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The Black
Sheep

    Let me give you an example of my relationship with the good
people of Stoneguard. I lived there for eighteen years, so there
are lots of examples to choose from. But some memories are stickier
than others; they fossilise in your mind and represent, or seem to
represent, everything that you were thinking and feeling in that
moment and in all the moments leading up to and after that one.
    It was at Christmas, long before the Horrid Christmas but
horrible enough in its own way, maybe even the Christmas which
determined my feelings about all my Christmases to come.
    Ma Gamble was the owner of the Wholefood Emporium, and a
former Major in the British Army. She had no family of her own, but
she marshalled the entire town as if they were her troops. Our
vicar, Mr McGregor, was an ancient wizened man, who could hardly
see through his spectacles, let alone through the back of his head;
Ma Gamble had long assumed the role of moral protector of all of
Stoneguard, and the Emporium was the hub of all information.
    The year my twin sister Lee and I turned ten, Ma Gamble had
turned her steely eyes on the children of the town and decided that
enforced carolling, craft-making and toy patrolling were not
sufficient to keep the youth of the village out of trouble. It was
always a danger when school was out of session. Children, left to
themselves, could do anything. Given a spare five minutes without
organised activities, we were liable to terrorise infants, set
thatched roofs alight or vandalise the ancient stone circle.
    What we needed, apparently, was a Christmas pageant
involving all the village children, whether the children wanted it
or not. Ma Gamble called a meeting in the church on the first day
of the Christmas holidays, and read out our names and the parts
which had been assigned. She’d done all the choosing herself, of
course, without the benefit of audition—what was the point of an
audition when everyone had to participate, and when Ma Gamble knew
every single child by sight, reputation and genealogy?
    At the end of the meeting, some children (and one twin in
particular) skipped happily out of the church to dream of
sugarplums and stardom and holding the Saviour of Mankind in her
arms.
    Some of us (one other twin in particular) dragged our feet,
shrouded in doom.
    ‘This sucks,’ I said before we were even out of the church.
‘Why do I have to be a sheep? Sheep are horrible. They smell.’
    ‘Stop whining, Elizabeth,’ said my mother, holding the door
open for me, impatience tapping her fingers on the jamb. ‘The
acoustics in the church have given me a headache.’
    ‘I don’t want to be a sheep. I hate sheep.’ We emerged into
the churchyard. ‘Can we visit Nan and Granddad?’
    ‘I’ve already used up the whole of my lunch hour here,’ Mum
replied. ‘Come along.’
    ‘It’s Saturday .’
    ‘And I have the Ice Cream Heaven accounts to look over, and
you have your chores. Come.’ She began to walk briskly down the
pavement, Lee tripping along behind her.
    I cast a baleful glance back at the churchyard, at the grey
obelisk just visible from the lych gate, and considered going back
to my grandparents’ grave anyway. I decided it wasn’t worth it; I
could come later on, when she was busy with her accounts and she
wouldn’t notice me sneaking out of the house. I joined my mother
and my sister.
    ‘I really, really hate sheep,’ I said. ‘Why do there have
to be sheep anyway?’
    ‘It’s a stable, Elizabeth. There are shepherds.’
    ‘I think sheep are nice,’ said Lee. ‘They’re lovely and
fluffy.’
    I rolled my eyes at my sister. She could talk; she wasn’t a
sheep.
    ‘Why couldn’t I be the angel?’ I asked. ‘The angel gets to
fly.’
    Nobody answered me on this one. Probably because the answer
was too obvious even to say aloud. If you were going to choose an
angel in Stoneguard, it was never going to be me.
    ‘Why can’t I be a star at least?’
    ‘Ma Gamble said that