Open Writing

The approach of Christmas does two things to me: it makes me want to shut myself away and await the 'All Clear' and also reminds me of my old Auntie Alice.

Auntie Alice was the kind of person many would call 'The salt of the earth.' If any member of the family was in need of anything, she'd be there with a smile and a helping hand; if a shoulder was needed to cry on, they could have one of hers. She was also a born diplomat and whenever hackles were raised it was her hand that would soothe the savage beast.

Life in the poorer areas of London in the 1930s was not easy, and was particularly hard for mothers struggling to feed and clothe a family on the meagre pittance brought home by their husbands - the honest ones, that is, and there were many of them, even in an area with a reputation for housing some of London's worst.

My mother was one of those women who scrimped and scraped and always managed to have food on the table, even if it was sometimes only a slice of bread and dripping from the Sunday roast. We nearly always had beef on Sunday because it was cheap. Only the wealthy could afford the luxury of chicken, except at Christmas, when a nice plump bird would become affordable if you were lucky enough to get one being sold off at half price when the meat market was about to close late on Christmas Eve.

Christmas always meant a full house at our home, or my grandparents' home, which alternated as venue for the feast of the year and as a only child I learned the meaning of the saying 'alone in a crowd'. There were three main rules of behaviour to be obeyed: 'Children should be seen and not heard', 'Mother knows best' and 'Don't argue!' Any question or request was placed firmly in the arguing category.

At Christmas I was permitted to mingle with the grown-ups for a while, to stand on a chair and show the assembled company the new clothes my mother had lovingly knitted or sewn for me as a Christmas present, before changing into my 'play clothes' and retiring to the corner where I could play with my other presents: a tin whistle, perhaps, from Uncle Bill, a drum from Uncle Hubert and Auntie Floss, a pea-shooter from Uncle Albert, a pop-gun which shot a cork attached to a piece of string, and a 'young smokers' kit consisting of sugar cigarettes and sometimes a liquorice pipe or a chocolate cigar. They certainly knew how to prepare children for adult life in those days. The musical instruments and weapons were confiscated as soon as the guests left the house, but the introduction to the manly pastime of smoking was encouraged.

But I digress, and must bring Auntie Alice back into the story.

We were all - about 12 of us - packed one Christmas around a table which would comfortably have seated half that number, with Auntie Alice sitting on my immediate right. Mother and Grandma had finished bustling to and from the kitchen and had taken their seats after placing food-laden plates in front of everybody. Everybody, that is, except one. In the confusion (perhaps mayhem would be a better word) of that overloaded table I had been overlooked.

I quietly nudged Auntie Alice to attract her attention and the dear lady in her usual diplomatic fashion, instead of pointing out my mother's error, turned to me and asked, loudly, 'What is it, love? Do you want me to pass the salt?' Mother glanced across, noticed her omission and quickly produced my plate.

The story was repeated ad nauseam on subsequent family occasions to demonstrate how well I had been brought up: it was to become the legend of a little boy who asked for the salt, rather than cause a fuss.

Mother could never tolerate anything less than perfection. She worked hard for her family and any perceived shortcoming was seen as a serious personal criticism . The arrival of the gravy or custard at the table was often a dramatic event on family occasions as Mother approached the table with a jug in one hand, a spoon in the other and a worried expression on her face.

'Oh dear, it's got lumps in it; that's never happened before,' she would announce, to the amusement of all present.

One fateful Christmas the family could hide their amusement no longer when she asked Uncle Hubert, her much loved elder brother, 'Do you want some gravy?' and he jokingly replied, 'Just two lumps please, Sis.' Others around the table smilingly muttered, 'Lumps? That's never happened before!' but the joke was lost on Mother, who felt critically wounded and retired to bed with a headache.

Family Christmases were something to be remembered, if only for the wrong reasons. I'll pretend Christmas isn't going to happen this year. What if somebody asks me to pass the salt, and the memories come flooding back, and dear Auntie Alice, the salt of the earth, is no longer there to comfort me? I might, as the saying goes, end up with custard on my face - like it or lump it.

© Arthur Loosley