When God Was a Rabbit

My parents were in the kitchen, basting the turkey. The meaty roast smells permeated the house and made both my brother and I nauseous, as we attempted to finish off the last two chocolates from a box of Cadbury’s Milk Tray. We were standing in front of the Christmas tree, the lights dangerously flickering and buzzing due to a faulty connection somewhere near the star (something my mother had already warned me not to touch with wet hands). We were frustrated, looking at the piles of unopened presents scattered about underneath, presents we weren’t allowed to touch until after lunch.

‘Only another hour to go,’ said my father as he skipped into the living room dressed as an elf. His youthful features stood out from under his hat, and it struck me that he looked more like Peter Pan than an elf: eternal boy rather than spiteful sprite.

My father was into dressing up. He took it seriously. As seriously as his job as a lawyer. And every year he liked to surprise us with a new festive character, and one that would remain with us throughout the Christmas period. It was like having an unwanted guest forcibly placed amidst our lives.

‘Did you hear me?’ my father said. ‘Only another hour till lunch.’

‘We’re going outside,’ said my brother sullenly.

We were bored. Everyone else on our street had already opened their gifts and were parading the Useful and the Useless in front of our envious eyes. We sat dejectedly on the damp front wall. Mr Harris ran past, showing off his new tracksuit, a tracksuit that unfortunately showed off too many parts of him.

‘It’s from my sister Wendy,’ he said before unnecessarily sprinting down the road, arms splayed out wide towards an imaginary finishing post.

My brother looked at me. ‘He hates his sister Wendy.’

I thought she couldn’t much like him, as I watched the purple, orange and green flash disappear round the corner, narrowly missing Olive Binsbury and her crutch.

‘Lunch!’ shouted my father at three minutes to two.

‘Come on then,’ said my brother. ‘Once more unto the breach.’

‘Once more where?’ I said, as he led me towards the dining room and the scent of my parents’ selfless and enthusiastic offerings.

It was the box I saw first; an old cardboard television box that obscured my brother’s head and made his feet tap out their way like white sticks.

‘Am I nearly there yet?’ he said, heading towards the table.

‘Nearly,’ I said.

He placed the box down on the table. I could smell the fecund dampness of straw. The box moved jerkily, but I wasn’t scared. My brother opened the flaps and pulled out the biggest rabbit I’d ever seen.

‘I said I’d get you a proper friend.’

‘It’s a rabbit!’ I said with piercing delight.

‘A Belgian hare, actually,’ he said, rather brotherly.

‘A Belgian hare,’ I repeated quietly, as if I’d just said words that were the equivalent to love.

‘What do you want to call it?’ he asked.

‘Eleanor Maud,’ I said.

‘You can’t name it after you,’ my brother laughed.

‘Why not?’ I said, a little deflated.

‘Because it’s a boy,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ I said, and I looked at its chestnut-brown fur and its white tail and the two little droppings that had fallen from his arse, and thought that he did indeed look like a boy.

‘What do you think I should call him then?’ I asked.

‘God,’ said my brother grandly.

‘Smile!’ said my father, pointing his new Polaroid camera in front of my face. FLASH! The rabbit struggled in my arms as temporarily I went blind.

‘You OK?’ asked my father as he excitedly placed the film under his arm.

‘Think so,’ I said, walking into the table.

‘Come on, everyone! Come and watch this,’ he shouted, and we huddled around the developing image, saying, ‘Ooh’ and ‘Ahh’ and ‘Here she comes’, as I watched my blurred face sharpen into focus. I thought the new, short haircut that I’d pleaded for looked odd.

‘You look beautiful,’ said my mother.

‘Doesn’t she?’ said my father.

But all I could see was a boy, where once I would have been.