Screwtop Thompson

7. Screwtop Thompson

SCREWTOP THOMPSON! it said on the box. HIS HEAD SCREWS RIGHT OFF! The price was two shillings and sixpence. Screwtop Thompson made his appearance in the toy shop window a few weeks before Christmas, and caught everybody’s attention with his jolly laughing face. He came in several different guises. You could buy Screwtop Thompson as a policeman, a fireman, a sailor, a footballer, a boxer or a schoolmaster, each with the same expression. The policeman brandished a truncheon, the fireman held the end of a hose, while the schoolmaster wore a mortarboard and gown.

Screwtop Thompson was plump and round with a big red mouth and shiny black eyes. His head screwed off, apparently so that you could put things inside him — small coins, for example, or maybe your collection of coloured marbles. We were living in an age of austerity, so my parents agreed that Screwtop Thompson would make an ideal Christmas gift for me. I chose the fireman. The price, as I said, was two and six, or half a crown as we called it in those days.

My brother’s equivalent present was a robot. It did nothing apart from march along the floor with yellow lights flashing where its ears should be, but at the time it was considered a technological marvel by children and adults alike. There were four sizes in the range, and my brother was to receive the third largest. After the two of us had made our choices, we were supposed to forget we’d ever been in the shop, so that we could be appropriately surprised when we were given our presents on Christmas Day. We did our best but it was difficult. Everybody at school was talking about the new robots and the Screwtop Thompsons, as well as all the other treasures that were arriving in the toy shop day after day. Some of them sounded fantastic.

When I heard about the car-racing kits and the ‘genuine walkie-talkies’ that were now becoming available, I began to wonder if I’d made the right choice with my Screwtop Thompson. At the same time, I knew it was too late to change my mind.

At last the big day came. On Christmas morning I unwrapped my present and found I had received not a fireman but a schoolmaster. It seemed that there had been such a rush for Screwtop Thompsons in the days preceding Christmas that the shop had run out of all the other lines. I hid my disappointment and reminded myself that even the schoolmaster would have the same jolly face as the rest.

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.

The day before New Year was a quiet one. My parents had many things to do, they said, so they were leaving us to our own devices for a couple of hours. We were ordered not to traipse snow into the house if we went outside, and not to help ourselves to cake. Would it be alright for Conker to come round? we asked. Yes, they said, that would be alright. They would be back at teatime.

The snow had by now lost its charm for us, so instead we opted to stay indoors for the day. Martin suggested a game of snakes-and-ladders, to which my brother and I both agreed, and when Conker arrived he offered to make up a foursome. Before play could begin, however, there was a matter to settle. As Martin reached for the dice, Conker knocked him down and pinned him to the floor. Then my brother and I did our very best to screw his head right off.