'A Living Doll' by Jan Lloyd

It was difficult to sleep, especially next to my Gran who would rise several times in the night to use the chamber pot under the bed. My brother was in the "Z" bed alongside us and I could hear him starting to giggle when our Gran rose for the umpteenth time. I had drawn the meterphorical short straw so it was me who had to share the hugh feather bed with Gran and endure her bedtime habits. The false teeth in the cup on the bedside cabinet, watching her as she removed layers of clothing and strange corsetry and under garments and of course the "chamberpot"!
It was Christmas Eve 1960 and my brother and I were awaiting the arrival of Father Christmas hoping he'd received the letter explaining that we would be staying in South Wales at Gran's house.
The main present I wished for was a doll which I'd seen in a magazine. The advert read, "A real life, walking, talking, living doll". As I sank into the warm feather mattress my imagination of what to expect took over and then started to dream of this new modern doll I was to have which, according to the advert, came from America, even more exotic I thought. My brother had asked for a Hornby train set and I could've sworn I'd seen the box amongst our belongings as we boarded the train with our parents to travel to South Wales. Maybe not but I was beginning to have doubts about Father Christmas's existence having overheard my friend Brenda telling my brother that it was really our Mums and Dads that bought the presents. At aged seven I was prepared to prolong the fantasy a little longer so eventually closed my eyes as, one thing I was sure about, he wouldn't arrive until we were asleep.
After what seemed like an eternity I awoke hearing my Gran getting dressed and replacing the layers of clothing she had not long ago removed. She was a very sombre woman and didn't display very much emotion but despite that I could see packages and a stocking hanging at the foot of the bed and couldn't stifle my squeals of delight any longer. My Gran went to make porridge whilst my brother and I started to rip into our presents too impatient to wait for our parents to wake up. I tore open the wrapping of a bix box and saw the picture I recognised from the advert. It was the doll I'd longed for. As I took her out of the box I began to see that it wasn't quite how I'd imagined. She was made from brittle plastic and her hair was stiff nylon stuck into little holes in the scalp. The only way she could walk was to hold her by the shoulders and manipulate a shuffling motion and the action of walking or simply moving forward. The talking came from a record inside the doll which was operated by turning a handle in her back and the noise emanated from holes like a small speaker situated around the handle. I turned the handle and tried to decipher what she was saying. Instead of the claim that she spoke like a real life baby all I could hear was a whiney, scratchy noise as I tried in vain to listen for "Mama", "Pick me up", "Love you". Well I didn't love her but did my best to look pleased as my Mum and Dad appeared. Despite my disappointment I did my best to show my gratitude and pretended to love it and said I would call her Mary but really deep down I hated it's ugly and artificial appearance and certainly wasn't the real life living doll I'd dreamed of.
I soon forgot my disappointment over the so called "Living Doll" and my favourite present that year was a hair slide which I found buried in my stocking along with a tangerine and a chocolate soldier in a sentry box. The slide was tortoiseshell and encrusted with diamonds or so I thought, it was probably no more than a shilling from Woolies but I proudly wore it as I played with my brother and his Hornby train set for the rest of the day.