The Toy Coffin

When I was young my mum had a friend who lived out on Great Western Road – let’s call her Mrs Mavor, for I’ve forgotten her name and I don’t want to upset my old mum by asking her. The whole thing left quite a bad taste. Mrs Mavor appeared a kindly old soul but whenever I was left alone with her, which, admittedly, wasn’t very often, she began to behave very oddly indeed.

“D’ye like the lassies, ma wee man, or will it be the boys for you? Yes, I think the boys”

Then my mum would re-appear with the tea tray – Mrs Mavor pretended to be less able than she actually was – and everything would be bland and normal again.

Then, on a visit some days before a Christmas and just after I’d turned seven or eight, Mrs Mavor gave me a gift. It was quite well wrapped in Christmas paper, but I could tell immediately by its shape that this was no ordinary gift that you might give a young boy; an Action Man or a board game.

As was traditional I was told not to open it before Christmas day and when we got home I laid it under the tree with the other gifts. I was spooked though because somewhere in my young psyche I knew exactly what it was.

Sure enough, come the big day, me and my tiny brother were up at the crack of dawn and everything was excitement. My da got the tea and toast on and we settled down to open the presents. My mum loved the mittens and the bar of Old Jamaica I’d carefully wrapped for her and my da got his after shave and a nice new comb. My wee brother who was only two got some wee sweeties and a nice wool bonnet my ma had knitted. There was one present remaining and it was the one from Mrs Mavor.

“Open it then, son. I’m dying to see what it is. It looks so strange”

I lifted it up, gulped a bit, then peeled the paper away to reveal, horror of horrors…!

A tiny wooden coffin!

A tiny wooden, brown coffin with miniature handles and wee screws for you to screw it tight shut. Inside was a satiny fabric all ruffled and bright red and, lying there, a doll the size of a toy soldier which looked exactly like me!

I froze in horror, but the most horrifying thing was the reaction of my mum and dad.

“Oh, look at that” they cooed almost as one. My little brother gurgled gleefully in my mum’s arms and reached out to touch the macabre toy.

“What an unusual toy” my dad exclaimed with his eyes wide and a big smile on his face.

“But…!” I spluttered, horrified at this affable reaction to what to me was a terrifying event.

“How thoughtful” chirped my mother merrily as if what in front of her wasn’t the distressing sight of her own son being portrayed in miniature in the worst piece of furniture that anyone could possibly gaze upon.

“And so well made” proclaimed my dad who was by trade a woodworker.

I still have that toy coffin, and, because of its existence, I make a point of never straying over to the west of the city. It gives me the creeps.

Mrs Mavor died - thankfully - before my mum had the chance to drag me over there once more. My mum attended the funeral and said it was a shame it was so poorly attended as Mrs Mavor was a lovely, gentle and kind person.

Was she fuck!