Timothy always opened the largest present first because he believed that the biggest present had to be the best and the most expensive. His silver metal alarm clock perched near the edge of the small wooden table by his unmade bed showed five past eight. Today was Christmas day 1965. This day would be extremely remarkable in Timothy’s life, although he wouldn’t know it for many years. A middle aged Mr and Mrs Pinkerton stood awkwardly just inside the open door to their son’s small, cold, cluttered bedroom. Mr Pinkerton stood uneasily, looking as if he wanted to be somewhere else. Mrs Pinkerton wore her shabby pink dressing gown along with a large genuine smile as she shuffled excitedly form one foot to the other.
The unshaven Mr Pinkerton scratched his large backside and yawned loudly, proving that men can in fact multi-task. He was at an age where his dark hair was disappearing fast from the top of his head, and sprouting again from the centre of his flabby ears. Mrs Pinkerton loved Christmas, and every room in the house was decorated with paper chains or tinsel or both. As usual, she was trying her hardest to make Christmas a happy time for the three of them.
This year, Timothy had twelve hastily wrapped presents from his parents to open. They were all different shapes and sizes, but he knew what every single one was before he even began tearing at the wrapping paper because as usual, at the end of November he had given his mother a list of what he wanted.
The largest and most expensive present on his list this Christmas was a Marconiphone portable record player. The one he asked for had a solid square red case made from wood with a black heavy lid that hinged at the back, and a shiny white front panel with large chunky dials and switches. Even though it had a thick leather handle on the side, Timothy would struggle to lift it. Mr Pinkerton had thought that calling it ’portable’ was pushing the truth a little, but it was on Timothy’s pre-Christmas list, so naturally, they had bought it for him.
It took Timothy just over seven and a half minutes to unwrap his twelve presents. As he opened each gift he gave an excited shout of “super-duper” because even though he knew what all the presents were, he still got the excitement that every twelve year old gets when it comes to opening presents. But his father didn’t share his enthusiasm. He stood expressionless and looked cheesed off as the heavy rain pounded on the small bedroom window.
Once the thrilling task of present opening was over, Timothy sat cross legged on his untidy bed and watched aimlessly as his mother cleared away most of the expensive green and red wrapping paper. She was still smiling and talking excitedly to him, but he wasn’t really listening. Mr Pinkerton, a man of very few words yawned again, scratched again and muttered something about breakfast before leaving the bedroom. He paid little attention to Timothy or his mother these days.
Mrs Pinkerton sighed and dropped a few scraps of the paper as she leaned over to give Timothy a kiss on his forehead. “Merry Christmas Timbo”. She hurried out of Timothy’s bedroom leaving a small trail of wrapping paper behind her. Mrs Pinkerton always seemed to be in a hurry and was even more flustered today. She rushed down the creaky bare wooden stairs to the dingy kitchen at the back of the large chilly house. The sound of her feet making a ker-lomp ker-lomp that echoed as she went.
Good Christmas story.