Christmas

I really like my new dress. It’s a “kaftan” according to Mum, and all three of us have one. My sisters’ versions are of soft brushed cotton but mine is corduroy: a little stiffer and starchier, but warm and comfy. We wear them with white lace tights that we have all received in our Christmas stockings; sadly my tights will be full of holes before long as I hike them up when they wrinkle around my knees and ankles.  

Back a bit. 

In our household, Christmas starts in June. Mum begins her search for special “stocking filler” gifts in the Summer sales: hankies and bath cubes, notebooks and socks are purchased and “hidden” at the back of her wardrobe. In the first week of December, when the advent calendar is already up (and we have so far uncovered a snowman, a star and a reindeer), Mum makes the Christmas cake. This requires a whole pantry of baking goods: everything from nutmeg to glacé cherries, brandy and Demerara sugar. I like poking at the bag of Demerara sugar: it is soft and malleable and I like squeezing it into different shapes. I also like eating the glacé cherries, and steal as many as I can without Mum noticing. Mum allows us to stir the cake mixture and make a wish. I always wish for snow on Christmas Day: it’s the most magical thing I can come up with but I’m always disappointed. The cake is rested for a few hours on a wire rack, and then transferred to a thick cake board, which is covered in silver foil paper, and bearing the cut marks from last year’s cake (Mum is never one to throw out anything that might be used again). The next layer is thick, yellow marzipan, which, truth be told, is not my favourite. Mum rolls it out with icing sugar, and moulds it around the cake until the surfaces are smooth and flat. The next day, the cake is iced with silky white royal icing and decorated with swirls topped with tiny silver balls. 

Christmas Day itself starts with the stockings, left at the ends of our beds. They are made of white mesh with a red crepe paper trim. Mine has a jolly Christmas tag attached saying: “To Susan, Love Santa” in my mum’s handwriting. I stopped believing in Santa when I was four or five (mum’s handwriting is a bit of a telltale sign) but it somehow does not dampen the delight of going to bed on Christmas Eve, knowing there will be a stocking filled with all kinds of goodies waiting for me when I wake up. This year, we have the added surprise of the Christmas kaftans hanging by our beds. Mine is orange and yellow, black and green; a swirly psychedelic pattern that I think is very grown up.

Grandma is living with us this year, so we all share one bedroom. My bed is closest to the window, and I can see the fronds and ferns that Jack Frost has made on the window during the night from the warmth of my narrow bed. We are allowed to open our stockings before breakfast; the house is still cold, so we wrap our candlewick counterpanes around our shoulders and sit in our beds for this task. Each item is wrapped in colourful Christmas paper and they are all similar to avoid squabbles. At the bottom of the stocking are always the same two items: a bag of gold chocolate coins and a tangerine wrapped in aluminium foil. I gobble the tangerine and most of the chocolate in lieu of breakfast. Afterwards we troop into our parents’ bedroom and show them our treasures.

Our Christmas tree is real; in later years this will be replaced by an artificial tinsel one, as mum gets tired of hoovering up the needles every day. Dad is very pernickety about how the tree is decorated. First the fairy lights: multicoloured, attached by sewing thread, top to bottom. The glass baubles are added next, but this is also done with precision as they are placed underneath a light of corresponding colour. Blue light with blue bauble, green light with green bauble. Next comes the tinsel. Silver coloured only, it has been carefully wound into sparkly little nests so that it can be more easily draped around the tree at precise intervals. Once the tinsel is in place, the Christmas ornaments can be hung. These are kept in well-worn tissue paper in a big white box that once housed our parents’ wedding cake: angels and snowmen, Santas and elves. The angels are my favourite, with their miniature crowns and delicate wings, each holding a tiny musical instrument. They come in different shades of pastel, but the one I love best is sea-green and has a trumpet. Each year mum buys chocolate ornaments as well: medallions of milk chocolate (we don’t like the dark stuff) in shiny foil wrappers that have to be kept out of reach of the dog, who has quite the penchant for these delicacies, even though they make her sick. Last up are two fairies: one dolly that sits at the bottom of the tree in her ivory lace dress, with a royal blue sash and a wand with a silver glittery star. The other one is less spectacularly dressed but does have wings (and knickers!) and is placed in pride of place at the top of the tree, although I reckon it must be a bit lonely up there with no elves or snowmen to chat to. However, she does have a good view of the comings and goings along the street as our tree is placed in the bay window of the living room.

After breakfast, and only after mum has got dressed and ready (which seems to take forever, I think she does it deliberately), can we open our presents. This year we have to wait for Grandma as well before we can dive into the sacks waiting for us in the living room. Grandma seems to take an inordinate amount of time to put on her Christmas-best suit and cameo brooch. I’m not sure what takes her so long: she’s a bit doddery but still has all her marbles in place, although not always in the right order.

Our presents have been placed carefully under the tree for the past couple of weeks, but are transferred into three large paper sacks on Christmas Eve. Out of mum’s earshot we have been busy poking at them and shaking them to see if we can guess the contents. We mostly can’t but there are some exceptions. Jigsaw puzzles, for instance, always rattle like a box of clunky cornflakes. The costume dolls are also a dead give-away as they have distinctive triangular boxes. This year, my eldest sister gets “Queen Elizabeth I”, resplendent in a bright pink dress that clashes with her bright orange hair, although I don’t imagine that was the intention. I get “Saxon Queen”; sadly she has no name (and I don’t think to give her one) but she has blue eyes and long blonde plaits that I can only dream of. Her white and red dress is velvety and soft; around her waist is a pretty gold chain to emphasise her royal status. 

As we rifle though our swag, Dad puts on some Christmas music: Mario Lanza. The vinyl is a little scratchy, but it is still our favourite. I like the one called Guardian Angels. I wonder about the angels on the Christmas tree and I imagine the, “one with shining wings who holds my hand” might be sea-green. I hope so. 

Grandma sits in one of the armchairs, observing the proceedings and sipping a glass of Harvey’s Bristol Cream sherry, that she takes all morning to get through. We have quite the haul: dolls and board games, picture books and Fuzzy Felt. Our favourite present by far, though, is a bagatelle board, which is a joint present from our parents. The game is simple enough. It’s a bit like a primitive pinball machine, the idea being to direct little silver balls into holes on the sloping board, whilst trying to avoid the obstacles made of pins. We play for ages, but I’m not especially good at the flick of the wrist required to shoot the balls at the right speed to achieve the maximum scores. At the end of the day, the board is placed in its cardboard box and stowed under the sideboard for safekeeping. 

Mum does most of the cooking, although Grandma helps as well. Our job is to help set the table with all the special Christmasy china, crackers and napkins embroidered with holly and mistletoe. Christmas lunch is a veritable feast; Mum is a skilled cook and we pile our plates with turkey and stuffing, roast potatoes and Brussel sprouts, bread sauce and gravy. But the pièce de résistance is the Christmas pudding. Mum makes two of these every year - one for Christmas Day and one for Boxing Day. However, they are never eaten straight away, but kept safe and sound in the pantry for a year, when Mum takes them out and boils them in the pressure cooker, having first hidden five sixpences inside. The pressure cooker terrifies me: I firmly believe that it will explode one day, taking half the kitchen with it. This never happens, of course. Once the pudding is ready, it is doused in brandy and set alight. We pour over custard and dig around in our portions, racing to be the first to find a sixpence. 

When the table is cleared and everything is washed up and put away, Auntie G–– pops over to deliver even more presents. She swoops in with a cheerful “Merry Christmas” and a basketful of exotic goodies. We show off our new kaftans and Auntie G–– gushes over how pretty and grown up we all look. Dad plies her with a large gin-and-tonic (more gin than tonic) and we eagerly open our gifts. Auntie G–– is always generous and has a knack for knowing what we want - it does cross my mind that she calls up Mum to find out. Auntie G––’s presents always look as if she has wrapped at the last minute wearing her driving gloves -  paper haphazardly fastened together by bits of sellotape and limp curling ribbon. This year it’s matching sets of scarves and mittens, which is just as well since I keep losing mine. Mum and Auntie G–– retire to the dining room for a chat and a cigarette, while we watch Disneytime with Dad and Grandma. 

Later, Mum and Auntie G –– put out a cold supper buffet in the dining room - the only time the dining room table is pushed back against the wall and chairs are set out around the room. Also the only time we have a paper tablecloth, albeit a pretty festive one. We help ourselves to chunky turkey sandwiches, mince pies and Black Forest gateau - even though we are still stuffed from lunch. We decide to leave the Christmas cake for Boxing Day as none of us can manage a slice. Our appetites sated once again, we clear everything away just in time to watch the Morecambe and Wise Christmas Special. Dad refills everyone’s glasses, although Grandma has a cup of tea instead of another sherry. Mum laughs a lot: “Silly old fool, ha ha”, and dad enjoys the jokes that go straight over our heads. It never occurs to me that two men sharing a bed is in any way incongruous. By the time Morecambe and Wise are performing “Bring Me Sunshine” (what’s with the silly dance?) Grandma is quietly snoring in an armchair, a somewhat creased paper hat still perched on her head. 

And so, for us children at any rate, Christmas Day comes to an end. We are weary and a little snappish, so it’s time to turn in. I’m sad that Christmas is over for another year, but Boxing Day will bring its own special moments. I give sea-green angel a little wave goodnight, and climb the stairs to bed.