Southend U3A

August 2022

Decoy

Why do we do it?

Why do we do it to our very own children, for pity’s sake?

As a parent, it is our duty from birth to nurture our kids; to care for them; to educate them; to guide them through the tangled web of civilisation and to empower them to survive and prosper; to teach them to be decent upright citizens; to be kind to animals and to other people – to be, basically, a good person. However, two of the most important things that we always insist upon is never to talk to strangers and always to tell the truth.

So, why, therefore, from a very early age, do we spend our time filling their little heads with the most outlandish garbage?

As I grew up, my natural curiosity drove me to examine the world around me in minute detail and one by one these parental myths rose to the surface to be dealt with.

However, I found it difficult to rationalise the Sandman, who sprinkles sand into children’s eyes to help them to sleep. It was not until many years later that I read the Hans Christian Andersen story, where the Sandman was a kindly man who, as they slept, told them beautiful stories and, so that they could remain in dreamland until morning, sprinkled sand into their eyes to keep them closed.

The Tooth Fairy was another bizarre enigma but I suppose she did have a rather more practical purpose by exchanging a shed tooth for a shiny pound coin. In the early days I did consider the possibility of taking this thought to the extreme and making an absolute fortune but I never did find the courage to go ahead with the idea. A far more difficult one took me many years to come to terms with – the stork.

I argued that if a message was sent to the stork requesting a child and it then picked up a tiny infant and then flew for some distance and then dropped it under a gooseberry bush . . . then how could you be my mummy?

Now, we do not have a gooseberry bush in our garden. The only one I know of near to us is Mrs Wilson, who lives three doors down. She is really nice to me and she lets me pick the gooseberries when they are huge and sweet and golden. Surely, then, Mrs Wilson must be my mum because I must surely have landed in her garden.

This suggestion ended with a very, very long and meaningful conversation with my mum in which I was told – most categorically – that I was well and truly hers.

I have experienced many other such examples of falsehood and prevarication throughout my short life, lies such as: that every time you step on the cracks on the pavement a fairy dies; that your nose grows longer every time you tell a lie (how big a hypocrite would you have to be to tell a child that one?!); that if the wind changes your face will stay like that; that eating carrots make you see in the dark . . .

However, the biggest one of them all was the one which caused me the most sleepless nights.

In the months leading up to Christmas I was told with monotonous regularity to be especially good, because if I wasn’t, then Father Christmas would put me on the naughty list.

Every year this traumatic condition would be rammed home without mercy. However, as I grew a little older and was beginning to rationalise my parent’s strange mythology, the whole Christmas thing began to take on a very dark and sinister twist.

It all boiled down to: ‘Go to bed and close your eyes. While you are asleep a strange man will slide down the chimney; he will slip into your bedroom with a sack full of toys; if you are very, very good then he will leave presents but if I was not very, very good, then all I would get is a piece of coal.’

I had never once before thought of Santa as anything but a benign and generous benefactor but now I was having the greatest difficulty getting to grips with the undertone of the expression, ‘very, very good’. This prospect terrified me to such an extent that on one particular Christmas Eve I had to be coerced, pressured and then finally marched up to my room with very, very strict instructions.

I lay awake for some time trying to find a way out of this situation. No way was I prepared to lay in perfect silence, waiting for the stranger and expect me to be very, very good.

I eventually devised a plan – I knew it was not fireproof but it was the best I could come up with.

I put the pillow down the length of the bed and fluffed up the duvet as a decoy – to make it look as if I was fast asleep beneath the covers. Then I slid under the bed and crawled down to the very bottom, right next to the bedroom door. I picked up a book and a small torch, because I had absolutely no intention of risking dropping off to sleep.

I fought tiredness for some time and I nearly drifted off several times but my sheer determination and willpower kept me focussed.

Then I heard a sound – a slow and measured footfall. I turned off the torch and held my breath. The sound came closer and closer until, in the dim light I saw a pair of large boots. They looked a bit like dad’s work boots but the bright red trousers above them were most definitely not my father’s. I silently released my breath and took another, preparing for immediate action.

The boots moved across the foot of the bed and then moved away up the side.

I could hear the sound of the duvet being disturbed.

I slithered quickly out from under the bed and ran screaming down the landing as if the hounds of hell were at my heel.

My only thought was to run to the safety of my parents, who must, so late at night, surely be in their bed by now.

I flew into the bedroom and stopped dead. Their bed was empty. I spun around and to my horror the stranger was standing in the doorway. He was completely clothed in red – his trousers, jacket and hat – with a huge white beard almost covering his face.

I closed my eyes and screamed and screamed and screamed.

Then my mother appeared in the doorway, she had pushed the stranger out of her way and was shouting, ‘Martin, for God’s sake take that bloody thing off. Can’t you see you’re terrifying the boy?’

The hat and the beard quickly disappeared and in their place was my father’s familiar face. He gave me a wonky smile and held out a stocking to me but I was frozen to the spot.

It took my mother some time to settle me down but eventually dad took off the Santa suit and I was allowed to open the stocking on their bed.

Christmases have never been quite the same since that strange day.

[This is pure fiction - it is no way an autobiography of the author!]