She was holding the junior boxing gloves I had bought her – one of those unsuccessful presents that parents so often buy for their children, when they still hold on to the vain hope that their mutual interests might possibly coincide; one of those presents that are admired for the sake of politeness and then tossed into a drawer, never to be seen again.

‘I want to know how,’ she said. ‘Show me.’

I helped her to put on the gloves. They were the smallest size available and they were still comically enormous on her. But we did not smile. I held up my palms.

‘When you throw a punch,’ I said, ‘it should be like catching a fly. You ever catch a fly?’

She shivered. ‘I saw Stan catch a wasp once.’

‘Well, think of that. The hand should snap back as fast as it snaps forward.’

I demonstrated, and then held up my palms again.

‘You try.’

Scout frowned.

‘I can’t hit very hard,’ she said.

I touched her shoulder.

‘Angel,’ I said. ‘It’s got nothing to do with how hard you can hit.’

Scout started punching.

Then suddenly there were just a few days to Christmas and there was the promise of snow in the grey city skies.

I sat in a dark school hall and I watched angels in bed sheets with sellotaped paper wings, five-year-old wise men with wonky cotton-wool beards, stuffed toys standing in for the animals in the manger in Bethlehem and, at the centre of it all, a grumpy sheep waving her small fist at the heavens.

‘It’s all right for the angels!’ the grumpy sheep said bitterly. ‘The angels can fly to the manger! But I must walk!’

The grumpy sheep – Scout under an old white rug superglued to an even older rucksack, her nose blackened with make-up – narrowed her eyes at the heavens.

‘Why must I walk to the manger? It means nothing to me! I don’t even want to see this baby they call Jesus.’

She regretted it in the end. On her knees in the centre of the stage, shaking her head as the wise men and angels milled around in the background.

‘Oh why was I so grumpy! Why did I complain? I see clearly now! At last, I see it all.’ She raised her head and stared out into the darkness. ‘This is a special child!’

Mrs Mallory – Margaret – was sitting next to me and she reached across and squeezed my hand as I sat there in the darkness with all the other parents, choking down wild laughter, and the hot tears streaming down my face.

Author’s Note

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The first grown-up piece of journalism I ever wrote – the first article that did not involve staying up all night with rock stars – was out of 27 Savile Row, London W1 – West End Central.