Open Writing

I remember the Christmas when I was 12. My little sister was yet to be born, so there were only three in our little family. My father had only been home from his service in India for a few months and money was limited, as were things to buy, and there was still rationing. I suppose by today’s standards it was quite a frugal Christmas, but to me then it seemed luxurious.

I remember the last-minute shopping we did on Christmas Eve. First we got all the items of food which wouldn’t keep. (Ordinary people like us didn’t have a fridge.) The most important item was the Christmas roast. Mother got a nice piece of pork and some sausages from the butcher. (I think a chicken was too expensive.) We didn’t even think of a turkey.

The butcher gave us a sprig or two of sage. The dark grey shrivelled leaves did not look very appetising, but later as part of the stuffing their flavour was delicious. No such thing as Paxo then.

Next were the vegetables, including the sprouts. I had long since discovered they did not taste at all like little cabbages and would gladly have not bothered with them, but Mother said they were traditional.

We also got some fruit, including tangerines, which I had never tasted before and some salad for Christmas tea. I think there was lettuce and celery, but I don’t think there were tomatoes or cucumber. They would have been out of season then.

We already had some ‘goodies’ at home - a tin of salmon, a large jar of pickles, a tin of peaches with, of course, Carnation milk, which was Dad’s favourite. There was a jar of mincemeat for mince pies and a Christmas cake which Mother had made, with my help. I remember a Christmas pudding. We had no crackers, but we did have - glory of glories - some real chocolate biscuits.

We then went to buy presents for each other. Dad and I went to buy something for Mother. Then Mother and I went to buy something for Dad. Whilst we were doing this he went to buy a secret present for all of us. He came back with a kind of narrow carrier bag. What could it be?

My presents had all been bought previously and hidden away at home, which was a good thing because, loaded as we were, we couldn’t miss going to the library. Library books for Christmas reading were essential items in our house, even if we did have the wireless.

Finally we added one more package to our load of parcels and bags. We called at the chip shop for fish and chips for tea. What a treat!

After tea I remember watching my parents standing at the kitchen table chopping, mixing, stirring and peeling, getting ready for Christmas Day. I was given the job of peeling the outer leaves from the hated sprouts as I sat by the rosy fire listening to the wireless. I can still remember how excited and happy I felt.

Next we put up the decorations. We had no tree, but we had bought a few sprigs of mistletoe and we had plenty of holly, which grew in our garden. There were also a few shiny baubles saved from before the war and an elderly fairy doll who was enthroned on top of the chiming clock.

We had no paper decorations, as Mother did not like them, but we had Christmas cards on the sideboard and on the mantelpiece. By the fire were some logs, which Dad had sawn from a dead tree to burn on Christmas Day. When all was arranged, we agreed that our sitting room looked quite festive.

We then sat by the fire planning Christmas Day. We had relatives coming, so it would be quite an event. It was decided that we could afford to leave the fire in the kitchen going all day as we had the logs for the sitting room.

And maybe, just maybe, if it turned very cold, there might be a possibility of a small fire in my bedroom so that if my cousin and I went up there we would not be cold. We had a small fireguard so it would be safe. I thought this was the very height of extravagance - three rooms all with fires on the same day. What luxury in those days of austerity.

Finally it was time for bed. Dad said, “I know! We’ll have a Christmas toast before we go.” He took the mysterious carrier from beside the door and showed us a bottle of Ruby Wine (Port Type). This was his mysterious present.

‘Surely not for Muriel?’ was Mother’s astonished question.

‘Just a tiny drop to welcome Christmas,’ Dad responded with a smile.

I didn’t know whether I wanted any or not. I had never in my life even seen a bottle of wine close to, let alone drunk any of it.

‘Well, all right,’ Mother said, ‘as long as it is just a sip or two.’]

Dad poured out a glass for each of them and then poured a tiny amount for me. Less than an eggcup full.

‘Good Health and a Happy Christmas to us all!’ he said and we replied, I slightly embarrassed.

Then they began to drink theirs, but I still wavered. It seemed so wicked. Finally I dared to taste. It was quite nice, not in the least like I had imagined, and it didn’t really taste too wicked.

Mother and Dad smiled. I took another sip or two, and then my head began to whirl - probably helped on by my imagination? Nevertheless, for a 12-year-old in 1946 a few sips of Ruby Wine (Port Type) perhaps had the effect of a glass of the finest champagne. Dizzily I climbed up to bed singing Hark the Herald Angels.

It is a happy memory of those days of innocence, long ago.

Bolton U3A