When I removed the lid of the box, however, I discovered that Screwtop Thompson’s head was missing. All I had was his body, wrapped in the flowing black gown. This provided a bona fide excuse for tears, and my father had to console me by saying that immediately after the Christmas holiday he would write to the manufacturer to demand an explanation, as well as a replacement head.
“We’ll have to wait a couple of weeks, though,” he remarked. “Otherwise the letter will be sure to get lost in the post.”
I stood my Screwtop Thompson on the window sill and managed to amuse myself with the rest of my gifts. Some of these were edible, of course, and included toffee and chocolate, as well as a number of little sugar mice.
As Christmas Day quickly passed, the batteries in my brother’s robot began to run down, so that by teatime it would only move at half speed. Early on he’d discovered that it was altogether hopeless across carpets, and could be used only on a flat, smooth surface such as the hall floor. My mother was worried because our hallway was draughty and the weather was turning cold, and I think she was probably quite relieved when, finally, the batteries went completely dead.
As darkness fell, we forgot about toys and instead chose to watch television, the magic of Christmas flashing for hour after hour across a pale-blue screen. Then we went to bed, hoping for all our worth that it would snow overnight.
It was traditional for our cousin Martin to come to stay with us between Christmas and New Year. This was the only time we ever saw him, so we had to renew our acquaintanceship annually. At the beginning of such visits the three of us got on very well together, but relations quite often became strained as the days passed. My mother said that this was because Martin had no brothers and sisters, and was more used to playing on his own than we were. My brother and I therefore received instructions to be nice to him and to make allowances.
There had been no snow as yet, but on the day that Martin arrived the sky had turned very cold and grey, offering prospects of sledging and snowball fights. My brother and I were pleased to find that Martin shared our enthusiasm for these pursuits, and the three of us were soon planning to build an igloo.
In the meantime, we had to exchange gifts. We gave Martin solitaire, and he gave us snakes-and-ladders (which we already had). This meant that sometime after the holidays we would have to write to Martin’s parents thanking them and hoping our cousin had got home safely. It also meant we would have to play snakes-and-ladders several times during the next few days. It was while preparations were being made for just such a game that I noticed one of my sugar mice had gone missing.
I’d placed all my presents on one side of the Christmas tree, separate from my brother’s, with the sugar mice on top. When I discovered the loss I naturally blamed my brother and a small tussle ensued, during which he denied taking anything. Finally, my father intervened and told me I had probably lost count of how many sugar mice I’d already eaten. This seemed unlikely to me as I had previously divided them into pinks and whites and knew exactly how many there were of each. Nonetheless, my father commanded me, firmly, to drop the matter.
As all this was going on, Martin sat quietly at the table setting up the board for snakes-and-ladders. Meanwhile, my headless Screwtop Thompson stood unnoticed and forgotten on the window sill.
My brother and I had a neighbour called Conker, who often called round whether he was invited or not. He lived close by and was about the same age as me, although a good deal larger than any of my other friends. Conker was a rather rough-and-ready companion, and we were more likely to get into trouble if he was with us. He also tended to use his size to administer justice.
I remember one occasion when he saw me shove my brother into a hedge during a squabble about blackberries. A moment later, he had knocked me to the ground, and he spent the next few minutes sitting on my head singing, “I will make you fishers of men!” at the top of his voice. As I said, a rather rough-and-ready companion. All the same, we were quite pleased to see him when he turned up one cold morning a couple of days after Martin’s arrival.
Martin and Conker had met the year before, and soon we were all talking about our Christmas presents.
Conker had also received a Screwtop Thompson. His first choice had been the footballer and, lucky for him, his wish had been granted. The subject of conversation then came round to my own headless version, which Martin suddenly found a source of great amusement. With my brother and Conker as an audience, he took huge delight in mocking me for receiving a model of a schoolmaster for a Christmas present, especially one without a head!
He went on to say that he thought all the Screwtop Thompsons were stupid and babyish anyway. I pointed out that they were good for saving up in. Martin said saving up was stupid as well. Conker said this was because Martin’s parents probably bought him everything he wanted, so he didn’t need to save up. Martin repeated his assertion that Screwtop Thompsons were stupid.
“No, they’re not!” I cried, going to the window sill to get mine. At the same instant we all saw that it was now snowing heavily outside. The argument was forgotten as we rushed about putting on our coats and boots.
My mother appeared and reminded us we needed our bobble hats as well, then the four of us spent the next few hours tumbling around in the growing whiteness. It smothered everything, so that the road and the pavement became indistinguishable under the orange glow of the street lights, which seemed to remain switched on all day (although they most probably weren’t).
Before we knew it, evening had come and it was time to get warmed up indoors. We said goodnight to Conker, all of us having decided that tomorrow we would build the igloo we’d talked about.
This was easier said than done. The weather the following day turned out to be cold and harsh, and it had at last stopped snowing: ideal conditions for building an igloo. Unfortunately we were unable to agree the best way to go about it. Conker wanted to make a huge pile of snow and then burrow a way inside, while I preferred the idea of building the igloo properly from snow ‘blocks’.
Martin, in the meantime, seemed much more interested in giving orders than anything else. He already had my brother digging snow with a spade that was much too large for him, and he then embarked on an independent scheme to build a giant snowman. He wouldn’t let any of us help him, not even my brother, which seemed a bit unfair, so we carried on with the igloo alone. By late afternoon we were starting to wonder how Eskimos could live in such small, cold places. My brother had long since lost interest in the project, and had instead begun to build a snowman of his own, right beside Martin’s. Conker and I were emerging from the igloo after a shivering competition when we saw Martin shoving a stick into my brother’s snowman’s neck. He obviously thought we weren’t looking, and didn’t seem to care that my brother was standing nearby with a very distraught expression on his face. Martin pushed the stick further and further before levering it back, so that the head was prised off and rolled onto the ground. My brother rushed forward to save his creation, but Martin knocked him to one side. This was too much for Conker, who charged from the igloo towards Martin’s snowman, with the obvious intention of destroying it.
At that moment Conker’s father appeared at the gate and ordered his son to come home for tea immediately. “We’ve been calling you for ten minutes!” he announced, clipping the boy round the ear for good measure.
As we headed back towards our house, my brother in tears and Martin grinning quietly to himself, I noticed Screwtop Thompson, the headless schoolmaster, standing silhouetted in the window, as though he’d been observing the afternoon’s events unfold.