy reached into the toe, just to see if the soldier might be there. But Mum was right. He wasn’t there.

Lunchtime. Gran had made crackers from empty toilet rolls and faded crepe paper. They had no snaps, but each bore a small gift: Hair grips for Mum, tiny mitts for Ella. Gran offered her hand to help Billy pull his.

As it fell apart, something flew out – straight into the gravy boat. Mum fished the object out with a spoon and lay it gently on Billy’s plate. Mouth open, he looked from Mum to Gran and wiped the gravy off the toy with his hanky.

“He looks like he’s been in the trenches like a real soldier,” Gran said. Her eyes were twinkling.

Billy jumped from his chair and hugged them both. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I’ll never ask for another present – ever.”

Later, while Mum and Gran slept off the damson wine, Billy took Beth up to Moseley Top. He carefully drew the tin soldier

– now parade smart – from his pocket and placed it on his hand.

“Merry Christmas, Dad,” he murmured, looking into the distance where he imagined France may be.

Far away, a weary soldier wiped the mud from his eyes and kicked a clod of earth like a football.

“Merry Christmas, my dears.”