CHRISTMAS NIGHT
In our semi in Streetly, we have two downstairs rooms as well as the kitchen. One is the dining room but throughout the war - which came to an end a year or two ago - it has always been used as a living room as well. That's how we're still using it and perhaps it's how it always was, even pre-war. I can't really remember. There are two comfy armchairs on each side of the fireplace for Mum and Dad, the faithful wireless is in the corner, there are a couple of bookcases, a sideboard, my grandpa's grandfather clock, lots of knickknacks everywhere and of course a dining table in the middle where you can do your homework, write a letter or read a book or newspaper. The other room, the lounge, is rather more special with a nice carpet, a couple of comfy settees and armchairs as well, a standard lamp. It is the posh room and not used often, just on a Sunday afternoon - and, of course, at Christmas. It would usually be daft to have a fire in both rooms and so it is quite special to be in there on a weekday if Christmas falls in the middle of the week. It does in this year of 1947.
The lounge is the one which is decorated at Christmas. A tree in the front window laden with all the pre-war decorations, little glass globes, tinsel which is going a bit yellowy through age, electric fairy lights and little candles which I have always wanted to light but have never been allowed to. Streamers from the central lamp fitting, a sort of white glass bowl with faded pink flowers painted on it, suspended on little chains from the ceiling, Christmas cards on the mantelpiece and windowsill, those tissue paper balls, bright red or green, which you open out and hang on the wall, holly perched here and there and a sprig of mistletoe in the middle of the room. And of course a cheerful fire in the grate. It's the colours of the Christmas decorations which I love. They don't still take my breath away when they come out of the carton, like they used to when I was younger, but it's still so special to have such bright colours in our house. The only time I see colours like that is now and again in a book - or perhaps the flicks when I'm taken to see Snow White or Henry V or The Four Feathers. Or some pictures of our garden which Dad took before the war and which now live in a drawer and I can hold them up to the light from time to time and wonder at them.
There is a crowd of us here later on Christmas afternoon. My brother, back from Italy after nearly 5 years away, his fiancee, Mr. and Mrs. T. who are her parents, my elder sister and Mr and Mrs B and their young daughter from next door. At some stage Dad and Mum disappear, saying that they are going to get a bit of supper prepared. The nattering continues unabated. Eventually we are summoned and we file into the dining room.
It's a bit of a shock. Dad announces that we are going to have a Tramps' Supper. The room has been transformed. It is lit by a dozen candles jammed into the top of Davenport's beer bottles. The glow from those on the table reveal that the tablecloth is this week's Birmingham Mails with the odd page from the Mirror spread around for good luck - my brother likes to have that newspaper because of Jane and Cassandra. Over the table is strung a washing line which is laden with articles of laundry of varying degrees of intimacy amongst which a pair of my mothers 1930s knickers, now much the worse for wear, loom large. All these items are topped by a string of sausages. Dad and Mum are dressed accordingly and with the odd front tooth blacked out. Dad is resplendent in vest, waistcoat and ancient flat cap normally only seen during gardening. Mum has an old head scarf on – nothing too unusual in that – but this is her scruffiest and this time has curlers peeping out from under it.
The effect is pretty spectacular and in particular Mrs B sits down at the table with tears of laughter rolling down her face and takes minutes to recover. Then it is cold meat, pickles, potato left over from lunch and all the sort of stuff which we always have on Christmas night. Everyone is talking. Laughter, chatter and good cheer. My dad's language gets a little fruity as the meal progresses – possibly the influence of the now empty Davenport's bottles – and receives gentle guidance from Mum: "Remember the children, dearest..." He reverts to his normal more restrained and considerate self. But doesn't stop enjoying himself.
I look at Dad at the far end of the table, sitting by the side of his son's future father-in-law, a Welshman who is always kind to me and whom I have come to love.
“Would you care for another slice of turkey, Rupert?", Dad asks courteously. I look at these two men who are so dear to me and think, for absolutely no reason which I can imagine, that I must always remember this moment. And I always shall do.
Chris
(Postscript from 22nd November 2020. It is my dad's 121st birthday today.....)