When God Was a Rabbit

BABY JESUS IN COMA

That was the early headline. There was no picture of Michael Jacobs, only a picture of a weeping king, who wasn’t weeping because of the accident but because his mother was telling him off for stealing. One witness commented that it was the end of Christmas for the community, but my brother said we shouldn’t go that far and that Jesus would rise again. Not until Easter, said Jenny Penny, crying into a pillow.

Of course it was Miss Grogney who blamed both Jenny and me for the whole tragedy, and told the police as much, but they were having none of it. It was a Safety Issue, and as she was supervising the whole palaver (they actually used that word), the blame should lay fairly and squarely on her round shoulders. She would resign before the inquest, treating the whole incident as a question of faith. She’d renounce modern life and do good deeds. She’d move to Blackpool.

My mother had tried to contact Mrs Penny throughout the day and eventually she contacted my mother and said that she was in Southend-on-Sea eating cockles, and could my mother look after Jenny for the night. Of course, my mother said, and promptly told her all that had happened.

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ said Mrs Penny. ‘Tomorrow OK?’ And then like a dingo scenting blood, she added a little too eagerly, ‘When’s the funeral?’

‘He’s not dead yet,’ said my mother sharply, albeit a little carelessly.