Yesterday I mentioned the Trivvies and one of the Trivvie things we shared was writing fiction and we chose a character and wrote short chapters about episodes of the character in the village of Trivington and what they did. It got my creative juices flowing. This was one of my stories as a result but totally unrelated to my character of District Nurse Liz. It is a combination of actual memories, wishes and images that have created thoughts about what Christmases could have been like, ideals if you like. A Christmas that is magical, no excesses....a sufficiency. You will have to wait for the days to come for what actually has and does happen for some Christmases, for some families.
Christmas
We see a homely living room with a large fireplace behind a brass-topped fender. On the walls are pictures topped by sprigs of berried holly and from each corner of the room are long paper chains meeting at the light in the centre of the room. Between the pictures are strings of Christmas cards with pictures of robins, snowmen, Christmas trees and boughs of holly. In one corner is a dining table and on one side of the hearth are some easy chairs and on the other is an old wooden settle.
Little children hang their stockings from the mantelpiece and there beside the roaring log fire is Santa’s supper; mince pie, carrot, milk and a glass of sherry. Each tasty morsel has been lovingly carried by excited, jigging children, desperate for the next few hours to pass. Will they hear the scrabbling in the chimney? Will they hear Rudolph stamp his feet? Will they hear the sleigh bells as Santa speeds on his way on this the busiest night of the year?
Near the stairs are four advent calendars; doors wide open, waiting the last day. Beside the hearth is a small Christmas tree, weighed down with ornaments and tinsel. Small twinkling lights make a myriad of stars, and there at the top is the angel. This angel is so fragile, so lovingly wrapped and put away year after year; an angel that is even older than the mother. Gabriel looks down over the room before him and smiles, contented in the peace and joy that fills the room. In the corner of the room is a small stable set upon a table. Cattle are leaning over the manger, snuggled deep in straw. Outside are the figures of Joseph, Mary and a donkey hurrying on their way, tired after the long journey. On the other side are shepherds with a flock of sheep. The children move Joseph and Mary closer to the stable; it will not be long now. The little child, too young to understand, asks for the hundredth time “Where is baby Jesus” as her chubby little finger feels in the manger and then moves the straw searching for the baby; it’s not time yet, but it will not be long.
The mother shoos the children to bed knowing they will wake early. The tallest child opens the latch on the door in the corner of the room and the little ones hurry up the stairs, nightdresses flapping around their legs and teddies clutched tightly in their arms. Four little heads bow to say their prayers and then they dive into bed. Their mother kisses them each goodnight; soft, gentle, butterfly kisses and then tucks the bedclothes up around their necks. All that can be seen are round, dimpled little cherubic faces beneath fair curls; cheeks flushed pink in excitement. The mother goes back downstairs to wrap the presents and make sure all is ready for Santa. Four little bodies spring from their beds and press their faces against the windows, noses squashed flat. Their breath fogs the glass that they quietly wipe with their sleeves as they desperately search the sky; where is Rudolph, Donner and Blitzen? Disappointed they jump back into bed and chatter sleepily, trying so hard to stay awake. One by one their eyelids slowly droop and they can no longer remain awake.
Back in the room downstairs the mother sits in front of the fire and looks deep into the flames and remembers last year when her husband was here to share the joy. He can no longer share her tears and laughter; cannot see his children laugh and play, kiss their hurts or give them hugs. She looks up at his photo on the mantelpiece and remembers that day last spring when the fishing boat did not return. Several days passed before his body was washed up on the Point and he was later laid to rest beneath the turf in the little churchyard in the village. Now she can share her days with him without the anguish squeezing her heart. She tells him of the fun they had decorating the tree; of little ones too excited to eat and sleep; chubby, sticky fingers that tried to wrap their parcels but the paper escaped the sticky tape and became more scrumpled by the minute; grey pastry as eight tiny hands helped make the mince pies and their worry about Santa coming down the chimney and landing on the fire.
She opens a cupboard and pulls out the box of treasures that she has struggled to find to make the Christmas a happy time. She looks at the fruits of her labours: hats, scarves, gloves and socks knitted from unravelled jumpers; shoeboxes covered in pieces of material, whilst inside are little pillows, sheets and blankets to cover the rag dolls that she pulls out of the cupboard next. She wraps them all and puts them beneath the tree and then turns to fill the Christmas stockings, which she has taken down from the mantelpiece. Into them she puts oranges, sweets, crayons, a little colouring book, a ball and a peg doll and then hangs them back on the mantelpiece. Last of all she takes the little figure of baby Jesus from his hiding place and puts him carefully in the manger with Mary and Joseph beside him, and the donkey in the corner of the stable next to the cows.
She opens the front door and takes in the beauty of the night. Up in the village the bells ring out to announce the birth of the infant Jesus. Bright lights shine out through the Church windows, welcoming the people who hurry to celebrate this special occasion. The Church is decorated with greenery on every available window ledge and column. Tiny tea-lights interspersed with church candles fill every vacant space. The Church is packed, not an empty seat is left as the congregation sit waiting in the candlelight. The choir emerge from their vestry beneath the bell tower and pauses to welcome all in song. A treble voice rings out the age-old song and soon voices rise and fall in harmony as the choir processes to their stalls behind the rood screen. People kneel to celebrate, heads bowed in silent prayer, joined as one in their belief. All too soon it is “Happy Christmas, Happy Christmas” – words and hugs a parting gift as people hurry home to bed.
All is quiet as the snow starts to fall, slow drifting flakes of downy softness. The Church is dark and silent now; the village sleeps, wrapped in a mantle of peacefulness.
In the cottage the mother sleeps too, recharging her batteries for the coming day. A child stirs, awake early in excitement and eager to see what Santa has brought. One by one the others awake too and they hastily put on warm dressing gowns and fluffy slippers before trying to creep quietly downstairs, giggling in excitement. They peep round the door and see that crumbs are all that are left of Santa’s supper. Wide-eyed they look upwards, but they cannot reach the stockings, far above their heads behind the brass fender; stockings bursting with strange shapes. With a mother’s instinct she is not far behind them and lifts their stockings down one by one. They sit on the rug in front of the fire, tip their stockings upside down to empty them and are soon playing with their new gifts. Josie sits colouring in the new book, quiet in concentration with her tongue peeping through closed lips and then she remembers the stable. The Jesus child has come: there he is lying in a manger and Joseph and Mary are watching over him. Eyes wide-opened in wonderment, she gently reaches forward with her chubby little finger and touches the baby, yes he is there; he is real. Around her the others are soon noisily playing families with their peg dolls. After a hasty breakfast they quickly get dressed so they can open the presents under the tree.
Soon small heads are tearing at gaily, wrapped parcels; bows and paper soon cast aside. Josie sits quietly, taking her time undoing ribbons and carefully folding the paper, yet all the children love their presents. There is a knock on the door and there in the doorway are grandparents, dressed warmly against the falling snow, their arms full of presents. The children rush forward and launch themselves at their grandparents, struggling to make themselves heard against each other. Josie hangs behind and then sneaks round the back and snuggles in-between the two.
Then it is on with hats, coats, gloves and scarves and outside into the snow. Four little girls in red boots prance and dance in the snow in excitement on their way to Church with their Mother and grandparents. Christmas is much the same all over the village – families are busy opening presents, dinners are being cooked, smoke is drifting upwards from log fires and the snow is still falling. The Church is open and people are attending the morning service before going home to prepare their dinner. Some houses exude excitement, noise and light as families come together to celebrate this season of goodwill; some are dark and quiet, as the occupants have gone visiting and some are quiet and peaceful, people are enjoying a drink before the fire.
Mother takes the coats and boots, and the grandparents are soon seated by the fire, the flames soon putting warmth back into their bones. Presents are handed round which the children are quick to open and share their delight with their grandparents; jigsaws, balls, skipping ropes, and picture books.
All too soon the table is set for dinner; the centrepiece a lighted Christmas candle, deep red with gold holly leaves; bright red paper napkins folded like fans; shiny cutlery and gleaming glasses. Such a wonderful feast is set before them all and then the highlight of the meal: the Christmas pudding, made several Sundays ago on Stir-up Sunday when all the little girls had crowded round the kitchen table and made their wish whilst giving the pudding a stir. Now it is borne aloft by the Mother and set before them on the table, flames flickering around the domed shape.
After the dinner the grandparents and mother sit and talk in front of the fire and the little girls play happily with their presents until 3 o’clock: time for the Queen’s broadcast. The older generation have a glass of sherry and the little ones a glass of squash as they listen intently for a short while. Then the Christmas tree presents – tiny little presents that people have made; even the children have been busy painting stones as doorstops and making calendars. The little girls go upstairs to play and all is quiet downstairs as heads nod in the warmth and flickering light.
Teatime soon comes and the table is laden with the fruits of the cottage kitchen; sausage rolls, mince pies, homemade bread, fairy cakes, scones, cheese straws and Christmas cake iced as a snow scene. Little biscuits, a little greyish in colour, made by small hands, in the shape of a reindeer, a star, a Christmas tree. There beside each plate is a large red cracker, too large for little hands to pull. Each little hand in turn is enfolded in a grandparent's and then “snap”, the crackers tear, screams of delight as little gifts go flying. Streamers thrown, hats on heads, the jokes are read out, but where are the little girls? One by one the hats have fallen down over their eyes until their faces are completely covered. Oh such excitement, far too excited to eat tea.
Flames glisten on the tinsel that moves gently in the heat; the little fairy lights on the Christmas tree are bright spots of colour in the gloaming and outside can be heard faint sounds of carols. It comes closer now, accompanied by small voices talking and stamping feet. They open the front door and there is a group of carol singers; bright red cheeks and eyes reflecting the candles they are carrying, looking for all the world like snowmen with their striped scarves, hats and gloves partially covered in snow. Voices sing out a carol or two and then “We wish you a Merry Christmas” as they eat the proffered mince pies and glass of mulled wine. They go on their way beneath the star studded night sky, snow crunching as the chill sets in and when the adults turn back indoors they see the little girls asleep in front of the fire. Not long after the Mother wakes them gently and takes them upstairs to bed – it has been a long day for four excited little girls.
Soon it is time for the grandparents to leave and Mother looks up to the village; the Church is in darkness and cottage windows obscure the festivity within. She returns to the fireside and curls up in an armchair, staring into the flickering flames. Her mind wanders off, as each flame becomes a different memory from long ago when she was a child.
January 2002
copyright Elizabeth Graydon
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