The Purple Dinosaur by Annette Dixon
After a six year stint down South, during which time I was born, Mum and Dad could no longer resist the call of the North and the urge to move back to their roots. Early one morning a removal van arrived and parked up on the grass at the front of our house. The door of the cab flung open and out jumped my Granddad Walter, wearing the quintessential Northern garment, the flat cap. I didn’t really know Granddad Walter very much as he still lived in the North and only made occasional visits. I felt a little shy of him, but he did what he always did whenever I saw him, said “how do”, pouted his bottom lip and blew a raspberry, which always made me smile.
Refreshed after a strong cup of tea, Granddad said he wanted to stretch his legs for a while after being cooped up in the lorry for hours.
“Come on lass” he said. “Let’s go for a walk down t’ut shops”. “I’ll get thi a bag of sweets or summat”.
Hand in his we walked down to the local shops together.
“D’ya fancy a bag of Killarney grapes”? He chuckled.
I had never heard of Killarney grapes before so politely declined.
“All reet then”, he said chuckling again. “Sweets it is”.
It was only years later that I understood what the joke was. His reference to Killarney grapes was his funny way of asking if I wanted a bag of Irish Potatoes.
The sweet shop was like heaven to a six year old. Forehead touching the glass pane of the counter I looked up and down the boxes of goodies. I stood at the end of the counter where we were usually allowed to choose from. The cheaper end, my parents were working class with nothing much to spare for anything other than the essentials. We could usually have Black Jacks, Fruit Salads, and Traffic Light lollies or occasionally a liquorice pipe with pink 100’s and 1000’s plastered over the end to make it look alight.
The other end of the display was where the ‘forbidden fruits’ lay, a feast of delights. A treasure trove of chocolate and toffee assortments individually wrapped in coloured foils and brightly coloured cellophane.
“What d’ya fancy then lass”? asked Granddad Walter. “You can have anything you like”.
What an invitation that was, but I felt sure that ‘anything’ didn’t include moving from the working class end to the upper class selection. I pointed to the flying saucers filled with sherbet.
“Nae lass”, he said. “Wouldn’t you rather have some of those”?
“A quarter of those Quality Street,” he said to the lady behind the counter.
I watched in respectful silence as she took a special plastic scoop and plunged it into the sea of coloured wrappers. The one sweet I had coveted over all others fell into the bag. I had stolen a glance at it endless times, I loved the rich purple colour of the wrapper and the very shape of it. It had a distinctive hump-back appearance that reminded me of one of my Brother Peter’s plastic dinosaurs, namely the Brontosaurus. I could imagine sticking a long neck and a tiny head and four stumpy legs on it and watching it making a slow but steady retreat back to the box.
I clutched the spotless white bag to me all the way home, feeling the knobbly shapes of my precious cargo through the thin layer of paper. I was carrying a bag of treasure with me and I had never felt so special. I glanced up at Granddad walking beside me and knew he must be a millionaire.
.
“Let’s have one then”, said my dad when I got home and he discovered me with my booty.
.
“Please don’t pick the purple dinosaur”, I said to myself over and over in my head.
“What are you smiling at” he asked as I felt relief wash over me. In his hand was the green triangle.
“Nothing”, I replied.
Closing our front door for the last time, my brothers and sisters, granddad and me piled into the back of the removal wagon. The furniture had been arranged so that a sofa and two chairs were positioned so we had somewhere to sit for the next six or seven hours. We had a couple of torches to read by and a galvanised aluminium mop bucket for us to use if we got caught short in between stops. I hoped I wouldn’t have to use it.
I had my bag of Quality Street to look forward to, and the anticipation of the purple dinosaur to savour in the darkness of the van. I wanted to wait as long as I could before eating it, it might be the only one I ever had. I sat in the darkness for what seemed like ages and felt the urge to go to the toilet coming on. The galvanised aluminium felt gritty against my backside but I knew after I had been that this would be the moment to release the purple dinosaur from its wrapper and eat it.
Settling back on probably the only occupied sofa travelling at 60mph that day I peeked into the darkness to make sure no-one was looking and drew my prize from the bag. Opening it as carefully and quietly as possible and taking the chocolate from the wrapper I held it up to smell it before taking a bite. The surprise of the soft caramel centre with the hazelnut was wonderful and I closed my eyes as the chocolate melted in my mouth. I felt like I had melted into the sofa with happiness. It was the best thing I had ever tasted in my short life and I have never forgotten it.
Forty years later the purple dinosaurs are still my favourite and I treasure that day and the connection it still evokes between me and my Granddad Walter.
