Family Of Four: 33 - Christmas Eve
...On Christmas Eve we each wrote in a clear, round hand our note to Father Christmas with a greeting and a list of our modest requests, and then watched eagerly as the papers, in turn, were lighted at a flame and whirled away up the chimney until they rose out of sight...
Mrs Vivien Hirst recalls the excitement of her childhood Christmases.
Mrs Hirst's account of her childhood was gathered into a book by her nephew Raymond Prior.
On Christmas Eve we each wrote in a clear, round hand our note to Father Christmas with a greeting and a list of our modest requests, and then watched eagerly as the papers, in turn, were lighted at a flame and whirled away up the chimney until they rose out of sight.
This always worried me a little for although I was imaginative I was also practical. I asked many times, having observed the small opening of the chimney pots, however could the plump man we saw depicted in the picture books manage to get himself down a chimney. I never received a satisfactory answer, but let the little nagging question hide itself away in the knowledge that it must be so, for Father Christmas never failed to arrive and that was all that really mattered.
After this ceremony we hung our stockings at the foot of our beds, full of anticipation, and then helped Mummy to decorate the house with holly, mistletoe being hung from the hall lamp and from a nail over the dining-room door.
These activities were often interrupted by the ringing of the door-bell by the carol singers, and gathering up a shining new penny, or two, or three, according to the number of children we espied standing on the step, we rushed to the door and shyly handed them over, with greetings given and received.
That was another part of Christmas. From the Bank Daddy would draw bags of new money, half crowns for the regular daily callers, the milkman and the postman for instance, smaller coins for the weekly and less frequent tradespeople down to pennies for the singers. A long list was kept in the kitchen drawer and we were allowed to tick off the names as the Christmas boxes were handed out.
That night it was difficult to fall off to sleep. Doreen and I felt excited and wide awake, and discussed whether weshould find in the morning the gifts we were expecting, remembering the feel of running our hands over the bumps, trying to guess what each meant, the anticipation being almost more delightful than the reality. Daddy called to us a few times to be quiet and to go to sleep at once, no doubt anxious that we should be deep in the land of dreams when he made his burdened climb up the long flight of stairs, breathing heavily, and moving softly in the darkened room, lit dimly by the landing light shining through the small window let into the wall to lighten the staircase.
Years were to pass before I wakened at the fatal moment, heard the squeak of the attic stairs as heavy treads touched them, heard the door-handle turn and a dim, unshapely figure pass to the bottom of each bed, rustling and fumbling as it tied one stocking and then another to the bed-posts. I gazed, my heart sinking, for now my eyes had become accustomed to the dimness I could see that Father Christmas was really Daddy. Making no movement I lay quite still. I was to remember this disappointment for a long time, it was a shattering disillusion, and although we went on sending up our notes for another year or two, for Bobby's sake, the flavour was quite lost. How funny to discover that Doreen had known for a full three years, and Rex for some time!
When we were younger Daddy had dressed as Father Christmas, complete with a beard and belt, and I had once wakened but been reassured by the familiar cloak and hood, and the strange, deep voice telling me to go to sleep and be a good girl or he would not leave me any presents. Daddy was wise in his generation!
Once we four did a stupid unkind thing but we meant well. We decided that we would give Daddy a stocking as he had now given up his role of Father Christmas, but thought it would be an immense joke if we filled it with unexpected articles, an onion, a lump of coal, a carrot and so on. We tiptoed early into the bedroom, and managed to tie the previously filled stocking on to the bed-rail before disturbing Daddy and Mummy. Daddy was very sleepy, and it was a little time before he grasped the fact that he was to crawl to the end of the bed to clasp his stocking.
We watched joyfully as Daddy, delighted with this kind gesture, undid the string and drew the bulky stocking on to the eiderdown. Settling down pleasurably to investigate, his happy face gradually clouded, until he threw the despised thing from him. Mummy was angry and scolded us for being so stupid after Daddy's kindness, and we crept away saddened and ashamed - and we had thought it would be such a huge joke! Poor Daddy! when I think of the years of planning, buying, sorting and filling by Mummy and Daddy, and this was all our thanks. How strange we had not seen it in that light. It is still to be regretted.
