In Good Company: Hiding Places
Enid Blackburn recalled Christmases past.
Ever since my first child was born Santa and I have carried the sacks on Christmas Eve. The minute four pairs of eyelids have stopped twitching and the fractured nutshells and empty wineglasses have been cleared away, Santa and I have tackled the sobering business of filling the sacks.
But first, the inevitable Christmas hunt.
‘Where did you put Howard’s stuff?’
‘Me? You were in charge of his. I don’t know what you did with them.’
‘Who did we buy this for?’
Over the years we have stuffed parcels in some unlikely spots, inside the piano, next door’s top cupboard, and one year we locked them in our front vestibule, hiding the key in a different place every time we used it.
It was a perfect hideaway if I could only have remembered where I hid the key. The most successful spot proved to be son’s wardrobe. Finding it more convenient to leave his clothes wherever he stepped out of them, he never did discover the treasure tucked away at the back of his clothes cupboard.
When all the Christmas harvest is finally gathered in and divided into four clusters - another panic. The planned gifts you so proudly preened over when first bought now appear to have shrunk pathetically.
Amid Santa’s mutterings about wasted money you privately wonder if the piles are evenly balanced. Year’s back we wondered if son would understand that his train set cost more than all his sisters’ presents combined. Would the two middle girls recognise their old school desks under the shiny red paint?
Incidentally, they have told me since that the name of their school stamped underneath was the first thing they looked for.
It seems odd now watching 22-year-old son eagerly probing the parcels under the tree trying to guess the contents, that one year he refused to unpack his pillowcase.
It was father who had to ride around on his wooden train and spin his top. Three-year-old son screamed every time we tried to coax him.
It happened at the beginning of our Santa act, the early years when we were actually waiting for them to awake, just before we progressed to the ‘Don’t you dare open your eyes before daylight’ stage. The minute we heard their light click on we were outside their bedroom door, listening intently for the first gasp of satisfaction – silence. No splinter of plastic, no crunch of tooth on toffee, not a sound. The suspense was choking. This was no joke, surely we deserved a delightful yelp or two. We decided to barge in and find ways of making them glad.
A strange sight met our eyes. Although son was sitting up with both eyes open, he was not screaming as normal for his shredded wheat, but simply staring marble-eyed at the full sack below his toes. His sister was also sitting, white-faced, hypnotised by hers. They both looked as if they expected something horrible to creep out of the sacks any minute. It was unnerving, especially in the mouse season. Excitement appeared to have paralysed them.
Dad sat on daughter’s bed and pulled her sack nearer. ‘Come on, let’s see what Santa’s left,’ he coaxed pulling a mini vacuum cleaner out of the top. Before it was half way out, son’s chubby claws were clamped around the handle. Within seconds he had removed the dust bag and was pursuing the dog. When we tried to prise him away from it he went purple. When we dragged him back to his own sack he ran the vac over it. He vacuumed the garden, the flowers, the dog’s breakfast, and our guest’s feet. The dog moved in next door.
The vac ate with him and slept with him – but I refused to take it to town with us. Finally we had to pretend Santa actually meant it for him and had inadvertently placed it in the wrong sack.
Redundant Santa and I are now reduced to placing our surprises beneath the tree, since they became teenagers. But it’s still my favourite sport. I love it: the gifts, the feasting, the awful television shows and the lovely warm tipsy feeling of thankfulness I feel at Christmas with my family around me.
