“What happens when it gets to the bottom?”
“It’s Christmas.”
“Does it have to get all the way down before Christmas comes?”
“Yes.”
Last Christmas, the Cactus Lady pulled aside her net curtain and knocked at me as I passed on the way home from school. I stopped the buggy and smiled. She pointed towards the door, telling me to wait.
I had never seen the Cactus Lady before but had often admired the cactuses growing in white wire baskets in her small crazy-paved front garden alongside the vintage Chevette parked under the tatty plastic car port. Cactuses you could not miss: some a phallic foot high, others round - the size of a football, some with a crown of flowers perched on their spiky heads, others furry or naked and ridged. But recently the white wire baskets had stood empty.
I stopped the buggy and waited. She opened the door.
She is wearing a blue and white gingham apron over a smart skirt suit, tan tights, low heels and bright red lipstick; her hair is set in platinum-blonde Marilyn Monroe curls but her skin is thin and wrinkled; she must be at least eighty.
I smile. “Hello.”
“Hello dear,” she replies. She is holding two small plastic bags in her hand.
“Are you alright?” I ask. “Can I help you in any way?”
Behind her, I can see the hallway. Spider plants hang from macramé plant holders, the carpet is a swirl of red and gold. A large plastic owl adorns the wall next to a mirror framed with curled brass.
She holds out the bags.
“For the girls,” she says, her voice quivering like her hand.
I look down at the bags. Inside I see brown fur, red and green felt. I take them from her.
“Thank you.” I say. I put the bags on the back of the buggy and smile. “That’s very kind.”
She nods.
“I liked your cactuses,” I say. “I always admired them when I passed by.” I look at the empty baskets.
She points across to the Chevette. “They’re in the car. I keep them there during the winter, ‘gainst frost.”
When we get home I open the bags. Each holds a grumpy-looking toy squirrel; one wearing ear muffs; the other a scarf and Santa hat. The girls love them.
“Doh doh,” says Nathalie, holding out her hand for a squirrel. I give her the one in the hat.
Robin snatches the other and cuddles it fiercely into her neck. “Sarah. Sarah. Sarah.” She chants in that fake baby voice that drives me mad.
Walking to school this morning, we pass the Cactus Lady’s house. This Christmas there are no cactuses; not even in the car. The Vauxhall Chevette is gone and there’s a builders sign outside: Roberts and Son, Renovations, Coventry. The undraped windows stare blankly back at me and I can see new wiring hanging from light fittings. In the front garden, where the cactuses stood, sits a large yellow skip, the contents frosted with the cold air: an old carpet swirled in red and gold, a plastic horse without rockers, two dead spider plants, a bathroom cabinet and the cactus baskets.
Tomorrow, the children will urge the candle to burn quickly, looking impatiently at twenty-four, pulling forward the future, not knowing that they are mortal.
Read last month's post: belly up frogs
